New Life

Easter Sunday

April 21, 2019

Isaiah 65:17-25; Psalm 118:14-24; Luke 24:1-12

            The original work of fiction exploring the idea of an ideal society was the novel Utopia published by Thomas More in 1516. This book is also the first recorded instance of the word, ‘utopia.’ It has its roots in Greek words that mean “no place” and “good place.”[1] The opposite, dystopia, then means a “not good place.” Dystopian fiction dates back to the French Revolution of 1789 and began as a response to utopian fiction. Many classics of the 20^th century are considered to be utopian or dystopian fiction: Brave New World, 1984, A Clockwork Orange, Animal Farm, Fahrenheit 451, We. These all describe societies in which what was thought to be best went horribly wrong. The 1990s saw the first young adult dystopian novel, The Giver by Lois Lowry, and it saw the rise of apocalyptic and post-apocalyptic movies, scenarios that can cause a dystopia, like Independence Day, Armageddon, The Matrix, even Jurassic Park, as a theme park turns deadly.

Since then, there have been a plethora of books, TV shows, and movies about dystopian worlds: The Hunger Games, The Walking Dead, Falling Skies, Battlestar Galactica, the Divergent series, The Maze Runner series, and so many more. The genre has really taken off. They’re based on worst-case scenarios: zombies, alien invasion, plague, nuclear bomb, a complete depletion of the earth’s resources, and then what is life like after that happens? Often the protagonists are teenagers with no memory of what life was like before; this dystopian world is the only one they’ve ever known, and they struggle to make it better. They don’t want to make it necessarily utopian; they’re just working to make it just and fair with a more equal sharing of power and resources. There is no going back to how it was before. It’s impossible. They can’t “look for the living among the dead,” as the angels accuse the women of doing in our Easter Gospel reading this morning.[2] Instead, in this post-Apocalytic world, they have to find a new way forward. The worst has happened. You survived it. Or maybe you were born after it. Now, how do you live in this new world?

In our psalm this morning we read the declaration, “I shall not die but I shall live.” It implies living is a choice. You can decide to live, or you can decide to wither away. It’s an interesting idea, because we had no choice over our conception or the world we were born into. But we can choose to live. It’s not a utopian or dystopian movie, but a romantic comedy that came out around the same time is My Big Fat Greek Wedding. The main character, Toula, is worried about upsetting her father by marrying someone who’s not Greek, and her mother tells her, “I gave you life so that you could live it.” It’s similar to what Jesus says in the Gospel of John, “The thief comes only to steal, kill, and destroy. I came so that you could have life, so that you could live life to the fullest.”[3] Whether you see the world around you as utopian, dystopian, or somewhere in between, it’s still up to you to choose to live abundantly, to declare, “I shall not die but I shall live.”

How? First, don’t look for the living among the dead. That is a fruitless search that will get you nowhere. Change can be hard. I imagine being born into a dystopian world would be a whole lot easier than living through the transition. Yet we are here, living in a time of transition. Life changes all around us, as crops are planted, grown, and harvested. Children grow. We change and grow, too. It’s interesting when meeting again someone we knew long ago to see how each of us has changed, and to allow room for that change. Who we are now is not who we were 20 years ago. Our loved ones are not who they were 20 years ago, either. We go looking for the living among the dead when we expect others to stay the same, when we refuse to allow them to change. We go looking for the living among the dead when we hold tight to former visions of ourselves or our church, as if we might suddenly become again who we once were. I’ve had rheumatoid arthritis for 13 years now, and I can get nostalgic thinking about how great my health was at age 25. But it’s never helpful for life now, much less for the future. My body is not the same. That’s who I was, and what I could do then. But you know what? I can do a lot of other things now that I couldn’t do then. My pre-RA life is over, and that’s why Isaiah says, “The former things will not be remembered, nor will they come to mind.”[4] I am creating a new thing. It’s a “challenge to stop hanging on to the dead and to move into new life.”[5]

The antidote, when you find yourself looking for the living among the dead, is remembrance. The angels tell the women at the tomb, “Remember how he told you, while he was still with you.”[6] In fact, the angels’ question about looking for the living among the dead directly echoes Jesus’ words. In Luke 20, some teachers of the law, the Sadducees, who don’t believe in the resurrection, try to trick Jesus with a question about Mosaic law: a man’s brother dies and leaves behind a wife. The man is obligated to marry her. But say there are seven brothers and the first one dies, too; in fact, each brother marries her and dies. So, at this resurrection which we don’t believe in, whose wife is she? Jesus replies that marriage happens in this age, but not in the age to come. And, in the age to come, people will no longer die. They are God’s children, and God “is not the God of the dead, but of the living, for to [God] all are alive.”[7] God sent Jesus so that everyone who believes in him might not die but have life. Because God is God of the living, and you will find life among the living, not among what is dead. Remember what Jesus has told you.

Another way to choose to live is what the protagonists in young adult dystopian literature do: work towards transforming the world into a more just and peaceful place. Consider the vision of the promised kingdom we read in Isaiah. “Never again will there be an infant who lives but a few days, or an old man who does not live out his years… No longer will [you] build houses and others live in them, or plant and others eat… [You] will not labor in vain, nor will [you] bear children doomed to misfortune; for [you] will be a people blessed by the Lord, [you] and [your] descendants with them.”[8] There will be longevity. There will be work that is rewarding and rewarded. There will be blessing and joy and delight. Furthermore, relationships will change. “The wolf and the lamb will feed together, and the lion will eat straw like the ox, and dust will be the serpent’s food. They will neither harm nor destroy on all [God’s] holy mountain.”[9] Wolves no longer eat lambs, they eat with the lambs. The lion turns into an herbivore. There is no more predator and prey. Instead there’s harmony and cooperation. And while you may feel sorry for the snakes because they get dust, think of them a little more metaphorically. The snake also represents original sin, back to the Garden of Eden when the snake tricked Eve into eating from the tree God said not to. So, sin becomes dust and is remembered no more as it blows away in the breeze. This is the kingdom of heaven. This is the new creation.

This is what Easter is all about. Easter is considered to be the 8^th day of creation, when everything is made new. It’s not a brand new creation, it’s the restoration of the old one where cracks are filled in, chips are painted over, and somehow, in the restoration, instead of looking identical to the original, it looks better, brighter, sharper, wholer. This is what is possible thanks to Christ’s victory over death. “Resurrection is God’s power to create a new reality for all creation.”[10]

Children will not be doomed to misfortune. We will not labor in vain. Things will be put right. And we don’t just sit back and wait for that to happen. No. This “promise of a new creation [is] God once again calling all [of us] to practice compassion, justice, and loving-kindness and to commit ourselves once again to a way of life that yields peace and security for all people.”[11] We watch for those glimpses of heaven on earth and we join God in the work of bringing heaven on earth. We work towards ending dystopias. We learn a lot about ourselves and grow when we go through horrible times. Yet a friend pointed out to me that what one person considers a dystopia may be someone else’s reality. Some people live under dictators or with famine or on land that’s been on the receiving end of a scorched earth policy. General Sherman burned Atlanta in 1864; yet look at that city now. It has grown back and is flourishing. It took time and a lot of work and rebuilding.

            In dystopian worlds, it’s often survival of the fittest, or at least the one who can think quickest on their feet. They are stories of choices and consequences and they don’t always have a happy ending.[12] In contrast, God says there will be no harm or destruction in the promised kingdom. There will be no more weeping or crying, and no more death, because God is God of the living. A utopian society tends to be seen as impossible and unattainable ideal. Yet God’s kingdom is possible and real and we are invited to work to make it happen here on earth. The women were not expecting resurrection. They thought they were looking for the dead among the dead. Too often we don’t expect resurrection, either. And either way, we find ourselves among the dead and things past. But Jesus came so that we might have life, and have it abundantly, both now and in the age to come. And it does not take away from my abundant life to help you live your abundant life. We are here together. No predators and prey. Instead, as the Servant Song says, “We are pilgrims on the journey. We are travellers on the road. We are here to help each other/ Walk the mile and bear the load.”[13] There are so many little things we can do to show the signs of God’s new creation: a cup of water, a phone call, a hug. These all help bring new life to someone who’s been looking for the living among the dead. But Jesus is not there. What you’re looking for is not there. The new life, better life, the peace you’re seeking, the acceptance you’re seeking, the love you’re seeking – you’re not going to find it among things past. That isn’t going to help and it’s not healthy. Instead we turn to Jesus, who is among the living. Jesus is not dead, but is risen. That’s the Easter surprise. Go looking for the living among the living. Go looking for things that give life. Claim the new abundant life that Christ offers you. Show signs of new life and love to all those around you.

           

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[1] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Utopian_and_dystopian_fiction

[2] Luke 24:5

[3] John 10:10, CEB

[4] Isaiah 65:17b

[5] Feasting on the Word, Year C, Vol. 2, p. 351

[6] Luke 24:6

[7] Luke 20:38

[8] Isaiah 65:20, 22, 23

[9] Isaiah 65:25

[10] Feasting on the Word, Year C, Vol. 2, p. 354

[11] Preaching God’s Transforming Justice, Year C, p. 218

[12] https://www.npr.org/sections/ed/2017/12/18/536007249/why-teens-find-the-end-of-the-world-so-appealing

[13] The Faith We Sing 2222

New Things

5^th Sunday in Lent

April 7, 2019

Isaiah 43:16-21

(Or watch here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aQx3YPOTF18 )

I’ve shared a little bit before about my call to serve God in Nicaragua and how from there God called me back to the States and to seminary and to become a pastor.  Well, when I first got sick and the rheumatoid arthritis had inflamed so many of my joints that I was put on bedrest, my country director, Kim, was out of the country.  I’d shared with her, as had my colleagues, about how bad it was and how many people, both Nicaraguans and Americans, were advising me to return to the U.S.  But Kim hadn’t seen me or talked with me in person yet.  And it wasn’t that she doubted the severity of the disease, it was that simply having an illness doesn’t necessarily mean you pack your bags up and move.  Many missionaries stay in the mission field with a variety of diseases.  The difference for me was that through the arthritis, God was calling me to leave Nicaragua and return home.  The difference was God speaking this verse we read in Isaiah to me, “Look!  I’m doing a new thing!” Before approving my early departure, Kim asked me to meet with Joel, a fellow American missionary, although serving with a different mission agency.  Joel had also developed a chronic disease, something similar to my arthritis, I think, during his time in Nicaragua, and had stayed on and worked through it and figured out how to treat it there.  We shared our stories, and I had one question for Joel, which was to ask if in the onset of his disease God had told him God was about to do a new thing.  Joel said no.  And that was the difference for me.  I didn’t end my time in Nicaragua early because folks advised me to, or because I could get better health care in the U.S.  I left before my contract ended because God said God was about to do a new thing, and when I asked God, are you sure, and I set out three fleece tests, just like Gideon did in the Old Testament book of Judges, God answered all three of them.  God was indeed about to do a new thing, and I obeyed and came to the U.S. I tell my husband he was like the cherry on the top, because it was after I returned, as I was applying to seminaries, that we started dating and got married a year later.

When God originally spoke this word through Isaiah, it was to a people who were being carried into exile, people being carried away from their homes by a conquering army. The situation in which Israel found itself “is a timeless one, not because all of us today understand the experience of exile… but rather because we all have experienced the grim shadow of past tragedies, the way in which those ghosts of past loss, shame, and grief swirl around us and cloud our vision, preventing us from seeing anything but darkness and despair.”[1] We’ve all had “sudden deaths, broken relationships, bad decisions, cruelties” done by others or even by ourselves, or some tragedy, and “these things [can] linger about us and hinder our ability both to see the future and to move into it. What’s more… they cause us to doubt the promises we have received in Jesus Christ: divine forgiveness, new life, and the love of God.”[2] And so Isaiah reminds the people of all that God has already done for them.  God is the one who made a way through the sea, a reference to the parting of the Red Sea when the Israelites escaped Egypt.  God is the one who can make a way in the desert and the wilderness, providing food, manna, and water for their survival while wandering for forty years.  God is the one who made us and will not forsake us. Yet as soon as we get this great image of a path through the mighty waters with the army never to rise again, God says, “No. Those are the former things. Don’t dwell on what happened long ago or cling to things of the past.”

So then, what do we do with the past? We want to honor what’s come before, and we can do that faithfully. Here’s the thing about memory, and remembering former things. Memory can be a strength.  Knowing how we got here, remembering where we came from so that we can honor our roots and our ancestors in the faith is a good thing.  Remembering the past can help you survive.  Knowing about past mistakes can mean you don’t repeat them in the future and can lead to even greater future successes.[3]  Memory can be our reference point for interpreting events and life circumstances.[4] Memory tells us who we are and helps us respect our past and how we got here.  However, unfortunately, memory can also be a hindrance.  You’ve heard of folks who are stuck in the past?  That happens when you continue holding on too tightly to the past.  Or people who view the past through rose-colored glasses, where they only remember the good and forget the mistakes. Clinging too tightly to a memory can cause you to misinterpret life.[5] If someone from the 1950’s were to show up in our congregation this morning, they’d be appalled by how many of us ladies are wearing pants, by any of us who are wearing jeans or sneakers, and by a female preacher.  They’d recognize that we’re in a church, but they might not be sure what else is going on.  “If you hold too tightly to former things, you will not be able to embrace new things.”[6] There’s gotta be room for something new to spring up, much less flourish.

It’s like when you come home from the grocery store, and you want to carry all the groceries in at one time, and so you load up with big armfuls.  Anyone else do that?  Now, what happens when you get to your front door?  You have to put some of the groceries down in order to open it, don’t you?  You don’t usually have to put all of them down, but at least one hand has to be free to unlock and open the door.  God’s not saying forget who you are and where you came from.  God’s not saying to forget the past; God says don’t cling to it, don’t dwell on it.[7] Keep some memories with you, and go on to the next thing.  There’s gotta be room for the new.  I had to leave Nicaragua to go to seminary.  In my case, I had to physically move in order for there to be room for the new thing. So remember, “what God has done for you before, God will do again; hold on, trust in the Lord, and keep faith. What God has in store for you is as miraculous and satisfying as water in the wilderness.”[8]

Instead of the image of crossing the Red Sea escaping from Pharaoh’s army, God says, “See, I’m doing a new thing! Now it springs up.” It’s a new image of a new plant sprouting up from the ground. 

Now, as you all well know, farmlands are not wild. Farming is an organized activity where seeds are planted in straight rows a set distance from each other. Animals are kept in fields that are fenced in. So, a new plant sprouting up suggests civilization to me. Yet then God says, “I am making a way in the wilderness and streams in the wasteland. The wild animals will honor me.”[9] So, this new plant sprouting up is in the wilderness and the wasteland and has wild animals around it. I don’t know about you, but it makes me wonder what happened to civilization and why not tame animals. Why is the new thing in the wilderness and with wild animals? Why is the new thing wild, and not tame or organized? Why in a wasteland? Does it mean we can see it better because there’s higher contrast between it and its surroundings? Except a new plant is small, it can be hard to see. And if it’s surrounded by a wilderness with so much going on, it can be especially hard to spot, like “Where’s Waldo?”

This new thing sprouting up is in the wilderness, the wilderness of our lives, the wilderness of Lent, the wilderness Jesus spent 40 days in before beginning his ministry, the wilderness Israel spent 40 years wandering around in before reaching the Promised Land. It doesn’t seem fair that to reach the Promised Land you have to go through the wilderness. To get to Easter, you have to go through the cross.

So this new thing is sprouting up like a new plant, it’s small, it may be hard to see in the wilderness. Yet God asks, “Do you not perceive it?” The question suggests we should be able to perceive it, that it should be obvious. Yet new things aren't always immediately obvious or easily identifiable. New things, like new plants, start off small and hard to see. Yet we're supposed to perceive it. Jesus says many times, “Whoever has ears to hear, let them hear.” It means we have to pay close attention to be able to catch a glimpse of the new thing God is doing. There’s a saying that the last seven words of a church are “We’ve never done it that way before.” It’s a sentiment that means we can’t perceive the new thing that God is doing now. Some churches won’t try a new thing, and they die. Other churches choose to follow those seven words with: “but we can try it.” In doing so, they become something new and God does a new thing in their midst.

 We know God has done this before.  God did a new thing for Israel, bringing them out of exile.  God did a new thing when God sent Jesus into the world.  God did a new thing on the cross and in the grave. Easter was a brand new thing. God has done this before.  And we know that God has acted in our midst before.  God has acted here in our church, before.  God did a new thing in planting this church here.  God did a new thing in the previous ministries of this church.  God did a new thing when this church grew enough to support their own pastor.  God has done all this before.  We’ve seen God do new things before. We’ve seen God make a way where there is no way, and we have faith God will do it again. “God makes a way where there is no way, and God leads us into a bright future that we are able neither to see nor to create for ourselves.”[10] This is like the refrain of the Hymn of Promise, it’s “unrevealed until its season, something God alone can see.”[11]

One of my favorite ways to reflect on life is by thinking about it in terms of what liturgical season you’re in. If you’re in a season of waiting, you’re probably in Advent, that time of waiting and preparing for Christmas. Is nothing special going on? Then you’re in Ordinary Time, the season that goes from Pentecost Sunday in June all the way til Advent. This church has been in Lent, a time of pruning, a more solemn time, the season of waiting and preparing for Easter. Easter is a new thing, yet the seeds for it are sown during Lent. We get ready for the celebration. We have an Easter egg hunt. We hold a prayer vigil on Good Friday and Holy Saturday keeping watch for the new thing that is coming on Easter.  God's doing a new thing at Lisbon. I can perceive that. Seeds have been sown. A small shoot is coming up. But I couldn't describe it. I couldn't define it or narrow it down. God's doing a new thing, making a way in the wilderness. I don't know where the way leads to, apart from to God. I don't think I'm catching all of the markers of the way in the wilderness. But I know God's doing a new thing here in this place, just as God has before. Lord, give us the eyes to see and the ears to hear. Amen.

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[1] Feasting on the Word, Year C, Vol. 2, p. 124

[2] Ibid.

[3] Preaching God’s Transforming Justice, Year C, p. 161

[4] Ibid.

[5] Ibid.

[6] Ibid.

[7] GNT and CEB translations

[8] Feasting on the Word, Year C, Vol. 2, p. 124

[9] Isaiah 43:19b-20a

[10] Feasting on the Word, Year C, Vol. 2, p. 126

[11] UMH 707

A New Thing in the Wilderness: A Reflection

A Reflection on Isaiah 43:16-21

I start off wanting to draw a picture of the sea and the path through the mighty waters, with the chariots and horses and army. But then God says, "No. They're extinguished, snuffed out, never to rise again." And I picture a defeated army on the sand by the ocean, with fallen soldiers and horses lying on their sides. And I feel sad, and like I was set up. Here was this great image building... and God says, "No. Those are the former things. The past. Do not dwell on them. Forget that."

Instead God gives a new image - a new plant sprouting up (which suggests civilization) and then wilderness and wasteland and wild animals. Wild animals? What about tame ones? And wilderness? What about civilization? Why is the new thing in the wilderness and with wild animals? Why is the new thing wild? And not tame or organized. Why a wasteland? So we can see it better? Higher contrast? "Do you not perceive it?" suggests we should be able to, suggests it should be obvious.

But new things aren't always obvious or easily identifiable. New things, like new plants, start off small and hard to see. Yet we're supposed to perceive it? If we have eyes to see...

God's doing a new thing at Lisbon. I can perceive that. But I couldn't describe it. I couldn't define it or narrow it down. God's doing a new thing, making a way in the wilderness. I don't know where the way leads to, apart from to God. I don't think I'm even catching all of the markers of the way in the wilderness. But I know God's doing a new thing here in this place. Lord, give us the eyes to see...

Rebuilding Involves Forgiveness

4^th Sunday in Lent

March 31, 2019

Luke 15:1-3, 11b-32

(Or watch here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D6XOBB6kp5c )

            In October 2006, Charlie Roberts locked himself inside an Amish schoolhouse while school was in session. He shot 10 students, killing five of them, before turning the gun on himself.  It’s a story that has become horrifyingly common in recent years.  Guy goes into a school, murders a bunch of children, and then doesn’t even have the courage to face the consequences of his actions – it’s easy to hate someone like that.  It’s easy to make a case that they deserve such a sentiment.  However, if you remember, “in the hours and days following the shooting a different, an unexpected story developed.”[1] It became a story about forgiveness. The Amish community, including the parents of the students, reached out to Charlie’s parents. They went to his funeral, not in justifiable anger to say he deserved to die but to show love to his family. “In the midst of their grief over this shocking loss, the Amish community didn’t cast blame, they didn’t point fingers, they didn’t hold a press conference with attorneys at their sides. Instead, they reached out with grace and compassion toward the [Roberts’] family… [and] expressed forgiveness toward [Charlie].”[2] They gave the world a wonderful witness of Christian forgiveness.

After all, we ask God in the Lord’s Prayer to “forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us.”[3] There’s one time when Peter comes to Jesus and asks him how many times he has to forgive his brother or sister who sins against him, maybe seven times.[4] Jesus says not seven, but seventy times seven, as in, a whole lot, more than you can easily count.  In addition, we are to “love our enemies and pray for those who harass us.”[5] Jesus lays out a law of love and forgiveness, where it’s not just about God forgiving us but about us forgiving each other. Let’s see how that plays out in our Gospel reading this morning.

            What is often called the parable of the prodigal son is a very familiar story to many of us. Jesus tells it to an audience with two groups. There were tax collectors and sinners who were gathering around Jesus in order to listen to him. And there were Pharisees and teachers of the law also around Jesus, and they were talking under their breath, grumbling about those other people who were there, too. “What are they doing here? Why’s Jesus eating with them? Doesn’t he know who they are?” Jesus, of course, is aware of this dynamic, and tells the Pharisees, scribes, tax collectors, and sinners a series of three stories about things that have been lost. First is a flock with 100 sheep and one goes missing. The shepherd leaves the 99 to go find the one who was missing. When he does, he invites his friends to come celebrate with him. Now some might say, “What’s so wonderful? It was only one sheep. You had 99 others.” But the shepherd knows, “One sheep makes a difference. Without her, something is missing. Now my flock is complete.”[6] Then Jesus tells a story about a woman with a set of ten coins. Again, one goes missing and the woman searches and searches until she finds it. Then she also throws a party and invites others to come celebrate with her. Some people might say, “What is so important? It was only one coin.” But the woman knows, “Just one coin matters. Without it, something is missing. Now my coin collection is complete.”[7]

Last, Jesus tells them a story about a man with two sons. The younger son insults his father by demanding his inheritance early and then runs away and does whatever he wants. After a while, the younger son “comes to his senses,” recognizes and acknowledges he’s messed up, and goes back to seek forgiveness from his father.  The father forgives him, seemingly before the son even says anything, since he was out watching and waiting for his younger son to return. The father then throws a big party to celebrate. And the focus of this story is so often on the younger son, the one who ran away, the one who so obviously screwed up, the one who recognized he no longer deserved to be called ‘son.’

As the eldest child myself, I don’t think enough attention is paid to the elder son. He’s the one who stays home, who helps his father run the farm, who’s perfectly obedient, who does everything the father ever asked him to do. I think a lot of us in the church identify with him. We’ve gone to church our whole lives. We help those in need. We don’t get in trouble. We lead good, Christian lives. We forgive those who wrong us, mostly. But sometimes we still feel overlooked and as if all our good deeds don’t count for much. I love how this “Two Sons” story from the book "Who Counts?" phrases it.  The father says, “I discounted my older son. I didn’t realize that he felt lost.”[8] 

The older son didn’t go anywhere. The older son wasn’t disobedient or reckless. But the older son was lost, too, and that is rarely recognized. And his reaction to his brother’s return is one of self-righteous, justifiable anger. How dare his father lavish all this attention on his brother and throw a big party for him? It’s not fair! Self-righteous anger is a dangerous thing. Yes, he has every right to be angry and jealous. And it is hard to be welcoming and gracious and forgiving when you’re feeling self-righteous. The feeling of self-righteousness puts your focus on you: what you’ve done, the praise and recognition you deserve. That’s where the Pharisees and teachers of the law were coming from. They had kept the law all their lives. They had done everything they were supposed to do, arranged their lives around following the law. The problem is, they focused on it so much that that’s all they saw and all they knew: the law and what you’re supposed to do. And it heightened their awareness of those who didn’t keep the law and do what they were supposed to do. They had become legalistic, focusing on the law rather than on the One who gave the law.

The father goes out to find his older son, the one he didn’t know was lost, but had gotten lost in his anger and self-righteousness and keeping the law to the point that he felt like a slave to it. The father points out that the older son is part of the family, too. The family is only complete with both sons. The story isn’t about the younger son or the older son. The story is about God. I’ve made it a point to say older son and younger son, rather than older and younger brother. From our relationship with God flows our relationship with each other. And God calls each of us home. And every time someone comes home, regardless of where they’ve traveled, there’s a big celebration. It’s not the prodigal son’s party. It’s the father’s party, and he invites everyone. The Pharisees are invited and the tax collectors. Those of us who have been in church our entire lives and those who haven’t. Those who have gotten in trouble and those of us who obey every letter of the law. We are all part of God’s family, and without any one of us, something is missing. But with each one of us, our family is complete.

Will Pharisees welcome tax collectors to their table and eat with them? Is there any hope for Pharisees? Yes! There are at least two in the Bible we know by name. In John 3, there’s Nicodemus, who comes to talk with Jesus because he wants to know more. Nicodemus, the Pharisee, is the one whom Jesus tells, “God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life. For God did not send his Son into the world to condemn the world, but to save the world through him.”[9] And then there is the Apostle Paul, who before he became Paul, was Saul, the Pharisee. Saul kept every letter of every law, he was the perfectly obedient Jew. And within the law he persecuted Christians, until he was blinded on the road to Damascus and underwent a 180 conversion because of it.

Whether you identify more with the younger son or the older son, there is a place for you in God’s family. Not only that, there is a space saved for you. The younger son has obviously messed up and he repents and confesses and the father forgives him. The older son has harbored bitterness and resentment. The story ends before we find out whether or not he repented of it. But we know the father stood ready to forgive him.

The image in our Old Testament lesson is of our disgrace being rolled away. “The Lord said to Joshua, ‘Today I have rolled away the reproach of Egypt from you.’” We are now three weeks away from Easter, when something even bigger is rolled away: the stone door to Jesus’ tomb. Jesus died for our sins on the cross, our sins of running away, our sins of disgrace, our sins of anger and resentment. And then on the third day it was all rolled away with the stone as Jesus rose victorious over sin and over death. Our sins are forgiven, whether they’re younger son sins or older son sins. God offers forgiveness to all of them. That’s why I like having a weekly prayer of confession during Lent, to remind us we need forgiving, we need Easter. That’s why there is always a prayer of confession before communion, to prepare us for coming to the table all together, acknowledging we’ve all messed up and yet we’re all invited to the table. The purpose of God’s law is to draw us closer to God, and so all of us here work on keeping it, while keeping our focus on God, remembering his prodigal love and mercy, which helps us to extend that love and forgiveness to our brothers and sisters. Forgiveness is not to pretend it never happened. It’s not to condone what happened. Instead, it’s to “draw out the sting in the memory that threatens to poison our entire existence.”[10] The sting was threatening to poison the older son’s existence. Don’t let it poison yours. We forgive, we draw out the sting, so that we can move forward into the future.

If there is someone this morning whom you have wronged and you need to ask their forgiveness, do it this week. If there is someone who’s asked your forgiveness and you’ve withheld it, it’s time to give it. Now, similar to invitations from last week, you might be rejected. They may not want to forgive you, or for you to forgive them. Do it, anyway. That’s why Christ came, lived among us, taught us (especially through stories), gave us the Lord’s Supper for us to all eat together, and why he died and rose again. For the forgiveness of sins. For new life. For life together. In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, Amen.

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[1] https://lancasterpa.com/amish/amish-forgiveness/

[2] Ibid.

[3] Matthew 6:12

[4] Matthew 18:21-22

[5] Matthew 5:44

[6] Who Counts? by Amy-Jill Levine and Sandy Eisenberg Sasso

[7] Ibid.

[8] Ibid.

[9] John 3:16-17

[10] No Future Without Forgiveness by Desmond Tutu, p. 271