A Homecoming

This writer is my hero.

Spiritual Integrity...
Without Holding Back
Paul Gauche


(Note to Subscribers—For the center section of today’s message we recommend using the Nooma video called “Lump.” It is available through www.nooma.com) The young son had gone to San Francisco. He was out of money, out of friends, out of options. He had hit the bottom and was at wits ends. This lost son wrote a letter home to his parents living in the Seattle area. He wrote, “Dear Mom and Dad, I have sinned deeply against you. I have sinned against you and I have sinned against God and I am not worthy to be called your son. There is no reason for you to love me or welcome me back home. I am at the bottom of the barrel and I need to come back home. I hope that you would welcome me. I have been given a ticket for a train, a ticket to get me back to Seattle. The train comes past our farm south of Seattle. The train comes around the bend and right past our farmhouse. If you want me to come home, please put a white towel on the clothesline, out in the backyard near the tracks. I will then know that you want me to come back home. If there is no towel there, I understand. I will understand that it is not right for me to come back home.”
The young man sent the letter, got on the train, and started heading north. As he came closer and closer to home, he became more nervous inside and was pacing up and down the center aisle of the train. As the train came closer and closer to his farmhouse, he couldn’t bear it anymore. He approached another man on the train, and he said to him, “Sir, around this next corner, this next bend, there is going to be a farm house on the left. A white house. An old red barn behind it. A dilapidated fence. There will be a clothesline in the backyard. Would you do me a favor and look and see if there is a white towel hanging on the clothesline? I know it sounds peculiar, but I can’t bear to look.”
Well, the train came closer and closer to the bend and started to go around the bend, and the young man’s heart was racing as fast as it could. The man said, “Look, look, look. Open your eyes.” The whole clothesline was covered with white towels. The oak trees were covered with white sheets. The barn roof was covered with sheets. The old dilapidated fence was covered with white sheets. There were sheets everywhere. The father and mother so deeply wanted their son to come back home (http://www.sermonsfromse­attle.com/series_c_the_prodigal_son.htm).
The Story of the Prodigal Son is a story of extravagant, lav­ish, and excessive grace. The love we see here is disproportionate, larger-than-life, and excessive. The mercy is benevolent, boundless, and generous. The kindness is vast, magnificent, and elaborate.
The Story of the Prodigal Son, also known as the Story of the Lost Son, is one of the best known parables of Jesus—if not one of the most recognized stories in the Bible. It is the third of three stories recorded in Luke 15 that Jesus uses to describe the all-out, no questions asked, and absolutely unconditional love of God. And while it is commonly referred to as “the story of the prodigal son” that title is not found anywhere in Luke’s gospel, and many commentators have argued that it would be better called “The Lost Son” which would connect it more readily to the parables of the “Lost Sheep” and “Lost Coin”—the two stories that Jesus tells just before he seals the deal with this story. In all three short stories, the overwhelming theme is the love and concern that God has for the repentant and regretful sinner, as opposed to strictly for the unfail­ingly righteous. In fact, many people with no other understanding of the word “prodigal” mistakenly believe it means lost; it actually means extravagant. In that sense, then the son went off to some far country and blew everything in extravagantly out-of-control living and after a change of heart returns home to the extravagant—even out of control—love, mercy and grace of his father.
Think about that: the forgiveness shown to the Prodigal Son is not conditional on good works, since the younger son has plain­ly done nothing “good” throughout the story, other than to return home—symbolic of repentance. And although he plans ahead what he will say while admitting his guilt to his father, his father accepts him even before he gets the chance to get half the confes­sion out of his mouth. This is unconditional love.
In a culture where the phrase “Failure to Launch” conjures up images of young adult males unable to effectively make it out of the nest, coupled with the new and emerging data that adolescence is now stretching into the late twenties and in some cases, early thirties, our “prodigal” young man couldn’t wait to launch himself. The only dilemma here was that he launched himself into a huge mess and consequently a huge learning moment.
Entire books have been written about this story; and why not? Think about the angles and the personalities that Luke includes. Of course you’ve got the main characters—the younger, prodigal son, the older, compliant, but passive/aggressive brother, the hired hands who prepared the feast when the son returned. I want to believe there’s a mom—she isn’t mentioned, but in that culture at that time, the place would fall apart without a mom. You’ve got Jesus, himself, who tells the story, the curiously labeled group of “tax collectors and sinners” that come to listen to Jesus and the Pharisees and the scribes that caused Jesus to tell the story in the first place. The cast of characters is nearly endless, and every one is critical and important. But as I’ve lived with this story for the past many days, the one character who keeps coming to the top for me is the father, and the one word that keeps returning is “ex­travagant.” He is an extravagant father who waits, who watches, who welcomes.
This is really the Story of the Waiting Father. In verses 12-13, Luke gives us just about as much as we can take before our hearts begin to break for him: “The younger [of the two sons] said to his father, ‘Father, give me the share of the property that will belong to me.’ So [the father] divided his property between them. A few days later the younger son gathered all he had and traveled to a distant country, and there he squandered his property in dissolute living.”
There is something extraordinary about this waiting dad. I know how patient he is—has been and will have to be. It’s been years leading up to this. This patient, waiting dad has been through it all. His waiting hasn’t been just for the sound of the car to pull into the driveway at 2:00 a.m. His waiting hasn’t been just for the cell phone to ring announcing his son’s location and destination. His waiting hasn’t been just for the next opportunity to articulate his own agenda on his son’s inarticulate lifestyle.
His waiting has been for the next “glimpse” into that matur­ing heart of a frustrated and sometimes angry young man who has no idea why he’s so frustrated and angry. His waiting has been for one more moment to speak his son’s love language, another mo­ment to bring a nonjudgmental word and touch of caring into the relationship that will last a lifetime.
The father can still hear the therapist reminding him to “main­tain the relationship;” to learn his son’s love language and speak it often. The dad probably knew that the day would come—and soon, when his son would come and say, “I’m done with all of this. I want to go. I don’t feel like I fit in here. I want to go. I want to go.” And the dad would have to watch him go. The day came and the son went. The father watched him go. It is tough busi­ness—this waiting. God knows.
The Story of the Waiting Father gives us a glimpse into the heart of a waiting God who waits for us. And it is a heart that beats with love, grace, and mercy for us. In the midst of this, the mes­sage is as timeless as the passage from Luke: There’s nothing that can separate us from the love of God in Jesus. Nothing. Nothing, nothing can separate you.
For all of the times that we’ve just taken what we thought belongs to us and blown out to some “distant place”—surely a metaphor for going our own way, God is patiently waiting, woo­ing. For all of those times that we’ve told God, “I know what’s better for me than you do,” God is quietly walking by our side. We have a waiting God whose heart yearns for our return. In the meantime, God waits.
The father also watches. And there is something remarkable about this watching dad. In the Story of the Watching Father, the son, who is a long way off in every sense of the phrase, comes to his senses. Knee-deep in pig slop of every kind, the son has a moment of transformation. He plans and even rehearses his repentance and apology and turns toward home. In verse 20, we see the depth of the love and grace of this watching dad who, for days, weeks, even months or longer has not begun a new day nor gone to bed at night without staring out the window toward the horizon, watch­ing, waiting, longing for the sight of his son to appear.
Luke says it this way: “While he was still far off, his father saw him and was filled with compassion…” I see the dad at the kitchen window peering through the blinds. He searches the darkness for headlights on the horizon; he watches for the familiar sight of his son’s long legs, his hair, his face. The dad watches for what he knows will only be a matter of time. He waits, he watches. And then, finally, after what seems like an eternity, he sees him. While he was still far off, his father sees him and is filled with compas­sion.
The “distant country” is far more familiar than any of us would care to admit. It is that place—physically, emotionally, spiritually—that seems rather unfamiliar no matter how long we visit or live there. We’ve all been there. We’ve all been places where, when we’re in our right minds and with our wits about us make us feel shame and embarrassment at some level—or at least should. The distant country to which the son goes and from which he returns is that great metaphor for those places in our lives that do us no good.
But the hopeful word in this story is that the son makes a change—he turns toward home. The Greek word for that turning is “metanoia,” which has everything to do with a 180 degree shift in course. And the son goes back to his home and to his father. And the promise is that when we shift, turn, and make our way toward home, our heavenly dad is not only waiting in some passive way, but in an active, yearning way he is watching. The Father is actively watching the horizon for us to come back.
The son has rehearsed it. It is a moment of repentance, revi­sion, and metanoia. “I will get up and go to my father, and I will say to him, “Father, I have sinned against heaven and before you; I am no longer worthy to be called your son; treat me like one of your hired hands.” And the waiting father is watching.
God is waiting and watching for our return. And when we come up over the horizon back into the familiar places, when we pull back into the driveway we see the father who stands at the door watching for us and we’re reminded that there’s nothing that can separate us from the love of God in Jesus. Nothing. Nothing, nothing can separate you.
God is waiting. God is watching. God is also welcoming and there is something significant about this welcoming dad. It is in this welcome that we see the extravagant, lavish, excessive grace of a dad whose love is disproportionate, larger-than-life, and exces­sive, whose mercy is benevolent, boundless, and generous. Whose kindness is vast, magnificent, and elaborate.
Here is what we know for sure: The son sets off and goes to his father. While he is still a long way off, his father sees him and is filled with compassion. The waiting, watching dad runs to him, puts his arms around him, kisses him and welcomes him. Then the son says to him, “Father, I have sinned against heaven and before you; I am no longer worthy to be called your son.” But this welcoming father interrupts and calls out to his servants: “Quickly, bring out a robe—the best one—and put it on him; put a ring on his finger and sandals on his feet. And get the fatted calf and kill it, and let us eat and celebrate; for this son of mine was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found!” And they began to celebrate.
The welcoming father shows all-out, no questions asked, and absolutely unconditional love for his son because there is noth­ing more important than having waited and watched for and now welcomed his son back into the family.
The story of the waiting, watching, welcoming father is a story of immense, enormous, unreserved, and extravagant love. It is God’s story for you and for me. And the truth of the story is that there is nothing that can separate us from the love of God in Jesus. Nothing. Nothing, nothing can separate you. There is nothing that you have done, are doing, or will do that is beyond God’s ability to forgive. Even the turning that the son did and the turning that we will do over and over again is a turning stirred by the Holy Spirit in us. There is nothing that can separate us from the love of God in Jesus. Nothing. Nothing, nothing can separate you. Let’s come home to that today.