Friday, April 14, 2006
... He was going home. He was going home a changed man. Not demanding that he get what he deserved, but willing to tkae whatever he could get. "Give me" had been replaced with "help me" and his defiance had been replaced with repentance.
He came asking for everything with nothing to give in return. He had no money. He had no excuses.
And he had no idea how much his father had missed him.
He had no idea the number of times his father had paused between chores to look out the front gate for his son. The boy had no idea the number of times his father had awakened from restless sleep, gone into the son's room, and sat on the boy's bed. And the the son would have never believed the hours the father had set on the porch next to the empty rocking chair, looking, longing to see that familiar figure, that stride, that face.
As the boy came around the bend that led up to his house, he rehearsed his speech one more time. "Father , I have sinned against heaven and against you."
He approached the gate and placed his hand on the latch. He began to lift it, then he paused. His plan to go home suddenly seemed silly. "what's the use?" he heard himself asking himself. "what chance do I have?" He ducked, turned around and began to walk away.
Then he heard the footsteps. He heard the slap, slap, slap of sandals. Someone was running. He didn't turn to look. It's probably a servant coming to chase me away or my big brother wanting to know what I"m doing back home. He began to leave.
But the voice he heard was not the voice of a servant nor the voice of his brother; it was the voice of his father.
"Son!"
"Father?"
He turned to open the gate, but the father already had. The son looked at his father standing at the entrance. Tears glistened on his cheeks as arms stretched from east to west inviting the son to come home.
"Father, I have sinned." The words were muffled as the boy buried his face in his father's shoulder. The two wept. For a forever they stood at the gate intertwined as one. Words were unnecessary. Repentance had been made, forgiveness had been given.
The boy was home.
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If there is a scene in the story that deserves to be framed, it's the one of the father's outstretched hands. His tears are moving. His smile is stirring. But his hands call us home. Imagine those hands. Strong fingers. Palms wrinkled with lifelines. Stretching open like a wide gate, leaving entrance as the only option.
When Jesus told this parable of the loving father, I wonder, did he use his hands? When he got to this point in the story, did he open his arms to illustrate the point?
Did he perceive the thoughts of those in the audience who were thinking, "I could never go home. Not after my life"? Did he see a housewife look at the ground and a businessman shake his head as if to say, "I can't start over. I've made too big a mess?" And did he open his arms even wider as if to say, "Yes, Yes YOU CAN! YOU can come home!" ?
Whether he did that day or not, I don't know. But I know that he did later. He later stretched his hands as open as he could. He forced his arms so wide apart that it hurt. And to prove that those arms would never fold and those hands would never close, he had them nailed open.
They still are. -- Max Lucado, "Six Hours One Friday"
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Combined Worship Service this Sunday at 10AM.
Plus Lunch too.
~[z][x]~
@ 1:22 PM
