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Creekside Church
Sermon of November
5, 2000
"Behold Your
God - Scene III: The Father"
Luke
15:20-32
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Rev. David
Bibbee
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One
of these years I am going to write a book about my experiences
in pastoral ministry. One chapter will be devoted to funerals.
In it I will describe the "circus funeral". The deceased was
a clown and a small animal trainer. Before that he had been
an aeronautical engineer. One day he just walked away from
his desk and joined the circus. Before the service began,
I met members of the deceased's circus family. There was no
dancing bear or bearded lady. I met the elephant trainer and
some clowns named, Thimbles, Chuckles, and Clarabell. The
organist was a calliope player. He wore a tuxedo and played
all of the hymns circus style. It was the only time I have
heard "In the Garden" done with ooom-pah-pahs. I felt like
the circus master in the center ring. Though I tried to keep
decorum with what I said, the contributions of others were,
by my standards, out of bounds.
But this was nothing compared
to the story shared by another pastor. The wife of the deceased
asked if she could share an announcement at the close of
the service. He assumed she would share some words of appreciation
to all who had come. Instead she said, "I want to say that
everyone is invited over to our house right after the burial
for a good time. I've got plenty of food, lots of beer,
and we're going to tie one on tonight that will send John
out in style. John would have wanted it that way."
What an inappropriate thing
to do. "We'll throw a few shovels full of dirt, then go
party!" There are times we do things that aren't necessarily
wrong in and of themselves, but given the context, are not
appropriate. The action of the prodigal son's father is
a prime example. His self-centered, ungrateful boy went
off to the big city, partied from dusk till dawn and kept
it up till his pockets were empty. He had devoured all of
his inheritance. Then he came home. Now it's time to pay
the piper. Confession, repentance, contrition, apologies,
making amends, restoring relationships. That's what should
have been done. But what does the father do? He embraced
his son, put a ring on his finger, draped a cloak over his
shoulders, put fancy slippers on his feet and then threw
a great party for him.
Is that the right kind of
message to send? Make a mess of your life and then come
home to a great party? The father was encouraging the prodigal's
behavior. If you don't come down hard on him this time,
mark my word, he'll do it again. Let him know you mean business.
This is what conventional wisdom says, but the father, Jesus
tells us, is not conventional. This father gave his son
the inheritance he asked for. When he came home, the father
wouldn't even let him apologize. Instead, he hugged him,
clothed him, and threw a great party in his honor.
Notice that the elder brother
didn't criticize the father for welcoming his brother home.
There's nothing wrong with being around sinners, provided
they know they are a sorry lot. The elder brother wasn't
mad because the prodigal came home. It was the party that
got him. "You're rewarding bad behavior, Father!"
Over the past two weeks we
have seen ourselves as the prodigal and the elder brother,
but today we will look at who the parable is about, really.
Ultimately it is not about one son's rebellion and the other's
self- righteousness. It is about the father's incredible,
unconditional forgiveness. Look at the father, and behold
your God.
Long before we chose God,
God chose us. Before it ever crossed our mind to search
for God, we were already being sought. We will never find
God, unless God wants to be found. God knit us together
in our mother's womb. We were fearfully and wonderfully
made. Before our mothers loved us, we were loved by God.
Before our first rejection, the Father loved us. After all
the rejections have taken place, he will still love us.
God's great hope is that we will all come home to him, and
that we will love because he first loved us. In Rembrandt's
painting the prodigal looks as if he is about to be engulfed
by his father's cloak. The psalmist used similar imagery
in this psalm to God:
You who dwell in the shelter
of the most high, and abide in the shadow of the almighty
Say to your God-my refuge, my stronghold, my God in whom
I trust.
Do we know and believe the
love God has for us? Do we believe that God counts us worthy
enough to seek? Usually, "No." We depreciate ourselves and
dislike who we are. We are convinced God has far more reason
to scold and judge us than to forgive and receive us. This
is why it is so easy for the world to jerk us around. Because
we feel so small, we are easy targets for marketers who
tell us we can be better, more happy people, if we will
only do this, or buy that...at four easy payments of only
$39.95.
The father asked for no apologies.
He didn't make his son beg forgiveness. He didn't lecture
him or scold him or make him promise never to pull a stunt
like that again.
I talked with a woman who
said she couldn't let God come close because of the fear
of punishment. We talked about what was behind her fear.
She remembered when she was a little girl spending the night
in a hotel with her family. She accidentally locked herself
in the bathroom and couldn't get out. She pounded on her
door to get her parents to help, but they couldn't open
it from the outside. They tried telling her how to work
the lock mechanism, but she couldn't. They sent for a maintenance
man who tried to remove the hinges, but couldn't. She was
scared. Then the bathroom light went out, and she was terrified.
She was crying and pounding on the door. Finally the maintenance
man removed the window and she crawled out into his arms.
She was still sobbing, but relieved to be free. She ran
into the room waiting for a comforting hug. Instead her
father put her across his lap, spanked her, and said, "Don't
you ever pull a trick like that again, young lady!"
She learned that her father,
and by extension God, were to be avoided at all cost when
something was wrong. I suggested that she read the prodigal
son and meet a different father. When the Pharisees asked
why Jesus welcomed sinners, Jesus told them about a lamb
lost in the wilderness, and a shepherd who left 99 others
and didn't stop searching till he found it. He told them
about a woman who had lost a silver coin and turned her
house inside out until she found it. He told them about
a wayward son who had lost his way, came to his senses,
and finally came home. In all three parables, that which
is lost is found, and all of these parables conclude with
rejoicing and partying. When a sinner comes home, it's always
a cause for celebration.
Someone said, "The biggest
problem with American Christianity is that we have a Loving
Father Gospel in an Elder Brother Church. We are able to
accept the father's unconditional forgiveness for ourselves,
but like the elder brother, we keep score, and don't think
that welcoming a lost brother or sister home with a party
is an appropriate thing to do. The Elder Brother Church
doesn't have parties. It is too busy comparing, judging,
being jealous and resentful to notice anything worth celebrating.
It's no problem to find ourselves
in this parable. To be either one of the sons is, I suppose,
in a strange way, comforting. As long as we can see ourselves
in son one or two, we feel understood. But there's more
of a message here than this. If there were only two options
for our lives, there would be no reason for us to grow to
the next phase of spiritual maturity. We are like the brothers,
but our goal is to become like the father. We are not only
those who are forgiven, we are to be forgivers. We are not
to merely receive God's welcome...we are to extend it.
I remember hearing a speaker
recall the day she answered the doorbell. Standing at the
door were the kids next door. The girl was five, her brother
was three. They wore some of their parent's clothing and
were making believe they were grown-up. "Hello," the girl
said. "I am Mrs. Miller and this is my husband Mr. Miller.
We decided to come visit." "Well that would be delightful,"
the hostess said. "Won't you and Mr. Miller come in? Would
you like some milk and cookies?" "Yes please." Her two guests
sat on the couch trying to act very dignified. The hostess
went back to the kitchen for more cookies. When she returned
the kids were headed for the door. "Won't you please stay
for more cookies?" "We'd like to," little Mrs. Miller said,
"but we must be going...my husband just wet his pants."
"When I was a child, I spoke
like a child and reasoned like a child," Paul said. "When
I became an adult, I put an end to childish ways." Conversion
is a daily discipline of growing from a child to an adult.
It is daily deciding to become more like Christ. It is being
daily converted from judging through the world's eyes, to
seeing people and their problems from the vantage point
of a loving father's eyes.
Jesus' disciple Phillip said
to him, "Show us the Father." "Anyone who has seen me, has
seen the Father," Jesus said. All the power, all the knowledge,
all the glory and love of God reside within him. "I tell
you" Jesus said "by himself, the Son can do nothing. He
can only do what he sees the Father doing." He can only
welcome the prodigals who turn to him. He can only give
those who are mad about parties for sinners, an invitation
to sit at the table, too. "You are always with me. Whatever
I have is yours." Like the father, like sons and daughters,
it is all about being compassionate as your heavenly father
is compassionate.
This is exceedingly difficult
work. It is tremendously difficult to give without thinking
about getting something back. It's hard to suspend my judgments
of others and receive them with compassion instead. It is
difficult to not hunger for recognition. Most of the time,
living with God's unconditional love is beyond me. Then
I remember there can be no Loving Father Gospel in an Elder
Brother Church. It is not enough to identify with the sons.
It all comes down to believing everything we need is found
in the house of the Father's love, and deciding to be more
like him.
Tom Long tells the story
of spending the night in a hotel. On the elevator door was
a handwritten notice that read, "Party tonight! Room 210.
8:00 P.M. Everyone invited!" He could hardly picture who
would throw such a party, or for what reason, but he imagined
that at 8:00 room 210 would be filled with an unlikely assortment
of people...sales reps seeking a little relief from the
tedium of the road; a vacationing couple tired of sightseeing;
a man stopping overnight in the middle of a long journey;
looking for a little bit of festivity; a few inquisitive
and wary hotel employees, there because of professional
responsibility; perhaps some young people who have slipped
out of their parents rooms, curious about what was happening
in room 210.
But, as he had suspected,
the sign soon came down and was replaced by a typewritten
statement from the hotel staff explaining that the first
notice was a joke. That made sense, but in a way it was
too bad. For a brief moment, the people staying at the hotel
were tantalized by the possibility that there just might
be a party going on somewhere to which they were all invited...a
party where it didn't make much difference who they were
when they walked in the door, or what motivated them to
come; a party they could come to out of boredom, loneliness,
curiosity, responsibility, eagerness to be in fellowship,
or simply out of a desire to come and see what was happening;
a party where it didn't matter nearly as much what got them
in the door, as what would happen to them after they arrived.
Then Long was struck by the
insight, "Perhaps if there is to be such a party, the church
is going to have to throw it."
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