“A Prodigal God”
A Sermon by the Rev. Dr. Hilary J. Barrett
Preached at Pleasantville UCC, March 14, 2010, Lent 4, Year C
2 Corinthians 5:16-21; Luke 15:1-3, 11b-32
“Just so, I tell you, there will be more joy in heaven over one sinner who repents
than over ninety-nine righteous people who need no repentance.” 
Luke 15:10

Every year a group of about a dozen or so youth and adults head downtown to 4^th and Race Streets in the Old City of Philadelphia to spend Friday night to Sunday afternoon learning something about what it means to be poor and homeless in the city of Philadelphia.  We call it, the “Old First Trip” because our destination is Old First Reformed Church, a congregation of the United Church of Christ that opens its fellowship hall between November and April to allow homeless men to sleep in a warm and protected environment during the harshest winter nights.

One of the responsibilities our folks have when they go down to Old First is to prepare a meal for the shelter guests on Saturday night.  Great care goes into the group’s decision about what will be served at dinner: How shall we prepare the chicken? (We’ve learned not to bring ham.)  Should we serve pie or pudding or parfaits for dessert?  These are big decisions that communicate care and respect for the shelter guests and those who minister at Old First take these decisions very seriously.

It’s been a few years now since I’ve been part of the Old First trip, so I am very much looking forward to participating in the retreat which has been re-scheduled for April 30^th.  But this morning’s scripture lesson reminded me of a moment that occurs in every Old First weekend; a moment hits me with new power each time I experience it: after all the preparations have been made and the meal has been served and we are all enjoying the fruit of our labor, I look up from my dinner plate and suddenly behold the miracle: all of us gathered around common tables, doing our best to make conversation, reaching across the lines of assumed difference to find the places of unexpected commonality.  It’s a motley crew, to be sure.  And if you dig too deep, there are stories there to break your heart.  But what a wonder it is to see such a gathering of God’s people, and what a wonder to know that wherever two or three are gathered together in Christ’s name, Christ is in the midst of them.

Of all the things that Jesus did to tick people off – and there were a lot of them – the thing that seemed to offend them the most were his table manners.  He had a nasty habit of sitting down for dinner with the worst kind of people.  The mayor of the city, the head of the Rotary Club, and the Senior Pastor of the wealthiest church in town all could have invited Jesus to dinner, and yet he would just as soon sit down at a table full of meth addicts, prostitutes, and a welfare mother “with five children by three different fathers.”[1]  That’s just who Jesus was.

What’s all this got to do with this morning’s scripture?  Well, let’s take a look at how our gospel text begins:

Now all the tax collectors and sinners were coming near to listen to [Jesus].  And the Pharisees and the scribes were grumbling and saying, ‘This fellow welcomes sinners and eats with them.’  So he told them this parable:  (Luke 15:1-3)

And the first thing he tells them is the story of the lost sheep; the story referenced in this window behind me – a window, which is for many a kind of icon, shaping the faith of children and adults for generations.

And the next thing he tells them is the story of the lost coin; a story about a woman who goes searching every crevice of her house looking for a coin the way any one of us would look for a precious jewel if we had lost it.

And the next thing he tells them is a story about a man who had two sons – two sons, with one of them becoming lost.

A lost sheep.  A lost coin.  A lost child.  Each lost thing infinitely more valuable than the thing before.  To those who grumble about his choice of dinner companions Jesus answers with three stories that reveal the heart of God: truly I tell you, there will be more joy in heaven over one lost soul who is found than over ninety-nine righteous people who need no repentance.

We call these stories the parables of the lost sheep, the lost coin and the Prodigal Son (“prodigal” referring to the lavish, reckless spending of the younger brother).  The titles focus on the lost-ness of each thing.  But the story isn’t really about the sheep, or the coin, or even the child.  The story is really about the shepherd who leaves all the other sheep to search out and find that one lost lamb.  The story is really about the woman who sets aside all her other tasks that day in order to turn her household upside down and find that precious coin she had misplaced.  The story is really about a father who, even after his son tells him to ‘drop dead’ still runs like the wind to meet his broken child returning from the world’s abuse and his own stupidity.

These are stories meant to convey to us just how valuable we are to God.  These are stories meant to tell us just how far God will go for us and for our salvation.  These are stories meant to teach us that there is nothing God would not do to find us if we were lost.  There is no place God would not search of us.  There is nothing God would not do to bring us home.  There is no celebration in heaven so great as when we return.  That is how lavishly God loves us; how recklessly God cares for us; how extravagantly God seeks us out to and labors to make us whole.

The story of the Prodigal Son has carried that name for countless years because the focus has often been upon the movement of the son – his appalling arrogance, his lavish spending, his selfish choices.  But today I want you to see how this story is really about a Prodigal God – a God who loves us with reckless abandon; a God who spends inordinate time turning over every possibility in order to find us when we are lost; a God who hikes up the robes around his skinny old legs and runs down the road to meet us when we finally come to our senses and return home.

Truly I tell you, there will be more joy in heaven over one sinner who repents
than over ninety-nine righteous people who need no repentance.

Come, ye weary, heavy-laden,
Lost and ruined by the fall;
If you tarry till you’re better,
You will never come at all.

This morning’s gospel text begins with a dinner party – with Jesus sitting around a table surrounded by the kind of folk most respectable people wouldn’t want to be seen with.  And our gospel text ends with a dinner party also; a party thrown by a father so thrilled to have his son home again that it no longer mattered that he had consorted with wild women, earned money in shameful ways, and ate other peoples’ garbage in order to stay alive.  There was a party going on in heaven and on earth the day that child came home.

The funny thing is that, the story doesn’t completely end right there.  The story doesn’t end with the father’s warm embrace and the fine celebration that followed.  Like so many of Jesus’ stories, it’s more complicated than that – because the older son is angry.  The older son doesn’t want to go into the party.  As far as he’s concerned, they shouldn’t be having a party at all.  He’d never disobeyed his father.  He’d always done what he was supposed to do.  And now, his father had killed the fatted calf for that spoiled brat of a brother who always got away with everything.  The world had shifted right beneath his feet.  His brother was back, and instead of being reprimanded, instead of being treated like the slave he had become, his Father threw a party.  There was a party going on, but he wouldn’t go in.

So his father leaves the party and comes out to embrace him.  He comes out to gather him up in his arms like he did when he was just a toddler having a temper tantrum.  He leaves the party and comes to comfort him, to reason with him, to reassure him that he, too, is precious to his father.  “My child,” 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 was dead and has come to life; he was lost and has been found.”

The story ends without an ending really.  The Father is standing at the door of the tent, imploring his child to come in.  And we are left to wonder what happens next.  Here, four weeks into Lent, we are given three stories to teach us how great is God’s rejoicing when we turn from our lost-ness and re-turn to God’s embrace.  Lent is a season for return.  It’s a season for facing how lost we’ve been; a season for confessing our foolishness.  It’s a season for making a choice.

The Father has shown us how recklessly He loves us.  He has shown up with what abandon he will search for us.  He has shown us how greatly he will celebrate our return.  There’s a party going on to celebrate the return of one who was dead and now is alive; who was lost but now is found.  Standing at the entrance to the tent, imploring us to come inside, is the very One who seeks us too.  So, come brothers and sisters: put on your party hat and let’s go inside. 

May it be so.  Amen.