"Whaddaya Mean, You're Having a Party for That Little Jerk!!????" Luke 15:11-32 Fourth Sunday in Lent, March 6, 2016, Keswick-Ravenshoe United Church

Preface: The traditional reading of this story has always been that the eldest is perfect, the youngest is a wastrel, and the "father" is God. But that's not a human story really. What if this is a story about people - just regular people in a regular family, who get caught up in their lives? What if they are all lost, all prodigal in their own way - and the reconciliation of God is the celebration they have as a family, when they find each other again, and are reconciled?? Wherever love is, God is there.

Years ago I heard Anna Carter Florence do the Mary and Martha story as a 'family' (sibling) story, and when I read this text for the umpteenth time back in 2013, it just seemed like I could hear the voices of my own children - we always loved the others best - or as Erma Bombeck once noted "Even if you carefully measure out every piece of cake, someone will say "He got a bigger piece than I did." My thanks to Anna Carter Florence,and Erma Bombeck - and to my kids - for the inspiration for this sermon.

 Luke 15:11-32

(The Message) By this time a lot of men and women of doubtful reputation were hanging around Jesus, listening intently. The Pharisees and religious scholars were not pleased, not at all pleased. They growled, “He takes in sinners and eats meals with them, treating them like old friends.” Their grumbling triggered this story.

 “There was once a man who had two sons. 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 signed on with 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 God, I’ve sinned before 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 him, and kissed him. The son started his speech: ‘Father, I’ve sinned against God, I’ve sinned before 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 heifer and roast it. We’re going to feast! We’re going to have a wonderful time! 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 - barbecued 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 yours 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!’”

“What? Whaddaya mean, you want me to come in and join a party for that little MORON? Look, Dad, I’ve really had it up to here, ya know? I’ve slaved on the farm year in and year out, done everything you asked without ONCE complaining. Meanwhile that little moron takes all the money he can get, runs off and blows the lot on women and drinking. He’s a totally irresponsible idiot. I told you this would happen, didn’t I? Do you now, you never once offered me even a GOAT, or asked if I wanted to have a party with my friends. Nothing. You’ve just taken and taken from me, like that’s how it should be. And now you want me to welcome him home, act like everything’s OK? It *isn’t* OK. But you and mom always did love him best....the sweet angelic little baby of the family. I TOLD you he’d screw up, didn’t I ???”

Brothers....one older, one younger. Siblings, tied by blood and family, but completely unlike each other. The prodigal eldest - giving all his time and energy, the perfectionist, taking no time for himself but always trying to do what he thought would meet the approval of Mom and Dad. Desperately looking for their approval but feeling as if they never gave him a second thought. Working in the fields long after the regular labourers had quit for the day. Assuming more and more of the heavy work as Dad got older.....and feeling like it was all taken for granted, feeling as if he was *expected* to give all his life to his family, at the expense of his own happiness. Prodigal and profligate with his giving and giving and giving without restraint, wasteful of so many opportunities.

Six years between him and the youngest, and in those six years he had all the attention, all the love, all the little extra good tidbits of food at the table. He was an only child for those years, and while it meant he got the attention, he also felt like he was expected to perform. By the time the younger son came along, he was already a perfectionist oldest who was never satisfied with giving anything less than all of himself to everything. Prodigal and profligate in his giving to his parents, he never learned how to love himself for who he was. He passed up chances with some of the prettiest girls around, because he always felt he had to be at the farm, helping his parents. After awhile it felt like life had passed him by, that he would never have a life of his own until it was too late.

The little moron came along - and then - in his eyes - all the attention and the extra tidbits going to this ugly little thing which toddled after him, hanging on to his clothes. The one who could do no wrong as he grew up, the one who never got any discipline no matter what the escapade; the one who couldn’t care less about school, who didn’t worry about Mom and Dad, who just went his own way. ...and for that, Mom and Dad loved him best.

The worst thing he could possibly call his brother, in his culture, was *idiot* and *moron*. His resentment festered.....

“What? You’re having a party, for that useless, wasteful idiot IDIOT?”

Brothers....one older, one younger. Siblings, tied by blood and family, but completely unlike each other. The prodigal youngest - the one who came along after the eldest had a grip on Mom and Dad’s love. The one who always had to follow after the older one, do what he was told. The one who was never allowed to do anything without his older brother. The one who wasn’t quite so smart, wouldn’t get out and work the fields, didn’t like to get dirty. The one who always seemed to have girls following him. Prodigal and profligate in his life, he spent all his time drinking in the local pub, or running around with any woman who would have him. Who just assumed everything would always work out. The one who was sick of that perfect older one, who Mom and Dad preferred because he was so responsible all the time. He always felt second-best, always felt like his parents were saying “Why can’t you be more like your brother? He knows what’s important.” He would never have a life at all on this backwater farm, plowing and working the fields, picking more rocks than crops, smelling like the pigs. No point in trying to impress Mom and Dad, they clearly loved the oldest one best, and probably never really wanted him anyway. Maybe he was adopted, maybe they had to take him from a relative. He remembered all the times the oldest said he was really adopted. And the resentment grew.

Nothing to do but take the money and run. Grab while you can, live in the moment, the future will somehow take care of itself. Get as far away as possible from that wuss who spends all his time sucking up to Mom and Dad, and live a real life. Out where things are interesting, where you never know what’s going to come next. Take your third of the farm property, sell it off to someone else, take the money, and go find a real life. Living with the best of everything - good wine, excellent food, a comfortable place, lots of parties. Prodigal and profligate, wasteful of so many things, the money slips through his fingers like sand. The more he has, the more he wants, the harder it is to have without becoming a criminal. Famine strikes; the money is gone, there is no more food or wine. He doesn’t feel any better than he did at home, in fact he feels worse. Even the servants at home have more and to spare of daily bread and shelter. Those “friends” who were around him when he had money, not willing to help at all when times are tough. Working in someone else’s fields, even the husks from corn, and carob pods fed to the pigs look good to a hungry person. But nothing feeds the hunger of the soul.

“What? There’s a PARTY for that stupid wastrel? You know he will only do it again, hurt you again, hurt us again, don’t you????”

Brothers....one older, one younger. Siblings, tied by blood and family, but completely unlike each other. Parents, trying to recognise the individuals, treat each of them fairly - take stock of the needs of each, love them with all they have. Being accused of favouritism, of being boring, having no life, ignoring one and paying attention to the other. “You always loved HIM best!” Both of them, convinced their parents always loved the other one most.

Father gradually growing older, finding it harder to move in the mornings with arthritis. Working the fields, tending the animals - growing enough to feed sheep, calves, and chickens to feed a family. Proud of the eldest who will carry on the farm; worried sick about the youngest who seems to have no sense of direction, knowing he needs to learn about the world, even if it’s the hard way. Yet wondering – what had he done wrong as a parent? Did he let his wife spoil the youngest too much? Did he expect too much of the eldest? True, he’d never even thought the eldest might want to entertain his friends – he was just always there, always saying “Don’t worry I’ll do it.” Should they have told him no, go and find your friends and just have some fun??? Had he been a prodigal parent to his eldest son? Profligate with the youngest?

Mother spending most of the day cooking for field labourers for a huge farm, making clothes, washing and cleaning up - looking tired beyond her years. Yes, they had servants but still there was so much work, she didn’t always have time to sit with the children and just talk. Still, trying gently to get her oldest son to ease up, and get the youngest to help more, to grow up.

Father, against his better judgment, giving the youngest son his money and letting him go off recklessly abroad - hoping he learns, afraid of what could happen to him, wondering if he will ever see this wild child again, lying awake in bed at night imagining all the horrible things which could happen to the boy.

Leaning out the window one day in an upstairs room he can see far down the road. A tiny speck in the distance makes him look harder. His child! His child has come home.....

Prodigal and profligate in his generosity and joy, running into the road, yelling to the labourers to go get the calf he has been fattening for market, the perfect calf which would bring in enough money to last a year. Prepare a celebration, the child has returned. Whatever happened, however it happened, doesn’t matter. Racing faster than he’s run in many a year, arthritis forgotten; arms thrown wide open to hug and hold and cry and rejoice. He looks into the sad and now knowing eyes of this dear child, and hears the words “I am not worthy to be considered your child. Hears himself saying “It doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter. Of course you are worthy! I love you, you are my child. Welcome home!”

Prodigal and profligate  - maybe even wasteful in his generosity, the calf is killed, the best robes in the house brought out, the farm hands given the day off. The table is prepared and everyone is invited to come and eat, to celebrate the return of the one who lost his way and found it again. Prodigal and profligate in his love, shining out of his very pores, coming alive again because of this one lost child.

“What? You want ME to go to a PARTY for that MORON? I’ve worked and slaved here, always done whatever you asked, never took money, never even had a DATE because I was working this farm because I wanted you to LOVE me? Because you always loved him best when *I* was the one who was reliable.” Tears now, and an angry stamping of feet. “I’ve completely wasted the best years of my life here, and for what? So you can celebrate that the stupid little brat came home because he had nothing left? Amazing – as soon as the good life runs out somewhere else, he comes back here, and you just get suckered in again. He’s an idiot, taking advantage of you again, and he’ll hurt you again.”

And he looks into the hurt and resentful eyes of this dear child who was also lost, in his own way, and says “But we’ve always loved you. Everything we have has always been yours, always. Everything is yours, don’t you know that? Your brother was lost...he didn’t realise what that meant. Now he does and he’s come back to us! His return is what’s important. Come and eat, you are hungry too, I know you are. Now I realise how hungry you have been. Now I realise there are so many ways of being lost. My son, I think we have all been lost in this family, but you are as much a part of this family as he is. Come to the table, come to the celebration. We will sit around the table, as a family, and celebrate our new life together. Come, let’s eat, and sing and dance, for we have been lost, and now we have found each other again.” Mother, sitting quietly at the table, weeps to have all her family together once more.