Sermons

March 18, 2007

Rev. Scott Swanson

Fourth Sunday of Lent - Luke 15:1-3, 12-32

It has been said that there is no reason to be offensive when preaching the gospel -- the good news of God - because the gospel is offensive enough all on its own. The gospel has over time often become domesticated, so that we no longer recognize how radical and offensive it is, particularly to those of us who do our best to follow the rules. Here is a monologue that may perhaps help us to recapture how outrageous the love of God is: outrageous for others and for ourselves.

Hello, my name is Matthew. You will have heard of me, no doubt, although you probably didn't know my name was Matthew. I have a couple of well-known family members. My father was a wealthy man of considerable status in our community. My younger brother was the worst sort of scoundrel you could ever imagine -- an embarrassment to the family and the community.

My brother was always difficult. Frankly, I think mom and dad spoiled him. Poor little rich kid. He always seemed to think the rules everyone else lived by didn't apply to him. He was always getting in trouble and it was like it was funny to him. Each time he would try to outdo himself from the time before. The police were involved. Eventually he got kicked out of school. He never cared about how much his actions hurt mom and dad. He never cared what anyone thought. All he cared about was himself. So it was no surprise when he asked for his share of the inheritance and then left with no word of where he was going.

Every once in a while we would hear little pieces of what was going on. You hope those things are just rumours, but even rumours are often based on some degree of fact. The whole town knew the rumours, which made it even more shameful for us. He went to a far away city. He lived the high life for a while. He got into a crowd of people who lived fast and loose. He bought a nice sports car and expensive clothes. There were lots of women. He got into drugs big time. He had been doing that sort of thing at home, too, but never to the same extent. I guess the money ran out pretty quick, so he had to make lots of money fast. He started selling drugs - to anyone who would buy them , including kids. It was a terrible thing. And it was embarrasing and shameful for our family. It made me angry to see how much it hurt my parents. It wasn't fair. Nobody is perfect, but they did the best they could raising us.

And while little brother is off ruining his and other peoples' lives, I'm at home working. I finished university, and even though I could have gone almost anywhere and done almost anything, I chose to go home and help dad with the family business, or what was left of it after my brother his share, and after our newly- found reputation as the family that spawned a criminal and a leech meant some people were less willing to do business with us.

Well after a couple of years, little brother finally hit bottom. When he was diagnosed with Hepatitis C from sharing needles it really shook him up. I guess he realized that if he didn't make some changes he'd end up dead. (Which I thought was what he deserved. And a lot of people agreed with me.) He decided that even if he could get a job working for dad out in the barns, maybe he could get cleaned up and stay out of jail. I guess he figured he didn't have any other options.

The bus arrived in the middle of the afternoon. Somebody at the station saw him get off the bus, recognised him, and called us. Dad was just coming out of the shower when he heard the news. One of the maids said she'd never seen him act like that. He didn't even get dressed. He ran out of the house in his bathrobe, jumped in the car, tore down the driveway and turned toward town.

By the time he got downtown, little brother had started walking home. As people recognised him, some started yelling at him. His behaviour had besmirched the reputation of the whole town, and, let's face it, no one likes a low life. When dad saw him, he was trying to make his way through a crowd of angry people. Dad jumped out of the car in his bathrobe -- right there on main street in the middle of the day -- pushed his way through the crowd and grabbed his son with tears in his eyes. He was kissing him all over. I don't think he had kissed me since I was 11. Dad put him in the car and drove home. On the way home he phoned to tell the kitchen to prepare a special meal. He phoned his assistant to tell him to invite everyone on the "A list" to a special celebration that evening.

By the time I got home it was about 7 pm. I usually work 10 to 12 hours a day at the office. I saw all these cars and heard the music, and I asked one of the valets what was going on. What I heard next almost made me fall over. Slimeball had dared to come home. And not only that, this party was in his honour! He had no honour! He's a lowlife! He deserved to be in jail at best, and dead at worst.

There was no way I was going to attend this party. I don't know who I was more angry with. Him for daring to show his face around here, or my father, for this pathetic, over-the-top, embarrassing display for a criminal who had wreaked havoc on our family for years.

Word got back to dad that I was outside and refused to go in. By the time he came out to find me I had heard about the shameless display of him running around down town in his bathrobe. Could this get any more pathetic, I wondered. Now dad was begging me to come inside and help them celebrate.

Why should I? I asked. All these years I have been working long days for the business. I came home when I could have gone anywhere. I sacrificed. Had dad ever thrown me a party? A special dinner? No! And this slime ball gets this? After what he did?

Dad suddenly looked very serious. "Son," he said, "you are always with me, and all that is mine is yours. But we had to celebrate and rejoice, because this brother of yours was dead and has come to life; he was lost and has been found."

I just shook my head, got back in the car and drove away. I drove for a long time. I couldn't even tell you now for how long, or where exactly I went. I was so hurt. So angry. So confused.

When I thought about it, I didn't really believe dad didn't love me. It was more that I was bitter that he loved that lowlife too. I had worked so hard for dad's love. I deserved that love. I deserved that party! And little brother got it -- got the party, yeah, but got the love, too. How is that fair?

A few years ago I got married, and last year my wife and I had a child. Becoming a father has done a lot to change how I see the world. It's also made it easier for me to understand my own father and what it's like to love a child. When I look in my baby's face, I realize that I could never not love her -- no matter what she did.

I understand in a new way now that dad's love for my little brother and me was both/and, not either/or. While I might have been competing with my bother for dad's love, dad never saw it that way. I was offended to tears by the grace he showed my brother. And yet, had it been me, I would have been moved to tears of a different sort. As long as I believed I had to compete for dad's love, what for my brother was amazing grace, was for me annoying grace.

I couldn't celebrate my brother's grace, because in my judging eyes he was unworthy. I needed to learn to see with eyes more like the eyes I think God sees all of us with. Then I might have seen in my lousy brother a child of God as desired by God as the rest of us.

A "prodigal" is someone who is "recklessly extravagant or wasteful." My brother was prodigal in his living. But my father was equally prodigal in his loving.

My story is a parable. It is a parable of the outrageously extravagant love of God for God's children. Sometimes it's hard not to want to put limitations on God's apparently limitless love for others, on God's aparently limitless love for ourselves. Older or younger, son or daughter, there is God -- like my dad -- who runs to you no matter when you come home with open arms to welcome you, to protect you, and to save your life. Thanks be to God.

Come Lord Jesus. Come and gather us in. Come. Amen.

For more information or to comment on this sermon, please email Rev. Scott Swanson.