|
|
A Sermon by Donel McClellan
A Sermon by Donel McClellan A Party in Lent To tell you the honest truth, I am just a little
fed up with prodigals. It seems like you can’t be a leading music or
media star these days without a long wrestling match with drugs or alcohol.
Former child stars are especially vulnerable. The celebrity TV circuit is full
of interviews promising that “I’ve learned my lesson this time. I am going
to keep on the recovery track.” Now I want to rejoice with anyone who has seen
the light and is turning their life around. I just wonder if they need so much
TV and magazine exposure. Shouldn’t there be equal time for the stars who
never became addicted to narcotics or alcohol, who remain married and are
raising normal kids? And what about the latest return of the
prodigal? Last Friday Bobby Knight was welcomed to a new home at Texas Tech. He
came across cocky and absolutely unapologetic about his dismissal from Indiana
half a year ago for his excesses of temper. In his introduction to the campus he said, “I’m
not right all the time, but when it comes to this game, I'm right most of the
time.” Knight stumbled over the name “Red Raiders” a few times,
incorrectly referred to the women’s team as the “Lady Raiders” and
mispronounced University President David Schmidly's name. Knight invited the fans to stay for a news
conference and encouraged them to react to questions. When a reporter asked for
a follow-up question, Knight declined. When the reporter insisted, Knight asked
the audience, “How many of you want to hear a follow-up from this guy?'' The crowd booed. When the same reporter later asked Knight about
anger management, the coach said, “My wife has this great saying, ' ‘If the horse is dead, get off of the horse,'
and you should adhere to that, too. The horse is dead.” This prodigal is returning to a party and a
$400,000 per year contract, and hopes are high in Lubbock, Texas. We live in a comeback culture. Nobody is more
popular than someone who has messed up their life, picked themselves up, and
present themselves ready and eager to start up again—right where they left
off. Jeff Rivers, writing in the Hartford Courant
says, “Everybody comes back. Marv Alpert came back. Hugh Grant came back. Mike
Tyson came back. Marion Barry came back . . . . It’s a forgiving culture.” To tell you the unvarnished truth, I’m sick of
it. And I’ll tell you exactly where it started. It
started here in today’s scripture lesson. It’s Jesus’ fault. He told this
story about a Dad with two sons. One screws up royally, the other keeps his nose
clean, and who gets the party? Who gets the soft robe? Who gets the big ring?
Who gets the sandals brought to him? Who gets to eat the fatted calf? The
screw-up, that’s who. You know the story. Vivian Scholtz says it is
the first Bible Story she remembered as a little girl. When you hear it once, it
sticks with you. This parable is wonderfully reassuring to . . . prodigals. Richard Farina was model prodigal of the
fifties. Married to Joan Baez’ sister Mimi, Farina sang with her and dabbled
in writing. His self-reflective novel was named Been Down So Long It Looks
Like Up to Me. It was a prodigal title and a prodigal story. Bur there was
no home for Richard Farina. On the way home from the book publication party he
fell off the back of a motorcycle and was killed. Those of us who have wandered far, who have
squandered prodigally, who have left our father’s houses and our father’s
customs and our father’s tired old ethics can celebrate the eternal promise of
return. You can turn around and go home again, says the parable. No matter how
tired you get of God, God never tires of you. But quite frankly, this church doesn’t attract
a whole lot of prodigals. Most of us have found the straight and narrow to be
the better path. We have done well in life, or at least managed pretty well. I
had a conversation in O’Hare airport last Sunday with a minister of another
denomination. With distressing candor he said of his church, “We are the
church for wealthy white Americans. We need to recognize that and get to work
helping others.” Even as I cringed at his statement, I recognized that it is
largely true of us as well. I confess that I am the elder brother. I
celebrated the first time my son brought home a girlfriend who had no visible
piercings or tattoos. I have trouble with today's’ popular music. My problem
is twofold. First, I can’t understand the lyrics. It’s all noise and
mumbling to me. So I read the Rolling Stone to understand the words. That
creates my second problem. I am shocked at the crude language and violent
images. But then, the music wasn’t written to speak to me. Ernest Campbell said that the biggest problem
with American Christianity is that we have a Loving Father Gospel in an Elder
Brother church.1 We who live constantly in the presence of grace
and mercy seem easily irritated when it is shown to someone else. I suppose that’s
why I am tired of returning celebrity prodigals. There is an old Jewish story about a hardworking
farmer. One day, God appears to this farmer and offers him three wishes, but on
the condition that whatever is done for him will be done twofold for his
neighbor! It sounds good to the farmer so first he wishes
for a hundred cattle and was overjoyed to see them miraculously appear. Then he
saw his neighbor with 200 new fat cattle. Second, the farmer wished for an
additional hundred acres of land and was pleased to receive it, until he noticed
that his neighbor had acquired 200 acres. Rather than celebrating God's goodness the
farmer felt slighted and jealous because the neighbor had received more than he.
He pondered his feelings and finally he stated his third wish: that God would
strike him blind in one eye! Ouch. That’s the key, isn’t it.
Self-righteousness. Why is someone else entitled to more grace that I get,
especially someone who isn’t as religious, or ethical, or intelligent, or
attractive, or hard-working as I am. That’s why the celebrity come-back-kids
bother me. That’s why I can be disdainful of Bobby Knights’ erupting anger,
because I can disguise mine and let it squirt out ever so gently and slyly. There is a movie playing right now which is
about prodigals and self-righteousness. If you haven’t seen Chocolat,
please do yourself a favor this Lent. Perhaps Chocolat will receive some
well deserved recognition this evening at the Academy Awards, but whether or not
it meets the muster for an Oscar, it is theological material. It has to do with
celebration in a community that grasps a fearful faith. Chocolat is set
in Lent, and has to do with a party that breaks all the rules and reveals the
grace of God’s diverse community. Jesus’ parable of the prodigal son sticks in
the craw because it is excessive. It’s just fine that the ne’er-do-well
rascal of a younger brother sneaks back home, but what’s this party business?
What about the drinking and feasting and dancing? That’s what irritates the
elder brother. Both Judaism and Christianity have clear
provisions for the restoration of a penitent sinner. But where does it say that
there will be feasting and music and dancing? I would be more comfortable with a
time of probation, bread and water, perhaps for a week or two and some chores to
test the seriousness of the repentance. But no, the Father who clearly represents God,
commands a joyful celebration. Right in the middle of Lent we come upon a
surprise party. It’s for our bratty little brother and sister whom we never
liked much anyway. It’s full of the kinds of people we don’t normally get
too close to. And they are having a ball. Yesterday, Marilyn and I were in a seminar which
gave some hints about putting ones financial and other affairs in order. One of
the speakers was talking about planning for our funerals. He said that he had
planned for his. He said he was writing into his legal documents that there are
to be two kegs of beer at the reception. Hearing it, I was a little shocked and
offended. Then it dawned on me that it was very biblical. What better way to
celebrate the return of a son to his parent’s eternal home than to party? The
party is not ours, but God’s. We are the guests and we are invited to wallow
in the loving and amazing grace of a God whose arms are always open. “There was a man,” Jesus said, “who had
two sons.” When he saw that his elder son wouldn’t come into the party, he
went out to him. The party is the excessive and extravagant gift of God’s
love. When ever we see it, whoever is the recipient, we are invited inside to
celebrate with our sisters and brothers. It is the best party we will ever go
to. When New York magazine asked for “True Tales
of New York” from its readers, Gloria Gonzalez responded by describing, “the
best party I ever went to.” She wrote: You grow up fast in Spanish Harlem, especially
if your parents are the supers of the building. You see a lot . . . There are also the good times, the open house
parties every Friday night after cashing the paycheck. One long-awaited
celebration was the night that Jose was due home after three years as a United
States Marine. Every family had contributed a home cooked dish
and a dollar for the beer and soda. Neighbors began decorating the apartment
with crepe paper and balloons the night before, and someone was dispatched to
the local funeral parlor to borrow folding chairs. The day of the party, relatives arrived from the
Bronx and from as far away as San Juan. Papo, Jose’s cousin, and I were posted
on the stoop as lookouts. A taxi arrived and deposited its passenger. Papo
and I paid scant attention to the tall brunette in the off-the-shoulder blouse
and billowing skirt. It wasn’t till she screamed our names and
swept us off the ground in a crushing hug, that we realized the perfumed woman
was Jose . . . With the music of Tito Puente in the background,
Jose threw open the door and announced, “I am home.” The needle was pulled
on Tito Puente. “Me, Jose, the person has not changed. Only
the outside. You are my family and I love every one of you. If you want me to go
I will go and not be angry. But if you find it in your heart to love Josefina, I
would love to stay.” No one spoke. Everyone stared. Those who didn’t
speak English waited for the whispered translation. Even the outside city noises
seemed to halt abruptly. I stood in the open doorway, still holding the
suitcase, not daring to enter. After what seemed like hours—but could only
have been moments—his mother stumbled forward and said to her son, “Are you
hungry?” I was eleven. It was the best party I ever went
to.2 Amen. NOTES: 1. Cited by Robin R. Meyers,
With Ears to Hear—Preaching as Self-Persuasion, Cleveland: The Pilgrim Press,
1993 2.
|