When God Ran
A Lenten Series on the Prodigal Son
1.
The Set Up
[11] And he said, "There was a man who had two sons; [12]
and the younger of them said to his father, `Father, give
me the share of property that falls to me.' And he divided
his living between them.
In the presence of the Author, let us enter this story of
the Prodigal Son.
Year after year, day after day, it was always the same. No
adventure, no one new. Things at home never seemed to
change. Yes, he had heard rumors of another place, a
far-away land where things were better. As he carried the
wood to the carpenter’s shop, he dismissed these
fantasies. Look at him: the youngest of the family with no
money or real skills. He just did what his father and his
brother told him to do. He knew that one tomorrow would
never differ from another yesterday. There was one way out
however.
But could he really do that? Could he dare go to the old
man and ask for what would come to him? He knew the
consequences of this. Stories were whispered in the dark
about sons who took their inheritance and went off: They
were legally dead to man who had given them life. They
never came back. Still, they still got out, they still saw
the world. Oh what adventures and fun they must have had.
He imagined that life without rules and limits. No longer
would he be the “Younger Son” like some
second-class citizen forever. He could re-invent himself
with no past, no history. In the dull boredom of his young
life, a light was dawning.
But this would be a choice. He knew his action would be
final and legal. It was all or nothing. He had to choose
between a father’s love and his own future. For weeks
he tossed the pros and cons through all the scenarios and
arguments he could imagine. But soon it became clear that
life on this farm was not for him. He was deciding that
whatever was out there, it had to be better than what was
here.
With all the arrogance he could muster, he went to his
father and told him what the plan was going to be. He did
everything he could to ignore the desperate longing in his
father’s eyes and the growing sadness in his face.
His mind was suffocating the pleas of a love he knew he had
to reject. Then there was silence. Claiming his rights, he
had won. Into that strange and new emptiness he was
feeling, his father was placing his share of everything.
The voice he had been hearing was now mute and replaced
with the clanging of the gold pieces.
As we begin this Lent, as we begin to reflect upon the
conversion of the Prodigal Son, we are really considering
our own journey. And unlike this famous errant son, our
journey of repentance is not a singular event. And few of
us are able to enjoy the unbridled luxury of this son's
sinful life. No, ours is a more mediocre story: our sins
are so much smaller: our faults so much less. But it does
remain our story.
The familiar story of the Prodigal Son is a quiet trumpet
blast over the centuries which calls us to hear the loving
mercy of God over the screams and pouts of human frailty.
To hear that message, to know the God of mercy, is the
journey of repentance. Christian repentance is never just a
matter of avoiding evil. Any person of natural virtue can
do that. Christian faith requires more. It is not simply a
matter of legalistic aversion to all things prohibited; it
is a matter of knowing a divine love greater than sin
itself.
How does Jesus begin this story? He begins, as we often do,
by a demand. Sin is not timid; it demands. In that world, a
son had the right to demand his inheritance before the
death of his father. There was one catch to it: upon the
official demand, the son was considered legally dead. In
anticipating the death of his father, the son had committed
suicide. But no matter to this son. He wanted what was his
and get going with life. No, this is not the world of
financial planners and retirement funds. Money was
immediate power and influence. Money was a matter of ego
and as a younger son - a son without many rights - his ego
needed to be fed. Sin always begins there. From the Garden
of Eden to our daily faults, it is always about ego. It is
about becoming "like unto God." If we are ever going to
mature in faith and grow in mercy, we have to begin with
ourselves. We need to understand that panicky and fragile
self who comes before God. We must hear the growling hunger
of ego in order to listen to the joy of the angels. But
there is no reason to fear. Our ego may frighten us with
its demands, but God's love quiets that fear. When I
understand that needs of my ego, I understand why I demand
so much. And in understanding, I see the root of my sin.
In order to enter the journey of Lent, the pilgrimage of
the Prodigal Son, we have to go back to the start, to our
egos. Look at the colicky child within. But never forget
that we, with our fallen natures, are dignified and love by
God. He has no problem with the mixture of our good and our
bad. If God can love us still, do we really have the right
to reject ourselves? The answer is "no." May the mercy of
God guide us this Lent we continue this pilgrimage of weak
people who are moving toward greater holiness.
2.
The High Life
[13] Not many days later, the younger son gathered all he
had and took his journey into a far country, and there he
squandered his property in loose living.
It is fairly easy to imagine what was going on inside his
head. Everything he had wanted in his young life is now in
his hands. For those few days he was engulfed by the
anticipation of unrelenting joy. In a world where money was
sheer power, he was at the top of the mountain. At first he
thought he could live with the glare of those around him.
They all thought he was crazy and even mean-spirited. His
father was quiet and sad. His brother was shocked. And the
workers couldn't figure him out. Finally, he could no
longer take it. He got his things together and just left.
As he rode away from the place of his birth and childhood,
he began to think that he was free. The open road in front
of him was a beckoning light which took him farther from
his past and closer to his future. He could now get out
from under the shadow of his brother. He didn't have to
listen to his mother nagging him to do this and that. No
more would he endure his father's tiresome lectures on
virtue and thrift. But even as these voices began to fade
away, there was one last voice standing on the edge of his
past. It was that tingling voice deep down telling him not
to do this, not to abandon everything. But the glare of
night-time revels and wanton luxury were all he could think
of.
When he got as far away as he could go, he went nuts. For
the first time in his life, he was no longer a child but he
certainly acted as one. He threw it all away. Like a
spoiled toddler, if he wanted it, he got it. There was no
work, no waiting. Clothes, sex, drink - you name it. He
hung out with others like him and others who used him. He
never gave a thought as to where and how the money came to
him in the first place. It was his. And that was that. Any
feelings of restraint or guilt could be placated by
spending more. Until, of course, it was all gone.
Anticipation, destination and dissipation. The three states
of sin. Beginning in the mind, moving toward action, and
finally completion. Once we realize that there is a roaring
ego within, we see that its favorite food is sin. And the
less we feed it, the more it growls. What we call
temptations in our souls are really menu items for the ego.
Our anticipation of thrill is what makes sin so attractive.
The very fact that it is forbidden is usually enough. The
advent of pleasure can smother the light of reason. And
when we are finally at the brink, at the place of no
return, it only grows stronger. There we are. We have left
one world and come into anther. Our journey is not a matter
of detours; it is a series of destinations. It is not a
leaving of one path; it is choosing another road.
But like everyone who is lost, we often don't realize it
immediately. The strong walls of pride and ego keep out the
warnings. We press on even into the valley of the shadow of
death because it is the road we chose. "I'll be damned if I
am going to turn back now." No, actually I'll be damned if
I don't. But still we go forward. The world is ours, we can
be anything we want to be, and do anything we put our minds
to. Like a cartoon, we speed downhill, losing everything
along the way - luggage, bags, pots and pans come
clattering off our cart but our eyes are fixed on the goal.
And then we reach it and have nothing left. In the heart of
the valley, at the end of the road, we are laying next to
our toppled and empty cart. And there we are.
3.
The Reality
[14] And when he had spent everything, a great famine arose
in that country, and he began to be in want. [15] So he
went and joined himself to one of the citizens of that
country, who sent him into his fields to feed swine. [16]
And he would gladly have fed on the pods that the swine
ate; and no one gave him anything.
As the sun was setting, he picked up the dirty basket
holding the husks for the pigs. He looked down at his dingy
shirt and could see - through the stains and mud - what was
once a lovely floral pattern. He thought of that bright day
when he bought this imported garment. He remembered his
so-called friends in the tavern that night remarking how
beautiful it was. He smiled as he thought of those days.
But his smile faded as he heard the foreman barking new
orders. "And after that, you can clean the stalls."
"Well, at least I am not the only one" was his only
consolation now. The famine had put an end to the days of
wine and roses for all of them. Or at least most of them.
The economy was a wreck, crime was out of control, and
there was no food. Even the most basic things in life were
rare. He had come here for the high life and landed up as
low on the food chain as a person could be. These filthy
animals were his only means of support - if you could call
it that. He couldn't even eat the garbage they were eating.
And when labor is cheap, charity is too
expensive. What little he got as pay was less than
sufficient. Sleeping in the shed that night, he tried to
think and dream of happier times. He tried to imagine a
plot or scheme that would put him back in the driver's
seat. But nothing came, just the cold wind carrying the
awful smell of barnyard animals. And sometime latter, he
fell into a dreamless sleep.
Of all the deplorable things which happen to us in life,
the most pernicious is sin. It may be easy to see it in the
life of a condemned criminal but harder to see the reality
of it in our daily routine. Like a migrant farmer in a time
of economic ruin, we don't see the bigger picture. We only
see our hunger. Sin fattens the ego. And when there is
nothing more to feed it, our vision begins to clear and we
see the destruction around us. In our modern world, we have
the advantage of looking in on destruction when it affects
others. In Lent, we turn that camera on ourselves. The
devastating loneliness and isolation of sin is a terrible
thing indeed. When we are finally able to see the reality
of our own evil, we are then finally able to deal with it.
Sin affords us the luxury of fantasy. When that it spent,
reality is all we have. In the honest evaluation of the way
things are, we find ourselves. No more the jocular
adolescent, no more the guiltless libertine, no more the
satisfied overlord - we come face to face with our self.
This journey of Lent is a homecoming. It is a return to who
we are. It is a moment in time which confronts and
antagonizes us to be more rather than just do more. To see
the landscape of the ego, to understand the movements of
sin and to accept the reality of the evil we do is the
grace of Lent. With growling egos assaulted in the
wilderness of sin-damaged lives we go into that interior
desert. And like so many of the saints, it is there that we
begin to hear the voice of God. As the cold winds of our
daily suffering and sinfulness blow over us, we look
desperately for a place of warmth. In that desolate night
of the wrong we do, we look for any light which will save
us. Don't fear the darkness of that night. It will end and
the light will begin to shine.
4.
The Journey Back
[17] But when he came to himself he said, `How many of my
father's hired servants have bread enough and to spare, but
I perish here with hunger! [18] I will arise and go to my
father, and I will say to him, "Father, I have sinned
against heaven and before you; [19] I am no longer worthy
to be called your son; treat me as one of your hired
servants."' [20] And he arose and came to his father.
Something clicked. Something happened. For too long now, he
had been going from one low-paying job to another. Reality
had set in. Things were bad and they were no going to be
getting better. One afternoon, on a windless, hot day,
something struck him like a hammer. "What am I doing here?"
He thought of another farm, one far away in time and place.
He saw the green fields and heard the hum of saws. He
smelled the distant but not forgotten memories of a
kitchen. He saw the faces of a community - of family and
neighbors - he had turned away from. Now, he who once had
so much had so few choices. Like that first fantasy, he saw
this dream-like world as a paradise. Once in a drunken haze
he saw it as hell. Today, he knew what hell was really
like.
But there was one thing. By demanding his inheritance, he
had severed a life with his father. His father was obliged
by the Law to treat this son as if he were dead. He was
going on a hope which had no basis in reality. Besides,
even though father would probably say “no” and
kicked him out, his chances would be better with his own
people then with all these strangers. Saying goodbye to
this place would not be hard. There were no entangling
relationships in this dismal hell. No one here would be
crying as he headed up the road. He went into the shed and
got his few things - a faded shirt, a torn bag and some
water. He came into the warm light of the sun and left that
place. As he went up the road, the city, the farm and the
past retreated. In the quiet hills, he kept rehearsing his
script.
Here again, there was anticipation and a destination. But
as his past began to fall off, he noticed something deep
within changing. Weighed down by the fear of rejection, he
also noticed he was walking faster than when he first
traveled this road. Older? Yes. Wiser? Maybe. But
definitely different, definitely more himself.
Some Bibles translate these opening verse as "coming to his
senses." Others say "He came to himself." Both are correct.
Repentance is about coming to who we are. It is more than a
childish "acceptance of responsibility for what we did." It
is not about what we have done - important as that is - but
about who we are. And it takes us a long time to get there.
Christian conversion in general, and our own in particular,
is about coming home to ourselves. Yes, it is easy to say
this and sound as if we have degrees in psychology. But it
remains that conversion to God is a turning away from what
is false. To be ourselves is to be in the truth of God. God
is never fooled but we are. We can believe the illusions of
others and the delusions of ourselves. In our immaturity,
we can do the wrong things we think will make our dreams
come true. We can follow our instincts and take leave of
our senses. We can live out our passions and loose our
reason. Repentance is about finding our reason, our senses
and our virtues. In these we find our true and better
selves.
Before we canonize human reason, remember that like the
Prodigal Son, we have to hear the still small Voice of God
calling us back. Conversion is so much more than trading in
the controversies of sin for the convenience of virtue. And
as sinful, fallen creatures, we are always on this journey
home. We are always in the state of "coming to our senses",
of turning back to God. More than a journey, it is a
pilgrimage. And like errant sheep, we keep wandering off,
losing the way, and finding new and clever ways to leave.
But even in that, we, by the grace of God, keep heading up
that road. That is our Lenten road because it the most
human of roads. It is the road and the way to the Father's
home.
5.
When God Ran
[20 He arose and came to his father. But while he was yet
at a distance, his father saw him and had compassion, and
ran and embraced him and kissed him.
Soon he began to notice things. A tree, a rock, a house -
things began to look familiar. Not much had changed because
in this world, things don't change that dramatically or
often. The familiar markers of childhood boundaries were
beacons calling him closer to the dreaded encounter. He was
furiously going over his lines. It would be the most
important thing he ever said to his father - or at least he
thought it would be. That proud little boy who marched off
with his share of the family holdings was coming back
dressed in rags with empty hands and wallet. All that money
and nothing to show for it.
Lost in these thoughts, he almost missed the distant figure
running on the road. With the steps of a far younger man,
the father was running to the child. As he neared his son,
the old man ignored the weathered and hungry look on the
boy's face. Now a man, but forever a boy to the father, he
saw the look of hurt and shame in his son's eyes. The
father's stiff legs were loosened by the sight. His dimmed
eyes were brightened by the downcast head of his son.
Before long, he grabbed the boy in a hug his arms had last
held in this way so long ago. Tears flowed as if he had
been the one who had done wrong. The warmth of the embrace
was extravagant and the chance to do it again so gratefully
real.
The boy was shocked. As he saw this running man he began to
be afraid. Should he turn around? Does he have a knife? Did
his father send some one out to chase him away? Does it
even matter anymore? The son didn't even notice his own
tears, tears of hope and fear mixing together. And then it
dawned on him that the lunatic running and grabbing him was
his own father. The love of a father he had all but killed
was now embracing a son he never should have touched. For a
moment he forgot his speech and heard only the sobbing of
the old man.
So often, we are the ones who say how things are going to
go. We plan dinner at 6, movie at 8, Christmas at Mom's.
And for most of the things we do in life, we are in
control. We need to initiate things in this life and in the
life of others. And when it comes to repentance, we think
that we have to do everything according to plan and in
proper order. Like the Prodigal Son, we realize the
devastation of our sin-fed egos. We rise and prepare our
well-rehearsed prayers like "O my God I am heartily
sorry..." And coming before an all-powerful God, we trust
in His power to save us from the fires of hell and so are
forgiven. And all of that is very true and correct. But
here is the true miracle of God's mercy.
God runs to us. The Prodigal Son is more a story of the
time that God ran than a repentant son who stumbled home.
It is more about the mercy which comes to us than the
forgiveness we seek. It is the mercy which grabs us and not
the words we reach for. It means casting into the pit of
paganism the ideal of an unmovable god who sits only to
condemn the world. It is a the joy of a God who runs to His
children. The moment we think of God as any less then an
elderly father running insanely toward his sad child, we
are committing heresy. This illegal, breathless and crazy
love of the Father is truest icon of mercy and the most
authentic image of God we can ever see. In those loving
first words of our salvation, when the Father said the
"Word" and He "became flesh", the Father began running down
the road of history toward us. He embraced us first when
the arms of his Son were extended on the Cross. And the
Father's tearful joy was seen in the face of the
resurrected Savior.
Yes, the Prodigal Son was afraid of justice - and rightly
so. But the mercy of the Father was greater - and is for us
as well. When you and I first notice the stirrings of
conversion in our hearts, we have to remember that it is
already Act 2. God never stops calling us back from what we
do wrong to who we truly are. With all of our fears, all
our faults, our vocation has never been to anywhere but the
arms of running and loving God.
6.
The Restoration
[21] And the son said to him, `Father, I have sinned
against heaven and before you; I am no longer worthy to be
called your son.' [22] But the father said to his servants,
`Bring quickly the best robe, and put it on him; and put a
ring on his hand, and shoes on his feet; [23] and bring the
fatted calf and kill it, and let us eat and make merry;
[24] for this my son was dead, and is alive again; he was
lost, and is found.' And they began to make merry.
He regained his composure. Things had not gone as planned.
Still in a state of shock, he manages to look into his
father's tearful face and recites his plea for mercy. When
he finishes, there is a momentary pause. His father looks
surprised and bewildered. The son looks to the ground,
ready to hear the a sympathetic "no." At least his father
would be gentle. By now the servants had followed their
boss soon after he ran out the front gate. They find a
sobbing and crumpled mess in the middle of the road. The
boss looks up at them and gives his directives. "Clean this
boy up. Get him some decent clothes. Put some food in him."
He could hear them thinking "What! After what he did to
you? To us?" They deserved an explanation. They needed to
understand that they were seeing a resurrection. The joy of
young parent at the birth of their child was this old
man’s joy right now. The pain of a missing child is
now removed.
As the father and son walked back to the house, word got
around that the father was actually happy to see this kid
again. His mother comes running out with the same exuberant
joy as the father. Everyone was beginning to realize how
joyful the day was becoming. Everyone except his older
bother, but that's for another day.
Being forgiven is one thing. Being back is another. We
often view absolution as a legalistic pronouncement which
clears us of a crime or fault. Still, there is that deeper
neglected sense of justice within demanding satisfaction.
In our guilt, satisfaction means paying up, doing the time,
sleeping on the couch. But not with God, not in this case.
"Guilt and sin offerings you desired not. Then I said "Here
I am." When God forgives, it is truly over. We may live
with the effects and consequences of our past, but God does
not. Please remember that the first person to benefit from
the love of Calvary was a condemned murderer. We did not
begin as a religion of strict justice and God help us all
if we ever try to live one. No, we are ransomed and
restored, but not like before. That would not be right or
even helpful. The father did not say to the son, "Here's a
bit more. Try it again." He gave the son the one thing he
had no right to ask for and gave him something far better
than he imagined. The son asked for food and job; instead,
he found a home again.
All of us have been on this journey of Lent. The Church
makes it a time set apart for repentance. And for this we
are grateful. But we can never limit this journey to a
religious tourist season. This is a journey which does not
end in this life. As fallen human beings, we regularly
squander what the Father has given us and time and time
again we rise and return. Love allows this and mercy
permits it. Could the God who made our fickle hearts and
weary souls do otherwise? When we consider the marvelous
creation of God that is the human person can we ever see
Him rejecting the works of His hands? The story of the
Prodigal Son is the most human of all stories. It shows who
we are at our pitiful worst and hope-filled best. Never
loose this parable. Never take the place of God and presume
that your judgment on yourself is greater than God's mercy.
And even if we should fall into this trap, we can raise our
eyes and see God running to us with arms extended and with
joy as He says to each of us "You know I still love you."
And He does. It is what any good parent would do.