Luke 15: 11–32
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May the words of my mouth and the meditations of our hearts be acceptable
to you, O Lord our strength and our redeemer. Amen.
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For all the times I’ve preached on this parable of the Prodigal
Son, I’d never noticed before Luke’s introduction to the
parable – explaining that Jesus was offering it in response to
all the grumbling he was hearing from the people who considered
themselves righteous – and were offended that this Rabbi was
also welcoming the riff–raff, the decidedly
less–than–righteous ones among them. “Look at
this fellow,” they were saying. “He not only welcomes
sinners; he invites them to his table. He eats with
them.” And in those days, of course, in that culture, to
eat with someone was an intimate gesture of acceptance. It was a
strong signal that the host accepted his guests as equals. And
these scribes and Pharisees, who followed the Law of Moses scrupulously,
were offended to be placed in the same company as the ones who
couldn’t care less whether someone had washed his hands before
he sat down to eat or not.
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So Jesus tells the crowd a story of a man who had two sons. The
elder was a typical eldest child – a rule
follower . . . a straight–A
student . . . an Eagle
Scout . . . the star quarterback on
the football team. But for all his stellar qualities, this young
man was still anxious. He was afraid he would fall short of full
acceptance in his father’s eyes. So he jealously hoards
every accolade that comes his way – and fiercely resents any
competition – as if love were a zero-sum
game . . . as if there was only enough
love to go around – and he’s going to get his share before
anyone else steals it away. What he hasn’t realized is that
his father’s love is freely given. It has been from the
moment this father first laid eyes on his child. It wasn’t
earned. It was simply given. But this eldest child
hasn’t figured that out yet. And in his anxiety to get
everything right, to be perfect, his eyes are on himself. And
he’s full of resentment for his brother
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The younger son too has resentment and fear. He is afraid of
being left out. And his concern had some validity to it, for
in those days it was the eldest son who received the lion’s share
of any inheritance. So the younger son is afraid there won’t
be anything left over for him. It’s in an effort to quell
that fear that he’s grabbing as much as his hands can possibly
hold. Never mind that loving relationship with his
father. It’s that inheritance he
wants . . . and receives. And
as soon as he gets it, he goes off to fill the void, that angry
sense of inadequacy, with everything money can buy.
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I think it was Saint Augustine who said we need empty hands to receive
the gift of grace. As long as this boy’s hands were full,
he couldn’t see the loving grace his father had extended to
him. But soon enough, when the money gives out, his hands are
empty — and not just his hands. His stomach is empty
too. And, finally he admits to himself that he’s dying of
hunger – not just hunger for food, but for a father’s love
as well. It’s in that moment that he turns around. The
word is Repentance. Metanoia. Repentance is not just about
giving up some bad habit or a series of bad habits. Repentance
is about getting a new mind, a whole new perspective. To repent
is to adopt God’s point of view in place of your own.¹
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And that’s what this younger son does. In the parable Jesus
says that the younger son “comes to himself.” Finally
seeing things from the Father’s point of view, he finds a place
within himself that is deeper than his fears. A 17th century Jewish
rabbi put it this way:
No matter how low you may have fallen in your own esteem, bear in mind
that if you delve deeply into yourself, you will discover holiness
there. A holy spark resides within you. And through
repentance you may fan it into a consuming flame that will burn away
the dross of unholiness and unworthiness.
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When the younger son finally quits feeding his fear, when he grows
still enough to sense the love that’s been with him all along,
he turns around and heads for home. It’s not that fear has
left him entirely, but the light is always stronger than the
dark . . . and God’s love is
stronger than our fear. When he thought of
himself . . . he was still
afraid. But when he thought of his father, he turned his feet
towards home. Our faith is not in ourselves. Our faith is
in God, who is gracious.
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And when the boy finally approached his home something happened that
exceeded his wildest dreams. Grace ran out to meet him – as
his father left caution and propriety to the winds and ran down that
road to welcome him back – Not with the words, “I told
you so,” but with, “Get a fine robe for my son, a ring for
his hand. Put shoes on his feet. And slaughter that calf
we’ve been saving for a special occasion. My son was
dead. Now he’s alive again. Come
on! We’re having a party!”
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That’s what it’s like for every one of us when we turn our
feet towards home. We’re expecting a rebuke, but God fills
the hall with festivity. We’re rehearsing a scripted
confession and reviewing our failures and sin. But God goes in
for robes and rings and a fatted calf — because we have returned
home from a distant country. That’s how divine love is
given to every one of us – with a full embrace and a heartfelt
kiss.²
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And that’s why every one of us here this morning has come – to
receive that full welcome home. For no matter how straight a face
we are keeping, we’ve all made mistakes. We’ve all
come wounded. But it’s through those mistakes,
through those wounds that God now grants us
grace . . . and a bright tomorrow.
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So to all of us here this morning, myself included, I can say,
“Welcome home.”
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Amen.
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¹ William Temple
² Unsigned article on “Newness”, dated March 10, 2013
from The Living Word
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