March 15, 2009 Des Moines
3rd in a series on Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing
TEXT: Luke 15:11-32
Prone
to Leave
What is the difference
between “wandering” – the likes of which we talked about last week – and
“leaving” – the behavior at the focus of today's consideration? “Wandering,” in the sense that I am using it,
is that sort of distance that grows out of a kind of negligence, grazing along
chewing up greener pastures and waking up to discover oneself a long way from
home. It is more drifting away by
passive happenstance than walking away by active intention. Sheep, as we talked about them last week,
wander off. Sons, like the one
chronicled in this morning's story, leave.
He made a choice. He thought it
through, he made his plans, he packed his bags, stopped off at the ATM, and
left. It's true that both wandering and leaving wind you up somewhere far away from home – sometimes
geographically, sometimes only psychologically – and often in a location that
is nowhere a person ought to be. But the
motivation that got you there is, between the two, quite different.
In the case of this one
often labeled the “prodigal son,” and given the rest of the story as we know
it, we wouldn’t be at all surprised if the younger brother left simply because
he was tired of being in the same room with his older brother – a rigid,
resentful, parsimonious, unnervingly scrupulous kind of guy who has probably
been jealous and annoyed since the first day Mom and Dad brought home the
younger brother from the hospital. Suckled
less on mother’s milk than lemon juice, he could be insufferable – counting out
Cheerios every morning to make sure their breakfast distribution was exactly
even; comparing the prizes at the bottom of their Cracker Jacks to make sure little brother didn’t get something more
fun; tallying the boxes beneath the Christmas tree to make sure Santa’s
largesse was fair. We can see why he
would want to leave.
Of course it might not
have been that way at all. There are,
after all, two sides to every story. The
older brother, perhaps patient and long-suffering all these years, could well
have been happy to see him go – that narcissistic little twit who was always
borrowing his socks without asking; always bringing back the car without first
refilling the tank; always drinking down the last swig of milk – straight from
the carton, at that; always conning the parents for an extra hour at curfew, an
extra dollar in allowance; another chance when report cards came out, and one
more helping of pie at dinner. We can imagine
how the older brother might have silently applauded as soon as the front door
clicked closed behind the younger.
But either scenario is
suspect speculation. We have no real
cause to assume either brother to be a scoundrel or either to be a hero. All we know is that one stayed home and one
went away, not altogether different from the story that many of us could
tell. We know, of course, more about the
one who left. Leaving invariably has
lots of twists and turns – lots of emotions and causes and justifications – and
we know something about them all.
Whether it is leaving on a jet plane or on a midnight train to Georgia;
whether it is carrying a broken heart or leaving one behind; whether it is
chasing down the next opportunity or plugging the most recent dry well, we know
some things about leaving.
Sometimes it is a little
boy who carefully folds his pajamas, a change of clothes and a snack inside a
pillow case, slings it over his shoulder and walks out the door to run
away. Sometimes it is an 18-year-old
forcing closed the overstuffed trunk of the car before pulling out of the
driveway on the way to college.
Sometimes it is the single sentence of a resignation letter signed and
folded and handed to the supervisor, announcing a new employer, with best
wishes to the old. Sometimes it is the
heartfelt tears and the burgers and potato salad and the basket full of cards
at the picnic honoring the neighbors who are moving away. And sometimes it is the fracture wedged by
arguments and frozen silence and old hurts left open and raw. We know some things about leaving – and being
left behind.
What will we call it now
It isn't marriage anymore
Call it new and different
It's not the way it was before
Out of all the words to choose from
There's only one that fits
Call it what you want to
I’ll just call it quits
Turn and walk away
Across the desert of our hearts
Loves turned to sand and we've run out of time
And though we once had something
No words could tear apart
Now you be yours and I'll be mine
We've come down to the place
Where love never fits
Call it what you want to
I call it quits
Call our friends and tell them...
that we just don't care
Tell them dreams of flowers
But our garden's bare
Call it separation, independence
Divorce, if that word fits
Call it what you want to
I just call it quits
We've come down to the place
Where love never fits
Call it what you want to
I just call it quits [1]
There are all kinds of
places, and all kinds of reasons to leave them.
Who know, finally, which one ultimately moved the younger son? Frustration or opportunity; hurt or hope;
wild oats or dead ends – the story doesn’t really seem to care. Jesus simply weaves into story the truth
about which the hymn writer sang: it
isn’t only that we are prone to wander
– drifting benignly and negligently out of reach and touch – it is also that we
are “prone to leave the God” we
love. It happens for all kinds of
reasons. But much more interesting to
Jesus than why we might leave is what happens when we wake up, come to
ourselves, and wish we had a way back home.
What happens then? Is it “too
bad; so sad”? Does the road only permit movement
in one direction – like those spiked driveways at airport car rental exits or
the old drive-in movie theatre entrances?
Caught in the flow of traffic moving in the wrong direction, are there
only entrance ramps, but no exits?
Those
are the very questions suddenly pondered by the younger son. Having enjoyed all he needed of the far
country and its delightful pig sties; having dipped his spoon into every
interesting smelling steaming pot on the stove, he came to the realization that
he was nowhere near where he needed to be, but he had no way of knowing if
there still was a “back there” back there.
But desperately needing to know and anxious to reclaim it if he could,
he hosed himself off the best he could, studied the map, practiced his speech,
and tried his best to look like the self he now remembered himself to be, and
headed home.
There
is a similar turning in the Hebrew scriptures, when Jacob, who had deceived his
father and tricked his older brother out of everything that was sacred, decided
it was time that he, too, find his way back home. He had run, of course, for his life, but now
after all these years he concluded that it was a hollow, empty life he had
saved. And so gathering up all he had
accumulated in the far country – two wives, servants and herds and children –
he began the way of repentance. It was
both a terror and a thrill, and it wasn’t to come without a price. The night before he looked his brother in the
face, he sent the others up ahead and bedded down by himself near the
river. And during the night, he tossed
and turned and wrestled with the very shadow of God who left him with a limp –
as such inner turmoil is want to do.
Unlike
Jacob who was greeted with open arms by Esau, the younger brother in Jesus’
story was met by the father, himself, and something like a hero’s welcome. That’s what the hymn writer apparently knew,
himself. Even for those who wander, even
for those who leave, there is a way back home to the God for whom everywhere is
home. Which is why we know this
ultimately to be a story about a father who had two sons, rather than the story
of a son who had a father and an older brother. [2]
The emphasis here, as it
is in the hymn that is guiding us throughout this season, is only in the first
and smallest sense about our propensity for leaving. The larger portion – and the real reason for
telling the story or singing the song at all – is to name and give thanks for
the God who stands out on the open road scanning the horizon for the least
little sign of movement, and then throws arms wide open to receive us in
grace.
And
for those of us here in this season of lent somewhere out on the road, still
carrying, perhaps, some scent of the sty and still rehearsing our story, the
sight of those open arms up ahead is heaven, indeed.
Come, thou fount of every blessing,Tune my heart to sing thy grace.Prone to wonder, Lord I feel it;prone to leave the God I love;
here's my heart, O take and seal it,
seal it for thy courts above.