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PAST SERMONS
"Welcoming The Prodigal That Is Us"
A sermon given on Easter Sunday
May 2, 2004
Rev. Robert M. Hardies, senior minister
READING
Our reading this morning is the parable, "The Prodigal Son," which was from the Book of Luke, Chapter 15. The contemporary translation is from Eugene Peterson's The Message.
"The Story of the Lost Son"
Then Jesus said, "There was once a man who had two sons. One day, the younger said to his father, "Father, I want right now what's coming to me."
"So the father divided the property between them. It wasn't long before the younger son packed his bags and left for a distant country. There undisciplined and dissipated, he wasted everything he had. After he had gone through all his money, there was a bad famine all through that country and he began to hurt. He worked for a citizen there who assigned him to his fields to slop the pigs. He was so hungry he would have eaten the corncobs in the pig slop, but no one would give him any.
"That brought him to his senses. He said, 'All those farmhands working for my father sit down to three meals a day, and here I am starving to death. I'm going back to my father. I'll say to him, "Father, I've sinned against you; I don't deserve to be called your son. Take me on as a hired hand."' He got right up and went home to his father.
"When he was still a long way off, his father saw him. His heart pounding, he ran out, embraced his son, and kissed him. The boy started his speech: 'Father, I've sinned against you; I don't deserve to be called your son ever again.'
"But the father wasn't listening. He was calling to the servants, 'Quick. Bring a clean set of clothes and dress him. Put the family ring on his finger and sandals on his feet. Then get a grain-fed cow and roast it. We're going to feast tonight! My son is here -- given up for dead and now alive! Given up for lost and now found!' And they began to have a wonderful time.
"All this time his older son was out in the field. When the day's work was done he came in. As he approached the house, he heard the music and dancing. Calling over one of the houseboys, he asked what was going on. He told him, 'Your brother came home, Your father has ordered a feast -- barbequed beef! -- because he has him home safe and sound.'
"The older brother stalked off in an angry sulk and refused to join in. His father came out and tried to talk to him, but he wouldn't listen. The son said, 'Look how many years I've stayed here serving you, never giving you one moment of grief, but have you ever thrown a party for me and my friends? Then this son of your who has thrown away your money on whores shows up and you go all out with a feast!'
"His father said, 'Son, you don't understand. You're with me all the time, and everything that is mine is yours -- but this is a wonderful time, and we had to celebrate. This brother of yours was dead, and he's alive! He was lost, and he's found!'"
SERMON
Not too long ago I received a letter from a member of the congregation. She wrote to me -- as members sometimes do -- asking if I would preach a sermon. A sermon about forgiveness. "Not about how we forgive others," she explained, "I do that pretty well. But how we forgive ourselves." How do we forgive ourselves for all the things we wished we hadn't done? For all the things we knew we shouldn't have done? "Not the egregious stuff," she said, "I'm not talking about some big sin. Just how we forgive ourselves for the hundreds of times that we fail to do what we know is right? The Sufi poet Rumi once put the question this way: How do we live with ourselves, he asked, "when we've broken our vows a thousand times."
So I thought about the congregant's letter for awhile. But I didn't really feel like I had an answer fro her, because I'm pretty lousy at forgiving myself. I though, "well, maybe I'll give this one to Shana to preach. Maybe she could think of something." But what I did instead was tuck the idea away in that place inside of me where sermons sit and stew, and while it stewed, life around me started to season the sermon. I witnessed one person unable to forgive himself for a perfectly human and non-egregious error. I watched as another beautiful person struggled with a sense of her own inadequacy. That she just wasn't good enough; not up to the impossible standards that she'd set for herself. And in the midst of all that, I came across the old story of the prodigal son ... I thought that maybe, with the help of this story, I could offer what little advice I had about how we can forgive ourselves.
The story of the prodigal son is probably the most often-told parable from the Bible. It's one of those stories that when people hear it they resonate with it almost immediately, and sort of nod their heads and say, "Yeah, I know that story." For that reason the story's a favorite story among preachers. In fact, Jim Forbes, one of the greatest preachers up at Riverside Church in New York, tells about how in his zealous youth he once preached a 16-sermon series, on this one story. Sixteen sermons, IN A ROW. That's nearly 4 months on one prodigal son. Forbes said that one Sunday, about _ of the way through his series, an elderly woman from the church came up to him after service and took his hand and said, "I am so sorry that that poor boy ever left his home."
The popularity of the story is ironic, though, because as parables go, it's a relatively minor one in the Bible. You know, lots of the parables, can be found in each of the three synoptic gospels -- Matthew, Mark, and Luke. But the story of the prodigal son appears only once, in Luke. I think its popularity stems from its message of acceptance and forgiveness. That and the fact that people seem to relate very easily to the characters in the story. So let's explore the story a little further.
You know, one of the things that I suggest to people when they read sacred stories from any tradition, is that they read the story several times over, each time imagining themselves as a different character in the story. It's a technique you can use at home when you work with stories in your own spiritual practice. A technique based on the Jungian premise that each character in the story is an archetype, a figure that we can identify with because it represents a part of our own psyche. A figure from whom we have something to learn.
So first, of course, there's the prodigal. Now, who among us can't identify at some level with the prodigal. Who among us -- at some point in our lives -- hasn't gone off and tried something and failed. Or just done something really stupid. Maybe the boy was following a dream, maybe just satisfying his wanton desires. Regardless, things didn't pan out the way the prodigal had intended. His fortune frittered away, his dream squandered, the son feels only shame and humiliation and defeat. We know these feelings, too. To convey the depth of the son's humiliation, the bible notes that he ended up feeding pigs to earn money. Mucking around in the trough with the swine. Which, for a Jew, would have been the ultimate humiliation and desecration.
Now, as unsavory as this character is, I think he's the one that people most closely identify with. The fact that we even call the story "The Prodigal Son" is itself an indicator of where our sympathies lie. Because, the Bible doesn't give titles to its stories. The readers, over time, give the title to the story. If you study the story closely, you'll find that it's really a story about the father. But no one calls it the parable of the "Patient, Forgiving Father." We call it the prodigal son, because that character speaks so compellingly to the part of ourselves that is ashamed. Defeated. Humiliated. The part of ourselves that we have sent away into exile, and that longs to be welcomed back home again. That longs to be forgiven.
Now there's another son in the story, of course. And if Jung is right, a part of us can identify with him, too. Raise your hand if you're an eldest sibling. (Hmmm. That explains a few things.) Perhaps you, especially, can relate to the older brother. The responsible one, right? The reliable one. The one everyone depends upon. In this story, the one who tries so hard to please. The one who has decided that he needs to conform to some exacting standard of perfection, somehow having learned at an early age that his loveliness -- his worthiness -- is tied to that perfection. And boy, it's not easy living up to those standards. Trying to be perfect takes its toll; and the only justice comes from knowing that to the perfect will go all the spoils. That the quid pro quo. Our righteousness will be rewarded. But then look at what happens. The father up and throws a feast for the prodigal son. It appears that he loves they wayward sibling as much as -- if not more than -- the dutiful one.
I'd be angry, too ...
So you can begin to see why this is such a popular story. I mean, this is the stuff of nearly every sibling rivalry I've ever heard of. Right? But it's also the story -- I believe -- of a struggle that goes on inside of ourselves. A struggle between the imperfect, failed, and ashamed us, and the judging, righteous, and scornful us. That sibling rivalry's going on right inside of us, and it's one of the things that makes it so hard for us to forgive ourselves.
Enter: the father. As I said before, this is really a story about the father. He's the hero, here. For he welcomes back into his home the one who has brought shame to the household. He lavishes riches on one who has already squandered a fortune. He forgives the one who came back seeking not forgiveness, but food. And it's not a grudging reunion. It's not like the father says, "Eh, he's family. You gotta take him in." It's not like that at all.
Listen to how the story of the prodigal's return is told: "When the son was still a long way off, his father saw him. And with his heart pounding, he ran out, embraced him, and kissed him. The son started his speech: 'Father, I've sinned against you; I don't deserve to be called you son ever again.' But the father wasn't listening. Already, he was calling to the servants, 'Quick. Bring a clean set of clothes ... get the fatted calf ... we're gonna have a feast today. For my son who was given up for dead is alive. Who was given up for lost is found. Hallelujah!"
The graciousness of the father's embrace is one of the most beautiful moments in the Bible. Because up until this point all images of God as father have portrayed him as judging, capricious, angry, willing to sacrifice his children for righteousness sake. But finally, here, it's different. The father doesn't even wait for the son to apologize. He can't help himself, he just runs out with pounding heart and kisses him before the words are even out of the sons mouth. (Luke was a universalist).
Out of all the gospel written, this embrace is the best answer I can give to the parishioner who asks how we can forgive ourselves. This embrace is the best advice I can share with the friend who feels she is never good enough. Because, you see, I don't think that the answer lies in forgiving ourselves for each little infraction and imperfection. Because frankly, there are too many of them to forgive. Instead, the answer lies in embracing the part of ourselves that is imperfect and flawed. The answer lies in accepting that failed, inadequate, shameful part of ourselves, accepting it as part of who we are. We need to welcome that part of ourselves back into the whole of our being, rather than trying to jettison it. Rather than trying to pretend it doesn't exist. That's the only way we can forgive ourselves, I think. By accepting that we are and always will be people in need of forgiveness. The only way we can forgive ourselves is by welcoming home the prodigal that is us.
So I can hear the parishioner who wrote to me saying, "OK, I get that rather than forgiving each imperfection, we need to forgive ourselves for being imperfect." But how, exactly, do we do that? How do we love that unlovable part of ourselves?" Well, that's a tough one. But, I would say that it lies in some of the story's unfinished business. In the story, we never see the reconciliation of the father and the older son. I would say that there is, for some of us at least, one more embrace that's in order. I think that some of us have trouble welcoming the prodigal that is us, because we have some unfinished business with the older son who is us. As long as a part of us remains as self-righteous and unforgiving, and striving for perfection, it's gonna be really hard to ever welcome home the prodigal. The older son inside will just keep locking the door and shuttering the windows of our heart. That older son needs to learn that he doesn't need to be perfect anymore in order to be loved. And that he doesn't need to demand others' perfection either. When our soul can wrap itself -- like a father's arms -- around both of these children, then we will know the meaning of forgiveness.
Amen.
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