Creekside Church Sermon of October 22, 2000 "Behold Your God - Scene 1: The Son" Luke 15:11-19	Rev. David Bibbee
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The prodigal son is a parable that's been worn smooth by all the telling and interpretations since Jesus first told it. It doesn't take many readings to realize the parable is not about someone else. The parable of the prodigal son is a mirror in which we recognize ourselves as either the prodigal son who left home, or the prodigal son who stayed home. But it also gives us encouragement to become more like the merciful, compassionate father.

Over the next three weeks we will examine this family in a manner which sheds light upon who we are, and even more, upon God's identity and the great, deep desire of God's that we come home to him. The greatest parable Jesus told contains the sum of the gospel. It is a succinct description of our condition and God's response to it. Perhaps the greatest pictorial representation of the parable was painted by Rembrandt near the end of his life. You have a copy of it in your bulletin. Since a picture is worth a thousand words and then some, I will refer to it several times during the series. The inspiration for this series was ignited by a book on the painting and the parable written by Henri Nouwen titled, The Return of the Prodigal Son.

Today we fix the spotlight on the younger son who took the money and ran. It wasn't a snap decision. Before his departure he had already left home. The old man was getting on his nerves. He couldn't stand the watchful eye that seemed to follow his every move. The real issue was that Junior did not want to live under anyone's authority but his own. He didn't want to turn out like his elder brother who was always sucking up to Dad. He was sick of his brother's, "Yes, sir. No, sir. Anything you want, sir." He saw that through the obedience to the obligation behind it and wanted no part of it. No way. No how. The father could see his youngest slipping away. He knew that home had ceased to be home for his son. It broke his heart, but love must be willing to let go.

"I want my share of the inheritance so I can convert it to cash and leave this hick town." There is nothing in the passage that says it, but such a request was unheard of. An inheritance was never given to a son until the father's death. To ask such a thing in essence said, "Drop dead, old man." This request said, "I want nothing to do with what you taught me. I'm turning away from how you wanted me to believe and behave." Asking for his inheritance said, "I want nothing to do with faith and the heritage passed through the generations to you. I'm not part of you or this family anymore. Now give me my inheritance, please."

With a bulging wallet, Jesus said the son traveled to a distant country. This doesn't mean he merely wanted to see the world. The distant country is the condition which denies the need for home. Being in a distant country is where we deny the claims that have been made upon us. The distant country is where we, along with the prodigal son, lose touch with the best the father gives us. In the distant country of our thoughts, we doubt that we are God's beloved people upon whom his loving favor rests. As conditions in this world grow darker by the day, we are less inclined to believe that we can live in the light of his love, nor believe that not even suffering nor death will keep his love from us.

What the prodigal son had not learned, and what we struggle to learn, is that life away from home is iffy. We are seduced with the message that we will be loved if we are intelligent and affluent; if we have a good job and send our kids to the most expensive colleges; if we're good looking and sexually appealing; if we have the latest toys and are seen with the right people. Prayers prayed in the distant country sound a lot like this: "Lord, we have a crisis here! I've called the emergency number in the yellow pages and ran to the neighbors for help. The children are crying and my husband is pacing. Dinner has burned and the baby needs attention. Could you get the TV repairman to come tomorrow?"

Given a choice, most of us identify with the obedient brother. The fact is, all of us are prodigals who doubt that the love we long for most can be found in the father's house. If you don't agree with this, then come the end of each day, do a "thoughts of the day" inventory. To what extent were your thoughts of your beloved status of a child of God? How preoccupied were you with the heavy concerns and dark, depressive emotions? If we are honest with ourselves, being aware of and living out of the father's love is overshadowed by other concerns. Henri Nouwen puts it like this: "When I pay careful attention to what goes on in my mind, I come to the disconcerting discovery that there are very few moments when I am really free from dark emotions, passions, and feelings."

The prodigal son was given his inheritance, turned his back on his father, family, and faith, and in a little sentence Jesus says what happened next. "He went to a distant country and squandered his property in loose living." What's your picture of loose living? I see him living at a frenzied pace like there's no tomorrow. I picture our playboy drinking wine like water. Everywhere he goes the music is turned up full blast. Everywhere he goes he has a blond on each arm. He's hot and sizzling.

Several years ago the Chicago Tribune columnist Bob Greene wrote a feature on parties. He noted how the noun "party" is now used as a verb, such as when young people say, "We're going to party all night long," or "She really knows how to party!" When he asked people what partying meant, a common reply was, "Drugs, sex, and alcohol." Greene said, "Parties have changed a lot since the 50's and 60's when I grew up." Not wanting to settle with drugs, sex, and alcohol as the only way to party, he asked his readers to write him their definition of partying. Seven young men from the Chicago suburbs sent a booklet they had written entitled, So You Wanna be a Party Animal. Greene writes, "If you are the parent of a teenager and you want to browse through something that is guaranteed to depress you to the point of despair, I highly recommend it." The prodigal son had it memorized from cover to cover.

The prodigal party animal had surrounded himself with the best friends money could buy. But the prosperity of the distant land shriveled and the prodigal son no longer sizzled. Multiple hangovers and partners took their toll. The bulging wallet was empty. His companions in the good life didn't know him when the money ran out. The son who had never lacked a thing in his life was destitute. Bound and determined to be free from his father, he took himself prisoner. He became someone else's servant, slopping pigs and envying their food.

The distant country can never be home. Far from his home he lost his inheritance, his friends, his dignity, and his health. Because he insisted on having his life his way, he lost everything that makes life worth living. "Then," Jesus said, "he came to himself." He regained consciousness. He remembered he had a father. He remembered he was a son. There was only one place left to turn.

See how Rembrandt portrays the prodigal. His hair has been shaved off like a concentration camp prisoner. He's just a number. No name. His bright robes are gone. He is wearing only dirty yellowed, tattered underclothing draped over his ravaged body. It has been a long road home. His left foot is out of its slipper. The bottom of his foot is cut and calloused. There's hardly anything left of the right slipper. He bears no resemblance to the proud, strong young man who was so anxious to leave.

Imagine what it was like for him to return. It shouldn't be hard. If you think of the times you have alienated yourself from someone. Remember the emotional distance. You decide to make the first move, but you're not sure how you will be received. You remember speeches of how sorry you are and how willing you are to do whatever you can to make it right.

Through a careless, thoughtless act I had hurt a friend. Three years had passed since our parting and we were together again at a denominational event. I had my speech prepared ahead of time and was afraid of the response. I was prepared to pay. Our meeting was at a worship service. He approached me. I was ready to speak, but I didn't get the chance. He embraced me and said, "Nothing needs to be said. Good to see you, friend!"

We all leave our home with God. We know all about living life our way. We routinely show how easily we forget our real identity as God's beloved children. We know how spiritually lonely and empty we are when we choose to live far from the loving father. It's a hard way to live. But there's something equally hard receiving God's forgiveness. In myself and in many people I talk with, there is a problem believing grace is greater than all our sin. We have the notion that God sets conditions on forgiveness. We think God is a harsh judge who will put us through hard labor before pronouncing us forgiven. If we had created this parable, this is probably how we would have ended it. But this is not the father Jesus reveals.

The father could have forced his son to stay. But he loved him. He let him go his own way even though it would bring pain to them both. From that moment on, the father never stopped loving and never stopped hoping that his son would return. When the son finally did come home, he didn't even ask for forgiveness, but forgiveness is exactly what he received.

In a home near Traverse City, Michigan lived a girl whose parents were concerned about her music, the length of her skirts, and her nose ring. One night in a fit of rage she screamed, "I hate you!" and ran away. She figured the last place her parents would look for her would be among the drugs and gangs of downtown Detroit. On the second day she met a man who drove a big car. He took her out to eat, and he gave her a place to stay. He gave her pills that made her feel better. The man she called "Boss" showed her what men liked. He put her up in a penthouse. She could order room service anytime she wanted. How much better this was than life at home. She had a brief scare when she saw her picture on a milk carton, but with all her makeup and jewelry, she bore no resemblance to the picture.

Then she became ill. The Boss said he couldn't afford to have her around anymore. She would be bad for business. So he threw her out on the street, penniless. She continued her prostitution to support her addiction. She slept on sidewalks. Then one night she came to herself. She didn't feel like a woman of the world anymore. She felt like what she was... a little girl. She was hungry, sick and scared, and then a picture flashed in her mind of home. She wondered what ever possessed her to leave. She called home three times and got the answering machine. The third time she left a message. "Dad, Mom. It's me. I was wondering about maybe coming home. The bus will get in town at midnight tomorrow. If you're not there, I'll just stay on the bus to Canada."

As the bus drew near home she rehearsed her speech, begging forgiveness for all the pain she had caused. The bus pulled into the Traverse City station. The driver said the bus would only stay 15 minutes. 15 minutes to decide her life. She timidly walked into the terminal and saw a scene unlike any of the thousands she had imagined. There stood 40 goofy-looking people wearing party hats and blowing noisemakers. They were her brothers, sisters, cousins, aunts, uncles, and grandparents. On the wall was a banner that read simply said, "Welcome Home!" Then from the crowd her father emerged. Tears filled her eyes. She started her speech. "Dad, I'm sorry. I..." He put his hand softly over her mouth. "Hush child. We've got no time for that. No time for apologies. You'll be late for the party."

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