Easter Sermon – April 12, 2009

"Sin Must Be Paid For"
Luke 15:11-32

Carole and I have young friends, who had a lacerating, marital experience. I am happy to say that they are back together, and healing is reportedly taking place. We rejoice in that. Here’s what happened.

The young woman told her husband that she wanted to visit family for a few days. Family lived in another state. She went. She came home and told her husband that she had not just gone to see family. She went to see a man she had once been engaged to. Now, she no longer wanted to be married to her husband; she wanted the other man. Her husband could have their children.

The next day, she resigned her job, packed her belongings, and away she went, leaving behind a stunned family. Another woman persuaded her see things differently, and within a week she returned home to the family she had so recently abandoned.

If your spouse did that, what would you be thinking, when your spouse came back? You might feel relief at first. It wouldn’t be long before you began to ask questions. “Did I do something to deserve this? If not, I’m angry. What kind of person are you?” “How can you just come home as if nothing happened?” “Will it happen again? Can I trust you? What assurances can you give me that this won’t happen again?” “What did you do with that guy?”

I don’t know anything about the conversations that couple has had since they got back together. I do know that questions like that are sure to come. How he asks them, and how she answers them will have a lot to do with whether their marriage can survive in the long run. They must remember that there’s a price to pay for what happened.

There’s always a price to pay, and I’ll tell you why. It is written on the human heart: sin has to be paid for. It’s our sense of justice at work. If someone wrongs you, it has to be balanced out in some way. In criminal justice a lawbreaker has to pay his debt to society. In daily life we want to get even. Getting even is a powerful force. It can take violent forms, or it can be like water dripping on your head for years.

I’d like to reflect on the Law of Retribution, this inescapable human impulse to get even with someone who has done us wrong. It will take us to one of the four or five greatest stories ever told in human history. You’ll find it in the Bible in Luke 15:11-32.

The Alienated Son
We should read something else before we read this little masterpiece. The masterpiece won’t make sense, if we don’t first read verses 1-2. They give the context necessary for understanding Jesus’ story. Now the tax collectors and “sinners” were all gathering around to hear him (Jesus). But the Pharisees and the teachers of the law muttered, “This man welcomes sinners and eats with them.” A righteous Jew was supposed to shun tax collectors and sinners, not eat with them.

Jesus responded by telling three very short stories. The third one is the masterpiece. Verse eleven gets us started. Jesus continued: “There was a man who had two sons. The younger one said to his father, ‘Father, give me my share of the estate.’ So he divided his property between them.”

Have you seen the bumper sticker that says, “I’m spending my children’s inheritance?” There’s a twinge of defiance in that message. Have you seen that bumper sticker lately? Thanks to the sub-prime mortgage catastrophe, there’s not much inheritance left for Pop-pop to spend or for junior to inherit. But how would you feel if you son said to you, “I want my inheritance now, not when you die?”

Jesus says, “Work with me here. Let’s assume the father does the unexpected and gives the younger son his share of the inheritance.” Verse 13: “Not long after that, the younger son got together all he had, set off for a distant country and there squandered his wealth in wild living.” Life’s a beach, right? Only the tsunami was about to come in.

“After he had spent everything, there was a severe famine in that whole country, and he began to be in need. So he went and hired himself out to a citizen of that country, who sent him to his fields to feed pigs; and to add insult to injury he longed to fill his stomach with the pods that the pigs were eating; but to add further insult to injury no one gave him anything.”

If you’d met him around the pigsty and asked him how he was doing, I think he would have said, “I’m good, man, doing good. Down on my luck right now, but things are looking up. I’m doing what I always wanted to do. Life is good.” We love to believe the lies we tell ourselves, don’t we? He began to have very different thoughts when he put his head on the pillow of straw at night.

Any of you like that: far from God, far from the Church, far from the people who love you best, telling yourself lies to get through the pain? You might be wondering what you’re doing in church today. You might feel like you’re being judged. You think that if people here knew what your life was really like, they’d blow you off in a heartbeat. You couldn’t be more wrong. There are too many ex-rebels in here for that. We know better.

The next eight verses are just for you. “When he came to his senses, he said, ‘How many of my father's hired men have food to spare, and here I am starving to death! I will set out and go back to my father and say to him (this gets real interesting): Father, I have sinned against heaven and against you. I am no longer worthy to be called your son; make me like one of your hired men.’”

He wants to go home, but he knows it’s payback time. There’s a price to pay for what happened. It is written on the human heart: sin has to be paid for. It’s our sense of justice at work. So, he puts together his fine, little speech and prepares for the worst.

Verse 20 says that in this frame of mind he got up and went to his father, and he got his first surprise. “But while he was still a long way off, his father saw him and was filled with compassion for him; he ran to his son (not very dignified, was it?), threw his arms around him and kissed him.

He must have been stunned by all the paternal running and hugging and kissing; but he knew what he had to do, and he launched into his fine, little speech, his mea culpa, his finest effort to make the best of a really bad situation. “The son said to him, ‘Father, I have sinned against heaven and against you. I am no longer worthy to be called your son.’” And he got the second surprise of the morning.

“But the father, cutting short his fine, little speech, said to his servants, ‘Quick! Bring the best robe and put it on him. Put a ring on his finger and sandals on his feet. Bring the fattened calf and kill it. Let’s have a feast and celebrate. For this son of mine was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found.’ So they began to celebrate.

The Other Alienated Son
The buzz around the barnyard must have been hot and heavy. “Who would have thought it? Who would have thought the younger son would be back? Who would have thought his dad would be so glad to see him? What does it mean? What’s going to happen next? What will happen to the guy after the party is over? It’s payback time.”

Enter the younger son’s older brother, typical firstborn: steady, reliable, orderly, righteous, and now profoundly upset. “Meanwhile, the older son was in the field. When he came near the house, he heard music and dancing. So he called one of the servants and asked him what was going on. ‘Your brother has come,’ he replied, ‘and your father has killed the fattened calf because he has him back safe and sound.’ The older brother became angry and refused to go in.

From mourning to dancing and back to mourning, all in one day! The father has a second alienated son on his hands. So his father went out and pleaded with him. But he answered his father, ‘Look! The word Look conveys his overt hostility. ‘Look! All these years I've been slaving for you and never disobeyed your orders. Yet you never gave me even a young goat so I could celebrate with my friends. But when this son of yours (that’s a fine touch, isn’t it: not “my brother” but “this son of yours”) who has squandered your property with prostitutes comes home, you kill the fattened calf for him!’”

Any of you like that: close to God, close to the Church, close to the people who love you best, and resentful of people who break all the rules and get a hero’s welcome? You already think our country is going to hell in a hand basket. Why isn’t the Church making people like that pay for their self-indulgent iniquity?

There’s a price to pay for what they’ve done. It is written on the human heart: sin has to be paid for. It’s our sense of justice at work. A warm welcome to ne’er-do-wells violates our sense of justice. We won’t stand for it. Somebody has to speak up.

The father makes one more plea to the offended older brother. “‘My son,’ the father said, ‘you are always with me, and everything I have is yours. But we had to celebrate and be glad, because this brother of yours was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found.’”

Paying the Price
The parable stops there. Where’s the rest of the story? Jesus left it unfinished, because His listeners then and now had to finish it. The story was about them. They said that a righteous man was supposed to shun sinners, not eat with them. Jesus was less than subtle in saying they needed to change their tune. But what about justice! “Sinners” have to pay for their sins, don’t they? Well, someone has to pay.

Let me tell you a story. Do you know there was a time when automobile tires had inner tubes? They kept the tires inflated. People in my boyhood kept old inner tubes hanging in their garages. I don’t know why. But we boys found a use for them.

We would cut out a 4-5 inch wide circle of rubber from the inner tube. Then, we would cut the circle and lay it out flat and nail it to a wooden handle. Then, we cut off the end, so that it was maybe ten inches long. Finally, we cut the end into several fingers. We took these inventions of ours and hit the sidewalk or the street with them. It was really loud, and the sound made little boys outrageously happy.

One day, we were playing with these contraptions, and Corky struck me across the back with one of them. It really hurt. I yelled and cried and chased Corky with the intention of visiting the wrath of God upon his wretched body. He had a head start, and the fear was upon him, and he entered his house and closed the door, and none of us saw him for many days. But I looked for him. All the passions that start a gang war or a world war were at work in my child’s heart. I’m glad we didn’t have guns. We didn’t have gangs for that matter. We were civilized little urchins.

Homes in our neighborhood were separated by fences and hedges. Tall hedges often separated one yard from another. Clever people, including clever boys, made openings in the hedges. A hedge separated Corky’s house at the end of the street from the house next door. It had an opening in it.

I was playing in the backyard of the house next door to Corky’s. I looked through the opening, and there sat Corky on the ground with his back to me. Judgment Day had arrived. I went through the hedge, walked up softly behind Corky, he turned, I saw the fear in his eyes, and I said to him, “I forgive you; let’s be friends.”

I can no more explain that than I can flap my arms and fly. The concoction of parents, grandmother, catechism, Sunday School, Church, neighborhood culture, and my own choice wrought in my heart that act of forgiveness. I didn’t require Corky to pay for the lash across my back. I bore it myself, and I got even by forgiving him.

The Pastoral Center of Gravity
Isn’t that what the father did with the younger son, who squandered his inheritance on riotous living? Isn’t that what the father was asking the elder son to do for his younger brother? Isn’t that what the father was prepared to do for his self-righteous, insolent older son, who wanted nothing to do with his irresponsible, younger brother?

Jesus told that story to tell us what God is like. God is the Father in Jesus’ masterpiece. You are one brother or the other. Either way, Jesus said, the Father won’t require you to pay for your folly before He admits you back into the security and warmth of His house. He Himself will bear your folly, whatever it is, and even the score with you by forgiving you.

How do we know God is like that? Ah, children! That’s what Good Friday and Easter are all about. He didn’t just talk the talk; He also walked the walk. God came among us, and we know Him as Jesus Christ. All of us like sheep, like the older and the younger brothers, have gone astray; we have turned every one of us to his own way. The punishment required to even the score fell on Christ. God got even with us by absorbing the punishment Himself and offering forgiveness to the entire human family.

I suppose Corky could have sneered or even tried to fight me that day I walked through his hedge. He didn’t. He accepted my offer, and we became friends again. Neither of us ever again mentioned what had happened. Jesus came to that which was his own, but his own did not receive him. Yet to all who received him, to those who believed in his name, he gave the right to become children of God – John 1:11-12.

Don’t fight Christ. Don’t sneer at His offer of forgiveness. He offers to forgive you not just for what you’ve done, but for what you are. You can make up a fine, little speech like the younger brother, or you can just say, “I’m home, Father, forgive me for Jesus’ sake.” He’s happier to see you home than you are to be home.

Everything about Christianity makes sense, when you see that God evens the score with us by bearing the evil and offering to forgive us. Once you come home, a whole new world opens before you. Home is the Church, the community of people whose focal point is not their many failures but God’s forgiveness. Don’t miss the best thing that will ever happen to you. Come home.