This is the sermon I preached at Holy Cross Lutheran Church, Beatrice, Neb., on Saturday and Sunday, March 13–14, 2010, for the Fourth Sunday in Lent.

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Readings

Joshua 5:9–12
Psalm 32
2 Corinthians 5:16–21
Luke 15:1–3, 11b–32

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Prayer

You call us to return to you, Lord God, and to leave behind all things that keep us from giving ourselves fully to serve you. Speak to us through your Word, so that we may turn to face you and to give you glory; through your Son, Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

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Message

He had the reputation in the village as the fun son.
Whenever the townspeople gathered
for one of those weeklong marriage feasts,
he was the first one out on the dance floor.
He coaxed all the reluctant wallflowers
off of their stools in the corners
and led the crowd in wheeling and whirling
to the pulsing music of the pipes and lyres and drums.

Quick-witted and silver-tongued,
he was the one everyone counted upon
to raise the first chalice,
to offer just the right words of praise,
spiced with humor and a little sauce,
drawing laughter from even the dour and the serious,
tipping heads back in mirth,
leading hands to hold sides,
making faces ache with smiles.

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His brother would stand off to the side,
his heart and guts roiling
with a strange mixture
of envy and resentment.
He could never envision himself
the center of attention,
the spark that starts the fire,
the one who feeds upon the adulation of the crowd.

His brother was irresponsible,
a slacker when it came to the family business,
always joking, even when it was time to be serious.
He never pulled his weight, really.
He never did even what was expected of him,
much less the extras that father really valued,
even though he never said so.

But, look at him,
he is so confident, so relaxed,
so beloved by all.
What would that feel like?
How would it be to go through life
so carefree, so light, so happy?

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On a bench, over in the corner,
the elderly man commanded a view
of the whole wedding party.
He sat in the shadows,
content to watch the festivities,
to talk with neighbors who stopped to visit with him,
to share stories drawn from their long and common history.

When he could,
he would catch a glimpse of his younger son,
arms raised in the epicenter of the crowd,
the focus of laughter.
And then, if he glanced off to the side,
there was his older son standing quietly, alone,,
a mask hiding his pain from most people.

But he saw through the mask,
knew his son felt gnawed at, chewed upon by conflict,
shouldering duty like a heavy yoke.
He tried so hard to be good,
to earn respect, to merit praise.

That’s the way he’d been
ever since their mother…
God rest her soul.

It would be good to see these two boys—
men really—
set aside their differences,
or at least recall that they shared so much.
They were brothers long before they became rivals.

Competing for their father’s affection and approval,
they strove at every turn
to outdo the other, to outmaneuver one another,
to gain those little slices of advantage.

But to what end?
What they did not yet see—
and what would it take to help them?—
is that the father’s love knew no bounds.

His love could not be poured out and come to its end,
the way the wine in the large jars
lined up in the kitchen
receded into the shadows
until the bottoms were revealed
as the stewards filled pitcher upon pitcher
as the feast entered each new day.

His love only grew as he gave it away.
It, like the flame on a candle lighting a new taper,
passed on to others its warmth and glow
without surrendering any of its own light,
but increasing in others with the giving.

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And then he felt a hand on his shoulder
and his dream faded away
as he heard a voice say,
“Master, wake up, wake up!
It’s your son! He has returned.
We have word he is on the road,
drawing near at this very moment.
What should we do?”

The father rubbed his eyes,
shook himself awake,
and said,
“Bring me my sandals
and fetch my staff.
I must go to meet him.”

His hands trembled
and his heart raced.
After all this time,
the endless months of waiting, wondering, and watching,
his son, who was lost, had now returned.

The dust eddied and swirled behind him,
caught in the wake of his fluttering robe
as his sandaled feet made determined strides along the lane.

There, in the haze, coming over the hill,
it looked like his younger son.
But not quite.
He seemed somehow bent, saddened,
weighed down, penitent, humble.
Not the son—the man—he was once,
but still his son, his beloved.

They drew closer
and the father dropped his staff,
gathered the hem of his robes in his hands
and broke into a run,
racing to cover the last distance between them.

He threw his arms wide and embraced his son,
feeling him stiffen at first and then relax,
hearing his voice, shaking and weakened, saying,
“Father, I have sinned against heaven and before you;
I am no longer worthy to be called your son.” (Luke 15:21, NRSV)

Shh…there, there…be quiet.
You are my son, always.
I’d thought you were dead,
but no, you are alive and you have come home.
You were lost, but now you are found.

Come home, come with me,
let’s get you cleaned up and find your brother
and we will have a feast to celebrate.

And as they turned and made their way
along the dusty road back to their home,
the father lifted his gaze across the fields,
and there, in the distance,
he saw his elder son,
hoe planted in the earth,
arms grasping its handle.

Even at this distance,
there was no mistaking it.
The posture spoke what words could not convey.
Another episode of resentment,
of jealousy, of sibling rivalry
living long beyond their boyhood days.

The father turned his younger son over to the servants
and made his way across the fields,
praying for the wisdom to know the right words to say.
And as they faced one another,
the elder son’s bottled up, embittered feelings
came pouring out of him.

So the father waited with patience
for his son to finish.
And as he reached out to put his arm
around his son’s shoulder,
he felt his broad, muscular back tighten and flinch.
But then it relaxed a little,
and the father drew him in closer.

And he said,
“Son, 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 back to life;
he was lost and has been found.” (Luke 15:31–32, NRSV)

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Jesus never shared a second parable
telling us what happened to this father
and his two sons.

All we have is the Gospel,
the story of our heavenly Father
and his Son and the love between them
that could not be put to death,
no matter how hard death tried,
no matter the cross and the tomb.

All we have is that Gospel,
that and our lives as sons and daughters
of the same Father.

And so, the questions arise.
How have we lived our lives?
Are there times when we have run off,
seeking our fortune and pleasure
in freedom from our Father?
When have we grown bent and bitter
from shouldering duty with no joy.
When have we stood off to the side,
resenting the seemingly carefree life of others?
And when, by an act of grace,
have we found ourselves waiting patiently
for the lost and estranged loved one
to turn and return?

On that day, will we run with open arms
and welcome our loved ones
into the warm embrace of the family?
That’s what our Father Himself does,
reaching out to us with a love
that restores all people to His family
gathering us for the feast that knows no end. Amen.