Fourth Sunday of Lent
At our Friday morning men’s group, I was telling one of the guys that the sermon was going to be based on the Prodigal Son story. I don’t know if he was kidding or not, but he asked me, “Do you have a bold, new take on it?”
I said, “Not in the least.”
I know this story. I know that there is only one place this story ever goes. I mentioned at the beginning of Lent that I’ve noticed the theme of traveling in our Scripture lessons this season. This one is more obviously so. We know the journey of this lesson; where it’s going is not a surprise to us. Like most of the stories in the Bible, there are things that we can learn along the way, but the point of this story—it’s journey’s end, as it were—is always going to wind up in the same place. As the parables of Jesus go, this one is pretty straightforward. That’s why, if you’ve heard me preach from this text before, be advised: this one is going to sound a lot like that one.
We know this story far too well for it to surprise us, and that’s okay. As we travel through this familiar story again, the only surprise we might find is which character we’re supposed to learn from, and that’s okay. It’s okay because this well-worn story is simply meant to be a reminder. Rather than leading us to some new and exotic place, this story simply leads us back home; back home to the truth that we are simply called to love as God loves.
When was the last time you ate with a “sinner”? And I don’t mean your run-of-the-mill sinner like we are gathered here this morning; I mean someone scandalous. When was the last time you broke bread with an honest-to-God heathen? When was the last time you spent time with someone who would make the rest of us question your judgement? Maybe it’s been a while. Maybe it’s been since you were a heathen yourself. I only bring it up because it seems that Jesus did that sort of thing all the time.
Luke fifteen begins with a description of the crowd gathered to hear this story; and there are two distinct audiences, aren’t there? The first crowd is made up of the infamous “tax collectors” and other assorted “sinners.” And then there are the religious people who become offended that Jesus would spend time with “those people.”
This story is clearly aimed at both groups, but the point of this story lands only with one. By the way, you might have noticed that we skip some verses in our reading today. Before Jesus tells this parable he first tells a couple of other famous parables: there’s one about a lost sheep and another about a lost coin. Two parables about the joy that is found when something is lost, but then found. He ends those parables by saying, “Just so, I tell you, there is joy in the presence of the angels of God over one sinner who repents.” Two stories that almost plead with the stiff-necked religious fogies to see this from God’s point of view; but do they?
I wonder what the “sinners” thought about all this. I imagine they’d been called that before by the religious people; I imagine they knew their place. How would they hear these stories? How do you hear the story of the so-called Prodigal Son? If you’ve been called a “sinner” lately, I have good news: God’s been waiting. God has been watching out for you. God’s been ready: ready to run to meet you; ready to put clothes on your back; ready to put a ring on your finger; ready to put food in your belly. God’s been waiting.
The picture of God this story paints is life-changing. I think I’ve mentioned before that, calling this story the parable of the Prodigal Son, leads to some misunderstandings. I know I’ve used the word “prodigal” incorrectly. I care too much about words and their meanings not to at least acknowledge that. I’ve been using it like it means something like “wandering” or even “disobedient” because that’s what we think of when we think of the prodigal son; and we all wander and we are all disobedient so we are all like the prodigal from time to time and in our own ways. But the word “prodigal” actually means something more like: one who wastes resources recklessly or extravagantly.
And sure, the younger son in this story certainly fits that description, but that being said, there is no one in this story more prodigal than the father. This story could just as easily be named “The Parable of the Prodigal Father”. And that is centrally what this story is about. To those who were grumbling about the company Jesus kept, Jesus reminds them of what God’s love and mercy looks like: it reckless and lavish toward anyone who will receive it; whether they deserve it or not; especially when they don’t.
No, this story is good news for sinners. For those who identify with a younger brother—the one who clearly made some bad choices—for those like that brother, this is a joyful story about a God who never gives up on us. But I’m going to venture a guess: I’m guessing most of us are not in that crowd. Maybe we once were, but I’d also guess that was a while ago. There are only two possible audiences for this story and if we’re not in the “sinner” crowd, there’s only one other option. For most of us here this morning, Jesus is telling us this story as if we’re that older brother. Not that we are, mind you. I was just telling someone the other day: I like being the pastor of a church that understands that when I’m having coffee with someone down the street, I’m not just goofing off. No one here ever grumbles about the company I keep. But we still need to hear this story, because we are religious people; as such we do have certain tendencies.
And as we hear this story—told as a warning to people like us—notice how it ends. It ends in a question, doesn’t it? The older brother, standing outside of the party, is perhaps rightfully upset. He says, “Listen! For all these years I have been working like a slave for you, and I have never disobeyed your command; yet you have never given me even a young goat so that I might celebrate with my friends. But when this son of yours came back, who has devoured your property with prostitutes, you killed the fatted calf for him!” There’s a lot we could unpack there: things like having an attitude toward a life of faith that feels like slavery or calling your long-lost brother “this son of yours.” But instead, look again at what the father is doing. Again, the love of God is shown as lavish and reckless. He comes out and pleads with the older child to join the party. He says, “You are always with me, and all that is mine is yours. But we had to celebrate and rejoice, because this brother of yours [did you catch that?] was dead and has come to life; he was lost and has been found.”
Somehow this older brother—who apparently had served his father every day, who never went anywhere, and never so much as partied with his friends—somehow, had never picked up on what was important to his father. That’s where our warning lies: we who gather to hear His Word; we who go into this world to serve him; do we know His heart?
I heard a story once that I want to be true; it probably isn’t, but I wish it was. It supposedly took place in a church in some hippie town like Durango.
The way the story goes is, one Easter morning, a young hippie-looking kid wandered into church. He was not in his “Sunday best” clothing, much less in clothes worthy of Easter Sunday. Apparently, he didn’t even check to see when worship started because he wandered in as the pastor was about to start the sermon.
Now to his credit, the kid was at least trying not to be distracting as he wandered around, looking for a place to sit. But like I said, it was Easter Sunday and the place was packed. So he kept creeping farther and farther down the isle toward the front of the church. And of course, the closer he got to the front, the more he became the center of attention. Finally, came to the very front pew… and there was still nowhere to sit. So, not knowing any better, he just sat down on the floor.
Well, you can guess what kind of reaction this caused. No one knew what to do: the pastor was doing his best to ignore the situation; the ushers were afraid of making things worse by asking him to leave; everyone was just waiting for someone else to do something about it. At this point, not even the pastor was paying attention to the sermon
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, one of the oldest, most faithful men of the congregation got up and headed down the aisle toward the young man. The old man slowly and silently lumbered down toward the hippie and finally bent over as if to talk to the young man. But instead of talking, his bending turned to kneeling, and the next thing anyone knew he was down on the floor with the hippie. And there he stayed throughout the rest of the service.
Like I said, I can’t say this story is true. Frankly, knowing the followers of Jesus, it doesn’t sound like us most of the time. But I want this story to be true because it should. We need the warning Jesus levels against us today because we so often forget the heart of the God we serve. A heart that doesn’t condemn the sinners, but meets them, welcomes them, and shares a meal with them. The story Jesus tells us today ends before we know what the older brother is going to do. There’s a reason for that. We are left with a question: what are we going to do? Will we join the party that God is throwing for the lost of this world? Will we remember the heart of God—a heart that rejoices when the lost are found? Will we follow our Savior’s example and go to lunch with someone scandalous?
May we remember the love and grace that once welcomed us and may we share that love and grace with those around us every day.
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