You go

Let us pray.

You have given all to me.

To you, Lord, I return it.

Everything is yours; do with it what you will.

Give me only your love and your grace,

that is enough for me.

And in the name of God, the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.

Amen.

-Quick Ignatian intro.-

You were invited to this dinner months ago although unsure about going until just a few hours before putting on your coat and heading out the door.

You heard enough about this guy, the one who everybody said about him, “you gotta check out this Jesus fellow.”

And sure, you wanted to but were still unsure.

You’re kinda busy during the week and it might be nice to just stay home and put your feet up.

Maybe have a glass of wine and watch some baking show on Netflix.

It’s a busy life and what’s the point of going to a dinner listening to some guy preach at me while I chew overcooked food and poke at overcooked vegetables.

And since it’s about preaching, somebody is going to get up and start disagreeing with what is being said and sides of the table will turn into sides of an argument and isn’t always that way?

Isn’t that why John the Baptist got in trouble?

Isn’t that why so many prophets got into trouble?

Do you really want to spend my evening doing that?

Listening to that?

I mean, it is cake week on the baking show after all.

But those friends are persistent and they keep telling you, “you gotta see this Jesus guy. He’s pretty terrific.”

So you go.

It’s not too cold out but you wear a jacket anyway, a winter hat would be too much.

You get in your car, thinking about the dinner you drive without the radio on.

You are in your own space; you drive to your destination without thinking about where you are going, you just drive.

Thinking and knowing are two different things.

You reach the dinner party.

You give yourself a quick glance in the rearview mirror just to make sure you don’t look a mess and exit the car.

“Let’s make this quick,” you think to yourself, “I’ve got work tomorrow and those taxes won’t collect themselves!”

You smile at your joke, because you are right, those taxes won’t collect themselves.

The door opens and the host greets you, “I’m so glad you came, come in, come in!”

So you do.

The room is already full which is great because you won’t have to endure the small talk and awkward conversation of greeting each other in a half empty room.

Now you can just walk in and observe.

Some folks are already arguing and oh boy, didn’t you know that would happen!

And there they go again, going off on tax collectors and sinners and talk like that is what keeps you away from these dinners any old way.

You are a tax collector and you feed your family.

What of it?

In the haze created by a room of new faces and candlelight, you don’t know where to focus, a voice rises above the bickering.

“I hear your concerns, friends, but let me tell you this story.”

Half the room grumbles, “Oh boy, here he goes again, he’s going to tell us a story!”

And they laugh amongst themselves and the other half of the room hisses and stares at those laughing.

“Okay, okay, simmer down and let me tell you my story.”

So not wanting to be rude though vocal in their disagreement, they quiet.

A hush enters the room.

“There was a man who had two sons…”

And he speaks, my goodness, can he tell a story!

And suddenly it is as if he is speaking to the whole room together and at the same time, he is talking to you specifically, one on one, from across the room.

What he is saying doesn’t really match your individual experience one to one, but you find yourself in that story.

You recognize yourself in those words.

He draws you in, you are leaning in without realizing it.

“There was a man who had two sons…”

Hey, you have a brother.

In the story, one son wanted to get away the other stayed.

You remember wanderlust.

You remember kicking the dirt as you paced in the yard back and forth, the feeling that you were the second born and all the responsibility of running the family business would pass on to your brother while you would first spend time under your father’s yoke and then your brother’s.

And you think about how you wanted to fly, get out of town for a while and you almost admire the bravery of the man in the story asking for his inheritance.

But then you know the heartbreak too.

You know that what the son was asking must have been very difficult for the father, for if he was taking his inheritance early, wasn’t he also saying goodbye to his father forever?

And that’s why you never travelled all those roads you planned to take when you were younger, you didn’t want to disappoint those around you, those people who relied on you to stay close by.

But this kid in the story, man, he flew.

He grabbed his stuff and said he was out of there.

Took his bags, threw them in the in the back of his car and drove into the night and into the next day.

And he ended up in another country, a place far away and that just sounds great.

But then things turned sour and that doesn’t sound as great.

You can picture this guy living it up in the bars and making friends, really being the life of the party.

You can hear the huzzahs and shouts of the patrons as he yells, “Next round’s on me!”

You can feel his paramour slide into his arms as he lavishes jewels and attention upon them.

He drove through the night and into the next day to arrive here, where he was the life of the party, where he was loved for his largesse and the riches he shared.

Until he shared it all and there was nothing left to contribute to that round on the house and his relationships slid from his arms and far away.

And the famine hit.

He had no friends to help him.

He was destitute.

He was. Alone.

You knew loneliness.

You knew those quiet nights without company, without companionship.

You felt those pangs, you knew the dread.

And you understood the separation.

Maybe you were never close to dying from hunger, but you know hunger.

And you knew regret.

Regret that continued to eat at you, bad decisions that you kept reliving and reliving.

Was this a warning?

Is this Jesus telling me I need to repent?

And if I don’t repent, so what?

But this isn’t repentance, not just at least.

Listen as he talks about the son.

The son says father, “I am not worthy to be called your son.”

Father, I failed you.

Father, I let you down.

Father, I squandered your money, your love for my own benefit.

Father, I took my inheritance as if you were already dead.

“I am not worthy to be called your son.”

He’s talking about God.

He’s talking about his father.

He’s talking about the sinner who ran from his father’s love and the sinner is still loved!

He’s talking about his father.

And he’s talking about…

Me?

Are you the sinner?

Of course you are.

It makes sense.

We are all sinners.

After all, none of us are perfect.

All of us sin.

But that other part.

That’s new.

You are loved.

Despite your sin, you are loved.

Jesus is promising us that despite our sinfulness, despite our wrongdoings, despite our lies, we are loved.

We only need to return home, into the arms of our father.

You are a sinner and you are loved.

Maybe you’ve always known this, but this hits you differently this evening.

You sink into your chair to think about this, really think it over.

Jesus finished his story, his parable, and you are left with the profound realization that you are loved, fully, completely, and without condition.

You are loved.

Just as every member of this community is loved, your fellow tax collectors, your fellow sinners, the Pharisees.

You are loved.

It’s time to wrap up; it’s a community dinner and various people perform various tasks.

Some put chairs away, others shift the table away from the center of the room.

Still others, and you join these others, head outside to wash and wipe the dishes.

You pour water from a bucket rinsing the soapy dishes under starlight and their companion moon.

You are quiet.

You are thinking about the freedom given to you through this love, this all-encompassing love.

You look up, smiling at the folks around you, the washers, the dunkers, the driers, your fellow rinsers.

You are all loved in the same way under the same starry night.

And you soon run out of dishes to rinse.

It is soon time to wrap up.

Jesus remains in the house, chatting and healing and blessing.

You see him through the window.

You think about going back into the house to say good-night, to say thank you, to throw yourself at his feet and promise to follow him always.

He looks busy and you don’t want to interrupt and it’s getting late anyway.

You keep that promise though, you will follow him just without the prostration, you stay upright.

And you head back to your car.

You drive home in silence just as you arrived.

The radio is off, the hum of a car driving along a quiet road in the late evening is the soundtrack of your thoughts.

You are loved.

You pull into the driveway.

Parking outside, you leave your car and enter back into the cool of the evening.

At the threshold you realize you have been changed; the realization has been that important.

You.

Me.

All of us.

We are loved and Jesus is there waiting for our return.

So that we might realize that love.

So that we might share that love.

We are loved.