Come Home!
Luke 15:11-24
In a small town in 19th Century, England there was a Christmas day tradition. There would be a village party and all the children would receive gifts. Bright smiles, children playing happily, very joyful event, as they would gather around the tree in the center of the village. Lights, colorful packages, singing, very festive.
In the town there was a young man, very gentle, childlike demeanor, slow, yet because he was labeled retarded he was the butt of many cruel jokes. The trick played on him this day was the cruelest of all. As the mountain of gifts got smaller, his face got longer. He is too old for a gift, but he does not know that, his childlike heart is heavy as he watches the other children open their presents. Then some boys come to him with a gift, a brightly wrapped box, it was the last one under the tree. His eyes dance as he looks at the brightly wrapped package, in his excitement he tears at the wrapping paper and the ribbons, he opens the box and his heart sinks. The box is empty. The package attractive, the ribbons are colorful, the outside was enough to get him inside, but when he got to the inside, the box was empty. Have you ever been there? Many of us have.
A young woman weeps silently into her pillow. All her life she dreamed of being married. “If only I could have a husband and a home I would be happy.” She is now married; the honeymoon has long been over. She dug out of one prison and landed in another. Her Land of Oz has become a land of dirty diapers, car pools, and bills.
He should be happy, he sits in his plush office, and he has a German sports car in the garage waiting for him. He is dressed in Armani, has gold rings on his fingers, his name on a brass plate on the door, a walnut desk, his name is well known among the Fortune 500. He possesses the very package he set out to get when he started at the bottom of the ladder looking up. Now that he has what he wants, he does not want it. Now that he is at the top of the ladder, he realizes it is leaning against the wrong building.
He left his bride in the dust of his ambition to climb to the top, his children no longer call him dad, they call someone else dad now. Although he has “everything” that success has to offer, he would trade it in a heartbeat to have a home to go to tonight.
I have counted the holes in the ceiling tile a hundred times. The voice shook in spite of an attempt to sound stable. They say I will be in a cast for 8 weeks, they also say I am lucky to be alive. His voice is barely audible through the oxygen mask; the skin on his face is badly scraped. They keep asking me what I remember. I don’t remember getting into that car let alone drive it. I never tried crack before, I guess I did too much, but I just wanted to fit in. I think I won’t be doing that again. I think a lot now; I guess I really don’t want to fit in that group again.
It is not games, noise, or flashing lights that keep you up at night. Your dreams have come true but instead of letting you sleep, they keep you awake. What do you do now when the parade stops? Where do you go? Our failures suck the sandy foundation of our future out from under us. Now what do we do?
We can blame the world; in fact, I believe the prodigal son did. He looked at his face in the muddy water, he may have wondered, “is that really me?” The flame in his eyes diminished, the smirk gone, his devil-may-care attitude had been sobered up. He tumbled along and fell face first. He, who was once the life of the party, is now all alone.
He is broke, had to pawn his ring, his coat, maybe even his shoes. The long hours walking the streets did not break him, the lonely nights in the bunkhouse or the days of lugging pig slop did not break him. Pride is made of stone, hard knocks may chip away at it, but it takes a jackhammer to break it. His was beginning to crack...
His first few days were steamy with resentment. Ha, friends, ha, friends like those who needs enemies. How come my brother doesn’t come down and bail me out of this mess? This boss should feed me better, Dad should not have let me go, etc, etc, etc.
Failure invites finger pointing and buck passing. When we fail, we look to for something or someone else to blame. The parents should have taken more responsibility in raising me better, my spouse should have been less selfish, my kids don’t respect me, if I had only been potty trained earlier…sometimes we blame the system. “No one could make good grades here unless your name is…If I had been given an equal shot I would have been promoted…Oh I did attend church back in 1958 but no one came and visited me. That group is a bunch of hypocrites…I’d go back to church just as soon I find one that is teaching proper doctrine that I agree with, housing homeless, feeding the poor, caring for the sick and giving out green stamps for attendance. We are all right and everyone else is all wrong. We are the victims and the world is our enemy. BLAME BLAME BLAME everyone else but me.
We play the masquerade game. Ever since Eve hemmed fig leaves in the garden, we have been disguising the truths about ourselves. We have gotten better with each generation. Michelangelo’s creativity in the Sistine Chapel is nothing compared to what a bald does with a few strains of hair, Houdini would have been in awe at our capacity to squeeze lumberjack size waist in ballerina-sized pants.
Cars, Jeans, Accents, Names, Toys, all in the name of image.
Our failures are not FATAL
We have options
The boy had options
1. He could have walked back into that masquerade party and pretended nothing was wrong. He could have pretended the pigpen was a palace.
2. He could have looked in that muddy water and said, “You’re no worse off than anybody else. Things will get better tomorrow.
3. He could have realized how far he had fallen, which he did.
He looked into his reflection, and thought of his father.
As his tears flowed, they flushed his soul. He remembered the times at his father’s table, the warm bed, the times of chatter with his dad on the porch. He remembered how well his father treated the servants. I really blew it, maybe I could go home and be one of his servants, I am not worthy to be His Son anymore.
He goes home.
The way home seems longer than he remembers.
He used to turn heads because of his style, now he turns heads because of his stink. Clothes are worn out, hair is matted, feet black, face dirty, heart of shame. Yet that was not on his mind, he was thinking about His Father. He was going home, a changed man. Give me is going to be replaced with Help me, defiance replaced with repentance. He had no idea what awaited him. He had no idea how many times his father went into his room and sat on the boy’s bed wishing he would come home, how many hours the father waited on that porch, hoping, longing to see his son come up that path.
The boy stopped as he approached the gate. He rehearsed his speech one more time. Father I have sinned against heaven and against you.
What did he find? He could have found an angry father demanding his son beg for forgiveness. Instead, he found his father running out to meet him, arms wide open that entrance is the only option, tears streaming down his face, an embrace that left him mumbling his rehearsed speech buried in his father’s shoulders as he is embraced in his father’s arms. The two wept, it seemed like hours they stood there intertwined as one, words were unnecessary, repentance had been made, forgiveness given. The boy was home.
There is a scene in this story that deserves to be framed, it is the one of the father’s outstretched hands, his tears moving, his smile stirring, his hands calling us home. Imagine those hands, strong hands, stretching out like and open gate.
When Jesus told this parable, did he look into the eyes of a wayward child, did he embrace anyone in that crowd. Was he looking at a prideful person who was harboring unforgiveness, did he perceive the thoughts of the crowd? Did he see that housewife or that businessman who thought they could never go home? Did he hear the ones who have said, “I have made too much a mess of my life to come home?” Did he then open his arms, arms that would never fold again, and say, “Yes, yes you can, you can come home.”
Whether he did that day or not, I do not know, but this I do know. Later he would stretch out his arms as far as he could, his arms were then nailed in that position so that they would never close, those arms are still open today and they invite us all to come home.
