The Palm Parade-- Luke 19: 28 - 40

Short clips of the 1973 movie version of “Jesus Christ Superstar” are used in this sermon.

            I am the youngest in my nuclear family.  As a toddler, I mimicked my older brother.  If he wore cowboy boots, I wore cowboy boots.  He rode the big rocking horse mounted on springs while I rocked on the smaller horse on “rockers.”  He spent weekends at Big Mama and Uncle Jake’s house in the country; I wanted to spend weekends there, too. I was the youngest, and I did not want to be left out—of anything. Do you know what it’s like to not want to be left out?  

            In our text today, no one is left out.  For as we read the story of Jesus’ entry into Jerusalem, we encounter 2 sets of characters—those involved in the revelry of the parade and those who want to stop it.  Pick your group.

             Jesus’ ministry is one of enacting. Teaching, Jesus explains and enacts the true meaning of the law.  Healing—he enacts God’s mercy.  Feeding—he enacts God’s justice.  Welcoming—he enacts God’s grace.  Now, as Jesus nears Jerusalem from the Mount of Olives, he enacts the prophet Zechariah’s vision of the Messiah’s triumphal entry into the city of Jerusalem—Of course his followers—his disciples who have been learning from him since the early days as well as the people who have joined the group along the way—of course his followers recognize and want to be a part of this prophetic procession. Here is the Messiah, God’s anointed one who is sure to bring about God’s rule to this area of Palestine, sure to bring about God’s reign instead of Caesar’s, sure to bring about God’s kingdom in the here and now.  Naturally they don’t want to be left out of that.

            So the people respond as they have since the time of the Jewish monarchy 600 years earlier.  When the king was approaching the city for his coronation or returning from a great battle, shouts to throw open the gates would be heard.  Words like our call to worship this morning:  “Open the gates of righteousness that we may enter through them.”  The people in today’s story respond with shouts, songs, movement and revelry reminiscent of the exuberance of King David and his company when they carried the Ark of the Covenant into Jerusalem.  “This is the day the Lord has made.  Let us rejoice and be glad in it!” The people respond with the time-honored greeting Passover pilgrims shouted to one another as they enter Jerusalem.  “Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord.”  Jesus’ followers are caught up in the revelry of his entry into Jerusalem.  They are caught up in the joyful anticipation of the coming of God’s kingdom. Dancing and jumping, singing and shouting, waving branches and throwing cloaks, they are overcome with joy and energized by hope.

[Jesus Christ Superstar  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BPi2r2j70Zc

00:10  to :35  “Hosanna, heysanna, sanna sanna ho, sanna heysanna hosanna.  Hey JC, JC, won’t you smile at me, sanna hosanna hey Superstar!!”]

And then there’s the other set of characters in this story—the ones who want to stop the joyful parade.

[Jesus Christ Superstar—Caiaphas’ response.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BPi2r2j70Zc

00: 35 – 00:59  “Tell the rabble to be quiet, we anticipate a riot.  This common crowd is much too loud. Tell the mob who sing your song that they are fools and they are wrong.  They are accursed.  They should disburse.”] 

Some of the Pharisees want Jesus to quiet his disciples—to stop the ruckus.  Were they appalled at the spectacle the crowd was making of themselves?  Were they calling for silence or decorum?  That’s not how we do worship.  Did these Pharisees fear retaliation from the occupying Roman forces?  Were they caught up in anxiety over how the people in power will respond?  What will they say?  What will they do?  Will they pick up their marbles and go play elsewhere? 

            Worrying about the people in power—as if they matter, for God is the one who ultimately has power.  That’s what we’re going to learn in the events of this week—from Palm Sunday to Maundy Thursday to Good Friday to Easter morning.  God has the ultimate power.  And God’s power is not power of coercion and control, of domination and subjugation, of fear and reprisal. God’s power is the power of love, of entering into suffering on behalf of and along with God’s creation and with God’s creatures.  God’s power is a power of hope—hope for the future and hope for now.  

            The Pharisees say, “tell your disciples to be quiet.”  And Jesus responds: 

[“Jesus Christ Superstar” http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BPi2r2j70Zc

01:22 – 1:58  “Why waste your breath, moaning at the crowd?  Nothing can be done to stop the shouting.  If every tongue were still the noise would still continue.  The rocks and stones themselves would start to sing.    Hosanna heysanna sanna sanna hosanna heysanna hosanna.”]

Jesus replies, You cannot squelch this celebration today. Over the course of time, you cannot squelch the coming of God’s kingdom—nor can you stop the breaking in of God’s rule on earth in the here and now even if it seems to come in bits and pieces. For God is sovereign.  Ultimately, God’s purposes will be achieved.  Because it is God who is sovereign, in the final analysis, nothing will squelch God’s good purposes for God’s good creation.

            Jesus comes to the people—in Galilee, across Palestine, in Jerusalem, as well as to us in Paola, KS.  Jesus comes to us—inviting us into the revelry and work of God’s kingdom.  How will we respond?  As those who are part of the parade or as those who want to squelch it?  How will we respond?—as a follower of Jesus—joyful, exuberant, hopeful, ready to be a part of God’s work in God’s creation.  Are you ready to live and work within the freedom of the Biblical narrative of abundance?  The narrative that claims God is generous.  God will provide.  God’s good plan for God’s good creation will be enacted.  Or will we respond as one of the Pharisees?—bound by the chains of our cultural narrative. There is not enough.  I want more.   Jesus comes to us and invites us to be part of the parade.  How will we respond?

            Me—I have a history of not wanting to be left out.  I don’t want to be left out of the exuberant, palm parade.  I want to respond as a follower of Jesus—praising God with reckless abandon—dancing to a contemporary Palm Sunday song because our precious children chose it, and I mean it when I say I want everyone to be welcome participants in our worship.  I want to respond as a follower of Jesus—supporting foolish endeavors—like a Thrift shop where anyone can buy a pair of jeans and a shirt for $1.00, a warm coat for $3.00 b/c we recognize the importance for people to purchase what they need with dignity. Those of us who joined this congregation after the Thrift Shop ministry was begun may not realize that it was once considered a foolish endeavor.  But JP can tell you about resistance to this mission she and 4 other PW women proposed.  She can tell you how there is always resistance to something new and different. I want to respond as a follower of Jesus—participating in foolish endeavors—like a week of church day camp for children in our community—whether or not they are connected to this congregation, regardless of their parents’ ability to pay—because church day camp offers an experience of God’s transforming love. I want to respond as a follower of Jesus—throwing my cloak on Jesus’ donkey—giving—returning some of God’s gifts of time, energy, talent, and money to do God’s work because I’m so grateful for God’s love given to me. 

            Me—I want to respond as a follower of Jesus—living in faith that it is God who is in control—not me, not some other person, not some organization, nor some power or entity.  I want to respond as a follower of Jesus—living in faith that God is sovereign and refusing to succumb to fear.  I want to respond as a follower of Jesus—actively participating in God’s rule here and now—no matter what.  Knowing what Jesus has done for me, I want to let go of the brakes that hold me back from expressing my joy and gratitude.  I want to join the raucous revelry of the palm parade.

            And you—how will you respond?  

Lost and Found: The Lost Son Luke 15: 1 - 3; 11b - 32

            When she was 38 years old, my sister-in-law was completely gray.  She said, “Kate gave me every one of these gray hairs. And I’m still standing. This is a badge of honor.”  Kate’s adolescence had been a particularly trying time for the family.  She rebelled against her parents’ rules, moved out of their house, quit school, and at age 18 moved 300 miles away.  On the other hand, Sally, their younger daughter, followed their rules, earned straight A’s, participated in extracurricular activities, and was a leader of her church youth group.  At the time, in her conversations with us, Kate referred to Sally as “the good child.”  Fast forward several years.  Kate had returned to hometown, was finishing up nursing school and raising her 1^st child.  Sally had moved away to go to college and married a young man from another denomination.  She chose not to return to home after college, but was pursuing her career and living her life elsewhere.  With a smile on her face, Kate said, “Whoever would have thought it—I’m the good child now.”

            A father has 2 sons.  The younger son, chafing at the restraints of life on the farm, asks his father to give him now what would be his later—his inheritance. The older son is shocked by the request, for it is tantamount to wishing their father dead.  He is also insulted.  Is his younger brother intimating that he—the elder son—cannot be trusted to divide the family estate fairly when their father dies?  The father divides his property between the 2 sons.  The impetuous, younger son, head full of dreams, sells his share of the family land and moves far away . . . to city and sophistication, to temptations and temptresses, to fun and adventure.

            At this, the elder brother is angry for to keep the land “in the family” he and his father have to buy back their own property from his younger brother.  Now, with the absence of his younger brother and with his father’s preoccupation of gazing past the fields, watching the horizon, the elder brother finds his share of the work greatly increased.  Burying his anger deep within, the older brother falls into an exhausting pattern of too little sleep and too much work. 

            Then, one evening as he heads back to the farmhouse from another long day in the fields, he sees lights and lots of people gathered in a party tent. He hears music and laughter.  As he pauses to wash up at the cistern, he asks a servant what’s going on.  “Haven’t you heard? Your father is celebrating the return of your brother.  Boy, was he a mess.  But your father had us clean him up and now we’re feeding him.”  What?  Celebrating the return of an impatient, impetuous, insulting son? The older brother’s anger begins to rise to the surface. 

It’s one thing to receive a penitent and contrite brother home but to welcome him back into the family as if his actions, his words, his very existence have not caused pain and sorrow these long months is unthinkable.

            The older brother fumes.  Who has kept this farm running?  Me—the good son.  Who has taken care of my father in the daze he has been in?  Me—the good son.  I have respected our tradition—following in my father’s footsteps, tending the family farm. I am the good son. I have never disrespected any of my elders, let alone insulted my father.  I am the good son.  The older brother fumes and casts himself in the roll of “good son” as opposed to his brother—who must be the “bad son.”  Does it have to be either or?

            His father walks out of the party tent.  His face is beaming.  He opens his arms to draw the elder son into an embrace saying,  “I’ve got wonderful news for you.  Your brother has returned. A little worse for wear, but he is safe.  He is alive.  He is home.  Come, join the celebration.”  But the older son’s bitterness pours out.  “Listen! For all these years I have been working like a slave for you, and I have never disobeyed your command.”[1]   Yes, he has been the responsible son, but listen to what responsibility has become to him—serving, working like a slave, obeying commands—instead of lovingly tending to family relations and needs. He compares himself with his brother and decides he has been the “good” son. But do you hear the expectation of a reward in exchange for his goodness?  Is his sense of relationship quid pro quo?  He compares himself with his brother and decides he has been the “good” son. “You kill the fatted calf for him but won’t even give me a goat to celebrate with my friends.”  And he compares his father’s actions towards his 2 sons—intimating unfairness.  Seething with resentment, the older son spits out, “This son of yours, after wasting your estate on prostitutes, has returned and you just act like he hasn’t done anything wrong!”  The elder brother considers himself the “good” son, yet he will not forgive his brother.  

            A tear runs down the father’s cheek.  His voice cracks as he stifles the cry.  “Son, you are always with me.”[2]  Isn’t our time together an ongoing celebration?  “Everything I have is yours.”[3]  Haven’t I been generous with you?  Please come inside with me; join the celebration.  For the one we thought dead is alive.  The one we thought lost is found. 

            The older son has cast himself in the role of the “good son.” Yet in this exchange we observe a distorted reaction to responsibility, we hear resentment, and we watch as he compares his loving father’s response to both him and his brother.  We listen as he cries “Unfair! Unjust!”  And we wait to see how the older son will respond to his father’s invitation. 

            I love this parable—well, at least up to verse 24.  From a distance, I observe God’s abundant love, unfathomable forgiveness, and amazing grace—evident in the father running to welcome his son home.  Isn’t God good to those who need his mercy?  But when we get to verse 25, this parable gets personal . . . and therefore uncomfortable.  For I, like the older son, value responsibility pouring all of myself into whatever I do.  Throughout my life I have been the older son—in family, in school, in work.  I find myself siding with older son—a party for that reprobate and nothing for me?  With the older son, I find myself comparing and crying, “unfair.” 

            For many years my perspective on relationship with God hinged responsibility.  In response to God’s love, it was my responsibility to support the work of our church. So I tithed.  I worshiped weekly, studied the Bible, taught Sunday School, and helped to lead Children’s Worship.  I prepared dishes for fellowship, funeral receptions, and folks who were sick.  I cleaned up after church functions. Like the older son, I fell into a pattern of too much work and not enough reflection.  It was almost like I was trying to work out—to earn—my salvation.  And like the older son, seeds of resentment began to grow in me.  Where is J?  It’s her turn in our monthly rotation to lead children’s worship.  Why can’t S or N teach Sunday School this year?  I’ve taught it the last 3 years.  Kevin’s taking the trash out, and I’m washing the dishes, why is everyone else standing around visiting?  They could be sweeping the floors.  I began to resent doing the responsible thing. 

            And then one weekend, I attended a spiritual renewal retreat where the scales fell off my eyes and I saw God’s intention—relationship not responsibility.  I attended a spiritual renewal retreat, and I shed the crusty exoskeleton of resentment that I had accrued.  My heart was open to receive the gift of God’s grace.  Now I could respond out of gratitude instead of a sense of duty.  I attended a spiritual renewal retreat, and I understood and felt the significance of these words.  “Daughter, you are with me always, and everything I have is yours.”[4]  Relationship with God, ongoing, day-to-day relationship with God is a party in itself.  It is an extravagant gift the likes of which cannot be surpassed.

            Lost and found:  “There is a condition worse than death, to be lost; there is a condition better than life, to be found.”[5] The younger brother separated himself physically from his father and family, and he was lost.  Like his younger sibling, the older son is in danger of being lost, too. By refusing to go into the party, he places himself outside of the ring of reconciliation. He separates himself emotionally and spiritually from his father and family.  When we lose sight of our relationship with God, we too run the risk of being lost. Turning away from God, we lose sight and are lost. That’s what happened with the younger son.  Wrapping ourselves up in duty and responsibility, getting bogged down with do’s and don’ts, resenting the fortunes or successes of others, we lose sight of our relationship with God and are lost. That’s what happened with the older son. 

            Lost and found: We humans are all lost—either mired in sins of sensuality and greed or in sins of self-referential resentment.[6]  Will we allow ourselves to be found?  Will we let our eyes be opened to the bounty of God’s love before us?  Will we allow our hearts to be opened to the gift of God’s grace?  Will we allow our lives to be opened to the joy of living and walking and working in God’s presence?  Will we allow God’s active, stretching, searching, healing love to find us, to call us back home, and to bring us into the party where there is always more—more feasting, more wine, more music, more dancing?[7]  Will we remain lost or will we be found?

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[1] Luke 15: 29a New Revised Standard Version

[2] Luke 15: 31a Common English Bible

[3] Luke 15: 31b Common English Bible

[4] Luke 15: 31 Common English Bible

[5] Fred B. Craddock.  Luke in Interpretation:  A Bible Commentary for Teaching and Preaching series. Louisville:  John Knox Press, 1990. p. 187.

[6] Rodey Clapp, “Luke 15: 1 – 3, 11b – 32—Pastoral Perspective.”  Feasting on the Word, Year C. vol. 1. Edited by David L. Bartlett & Barbara Brown Taylor. Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2009. p. 120.

[7] Rodey Clapp, “Luke 15: 1 – 3, 11b – 32—Pastoral Perspective.”  Feasting on the Word, Year C. vol. 1. Edited by David L. Bartlett & Barbara Brown Taylor. Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2009. p. 120.

Lost and Found: The Loving Father Luke 15: 1 - 3; 11b - 32

            My daughter, Mary, attended the college of her choice because of a Bonner service Scholarship.  To remain eligible for this particular scholarship, Mary had to volunteer a set number of hours with an approved service agency there in Richmond, IN during each school year.  She also had to devote about half the summer—for 2 summers—to approved service work outside of Richmond. 

            The summer she turned 19—the summer after her 1^st year in college—Mary informed us she intended to complete part of her summer service work abroad.  Abroad!  Now our family had limited experience with travel outside the U.S. Kevin and the girls had participated in week-long summer mission trips just across the Rio Grande from McAllen, TX, but we would not consider that going abroad.  At that time, neither Kevin nor I had any experience with travel far away. Mary planned to go abroad!  In order to keep the lines of communication open, I bit my tongue, instead of screaming, “What?” And I put on a countenance of mild interest—instead of alarm.  Mary had a scholarship to pay her travel, and she had found an organization that taught conversational English to ethnic children in China.  China!  The volunteers—college students and young adults from all over the world—would meet (not in New York or Los Angeles so they could fly together).  No!  The volunteers would meet in Beijing for orientation.  Then they would travel together into China’s interior to teach for 3 weeks. 

            My 19 year-old daughter—who spoke no Chinese, who had been no further than 30 miles across the U. S. border—wanted to fly to China, alone.  I was worried for her safety. I was terrified at my lack of control over the situation. And I was angry that she was callous about my fears.

            Tensions were high in the Jones apartment as Mary’s departure grew near. But the fact is, Mary was doing exactly what I had prayed for since she was born.  She was growing into a strong, intelligent, caring, independent, capable, adventurous young woman.  

            While she was abroad, I spent a lot of time in prayer:  praying for her safety, praying for opportunities for me to communicate with her—because in rural central China, internet chats and telephone calls are not reliable—praying for fulfillment, growth, and adventure for her, and praying for my own peace of mind.  On the night of her return, as we were standing at the bottom of the escalator to the baggage area in Austin-Bergstrom International Airport, watching as each new group of travelers stepped onto the moving stairs, it was all I could do not to run up the escalator knocking people down when my Mary finally appeared at the top of the escalator.

            A father had 2 sons.  One day, contrary to his culture and at the risk of insulting his father, the younger son asked to receive now what would be his later—when his father died. Wanting to keep the lines of communication open, the father divided his property between both his sons.  Flouting family and religious tradition, the younger son sold his share of the property. Billfold full from the sale of his inheritance, heart full of desires, and head full of dreams, the son was ready to see the world . . . on his own terms. Tissue in hand, the father watches as his younger son packs his clothes and boxes his belongings. Tears stinging his eyes, the father waves good-bye as his son sets out. Heartbroken, he watches his son leave home and family; he watches as his son rejects what is so important to the father—family and faith. 

            The father is heartbroken, and he is worried—worried about his son’s safety and welfare.  The father is heartbroken, and he is anxious—anxious about the choices his son has made and the choices he will probably make.  But the father is also hopeful.  He is “hopeful that the seeds he had once sown in love might yet be harvested in the return of his child.”[1] So each day he prays for safety, wisdom, and kind companions for his son.  And each day, he walks the fence-line of his fields, checking the horizon, hoping that he will see his son heading back home. 

            One day, as he looks down the road, he sees a figure in the distance.  Stooped and stumbling, unkempt yet unwavering, the figure travels towards this farm.  It is his son.  Forgetting who might be watching, flinging all sense of decorum to the wind, the father runs towards his son and gathers him up in his arms, saying, “Son, do you know I still love you?” 

            What kind of love is this?  It’s a forgiving love.  Although by his actions, the son had disinherited his family, the father did not disinherit him.  He did not banish him from the family.  And now, not only does he receive the son, but also, the father welcomes him fully back into the family.  What kind of love is this?  It is a foolish love. The father has not acted the part of the proud patriarch, but instead the sentimental softee. From offering the inheritance early to running to his son, this father has behaved foolishly in the eyes of his culture and his religious tradition. What kind of love is this?  It is an extravagant love.  My son’s come home again! Bring out the Bourbon, simmer the steaks, crank up the ice cream freezer; invite all the neighbors.  Let’s celebrate, for my son’s come home again. What kind of love is this? It is extraordinary love. 

            As “the church lady” on Saturday Night Live would say, “Isn’t that special?” Yeah, if you’re the prodigal son, it’s special.  The prodigal child is getting special treatment.  It appears the prodigal is the favorite.  But what about the older son?  When we were in college, my brother and I would joke with my mom, saying “I’m the favorite.  See, when we came home, she cooked my favorite meal—meatloaf.  No, I’m the favorite.  She baked Shoney’s cake—my favorite—for dessert.”  We knew, however, that our parents took great effort to be fair—the same number of gifts for each of us under the Christmas tree, the same monetary amount spent on said gifts, the same curfews, the same educational opportunities.

            While the older son wants to put the “he’s your favorite” spin on the events, this just is not the case.  This “father not only had two sons but loved two sons, went out to two sons, and was generous to two sons.”[2] When the younger asked for his inheritance—now, the father divided his estate between both sons.  So the elder brother received his inheritance early, too.  The father is not playing favorites.  He loves both sons—with what kind of love?   A forgiving love. “Sons owed their fathers loyalty and obedience.”[3]  By refusing to enter the party, the older son was heaping humiliation on his father.  Yet his father came out to meet him where he was.  His father took the 1^st steps towards reconciliation with him.  He loves both sons.  With what kind of love?  Foolish love. The father “willingly adopted the stance of pleading with his elder son—a major humiliation for a father [in that] patriarchal culture.”[4] What kind of love is this?  An extravagant love.  He tells the elder son, “all that is mine is yours.”[5] From his viewpoint, there was never a question about his son’s access to field or herd, to farm or house.  The father has already been sharing all that he has with his elder son.  Both sons break his heart, and he loves both of them.  How does he show it?  By behaving foolishly, forgiving them, and offering extravagant examples of his love.

            As is true of many of Jesus’ parables, the parable of the Loving Father shines a revealing light on who God is and how we experience God. When we find ourselves cut off from God—and this is always due to our choices—God is ready to behave foolishly and forgive us . . . yet again.  God is ready to behave foolishly and shower us with extravagant love—receiving us back into the family and sharing with us all that is God’s.

            Are we ready to accept this amazing and patient love—a love so different from what we usually encounter among each other?  Will we allow this forgiving, abundant love that God showers down on us to soak into us and shape our response into emulation of that same love in our own relationships?  Our relationships with our spouses, our children, our parents, our extended family, our friends, our neighbors, our co-workers, even our relationships with our enemies? 

            Are we ready to respond to God’s foolish, extravagant display of love by growing into the compassionate, wise, faithful people God has been hoping and praying we

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[1] Daniel. G. Deffenbaugh, “Luke 15: 1 – 3, 11b – 32—Theological Perspective.”  Feasting on the Word, Year C. vol. 1. Edited by David L. Bartlett & Barbara Brown Taylor. Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2009, p. 118.

[2] Fred B. Craddock.  Luke in Interpretation:  A Bible Commentary for Teaching and Preaching series. Louisville:  John Knox Press, 1990, p. 188.

[3] Leslie J. Hoppe, “Luke 15: 1 – 3, 11b – 32—Exegetical Perspective.”  Feasting on the Word, Year C. vol. 1. Edited by David L. Bartlett & Barbara Brown Taylor. Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2009, p. 121.

[4] Leslie J. Hoppe, “Luke 15: 1 – 3, 11b – 32—Exegetical Perspective.”  Feasting on the Word, Year C. vol. 1. Edited by David L. Bartlett & Barbara Brown Taylor. Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2009, p. 121.

[5] Luke 15: 31 NRSV

Lost and Found: The Prodigal Son Luke 15: 1 - 3; 11b - 24

            A man had 2 sons.  His younger son was restless, seeking more from life than he found on the family farm.  So one day he asked his father to give him now what would be his later.  Although for his culture and tradition, this was a grievous insult—tantamount to wishing him dead—the father acquiesced.  The younger son cashed in his portion of the inherited property, packed all his belongings, and set off on adventures his heart had desired and his imagination had fueled for many years. He set off to a land far away.  Oh the excitement of seeing new places.  Oh the thrill of tasting new pleasures. Life was grand—for awhile.  But all too soon, the younger son used up all his resources and found himself completely broke.  Desperate for food and shelter, he took on a job at a pig farm.  A pig farm! Have you ever been around pigs all day?  Working there he was continually ritually unclean.  Famished, he found himself longing to eat the pig slop.  He was broke and broken.  He was financially broke, for he had no more money.  He was spiritually broken, for his ritual uncleanliness cut him off completely from his religious tradition. He was emotionally broken, for he waited for permission to eat the pods he fed the pigs. 

            Finally, he came to himself and recognized how far he had fallen. He thought to himself, “the farmhands at my father’s place don’t go hungry.  They don’t shiver in their sleep.  They don’t fear for their physical safety.  So the younger son decided to swallow his pride, return to his father’s farm, seek forgiveness, and ask to be hired on as a farmhand there.  He had, after all, lost the right to be called son.  Many days he traveled back towards home.  Stumbling from bruised feet; weak with hunger; weary from guarded, uncomfortable rest; worried about his reception; he slowly made his way back to his father’s farm. As he rounded the bend and laid eyes on his father’s outermost fields, he saw a figure up on the hill, a man watching the horizon.  His father was looking down the road.             

            Slowing his steps, shoring up his courage, rehearsing his prepared speech, the younger son was amazed to see his father come running down the hill towards him.  His father—the stately, powerful, respected patriarch—was running to him!  He held up his arms in defense of what would surely be his father’s hand slapping his face.  But the next thing he knew his father had grabbed him in a bear hug and was kissing him. Taking a deep breath, the son began to ask for forgiveness. “Father, I have sinned before heaven and against you. I no longer deserve to be called your son.”  But it was as if the Father were not listening. Interrupting the son’s long-rehearsed speech, he was calling to his servants, “Come, bathe my son; wrap him in clean, comfortable clothes; place the family ring on his finger; tend to his swollen feet.  Put beef in the bar-b-que pit and start mixing up potato salad and coleslaw.  We are going to have a party.  My son was as good as dead, but now he is alive.  He was lost, but now he has been found!”

            Overwhelmed by his father’s gracious forgiveness, amazed at his welcome reception, beside himself at the joyful celebration of his return, the younger son was full of gratitude. 

            “The younger son gathered everything together and took a trip to a land far away.”[1] All of us who have parented adolescents—and lived to tell the tale—recognize what seems to be a universal, developmental need—the need of the child to become his or her own self—to separate from the parent. Chafing at the restraints of tradition, the younger son—also known as the Prodigal Son—sees a way to step out on his own, to fulfill his dreams for the future—to live his own life, not his father’s. Sounds familiar, doesn’t it? Sounds like us when we were adolescents perhaps, or maybe young adults, or possibly when we reached midlife, doesn’t it?  It’s part of the human condition to think we know what’s best for us, to search for our happiness, to mold and shape our identity. It’s part of the human condition.  Stepping out on our own, seeking our way, turning our backs on tradition or family expectations, we are the Prodigal Son; we are the Prodigal Daughter.

            “When he came to his senses, he said, ‘How many of my father's hired hands have more than enough food, but I'm starving to death!”[2] Like every good parent, God allows us to go in search of our identity—to “find ourselves.” And when we come to our senses, we realize the discontinuity between what we have become on this journey and who we truly are.[3]  When we come to our senses, we realize our true identity is “child of God.” The Holy Spirit is at work, helping us to repent, helping us to turn back to God.  The Holy Spirit is at work, re-turning us towards our loving, heavenly parent.           

            “I will get up and go to my father, and say to him, ‘Father, I have sinned against heaven and against you.’”[4] We repent, and we ask for forgiveness.  The amazing thing about God is—no matter what we do, whether intentionally or accidentally, we cannot burn all our bridges to God.  For God has provided the ultimate bridge to span the gap between us and God, the gap created by our actions, thoughts, and words—the gap that is our sin. God has provided the ultimate bridge through the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus the Christ.  With God, there are always new beginnings for those who seek forgiveness.  When we repent—when we turn back towards God—we see something totally unexpected.  Instead of a toe-tapping, arms-crossed, finger-shaking, frowning figure, we see God, in the person of Jesus the Christ, running toward us with open arms. God wraps his arms around us in a big bear hug and plants a sloppy tearful kiss on our cheek.  Instead of hearing condemnation, we hear welcome.  Instead of experiencing reprimand—you’re grounded, for life—we experience freedom.  Instead of a bread and water ration, we are invited to a repeating feast of living bread and the cup of salvation—nourishing, renewing, empowering—a celebration. 

            We ask for forgiveness.  We know we have broken God’s heart.  We know we have lost time that we cannot reclaim—time we could have been together. We ask for forgiveness.  And grace abounds—for God welcomes us—with robe—clothing us with a renewed sense of our true identity. God welcomes us—with signet ring—proclaiming our position in God’s kingdom and backing our new work with God’s power.  God welcomes us—with sandals—we’ll need them for the journey ahead—as we spread the good news of love and forgiveness—the good news of God’s grace.

            We are the Prodigal Son; we are the Prodigal Daughter.  Separating ourselves from God, we were as good as dead, but now we are alive.  Wandering away, we have been lost, but now we are found.  We are the Prodigal Son; we are the Prodigal Daughter.  Wrapped in everlasting love, we are forgiven, so we repent.  We re-turn towards God.  We return to God.  We are loved, so we do love. Let the celebration begin.  Amen.

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[1] Luke 15: 13 Common English Bible

[2] Luke 15: 17 Common English Bible

[3] Michael B. Curry, “Luke 15: 1 – 3, 11b – 32—Homiletical Perspective.”  Feasting on the Word, Year C. vol. 1. Edited by David L. Bartlett & Barbara Brown Taylor. Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2009. p. 119.

[4] Luke 15: 18 Common English Bible