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March 14, 2010 Sermon

Lent IV: Our Pilgrimage Home (Romans 8: 31-39, Luke 15: 1-3; 11b-32)

Rev. Sally Harris

O Holy One, come now to this place.
Make your presence known.
Give to us eyes to see your mystery.
Ears to hear your Word.
And a heart open to our pilgrimage home. Amen

Once upon a time, in the days when men and women regularly dined with the gods, there was a tribe who spent their lives telling each other stories. Mothers and fathers rocked their children in their arms, spinning them tales of where they had lived before birth and where they would go when their bodies wore out. Neighbors gathered around fires each night, listening to elders recount how the earth was made, the stars and the moon were hung in the heavens, and dawn learned how to chase away darkness. Through stories, girls learned what it meant to be women and boys what it meant to be men. Stories kept people laughing when times were hard, frightening off the demons of loneliness and despair, and when times were good, reminded them that suffering was hidden in the sweetness like a pit inside a peach. But one harsh winter, a dark enchantment befell the tribe. The breath of an evil spirit blew in an icy gale across the land, snuffing out the council fires, shredding the delicate webs of stories that bound mothers to daughters, fathers to sons, neighbors to neighbors. And when the storm was over, almost no one remembered the old stories any more or wanted to listen to those few who did; no one knew what stories to believe in, or why. Saddest of all, everyone had forgotten that they were all storytellers, each with a heart full of precious tales to share…. Today it's tempting to believe that we are all in the grip of a dark enchantment like the one described in this tale. In a time when the characters on television series are more real to many of us than our own neighbors, in a land where we pay professional entertainers to perform other people's dramas and pay psychotherapists to tolerate our own, modern industrial culture has almost abandoned the ancient, intimate art of oral storytelling. [Article: "Once Upon a Time", Anne Cushman]

Yet it seems we still have the gift of hearing stories. Apparently our brains are organized to respond to the ancient story patterns. When we hear the code words: ‘Once upon a time’ a velvet curtain lifts on a stage deep in our psyches. Hearing these invocations: ‘A long, long time ago’, ‘In the beginning, when the world was new’, we drop out of the realm of literal truth and linear time and space into a timeless kingdom governed by the laws of spirit, not physics. Like dreams, stories speak in the language of metaphors and symbols. No wonder Jesus spoke in stories, in parables. What he wanted to convey was not doctrine and a system of beliefs but some spirit connection with the creator.

Where are you on the pilgrimage home?

Jesus responds to the murmuring and insults about his eating companions not with an explanation, or argument no, Jesus responds with a story and then another and then another. There are three tales, in Luke 15: the lost coin, the lost sheep and the lost son. Each speaks of loss and recovery, of estrangement and reconciliation, of departing and returning. Tales, that in some strange way we are drawn into, intrigued by, for these parables hold for us a mystery of something beyond ourselves. If we allow ourselves, they speak to us and we enter into them to find our place, our story - perhaps even our home. Once upon a time there was a man who had two sons who settled for scarcity. Yet the family had land and possessions. They were not in want. A fracture occurred within their relationship. The youngest son fearing scarcity demanded freedom from responsibility. He wanted to enjoy it before someone else took it. And so the father, in a sense, dies, for he divides his very living between the two sons. The youngest took the cash and went off to a far country, away from prying eyes of family and friends. He spent his inheritance wastefully, in fear there would be no tomorrow – he settled for immediate gratification. And then a famine occurred. Tomorrow came and he was hungry. He found a job feeding pigs, the worst kind of job for a Jew but a job, nonetheless. It was there, with those pigs, that he finally looked at his life and he realized he had lived in scarcity believing there was nothing of value anyway. He thought of home - it was then he came to his senses, he came to himself. Home – that distant place – was the only valuable thing about his life. Humbly he would return. No demands just a place to serve. So he journeyed home and as he rounded the last curve to the homestead, he saw his father running toward him, arms open wide. A kiss was given, a party was ordered, new clothes, new shoes put on - not a servant but a son, still loved, still accepted. The other son was not so eager to welcome this derelict home. After all he was the faithful son who knew that you had to earn your keep and obey the rules. One had to conserve and be responsible – not risking anything. But what is this? All the rules and rights are suddenly dismissed just because...because of what? The eldest moved outside the welcoming circle and his father comes outside to him, seeking reconciliation. In answer to the eldest son's questions he responds, perhaps with another story. We are left wondering what happened to the eldest? Did he or didn't he go to the party? Yes this is the story of the prodigal, the extravagant, the reckless son... or is it about the eldest who followed the rules and lost out on the party? Or is it about the extravagant, father or is it about who you can eat with or who God enjoys? Perhaps it is to remind us that we are to live our lives, risking, not always calculating the cost. Perhaps it is about a generous God who throws away grace with no thought for tomorrow.

Where are you on the pilgrimage home?

Where is our place in the story? Are we like the parent who knows that love means letting go and letting go is so painful because there are no guarantees about your child's destiny. We learn, in the end, we cannot control another. We cannot rescue. We can wait and we can continue to scan the horizon trusting in the return of one who has spurned what we have offered. Maybe our powerlessness, as those who love, mirrors the powerlessness of God who has no guarantees about creation? Or are we like the son who left home, only to find that the pursuit of happiness isn't enough. We have come to ourselves and we have returned home to the spirit that gives us life. Or are we like the eldest, who has done the dutiful thing only to find that all he struggled not to be is celebrated before his very eyes? The eldest, who could not even imagine asking for a goat, suddenly discovers he had access to everything at anytime. Do we live like the sons settling for scarcity either by recklessness or calculated living or can we hear the father saying: “Hey kids, live like you trust me – there is enough!”

Where are we on our pilgrimage home?

If the story enters your heart, you find other stories. Stories of unforgiving fathers who demand respect and right actions with no room for recklessness. Stories of grudges held and bitterness clung to because life wasn't fair and the party promised, never happened. Stories of how people who don't seem to work as hard or try as hard, in fact just coast, seem to have a great life and we're left with…. Stories of God’s extravagant grace that comes without warning. Maybe not with a party but with a flower blossoming amidst the weeds, a loving note, a welcoming touch from a stranger, unexpected tenderness or the sudden insight that all this talk of grace is not just talk but is the timeless truth Jesus told in this parable of the prodigal son. Here is the story of ‘In the beginning when we were made new...’ and that beginning is today. It is every day we return home to find God waiting with open arms regardless of whether you are the eldest or the youngest, the wanderer or the upright, the lost or the knowledgeable, the reckless or the cautious, the waster or the conserver. You see there are no ‘ifs’, ‘ands’ or ‘buts’ with God.

You come to God; God welcomes you home.
The toughest part is believing that God could be so generous, so welcoming, so loving.

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