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Lent 4
by Jim McCrea Luke 15:1-3, 11b-32 Some time ago, PBS ran a fascinating series about the Civil War by Ken Burns. The series was able to bring that era back to life through the use of period music, dramatic readings of letters and commentaries written by those involved in the war and by showing lots and lots of photographs that were given life by having the camera slowly zoom in or move across the image. That latter technique became so influential that the software program I use to edit video calls the technique "The Ken Burns Effect." But one of the most moving parts of that series was a segment on the 50th anniversary of the Battle of Gettysburg. In 1913, a group of Union and Confederate veterans - now in their 70's, 80's and perhaps even 90's - were invited back to the scene of what was probably the most climactic battle of the entire war. The commemoration featured speeches, banquets and lots of opportunities to swap stories about the old days. The emotional highpoint of the activities came through a reenactment of Pickett's Charge. The former Union soldiers took their places among the rocks on Seminary Ridge, while the former Confederate soldiers took theirs on the farmland below. When the signal was given, the line of Confederates started to move forward across the broad, flat field where a half century earlier so many of them had died. This time, however, there were no rifles or bayonets glinting in the sun. Instead, the veterans brandished canes and crutches as they made their slow advance toward the ridge, the more able-bodied ones helping the disabled ones to keep their place in the ranks. As the Confederate troops approached the Union line, they broke into one long, defiant rebel yell, much as they had done 50 years earlier before their ranks were decimated by the murderous gunfire from the ridge above. But this time, the ending was very different. One eyewitness described the scene this way, "A moan, a sigh, a gigantic gasp of disbelief rose from the men on Seminary Ridge." And then, no longer able to restrain themselves, the Yankees burst out from behind the protection of their stone wall and flung themselves on their former enemies. But this time, they had no intention of doing battle with them. Instead, they threw their arms around them and the reenactment became a sea of older men in blue and gray, embracing and weeping with one another. Decades later, one author wrote, "If only the old men had seen in 1863 what, for a moment, they glimpsed in 1913. Half a century later, they saw that the great battle had been a great madness. [...] What they saw was that, beneath all the fear and hostility and misunderstanding that divide human beings in this broken world, all humankind is one. What they saw was that we were, all of us, created not to do battle with each other but to love each other, and it was not just a truth they saw. For a few moments, it was a truth they lived. It was a truth they became." Our gospel lesson today is a very familiar story about a similar form of reconciliation. The story of the Prodigal Son is, in fact, so familiar that we may have a tendency to not hear some of what it's all about. When the younger son begins the story by asking for his inheritance, we may think that he is simply being impatient to get on with his life. But in that culture, he was actually offering a grave insult to his father, saying in essence, "I wish you were dead already!" That's hardly a sentiment designed to win friends and influence people in any circumstance, but in that particular culture, the son's insult was considered so grievous that the proper response would have been for the father to formally disown his son. In fact, even that wouldn't have been considered a strong enough response. In truth, the people of that time would have expected the younger son to have been banished from the community for life through a process similar to the Amish shunning ceremony. That would have been seen as being simple justice. And yet, that's not how this father acts at all. Instead, he calls up the real estate agent, places land that has been in the family for centuries on the market, and turns the proceeds over to his son, who then speeds out of town before the ink is even dry on the bill of sale. That younger son quickly learns that a fool and his money are soon partied out. He winds up in what, to a good kosher Jew, would have been even worse than Skid Row. He becomes an impoverished hired hand on a pig farm. And, after a while, he comes to realize that even the pigs have a better life than he does. So he comes up with a scheme to try to earn his way back into his father's household, even if it were only as another hired hand. He trudges back home, rehearsing his lines over and over again. It's not really clear whether he's actually sorry for what he's done or if he's merely trying to find a way to avoid being disowned by his father. But that doesn't really matter. The father barely gives him a chance to speak before publicly reclaiming him as his son. And that may be an important point to make, too. Unbeknownst to the younger son, ever since he left, the father has spent his days watching for his return. And he did so, not just as a sign of how much he loved and missed his son, but also for a very practical reason. By his earlier actions, the prodigal son has offended the entire village. Therefore, in order for him to have any chance at all of being restored as a member of that community, the father has to get to his son and make a public showing of forgiveness before anyone else begins to curse or even beat the prodigal, which was their right. That's why the father throws his dignity to the winds by hitching up his robe and hightailing it to the edge of town when his son is still nothing more than a speck on the horizon. And that's why the father throws a party - to indicate to the entire town that he has been reconciled with his son and is inviting them to be reconciled, too. Reconciliation comes about when you're willing to value your relationship with another person more than the pleasure of licking your wounds after you've received an injury or more than the power you have to inflict injury in return. Reconciliation, of course, is far easier to hold up as an ideal than it is to put into practice. However, when reconciliation does come about, it can be a powerful experience indeed. Larry Winebrenner tells of his father, whom he calls "a borderline abuser, [who would use] thick Marine belts, boards, and even fists to keep his children in line." He adds, "Because of my father's personality, I believed God was a stern judge demanding retribution for any wrong act. It was hard to believe God could love me because I had the notion that my own father didn't love me." His father was a highly-skilled carpenter, who had an excellent set of tools. He was meticulous in his care for them, making sure that they always remained in pristine condition. Because of that, when Larry's brother Jack broke one of those tools one day, the only thing he could think to do was run away from home. Jack was in his early high school years and he was terrified about what his father might do to him when he found the broken tool. He headed into a wooded swamp area in the mountains of Western Maryland where they were living at the time, carefully avoiding any roads where his father might find him. He wandered aimlessly through the woods for three days before a forest ranger found him, cold, hungry and beside himself with fear. In spite of that fear, the ranger took him home to face his father. Over the course of those three days in the woods, Jack had imagined many possible outcomes for this story, but none of them came close to what actually happened. When he walked into the house, Larry says, "[...] there was no scolding, no question about the broken tool, no demand for restitution. [His] father simply clasped him in a loving hug and clung to him a long, long time." Of course, there's a part of each of us that wants to embrace the idea that when we act like the prodigal son that God will gather us in a bear hug and won't let go, just like Jack's father for him did that day. But there's also another part of us that's like the prodigal's older brother who wants to sit back in judgment on a story like this, not really valuing it unless we know that the father learned his lesson from this incident and gave up his abusive ways so that his children would never again be afraid of him. But that's not necessarily the way the world works. We're all human and we're all too quick to justify our actions and fall back into bad habits to guarantee that that kind of happily-ever-after type of ending will always occur. I don't know what happened the next day or the next month or the next year between Jack and his father. Larry didn't say. But the fact remains that at that particular moment, Jack and his father had a moment of true reconciliation. And maybe, in terms of their past relationship, that reconciliation was even more real and even more deep than it might otherwise have been. Stories of forgiveness tend to touch our hearts because we know how often we need forgiveness for ourselves. But we sometimes forget that our forgiveness puts an obligations on us to be forgiving as well. D.W. Hodsdon tells of a parish priest who received a phone call in the middle of the night. The call was from a nurse who requested that the priest come to the hospital to administer last rites to a patient in the final stages of liver failure due to alcoholism. There was a severe storm that night so it took the priest several hours to make what was normally a few minute trip. He went to the patient's room and listened to him. Finally, at dawn, the man said he had something he wanted to confess. Years earlier, he had been working in the train-yards, as a switchman. It was a holiday. He and his buddies had been drinking a lot, partly because of the holiday, and partly because that too was a gloomy, stormy night. The time had came to go out into the storm and set a switch so that the next train would go onto the correct track, but in his drunken state, he set the switch incorrectly. The result was a train-wreck that killed a man, his wife and their two daughters. Ever since, the switchman had lived with his guilt and shame. So he asked the priest, "Do you think God can forgive me?" The priest was silent for a moment. Then looking into the man's eyes and taking his hands, he said gently, "If I can forgive you, God can forgive you. You see, in that accident, the people that were killed were my father, my mother, and my two sisters." As Christians, that's what we're called to do. We aren't supposed to merely accept God's forgiveness for ourselves. We're called to offer the same sort of costly grace to those around us. What does that mean to us as a congregation? Chuck Hazlett explains our challenge in these words: "WHO IS WELCOME HERE? I want it to be of public record that those of different skin and heritage are welcome here. I want it to be known that those who suffer from addiction to drugs and alcohol (whether they are recovering or not), and their families are welcome here. I want it to be known that women and children are welcome here and that they will not be harassed or abused here. I want it to be public record that in this congregation you can bring children to worship and even if they cry during the entire service, they are welcome. "I want it to known that those who are single by choice, by divorce, or through death of a spouse, are welcome here. I want it to be known that if you are promiscuous, have had an abortion, or have fathered children and taken no responsibility for them, you are welcome here. "I want it known that gossips, cheats, liars, and their families are welcome here. I want it to be known that those who are disobedient to their parents and who have family problems are welcome here. "Let it be public knowledge that we [...] take seriously that 'all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God.' (Romans 3:23) The young and old, the rich and poor, all of the broken are welcome here. I want it to be public knowledge that 'we are justified by the grace of God, which is a gift through the redemption which is in Christ Jesus our Lord.' (Romans 3:20) "We offer welcome here because we believe that 'while we were yet sinners, Christ died for the ungodly.' (Romans 5:8) That's us. Christ did not die for us after we showed signs of 'getting it all together.' Christ loved and still shows love to us while we are yet sinners. "Sinners are welcome here. Sinners like you and me, and like our neighbors. Let us not condemn the world, but let us proclaim to a broken and hurting world, God's forgiveness and grace. I want it to be of public record that since we are a sinful people that we will not always be as quick to welcome as we should. Let us be quick to admit our sin and seek forgiveness. "May God give us the grace to welcome and forgive one another as Christ has welcomed and forgiven us." Amen.
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