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.
[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
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