LENT 4 — What Do Mahayana Buddhism, Luke and the Rolling Stones all share?

March 21, 2004 Rev. Dr. C. DiNovo
Scriptures: 2 Corinthians 5:16-21, Luke 15:1-3, 11-32

There once was a young woman who took her children to church so they would understand the stones they read about in Shakespeare. The same young woman had heard the story about the Prodigal Son.

She didn’t know where it came from. She sort of heard the words somewhere, and then she discovered in her travels that it came from the Bible and she read it and that was her introduction to Christianity. Yep! It was me. Yep! It was me. Now, there is something about this story. There is something about this story that’s even greater, if you will, than Christianity itself. It’s one of those seminal, archival stories. It’s like it would have needed to have been told by someone if it hadn’t been told by Jesus and somehow all of us see ourselves at some point in our lives as that son walking down that road. And as we age sometimes, we see in the mirror a little image we don’t much like, which might be the eldest son. This story has been told over and over and over again in many different venues. I think about a painting by Rembrandt, if you ever get a chance see it, a beautiful painting of the prodigal son and the sun literally bathes the father and the son on his knees and the eldest son who looks like the devil in the painting stands in the shadows and glowers. Or Prokofiev on a higher tone, wrote a score to the prodigal son. Balanchine composed a ballet to the prodigal son. Iron Maiden wrote too about the prodigal son. Lots of bands, lots of people have written stories about the prodigal son. The most recent I could find was this one. These are the lyrics of Kid Rock. Now, don’t let it ever be said that I’ve never rapped to you in church. I can’t rap, so you’re going to have get that beat going in your head as I say these words, okay? And please let me know if you’ve ever heard Kid Rock quoted in any other church or place of worship. Here’s what he said. It’s called "The Prodigal Son".

‘Cause growin’ up I was never the logical one.
Packed my bleep. Left home like the prodigal son with a bottle of jack in my shotgun strap I went looking for fame and yo I never went back.
Filled with spite, staying high as a kite, I was dealin’ and stealin’ everything in sight.
Pool hustling tryin’ to make that green.
I bin ramblin’ and gamblin’ since the age thirteen.
Workin’ like a bleep, like a bleep, bleep, bleep.
Some disagree because my rent pad banked but all its gold don’t always glitter so I’ll take another puff from my one hitter.
I’m a slave to the trade page rhyme.
Blow all my cash on cheap women and wine ‘cause money, money, money ain’t bleep to me
But I gotta make a lot just to be free.
I’m here and I’m there, I’m Kid Rock bleep and I’m everywhere.
I’m here and I’m there, I’m Kid Rock bleep and I’m everywhere.

Cool! There’s something about this story. There’s something about this story. And, you know, you got to picture when it was told. Who was the audience that Jesus told it to? He told it to Pharisees, maybe a couple of Roman soldier informants listening in. The time in which he told it was as strange, really, to the story as the story that was told. Who was a great man in Jesus’ day after all? A great man in the ancient world, an archetype of a great man, was Alexander the Great. Now, Alexander the Great, for many of us who don’t know much about his history, went around pillaging, raping, killing. That’s what he did. He did it really efficiently and well. So that everyone throughout the ancient world was absolutely terrified of him. And then he was followed by a series of great men, Caesars, who did exactly the same thing and nobody listening to this story would have found fault with that. They would have wanted to do it too. They’re aim was to find a messiah who could do it to them just like it had been done to them. They wanted a great man who could pillage, rape and slaughter better than the other great men did so they could get their own back.

And in that context, Jesus tells this story. And it’s not even a story of forgiveness of one who repents. It goes way beyond that. This is a story of forgiveness before the repentance happens. While the son was still a long way off. The father didn’t know, after all, why the son was coming home. Could be coming home for money. Could be coming home to kill him, wasn’t unheard of in those days. While still a long way off, the father runs towards him with open arms and loves him before he’s said a word. The words come later. We, in our heads, want to make them sooner. It’s amazing, when I was doing research about this, how many sermons don’t hear that on this topic. They hear repentance and then forgiveness and then they preach about the prodigal son. Not happening! It’s forgiveness and then repentance which makes you empathize with that older son a little bit more. Because really all he’s talking about is an ancient form of justice. He’s saying, "Where’s the justice in this?" Where is there justice here? I’m the one who’s been working all these years and you’ve never thrown me a party and this wastrel comes home, he’s done everything wrong, and you throw a party for him. Where’s justice in that? What kind of weird justice is that? There is something to this story. There’s something to this story that must have shocked the listener and made the listener think that Jesus was completely insane. Totally insane.

What manner of God was this? Because, after all, is this not God, this father figure, that would forgive someone before they’ve even said they’re sorry? Before they’ve even said they’re sorry! There was a Sunday school teacher at Bellefair United when I was there who was teaching the nine to eleven year olds and was telling the story of the prodigal son and had the story up to the point where the son was coming towards the father and said, "And then the father said." And one of the kids put their hand up and yelled out, "You are so grounded!" which is absolutely appropriate. That’s the absolutely appropriate parental response. But he didn’t, did he? He threw a party for him. When you look at the figure of the eldest son, because it struck me also, this parable, that we in church, we’re doing all the right things. We’re tithing our time, talent and treasure. All the people gathered here are trying their best to live the most decent of lives. We really are.

We, in a sense, are listening from the vantage point of the eldest son. What you hear in his voice is that greatest of all possible sins. It’s called resentment. And sometimes if you’re honest with yourself, and Lent is the time to be honest with ourselves, we feel a little of that in our own souls. We feel a little resentment. Because, after all, we worked so hard, we prayed so hard, we do so much and then we see somebody else. They get rich. They have all the luck. They get all the chips. And us, what do we do? Who are we? Why not me, O Lord? Why not me after all? Look what I’ve done for you. A theology prof, and I think I’ve shared this with you before, once told me that whenever you feel those things, you know, anger, resentment, hurt, that before you say or do anything, you should wait two weeks. And at the end of two weeks it will all seem a lot better and it almost invariably works. We sort of wish for the eldest son that he had waited, that he had waited two weeks before he opened his mouth. He might have said something a little different, but he spoke like that in the spur of the moment. He said those words that, of course, anybody might think in his position. We would want to say to that eldest son in ourselves.

He’d want to, first of all, be gentle because he’s only speaking from a place of justice. And we would say that while that younger son was away for all of that time, you were next to the father. You were right next to God. You were as close to God as you can get for all of that time and the younger son wasn’t. He lost out. He was never around God until now, until his coming home. And you would also remind him — isn’t he your brother too? Isn’t he your brother too? Don’t you really love him? Don’t you, on some level, miss him, his company when you were children? Don’t you remember those days? He is your flesh and blood coming down that road. Don’t you want to be finally part of the party? Don’t you want to rejoice? Don’t you want a slice of that fatted calf? Don’t you want to raise your glass too and feel joy? That’s the party that you’re invited to. Why don’t you go? Why don’t you go? There’s something about this story.

Every week in this church something very holy happens and invariably it happens every week. Quite miraculous, that. I get a phone call from someone I don’t know, sometimes as far away as Vancouver, Blind River, you name it. I get a phone call looking for someone, usually a relative, sometimes not, sometimes a friend, sometimes even a social worker. They’re trying to track someone down. And they’ll describe the person to me and they’ll tell the name. And, I’d say, at least half the time, I can help them. I know the person, they come here. They have sat around our evening table. And I can say, "Oh yeah! Tom, Dick or Harry, Mary Sue. Yeah, I know who they are, and they’re fine. Don’t worry. They’re fine. We’re feeding them. We’re clothing them. Yes, they do have a place to live. Yeah, we sometimes even manage to find them a room." I’m so aware, when I get those calls, that I’m speaking to one of either two people. I’m speaking to the elder son or I’m speaking to the father. I’m speaking to Godself, checking up and looking for the one that’s been lost and now is found here. It’s so thrilling. It’s one of the best things I do. It’s because of you, all of you, that we can do this. That we can answer them and say - Yeah, your brother or your sister, your son or your daughter, your client or your friend. They’re okay. And even though they’re not ready to come home yet, they have come home in a very true sense. They are home. You can go home again. It happens all the time. It happens right here. There is something about this story.

Throughout Lent we are asked to love ourselves back into being, to see ourselves as the beloved child of a loving God, to see ourselves in one of those three ways, to see ourselves and love ourselves, the prodigal one. By the way, prodigal means reckless and extravagant. It’s really as much a description of the father figure as it is of the son. Reckless and extravagant. To see ourselves as the prodigal one or to see ourselves as the eldest brother and be gentle with ourselves, you know what that’s like. But try it on for size. A really exciting person to try to be just for a moment is the father. And look at those people, those wastrels coming down the roads of your life towards you and love them before they even open their mouths.
Let us pray.
Dearest God,
There is something about this story.
There’s something about it that tells the story of our lives.
There is something about this story that is about us.
We ask you to make it real in the remainder of these forty days.
In the name of Jesus Christ. Amen.
Now some of you are wondering — what about Mahayana Buddhism? Lest we forget, there is a story in Mahayana Buddhism that’s very much like this. But the difference is, at the end of it the son does not come home and the father does not forgive the son, but the father watches the son, sees how he’s working, sees what he does, sees if he’s really changed and then forgives him. A very big difference.