Reversals (Luke 15:11-32)

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Reversals

The stench overpowered me as I stood looking down at the rubble of the ruins that was my life,             And I knew the truth was in them somewhere.                                                                                             All that was left of all I had known pulled me home,                                                                                     So I reversed the path of my lostness toward my father.                                                                               The journey home seemed longer than it had when left, but I kept walking.  

As I drew closer, I saw what I had left behind and almost lost what little courage remained;

I lifted my eyes and saw my father running, towards me, and I fell to my knees before him, head bowed,

Through tears uttering the words I had practiced and perfected this long road back. 

Getting no farther than the apology, suddenly, home closed around me with my father’s arms 

Wrapping me tight, receiving me back, filling up all my broken places my own rebellion had created.

I came home, and my father received me.

Coming back made me realize the hunger within me—not for the food I thought I craved—

But for him, my father. The words coming from his lips made no sense; instead they created

A sense of wonder within me: how could my father accept me

When I had chosen to throw my lot and his name, his fortune into the world’s pig pen?

The healing of home began, and my restored hope brought new joy. 

I sang. I danced. I talked. I basked in the glory of restoration.

Then Brother came home.

This one unlike me who “never” sinned and always obeyed and worked without ceasing for the father. 

He, too, stood looking down at the rubble of the ruins that was his life, yet he turned away in resentment

From the father who ran to him with open arms. Brother’s anger was palpable, his protestations loud, 

His hurt prolonged, his refusal to accept my father’s acceptance not unexpected.

Suddenly, I was found and he was the one lost for the first time in his life.

I stood looking through the open door at them, wondering that nothing was as I thought it would be.

No one had to beg me to come home—my sin taught me the error of my ways—

but the one who was home had to be begged to come inside, and he refused. He saw no error in his way.

The lies I had believed when I left home, the ones that pushed me away, they still lived here.

The glasses of bitter resentment always lie to those who choose to wear them. 

I took mine off. I came home.

He is still outside believing the lies.

kbp 

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The brother always bothers me. 

Probably because I see so much of myself in him. Recently, my husband asked me if I really tried to be perfect growing up (and even when older). I am pretty sure he was surprised by my answer. I did try. Really hard. All it ever earned me, the years of trying to be perfect, was perfect resentment in others, and a feeling of failure in myself because I never was and others always saw that in the end.

All my time spent playing the Pharisee trying to use the law as my gauge of perfection, expectations the fuel, only drove me away from the Father instead of drawing me closer. All this striving I did was in vain. I already had grace extended to me but I had no idea how to rest in it. Sounds familiar. Sounds like Jesus talking to the Pharisees and scribes and lawyers. The ones who should've known better. The ones who had everything. The older sons who were set to inherit the kingdom--or at least they thought they were.

As I study and read and breathe and live and fall and learn and heal and pray and strive, I learn. I repent. I grow. I see more clearly now. I love. I want more of the Father. I want less of myself. I understand (and forget and have to understand again) that HE is enough. I am not. I will never be. 

And that’s okay. 

His grace is sufficient for me. His love surpasses my understanding. His arms wrapped around me hold me tightly, and I don’t want anything else when my eyes remain fixed on him, when my focus is his love for me, his sacrifice, his will. Sometimes His arms hold me back when I need holding and ask to be held. And I stay.

But as I read about the prodigal and the father’s love for him again this morning, I see more the lies the older brother has believed. I see the resentment that he chooses to wear when he looks through that lens. I see that wearing the glasses of resentment and refusing to look in the mirror of God’s grace only cause the wearer to believe the lies instead of allowing him or her to be able to see the truth. The glasses that blind. Look closely at the text:

But he was angry and would not go in. Therefore his father came out and pleaded with him. So he answered and said to his father. ‘Lo, these many years I have been serving you; I never transgressed your commandment at any time; and yet you never gave me a young goat, that I might make merry with my friends. But as soon as this son of yours came, who has devoured your livelihood with harlots, you killed the fatted calf for him.’ (Chronological Bible, NKJV)

Anger had already begun. Distortion has occurred. Resentment has moved in and taken root. Accusations result. Separation occurs. 

The brother's anger does not let him see. Even the father’s pleading does not break through the rage he feels, and his answer is full of it. He begs to be seen, this son who won’t even listen or look himself. He is inwardly focused—his serving has been for gain, not love—and the resentment has been many years in the making. He wants his father to offer what the father has already given him, everything. His blindness, his striving to please the father who loves him, his own lack of love prevents him from knowing the truth. It causes the bitterness. Look at his language: many, never, any, never, yet, but . . .

Many years of service (focus: his efforts). “I never transgressed your commandment” (focus: not the commandment and desire to please the father but his own accomplishments in never messing up—yeah, right!). I never broke the commandments “at any time” (emphasis: his own perfection . . . which we know cannot be true of any man save Jesus). You never gave me a young goat (focus: the abuse of his service of many years in comparison with this wastrel of a brother come home; second use of adverb, this absolute we really should avoid). But you gave him the fatted calf (focus: accusation — you don’t love me like you love him). 

The father could have turned at this point and walked back into the house where he has a long lost son come home, but he doesn't leave the older son outside without an explanation, without an appeal. He loves the older son even though he has tried to earn what he already has. He explains that he is always with him, that all he has was already his, that when the lost come home, there must be rejoicing. Death to life requires that.

I don’t know how long the older brother sat outside pouting. I don’t know if he ever came in, or if he came in and demanded his share of prodigality. If he was like most of the Pharisees, he probably didn’t come back fully to dwell in the Father's love, and that makes me sad. I would like to think he sat there taking in the sounds of the party, smelling the meat roasting, hearing the joy from within and wanting a part of it. I would like to think he knocked on the door, or better yet, just walked in and hugged his father, welcomed his brother. But I am unsure.

What I do know is that unlike this older brother, I have seen my own Pharisaical ways, and my journey is some strange combination of his and the prodigal’s. My very young belief that I was able to avoid sinning (see Rom. 3:23) and my later desire to earn my Father’s approval after receiving His grace was just as much an abomination as if I had left Him altogether and defiantly wallowed in my sin. In looking in the mirror of His Word, as Colossians 2 teaches, I have seen myself:

If you have died with Christ to the elementary principles of the world, why, as if you were living in the world, do you submit yourself to decrees, such as, “Do not handle, do not taste, do not touch!” (which all refer to things destined to perish with use)—in accordance with the commandments and teachings of man? These are matters which do have the appearance of wisdom in self-made religion and humility and severe treatment of the body, but are of no value against fleshly indulgence. (NASB, v. 20-23)

In the repentance, the prayers, the seeking, the finding, the walking out, the Spirit in me, well, something changed along the way as I walked toward the Father, feeling the pull of home. 

I am not standing outside looking in. You don’t have to be either.