Henrietta United
Rev.
David Inglis
Luke 15:1-2, 11-32
“Finding Our Worth,” Part 1--the
Prodigal Son’s Story
You know, it took me a long time for me to get up the nerve to stand here in front of a room full of church people and tell my story. ’Cause I know what you’re thinking. How could I have had the gall to ask for my share of the inheritance while my old man was very much alive? And then how could I have taken that money and squandered it all on...what? Don’t you love that question, now? Admit it. Doesn’t your imagination start filling up with all kinds of juicy pictures of what I did with that money? (Somberly) And the truth is, you wouldn’t be far off the mark. That’s why it’s so hard for me to be here in front of you.
So I’m here to tell you how it all happened. Maybe you’ll come to understand me better. But I didn’t come all this way just so’s you’d understand me better. I came to help you understand you better–whether you’ve made big mistakes like me, or have been careful to avoid them.
So let’s start with how I had the nerve to take off with my part of the inheritance and leave my father and brother to manage the farm without me. To understand that, you have to know my older brother, Samuel. The way I see it, he never forgave me for being born–for coming into his family and wanting some of his parents’ love and attention and making them share his house and food and life with me.
Samuel made my life miserable. I remember when we were young, he’d taunt and tease me until I finally swung at him, and then he’d beat the stuffing out of me. If I told on him, he’d always get me to admit that I had hit him first, because I couldn’t deny it; I had.
I tried to find ways to prove to him and to my parents and I guess mostly to myself that I had a right to exist and that I was worth something. My dad always gave him the bigger jobs to do, because he was older. So I’d try to find something that he wasn’t doing that would help the farm, like carrying stones out of the field and making them into a fence. But he’d see what I was doing, find some fault with it, and he’d show everybody how he could do it faster and better than me.
Oh, as Samuel got older he cut me a little slack, and let me do my less important jobs without always showing me up. He didn’t have to do that any more. His place as the capable, reliable favored son was assured. I was the “squirt,” the tagalong who always lived in my brother’s shadow. As I grew into the stature of a man, I began to think about my future. In my mind’s eye, I saw my father getting older, and my brother taking over as the manager of the farm. My days would be filled with taking his orders and doing what he wanted, when he wanted it, the way he wanted it done, and always falling short. And when my father died, I could just see my brother saying “You know Father couldn’t bare to see his farm divided into pieces. Either we work it together, or leave me with the farm, the responsibility, and the capital I’ll need to manage without you.” Now are you in or out?” I just knew that’s what he would do. To have my freedom, I’d have to walk away with nothing, and join the ranks of the day laborer scrounging for enough work to stay alive.
So I had a choice. I could leave my future in the hands of my brother, or I could take it into my own hands. That’s why I asked for my share of the inheritance while my father was still able to give it to me. And I set off on my own to become a man in my own right.
Now I was on my own. With every step down the road, I felt my brother’s shadow, and my father’s stern gaze receding behind me. With every step, I felt a new future opening up to me–a life that I could create on my own terms. I kept on walking and walking until I felt out of the reach of my past.
I ended my journey in a city where everything looked unfamiliar to me. I went from place to place, exploring, smelling, tasting, experiencing it all.
But after I had seen and tried everything, a certain loneliness began to creep into my soul. I would smile at people, and they would look at me blankly, wondering who I was. I began to wonder who I was too. It’s funny how you need to have somebody look at you and know you and talk to you and listen to you to get reassured about who you are.
So I began attracting comrades to me, with the only thing I had to offer–the money in my bag. What else could I do to keep from being consumed by loneliness? I gave them what they wanted–wine, women, good times. Now when they looked at me, they smiled! And for a moment, I felt like I was somebody, and my loneliness receded.
Isn’t that what we all want–recognition, acceptance, belonging? That’s what my brother Samuel worked so hard to get from our dad. That’s what I never seem to get, because Samuel was so good at beating me out of it. Samuel was called a good boy. I would have been called a bad boy, if my family had seen me now. But weren’t we both doing what we had to do to gain the same thing–the assurance that we were somebody, and that we mattered to someone?
Well, I guess, you know my story well enough. A severe famine started about the time my money ran out, and my “friends” ran out of reasons to hang around with me. Now, I was not only lonely, but I was scared too. If I starved to death, nobody would care, and my family would never know what happened to me. The only job I could find was tending pigs. Any self respecting Jew would rather starve honorably than to take care of animals that God had declared unclean. But I had squandered away all my self respect. There I sat in the pig sty, so hungry that the pig slop was looking good to me.
I was overwhelmed with shame, desolation, and helplessness. I used to look down on my father’s hired hands. Now their lives were looking like living in the lap of luxury to me. I just wanted to go back home. But I knew that I couldn’t just retrace my steps and go back to the way things were. I had brought shame on my family and squandered away my right to be called a son. But my father was not a heartless man. Maybe I could persuade him to pity me enough to take me in as a hired hand. At least I’d have a roof over my head and food in my belly.
So I made my way back home, looking, acting and feeling like a common beggar. When I finally reached my old familiar road, my heart began racing. If I got turned away, what would I do then? What would there be left to live for?
While I was rehearsing my speech to my father in my head, I saw him standing by the road looking in my direction. I will never forget the sight of my own dignified father throwing off his outer robe and running, running towards me with tears streaming down his face. “My son! My son! You’ve come home! At last you’re home!” He threw his big arms around my emaciated frame and covered my cheeks with whiskery kisses.
I pulled away and began giving him my speech: “Father, I have sinned against heaven and before you; I am no longer worthy to be called your son.” But my father was hardly even listening to me. He was calling his servants, “Go quickly and get the best robe! And bring a ring for his finger. And get this boy some sandals for his feet. And get the fatted calf and kill it because we’re going to celebrate! This son of mine was dead, and look! – he is alive again! He was lost, and now, he is found!”
I grabbed him by the arm. “You don’t understand, Dad. I messed up everything. I totally wasted your money, and I have nothing to show for it but my shame.” He took me by both of my arms and said “You don’t understand, my son. You’re alive and you’re home, and that’s all that really matters to me.”
Then he wrapped his arms around me and began rocking me back and forth. I felt all my unworthiness welling up inside of me and coming out in great, heaving sobs. My father just held me and rocked me as my guilt and shame poured out of my soul and onto his shoulder. As it all flowed out, I felt something else trickling in. It was the realization that my father loved me even though I didn’t deserve it. In fact this was a love that I couldn’t deserve. I was somebody and I mattered to him just because I was his son. As I rocked there in his arms, I began to let that revelation in. I tightened my arms around his broad shoulders. “Thank you, Dad. Thank you. You can’t imagine what this means to me, I choked out through my tears.”
I wiped my face with my rags, then took them off and allowed the servants to put the best robe on me. They slipped a ring on my finger, and put sandals on my feet. And I walked toward the house, feeling different from how I had ever felt before. I was filled with a kind of humility that was totally free of shame. And I was filled with a kind of confidence that was totally free of pride. I was just me–completely known and completely loved.
The freedom that I felt coming home like this was quite different from the freedom I had sought when I left. I knew now that I would never leave my father again, as long as he was alive. It didn’t really matter to me what my brother said or did. My greatest joy would be to serve my father out of this great love he had awakened in me.
So maybe now you understand more about me. But like I said, that’s not really why I’m here. I wonder if you understand any more about you now. Did you find yourself anywhere in the story? Are you maybe a little like my brother, working so hard to prove your worth? Are you something like I was before I left home–feeling like you can never quite measure up? Are you like I was when I was far from home– doing whatever it takes to find a little acceptance and escape the clutches of loneliness? Or have you discovered the most amazing freedom from shame and loneliness that you don’t have to go anywhere to find or do anything to earn it? It’s offered to you right here and right now by the One Whose arms are always open to you, Who is waiting to say to you, “My son! My daughter! You’ve come home! At last you’re home in my love for you!”
The truth is, in God, all of us are somebody. Each of us eternally matters. Why does it take us so much effort and such a long journey to discover that?