Bill Countryman Good Shepherd Berkeley

SERMON FOR THE FOURTH SUNDAY IN LENT, MARCH 27, 2022

YEAR B: Joshua 5:9-12; Psalm 32; 2 Corinthians 5:16-21; Luke 15:1-3, 11b-32

Sometimes it seems as if Lent is focused mostly on ourselves. We contemplate our mortality. We own up to some of our failings. We make the extra effort. We try to get more serious, to be better people, to look more deeply into our lives. And today’s gospel certainly hits on those points. But it does something else as well. As so often with Jesus’ parables, it sneaks in a surprise.

We know the story of the Prodigal Son so well—almost too well. It’s about repentance, right? Well, yes. But that’s really not the central point. Let’s think it through together.

We start with a prosperous farmer, a man of property, a figure of great dignity. And he has two children to carry the family on after him. What could be more satisfying? Well, the younger child looks at it a bit differently. If his brother lives long and prospers, he’ll be playing second fiddle for the rest of his life. If his brother should die without children, then he’ll be the sole heir; but that’s a long shot. What he really wants is to be the center of his own world. It’s not so hard to understand. 

So the younger child asks for his share of the inheritance in advance. That will have been a piece of land because that’s how people stored up their investments in those days. And he turns the land into cash and goes off to the big city, where—alas!—he fritters it away on high living. He winds up on the next-to-the-bottom rung of society—not quite a beggar, but not much better off than that. Then—and only then—does he “come to himself,” as Jesus puts it. 

That’s a wonderful turn of phrase, isn’t it? He came to himself. He finally got a true picture of who he was and how he’d been destroying himself, and what he might be able to do about it. The phrasing could have been “He repented.” But instead it says, “He came to himself.” Because that’s what genuine repentance is— not just a matter of listing our failures and saying “Sorry.” I’s a matter of recognizing who we are, deep down—good and bad, wise and foolish, generous and selfish, the whole gamut—and how we’re related to others. And, right now, the prodigal knows that he’s in deep need. He knows that he has no further claim on his family. But he also knows he has no hope at all without going back. So he works out the speech that he’s going to make: “I admit that I have no claim on you and deserve nothing. But could I just be one of your hired hands, please?” 

Then there’s the older sibling. He’s now the sole heir—but the estate isn’t what it was. If his little brother had stayed, they could have worked together, and both would be better off. Instead, the idiot sold off his share of the land and left and went on a world tour. Who knows what’s happened to him? So the poor sap who’s left has to work extra hard and be extra smart in order to keep the family farm afloat. And he’s been doing just that for years. This is an archetypal oldest child, I suppose: competent, decisive, organized, determined, the ultimate good-doobie. He may have some sorrow and distress for the kid; but any sympathy he feels is well-seasoned with irritation and reproach. At times, I think, he probably comes close to hating him.

And then there’s papa. What can we say? He’s a strange figure, isn’t he? Shouldn’t he have tried to argue the younger child out of his crazy notions? Instead, he lets him commit all the mistakes he wants. And when the prodigal reappears—dirty, disheveled, scrawny, half-naked—shouldn’t papa at least stand on his dignity and wait for an explanation? But, instead, he won’t even let the prodigal get his litle speech out; he just grabs him and kisses him and tells the slaves to prepare a feast. What about this prodigal’s terrible behavior? What about judgement? What about some appropriate assessment of the situation? Nope! Not a hint of that. It’s straight to the party. (Hmm! Do we detect at least one similarity here between father and prodigal son? Both seem to like a party, don’t they?)

Then there’s older sibling. You can’t really blame him for his negative reaction. He’s out in the field, when all this happens—busting his butt to keep the farm going. That’s his only purpose in life now. He doesn’t even give himself the pleasure of an occasional dinner with friends. And now he’s supposed to celebrate the return of this good-for-nothing kid, who’s responsible for much of the trouble that older brother is trying to deal with? The good-doobie in me would certainly like a little satisfaction here. At least a little public shaming seems called for. 

But what happens? Papa has thrown everything into confusion. “Get the fatted calf , . . . and let’s eat and celebrate, for this son of mine was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found!” The old man is losing it. There’s no reason or justice in this, just stupid, prodigal excess. 

Well, that’s a problem, isn’t it? It’s no secret here that this old guy in the parable is a stand-in for God. But what does that mean? Does God like prodigals who’ve come to their senses better than stodgy but faithful good-doobies? Doesn’t this kind of undercut the whole idea of Lent—? We’re trying to be better, more faithful people? Is it fair that mere repentance should get the prodigal this grand welcome? Imagine, if you can, Vladimir Putin or Donald Trump “coming to himself”—in some convincing way, I mean, not just as a public relations ploy. Am I ready to give them a big hug, forgive everything, and proceed directly to the party? I don’t think so. It sounds too much like what theologians in my younger years referred to as “cheap grace.” Say you repent, and all is forgiven.

Even our Psalm this morning almost sounds that way: 

Happy are they whose transgressions are forgiven.

and whose sin is put away.

. . . . . 

For your hand was heavy upon me day and night

. . . . . . 

Then I acknowledged my sin to you

and did not conceal my guilt.

I said, “I will confess my transgressions to God.”

Then you forgave me the guilt of my sin.

(trans, The Saint Helena Psalter)

There! Account closed. 

No, they’re going to have work harder than that for my forgiveness.

But . . . (You suspected there was gong to be a “but,” didn’t you?) . . . Lent’s focus on us and our effort to become better people, however useful and important it is, isn’t really the main point. We may be the main actors in our own lives, but we’re supporting actors in the big picture. The star is God, And what do we know about God from the gospel? We know that God is fathomless love. Yes, God delights in justice and mercy and faithfulness and all the other virtues. But God is love. That means that God desires us, wants us, longs for us, is distressed when we wander off and get ourselves into trouble or turn ourselves into agents of evil. God, like papa in our parable, loves us so much that God has already forgiven us in advance. That’s why the father in the story didn’t have to wait to hear the prodigal’s little repentant speech. You think that cheap grace seems, well, too cheap? Oh, this is worse. God’s grace isn’t just cheap; it’s free—gratis, another world from the same Latin root as grace. So papa just went out and embraced the prodigal and kissed him. 

That doesn’t mean that repentance is unimportant. “Coming to himself” is what got the prodigal to go back home and so to discover how much he was loved. Lent isn’t just about self-improvement. It isn’t even primarily about self-improvement. It’s about going back to our first love. It’s about recognizing that God still loves us and forgives us, and just wants us to wake up and join the human family again. 

And the prodigal who led a wild life in the big city is only half of God’s problem, of course. He’s go another prodigal on his hands, the older son who’s surrendered himself to his own righteousness as conclusively as the younger son surrendered himself to the wild party-life of the big city. Even doing one’s duty, virtuous though it may be, is no substitute for loving one another. This is why the father goes out to look for the older son, the good-doobie. The father doesn’t want to lose either child. He nearly lost one to the siren songs of pleasure and independence. Now, he’s in danger of losing the other to his sense of self-righteousness. This child is caught up in his own mistake about God—that God only wants to be obeyed. And, good-doobie as he is, he needs repentance, too. He never understood that God wanted him to enjoy life, too. He never figured out that his father wanted not just devoted service, but a sharing of love and delight. It just didn’t sound dutiful enough to him.

So here is the really strange thing about this parable. Both children are prodigals—one prodigal with his property, his independence, his very life; the other with his virtue and self-satisfaction. Both need to turn around and head back home to share in the love that enfolds us all. 

Which one of them do you find in yourself? I’m not going to ask for a show of hands, but I hope you’re thinking to yourself, “Both.” Because that, I think, is pretty much the usual human condition. And, truth to tell, neither of them does all that well on its own. What gives us life is neither wealth nor virtue. It’s love. What both children need is exactly what God already offers in inexhaustible abundance. 

All that God wants is for that love to be accepted and shared. There’s the central point of Lent. And the party is just a few weeks away!