1
Prodigal Me?
Never.
Luke 15:1-3, 11b-32
A
Sermon
by
The Rev. David R. Anderson
March 14, 2010
Fourth Sunday in Lent
Saint Luke’s Parish
Darien, Connecticut
We know this story too, too well.
A missionary in Lebanon once read the parable of the Prodigal Son to a group of people who were living in a culture quite similar to the one Jesus inhabited several thousand years ago. He asked these Lebanese listeners what grabbed their attention in the story.
They noticed two things. First, by claiming his inheritance in advance, the younger son was essentially saying to the father, “I wish you were dead.” The villagers could not imagine a patriarch absorbing such an insult, or—worse—agreeing to the boy’s humiliating demand.And second, they noticed that the father ran to meet the boy. In the Middle East, they said, a man of stature and honor walks slowly, with stately dignity. He doesn’t run—ever!
We know this story too well, or we think we do. Maybe if we had an inkling of Oriental culture, we’d be stunned by Jesus’ story. Because he meant it to stun. For people in an ancient, patriarchal culture who called God “Father”—Jesus wanted to say, Let me tell you what kind of “Father” we have in God.You can tell this Father you wish he were dead and you could bury his wrinkled carcass and have his money—and he would give it to you. And when you had spent it all, devolved into utter degradation and finally came home in shame, this Father would come running. He’d kiss your neck and put the royal robe on you and put the signet ring of authority on your finger, and throw a party for you. He’d come running, this father—he’d come running.
And the reason this stunned people was not simply because this was not at all the way they pictured God, but because they didn’t really want a God like this. It was too much love. Too much freedom. Too much forgiveness. These people weren’t daft. They knew that if the crazy, running Father threw a banquet for this wanton boy, it meant all the rules were meaningless. Honor, virtue and moralitymeant nothing.
In short, this was a love for the needy, the screw-ups; and they were upstanding religious people. “I suppose the total losers need something like this,” they might say, “and isn’t that lovely for them, but it’s not much use to people—you know . . . like us.”
The longer I read the Bible, the more I understand that the problem with the so-called Good News of the gospel, is that it is too good. It’s too loving, too forgiving. It wipes away every system of morality, of reward and punishment. It destroys every system for grading and judging human beings—who measures up and who doesn’t. Who’s worthy and who’s not. Who’s in the Uber class, and who’s working class. Who’s clean and who’s dirty. Who’s a sophisticate and who’s social chaff. That is the world we’re invested in.
All of that is destroyed when the Father comes running, looking frankly over-zealous and a total embarrassment in public. His kiss is the kiss of death, I’m telling you. All of us self-made Uber sons and daughters see this guy running toward us and we can’t hide fast enough. If he tackles you and puts that kiss on your neck everybody will know you’re a loser. You don’t fit. You couldn’t make it. You need help. You’re a charity case.
The Father is running toward us, and we are running away
In The Great Santini, Bull Meechum is a Marine (played so powerfully by Robert DuVall) who runs his family like a platoon. He calls his kids “hogs,” like they’re new recruits. He lines them up for “inspection.” He’s a lot of jaw and bluster, but Bull’s four children know their father loves them. They just know—as kids often do—that he doesn’t know how to show it. He’s got big loveable flaws.
All his life Bull has been tortured by a childhood dominated by a dictatorial father, a man who always demanded more of his son. And as his oldest son, Ben, grows into manhood, the two sink deeper into animosity.
Late one night, Bull staggers home drunk and starts slapping his wife. The kids hear their mother’s screams and they all come running in fear and terror. The four kids try to tackle their father. The little kids hold onto his legs, and Ben grabs him by the collar and throws him against the kitchen wall. Everyone is screaming and crying, and when an ominous quiet finally descends, Bull stands there in utter humiliation. A Bull beating a helpless woman, the mother of his children. A Marine who has to be tackled by little crying girls.
Shamed and angry, Bull backs away from his family, and storms out the door. Bull’s wife quiets the children and puts them to bed, but later than night, Ben walks out on the porch to comfort his mother. “I’m getting worried,” she says, looking out into the darkness, “your father may be in trouble.”“Good,” Ben says, “I hope he dies.” “No you don’t,” his mother says, “I want you to go get him.”
So Ben reluctantly sets out to find his father, walking the empty streets of the neighborhood. Finally he finds his father slumped under a tree. In his drunken state, Bull is lost in some sad, imaginary talk with his father. As Ben hears his Dad’s tearful words, he understands why his father is so torn up inside, why he cannot love. Bull is lying in the grass, crying. Ben walks over to his pitiful father and says, “Come on, Dad. It’s time to go home. I think I understand now.”
The boy bends over, picks up his father and says quietly, “I love you, Dad.”
Bull is too ashamed to let this boy love him. He shoves him and staggers away. Hurt and angry at first, Ben follows his Dad, saying, “I love you, Dad. I love you Dad.” Bull is so afraid of this insistent love that he lurches away. “Leave me alone!”
But Ben circles him, taunting, “I love you, Dad. Come on, Dad, I love you! Stop me, Dad, come on, stop me! I love you, Dad!” Bull runs until he cannot escape. His boy’s love has battered his heart into surrender. Ben gets under one shoulder and together they limp home.
If you want to know how we all respond to the love of the running Father, just look at Bull Meechum. We don’t want it. Why? Because you have to be Prodigal to get it. We want a world where people line up for “inspection.” (Marines aren’t the only ones, you know, who need to line people up for inspection.) We want a meritocracy where achievers like us can shine. We want to love other, needy, hopeless losers—that’s the “Christian” thing to do.But that kind of love is not for us.
We see the Father coming, on the run, and we put up our palms. “That’s so nice of you, really,” we say, “but I think you’ve mistaken me for a Prodigal.”