THE DANGERS OF A DUTIFUL LIFE

 

(The following sermon was preached by Pastor Barbara Melosh on March 18th, 2007.)

 

This familiar and much loved parable is one of the treasures of the gospel of Luke—the only place where it appears. It is just the right story for this fourth Sunday in Lent, which is named “Rejoice” Sunday—for it is as full and joyful a proclamation of God’s grace as you will find anywhere in the Bible.

And yet…I’m guessing I’m not alone in finding it a disturbing story. It seems so blatantly slanted to the younger son. It doesn’t seem fair, does it, that he gets off without so much as a reprimand. It doesn’t seem fair that the father who is so happy to welcome home his wayward son doesn’t even remember to invite his older son to the party.

But instead, in this story the elder son comes in for a heavy dose of judgment. That doesn’t seem fair to me, either. Maybe that’s because I’m the first-born child in my family.

How many here are the oldest sons or daughters in your families? Whether or not you are actually the oldest, I think there’s a little bit of the older son in most of us.

When you listen to this story from the perspective of the older son, you’ll hear some surprising gospel. It’s a story about the dangers of a dutiful life. It’s about how a dutiful life can lead you far from home. And it’s a story about the God who goes out to find you.

This story is often called the “parable of the prodigal son.” That word “prodigal” is not one you hear in everyday life—it means wasteful or extravagant. Usually when we hear this story we assume that the prodigal son is the younger son. He’s the one who has demanded his inheritance, dishonored his father, wandered far from home, and wasted everything he had—his money, his family, his self-respect.

But what about the older son?

When he comes back from the fields to find that his younger brother is home and a party is underway, he sulks outside in cold fury. His father leaves the guests to come out to him, pleads with him to come in. But the older son replies bitterly, “Listen! For all these years I have been working like a slave for you, and have never disobeyed your command; yet you have never given me even a young goat, so that I might celebrate with my friends. But when this son of yours came back, who has devoured your property with prostitutes, you killed the fatted calf for him!”

He’s got a point, don’t you think? But in the story, he comes off as a self-righteous sulker.

As Jesus tells this story, he’s using the older son to zing the Pharisees. In the first few verses of this chapter, we heard that the Pharisees are complaining that Jesus eats with tax collectors and sinners. Earlier, they’ve complained that he heals on the Sabbath, when we are commanded to rest. The older son is Jesus’ answer. The older son—the good one, the righteous one, the dutiful one—the one who follows the rules—he ends up standing out in the cold.

How could such a person become so lost? How will he be brought home?

It’s a warning about the dangers of a dutiful life.

For the older son, too, is a prodigal son. He, too, has turned away from his brother--did you hear him talking to his father about “your son”—not “my brother,” but “your son”? He, too, has dishonored his father—did you hear him bitterly complaining that he is the old man’s slave—not his beloved son? He, too, has wasted his life—squandering his days in sullen resentment. Though he never left his father’s household, he, too, has wandered far from home.

Which is worse, the careless selfishness of the younger son, or the angry self-righteousness of the elder? At the end of the story, the younger son is at the party, reconciled with his father. But as the music plays and the guests laugh and talk, the older son is still standing outside.

You can get terribly lost in a dutiful life, and not even know it.

You can get lost in a dutiful life that is driven by insecurity and anxious seeking of approval. Maybe you’re the responsible one in your family. The reliable one at work. The parent who worries constantly about keeping your kids on track. When anything goes wrong, you think it’s your fault, and it’s your job to fix the problem.

You can get lost in a dutiful life that has become a performance. You’re on stage—the upright example of the moral life in a world of slackers. Inside, you’re angry most of the time, because the people around you don’t usually pay much attention. In fact, they take advantage of you—or avoid you.

You can get lost in a dutiful life that has become a weapon. That’s happening to you when you find yourself saying things like “after all I’ve done for you, how could you….” Or, “If you really loved me, you’d….” or even, “I won’t love you any more unless you….”

You can get lost in a dutiful life in church. Inside every congregation—inside each one of us, somewhere—is the older son or daughter who are the Pharisees of our own day.

Those faithful people who are here every week, and full of disapproval for those Christmas and Easter members we so seldom see;

Those strong defenders of Christian values who don’t want to eat and drink with homosexual people at the table;

Those good Christians who are sure that all those non-churchgoers are headed straight for hell;

And yes, those earnest liberals who wish those other churchgoers would see the light, vote right (or left), and quit giving Christianity a bad name.

We’re lost in our lives whenever duty becomes drudgery and weapon. Lost, when judgment and anger crowd out our joyful response to others and to God. The party’s on--you can smell the meat roasting on the barbecue—hear the music playing. But your anger and your pride have frozen your heart, so you’re alone—the older son, standing outside.

Only the father can bring you in. This is a parable about the prodigal father—the father whose extravagant love embraces both of his sons—all of his sons and daughters. The father who runs out to meet his wayward younger son, and who then leaves the party to go out and find his older son. Who tells that grudging and frozen son, “All that I have is yours.” Not “all that I have will be yours, when I die and you inherit it; not even, “all that I have will be yours, if you’ll just stop sulking and come into the house.” But “All that I have is yours.” Yours, right now.

You, out there on the lawn. Can you hear the music playing? The glasses tinkling and the silverware chinking on the china? The party’s on, and God is inviting you in. God, throwing the door wide open, restoring a relationship damaged by jealousy. God, asking the band to play your song, so you remember again how much you love the son or daughter who has broken your heart—again. God, heaping food from the buffet on your plate, so you don’t have to fill up your emptiness with angry judgment. God, inviting you to dance--this is Rejoice Sunday, after all!

The party’s in full swing, and you’re invited. So dance to the table—let’s eat and drink together.