March 30: Fourth Sunday in Lent

They were grumbling. They were grumbling because of the company he kept. His message had attracted a rather undesirable audience: Tax collectors and sinners. Not the righteous or the powerful. But tax collectors, whose job helped fund the oppressive Romans, and sinners, those unclean outsiders. And so they grumbled, “This fellow welcomes sinners and eats with them.”

Hearing this, Jesus told them a story.

What a great setup to one of the most well-known parables in scripture. We all know this story. We’ve heard about the prodigal son since we were kids in Sunday school. In everyday conversation we throw around its premise and simple lesson with ease to describe anyone who has gone astray. The story is familiar, so we run the risk of tuning out and not letting it sink into us once more. It’s easy to take the teeth out of this story. So, in order to enter this parable again, I want us to remember why Jesus told this story in the first place. They were grumbling.

Y’all know grumblers, don’t you. Those folks who just can’t help themselves. Mumbling about this or that under their breath. Nothing ever satisfies them. Life seems to be one persistent complaint. They are typically pre-offended, just ready to grumble about whatever happens in front of them. They aren’t much fun to be around.

And many of us can be grumblers from time to time. I know I can, when I’m tired or angry. Krysta knows when I’m hungry because I become a stage 10 grumbler. “Let’s find you some food,” she says gently and graciously as she guides me to the kitchen.

Jesus was tired of their grumbling, so he offers them a story. A man had two sons. The younger son goes to his father and asks for his share of the inheritance. The father agrees to do so, dividing the inheritance between the younger and the older. Both sons get their half that day. A few days later, the younger son goes away and squanders all that he had been given. Now having nothing, he hires himself out to work in one of the dirtiest of farm jobs. And then he comes to himself, Luke writes.

He comes to himself, which doesn’t mean he’s sorry or regretful. This is no religious experience. There is no repentance here. He’s simply hungry and thinks of a plan to fix his situation. Even here, at rock bottom, he thinks only of himself, and a way to use, maybe even abuse, his father’s generosity.

“Here’s what I’ll say to him,” he thinks to himself, “This will surely tug at his heart strings.” The younger son still wants to be in control of the situation. He sees his father as passive and gullible, even a bit naive. So he heads back home, rehearsing his plan, the narrative that he thinks will succeed, the story he thinks he needs.

But before he even gets back, his father sees him and begins to run. He runs up to his son, hugging and kissing him. The son, unable just to receive his father’s love, begins his rehearsed speech. But his father doesn’t even listen. His son is back. He can hold him again. That’s what matters. So, the father calls a party and the music begins.

Meanwhile, the older brother, hearing the music, begins to grumble. Remember, he had received half of the inheritance like his brother had. He has shelter. He has wealth. He has status. He has all he could ever need, but still, he grumbles. “Son,” his father tells him, “You are always with me, and all that is mine is yours. But we had to celebrate and rejoice, because this brother of yours was dead and has come to life; he was lost and has been found.” We had to celebrate and rejoice. We had to celebrate and rejoice. For the father, there was no other option.

There was no other possible response but to rejoice. Can we hear that this morning? Can we let that soak in? The nature of God, Jesus is teaching us, is to celebrate communion. The nature of God is to celebrate our relationship with God. The nature of God is to throw a party for you, for me, for us. We don’t often think of this, but joy and celebration are key parts of Lent.

During this season, we hear themes of repentance, fasting, penitence, sackcloth and ashes, but an overlooked part of our Eucharistic prayer invites us to prepare for Easter with joy. It reads: “Lord, You bid your faithful people cleanse their hearts, and prepare with joy for the Paschal feast; that, fervent in prayer and in works of mercy, and renewed by your Word and Sacraments, they may come to the fullness of grace which you have prepared for those who love you.” Lent is a time in which we prepare with joy! We prepare with joy for joy!

We don’t hear any more from the younger son. The last words he gets in this story are those that he thinks will bring him favor and get him back into the fold. We may think the younger son has a change of heart in the pig pin, but if anything, I believe his change of heart is shown in the silence, in his speechlessness, of him just being held, of him being kissed, of him being swept off his feet by the father who ran to him, showering him with joy and undeserved, unconditional love. Joy changes his heart. Not shame. Not self-improvement. Love changes his heart.

Part of Lent is understanding that our desires have run amok. We are so often like the younger son, who thinks he knows what will truly make for a fulfilled life. He seeks those things he thinks will bring him joy. But, as St. Jerome writes, “The son couldn’t be satisfied because pleasure always creates its own hunger.” He had the freedom to make his choices, he had the money to buy whatever he wanted, but nothing could really satisfy him.

And we know this emptiness, too. We keep wondering about the next best thing, the constant tease of an upgrade. Most of us have plenty enough, but we just can’t help ourselves from looking over the fence, thinking if I just had that, whatever that might be, I’d finally be satiated. But we know, we have learned, that that’s a lie. As C.S. Lewis points out, the problem isn’t that our desires are too strong. Rather, they are too weak. We are far too easily pleased. We settle for mere trifles, when God wants to give us true wealth and genuine intimacy. We are God’s sons and daughters, and we need not settle for anything less. God calls us home, and that empty gnawing in our bellies, is not for more or better stuff, it is the invitation to know true fullness and contentment.

In Jesus’ parable, the younger son wants this fullness, and he thinks he needs to leave home to find it. And the older son, he thinks the fullness has been given to someone who doesn’t deserve it.

We are both the younger and the older son. Lent reminds us our desires have been distracted and disoriented and invites us to come back home. And Lent reminds us that the joy of God’s love is ours to have now and always, if only we would realize and trust its ever presence. Our deepest desire, our truest desire, is to be known, seen, ran to and held. To know we are truly loved.

In Jesus’ story, the older and younger sons both learn that they are loved just because they are loved, forever, without condition. And so are you. God knows there is plenty to grumble about in this world.

There is plenty to be upset about, to complain about, even to be angry with. So, grumble, but let Jesus’ story sink in. Do not forget joy. As Marilyn Robinson writes in her beautiful book Gilead, “It is worth living long enough to outlast whatever sense of grievance you may acquire.”

It is worth living long enough to outlast whatever sense of grievance you may have, because there is joy, there is fullness of life, there is music playing that bids us to come and dance.

We are now just over halfway done with Lent. As we continue our journey to Jerusalem, may God shape our hearts with joy. May God hold you in arms of love. May we remember to dance with the one who calls us his sons and daughters. Amen.

The Rev. Daniel Reeves