Scripture Luke 15: 1-3, 11-32 (NRSVUE)
Now all the tax collectors and sinners were coming near to listen to him. And the Pharisees and the scribes were grumbling and saying, “This fellow welcomes sinners and eats with them.”
So he told them this parable:
Then Jesus said, “There was a man who had two sons. The younger of them said to his father, ‘Father, give me the share of the wealth that will belong to me.’ So he divided his assets between them. A few days later the younger son gathered all he had and traveled to a distant region, and there he squandered his wealth in dissolute living. When he had spent everything, a severe famine took place throughout that region, and he began to be in need. So he went and hired himself out to one of the citizens of that region, who sent him to his fields to feed the pigs. He would gladly have filled his stomach with the pods that the pigs were eating, and no one gave him anything. But when he came to his senses he said, ‘How many of my father’s hired hands have bread enough and to spare, but here I am dying of hunger! I will get up and go to my father, and I will say to him, “Father, I have sinned against heaven and before you; I am no longer worthy to be called your son; treat me like one of your hired hands.”’ So he set off and went to his father. But while he was still far off, his father saw him and was filled with compassion; he ran and put his arms around him and kissed him. Then the son said to him, ‘Father, I have sinned against heaven and before you; I am no longer worthy to be called your son.’ But the father said to his slaves, ‘Quickly, bring out a robe—the best one—and put it on him; put a ring on his finger and sandals on his feet. And get the fatted calf and kill it, and let eat and celebrate, for this son of mine was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found!’ And they began to celebrate.
“Now his elder son was in the field, and as he came and approached the house, he heard music and dancing. He called one of the slaves and asked what was going on. He replied, ‘Your brother has come, and your father has killed the fatted calf because he has got him back safe and sound.’ Then he became angry and refused to go in. His father came out and began to plead with him. But he answered his father, ‘Listen! For all these years I have been working like a slave for you, and I have never disobeyed your command, yet you have never given me even a young goat so that I might celebrate with my friends. But when this son of yours came back, who has devoured your assets with prostitutes, you killed the fatted calf for him!’ Then the father said to him, ‘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 to life; he was lost and has been found.’ ”
Sermon
I’m standing in the doorway of the house, looking out at my father and my brother. They are standing at the edge of the field—my brother covered in sweat, because he’s just come in from working all day, alongside the paid laborers. I can see that my father is pleading with him, leaning in towards him, reaching out his hands to gently touch him. But my brother pulls away. He is standing, stiff as a cut board. Every so often he glances over at the house. He glances over at me. His face is a map of misery.
But here I stand, a purple linen robe over my torn and tattered tunic; my father’s own heavy silver ring on my right hand, a red stone shining in the torchlight; soft calfskin slippers on my dirty feet; and a goblet of wine in my hand. It is, as yet, untouched.
My brother is flashing with anger. I am not surprised. In fact, this is the first thing that has not surprised me in the hour since I trudged up the hill to our house. My brother. I am home, and he is not pleased.
I can hardly blame him. A year ago I did the most shameful thing a son could do. At the age of seventeen I approached my father and told him, I wanted to go. I had to go. And I needed my inheritance, so that I had something to live on.
This is not done. Even as I spoke to my father, his eyes shining with tears that never spilled onto his face, I could feel my own face flush with the shame of it. I knew it was akin to saying to my father, “You are worth more to me dead than alive. But since you’re alive, give me this, please.”
My father didn’t say a word. He turned and went into the back of the house, where he kept important documents. He brought out a small scroll which he opened, and I could see that it was a rough map of his vineyard. He looked at it for a long while. Finally, he took a reed, dipped it in ink. And drew a line across the map at the far end of the property. I could see that it was slightly larger than one-third of the vineyard. He looked up at me. “This is your portion of the inheritance. I’ve made it larger than a third, since the house will go to your brother. As the law requires, he will inherit a double portion.”
He turned away from me, but I could hear his voice shaking. “Go to town. Take the map. Sell the land that I’ve marked off. You can give the map to the new owner as their deed.”
And so I did. I went to town, and met a neighbor—someone who lived just down the hill from us. He was eager to take the property, and paid me with a heavy bag of denarii. I took it home and began to pack.
A few days later, the property was his, and I was carrying my heavy pack down the road. My father and brother stood at the entryway of the house, watching me go. I know this, because I looked back, just once. But no more after that.
I don’t know how to explain why I did it. I could talk about how close my father and brother were—and they were. They understood one another perfectly. Agreed on everything. I was always the shrill voice at the table, telling them why they were wrong—about my friends, about the tax-collector up the hill, about the weather. In the evening, they would end their day together talking in front of a fire about the next crop, the workers, the price of wine. I had nothing to add, so I sat there in silence, or retreated to my room, or walked outside to look at the stars.
I could talk about how hard it was after my mother died. She was the one who listened to me, who nodded at my stories instead of rolling her eyes, who held me close before sending me to bed. After she died, and the baby she had tried to bring into the world died with her, I cried for days. I cried until my brother said, “That’s enough.” And my father said nothing. And I thought, “That’s enough? I will never stop crying. I will never not miss her. Who is for me now?” And my brother and father continued to talk about the crops and the workers and prices, as if a vast abyss had not just opened up and swallowed our family.
But if I’m really honest, none of those things made me run. My father and brother were ordinary men, who lived an ordinary life where I didn’t quite fit in. But that’s no tragedy. My mother died, but many mothers die in childbirth, and life goes on without them.
I left because there was a burning anger inside me that I didn’t understand, and I couldn’t put out. I left because I if I stayed, I thought I would go mad or commit murder. I left because, at 17, I didn’t even know who I was, and I certainly didn’t think the grapevines were going to teach me.
So I ran away. Through my father’s vineyard, out of Galilee and north-west to the sea, the sea town of Sidon in Phoenicia. I went to the harbor and saw the barrier island, and ships curving around it, to come to port. I saw the workers unloading the goods from lands I didn’t even know existed—their spices and silks, barrels of wines and ales. I befriended some sailors by buying them food and wine, and I thought maybe I would go to sea with the next ship that left, bearing fine Lebanon cedar for sale. But then, I was enjoying the wine, which the sailors encouraged me to drink until I was senseless, so that they too could drink until they were senseless. I was enjoying the women, though… I could not tell you one of their names or describe one face or remember one thing they said to me. And I was enjoying the games—rolling dice for money, always seeming to lose more than I won.
My money ran out just as the city seemed to run out of people. Suddenly, there wasn’t enough food anywhere, and even people who helped beggars—as I had become—couldn’t help us any more, because they had their families to feed. I looked around for work, but the only person who would hire me raised pigs. He sent me out to give them their slop. By then I was so weak from hunger, the slop looked good to me. I dipped my hand into the pail and held it up to my nose—the jumbled remains of day old grains and greens, wilted, souring. My stomach—as hungry as it was—heaved in warning, and I dropped the handful back into the pigsty.
As night fell, I rested against a stone wall that divided the pig farm from its neighbor’s property. I had finished gnawing on the hard bread that was my dinner. A lone star rose in the sky, and the sight of it pierced my heart. Suddenly the sound of my father’s and brother’s voices wafting out to me as I looked up at the stars came to me. I’d always considered it boring, annoying noise. Now even the memory of it sounded like sweet music.
What am I doing here? I thought. And then, a greater knife to my heart: What have I done? I put my head in my hands and wept. I wept until I had no more tears, and then I slept.
The sound of a rooster awakened me and I lay there, very still. I have to go, I thought. I jumped to my feet and ran to find the owner, who gave me my pay and some bread for the journey. I thanked him, and I ran.
The whole way home—a two-day journey—I rehearsed and refined what I would say. I imagined my father’s stony face, and knew the only thing I could do was to admit it. Admit it all. To tell him that I’d done the worst, and I knew there was no forgiveness to be found. But maybe there was work. And maybe, over time, there could even be trust. But that wasn’t up to me.
I trudged up the hill as night fell, and I walked through the fragrant grapevines. The harvest was starting soon… it looked like a good crop this year. I looked up to see the house, expecting to see the firelight through the window. To my surprise I saw what, at first, looked like a pile of cloth by the door. Then I realized… it was a man… it was my father. And as I drew near, he scrambled to his feet and… began to run. To run toward me, not away. I was… astonished doesn’t cover it. I was amazed. This was not possible. But even as I was thinking how impossible it was, my father was falling on my neck and embracing me, and weeping. We were both weeping. I started to say my piece, but he interrupted me, calling a servant—the robe, the slippers, the ring. Family heirlooms. And then, the party. A party unlike any I’d known.
I will never forget the look in my father’s eyes. I had not known. I had not understood the depths of his love. I had not understood the size of his beautiful, beating heart. I had not known that such forgiveness—forgiveness for the shameful, the cruel, the unforgiveable—that it could exist. But it does. I learned that just about an hour ago.
And now I’m standing in the doorway of the house. And my brother is still out there. He’s looking at my father with a face of stone, and my father is still speaking, still whispering words of reassurance, words of encouragement. But he is not having it.
I know what I must do. I put down the goblet of wine. I take off the ring and the shoes, and place them with the wine. I take off the beautiful robe, and carefully fold it and hand it to a servant.
I step outside, and begin to walk toward him.
Thanks be to God. Amen.