Prodigal Grace

a sermon by the Rev. C. Dean Taylor

Lent IV, Year C, March 14, 2010

Son, you are always with me, and all that is mine is yours Luke15:31

The Father and the son rode together in the ancient, red, pickup truck, barely

recognizable as “red,” with windows down, because even in May, it was beginning to be

dusty and hot. They could see, out those windows, the very first evidences of new life,

and what had been planted in long, straight rows. The palest, slightest green, long rows

of tiny leaves, just pushing aside the earth crumbs, new life that would soon be

recognizable as cotton, peanuts, and the occasional corn.

This was a ritual, this riding around and inspecting the crops, a ritual that went

back as far as I could remember. There was the litany of comments that came with

every new field, every new development, every new turn of weather.

“Now, last year we planted cotton in this field, and it did really well,” my father

would say, “But of course, we had to rotate it out to peanuts this year. But I think it's

going to be a good field.”

And I would say, “Mm Hmm,” or perhaps say, “So what kind of fertilizer are we

going to put there this year?” and keep the litany going.

But on this day, this day was different, because this day, the son had something on

his mind. High School graduation had just taken place, amazingly, just a week ago, and

the son knew that, in a few short months, he would be going off to college. And the son

had something on his mind. Something he wanted to say to his father. Or rather, perhaps,

something he wanted to know from his father.

He had rehearsed it time and time again in his mind, actually saying out loud what

he wanted to say, in his room, or in the privacy of one of those great, wide fields. But

being there in his Father's presence, there in that familiar red truck, he almost changed

his mind about bringing it up at all.

And yet, he decided, it was something he wanted to talk about.

I don't know if I had ever had a conversation with my father about how he (or I)

“felt” about something. It just was not in the lexicon of father-son conversation. I think

that's the way it probably is most all the time between fathers and sons.

Usually fathers and sons relate through other things, like sports. My father was not

particularly a sports fan. But he did love to hunt and to fish. And that is how we spent

our time together as I grew up, that and, of course the work on the farm. I went on deer

drives, dove shoots, fishing expeditions to lakes, the river, even the ocean, where we

once caught eighteen speckled trout—ate most of them that night in butter and lemon.

We talked about that for years.

But that childhood was about to come to an end. I knew, and I think he knew, that

once your oldest child goes off to college, things are never the same. And there was

something else that I knew, too, and something that I think he knew as well. And that

was, that I was not going to come home after college and take over the farm.

And here, on this day, I had decided that I wanted to know what he thought about

that. Today was the day that I would just bring it up. But I was losing my nerve. But no,

I decided, at the next gate, where I would get out, open the gate, and he would drive the

truck through; and for a moment, as I got in, we could look over the hill and have a view

of most of the pasture land, the oldest land, cleared by my great--grandfather, who had

passed it down to his son, and, of course, to my Dad.

I closed the gate, got in the truck, shut the door. And then I just blurted it out.

“Daddy, I want to know something.” “Uh hum?” “I want to know how you feel about

me not taking over the farm.”

He drove on, without a word. I wondered if the question had kind of panicked

him. The silence went on and on. Had I made a big mistake? Put him on the spot? But

finally, after thinking it over, he said, simply, “You love the land.”

That was all he said. “You love the land.” He did say something a little later.

Taylors cannot exist for very long on a serious plane. “I think you'll make a good

preacher,” he said, “You do like to talk.”

But, looking back on that moment, I think that was his gift to me. For I believe it

was his way of saying, Yes, you will go off and do things in your life that will not be

part of this farming enterprise. But you love this land. It will be part of you wherever

you go and whatever you do, And that is enough for me.

No, I was not a prodigal son. I had not wasted his money on riotous living—I had

not yet been to Sewanee. But in that moment, my father was the Prodigal's father. “You

love the land.”

In the world I went into, the world of church, and theology, we have a word for

what happened in that moment. That word is Grace. Grace is the ability to love the other

person, accepting them for who they are, and forgiving them for who they are not.

You know, in this season of Lent, we usually think of ourselves in the role of the

Prodigal Son. We confess our sins; we catalog our mistakes. We say, to ourselves and to

God, in specific ways, “this and this and this is how I've made a mess of my life.

This is how I've made dumb mistakes, and this is how I've done stupid things in

my relationships, because of selfishness, or pride, or greed, or thoughtlessness. Or, if we

are the elder brother, envy, jealousy, the mistakes that sour the good things we already

have but do not appreciate.

And that is a good thing to do. The idea being, of course, that, with God's help, we

try to be better people. That we try to move aside those stumbling blocks that keep us

from being the good people God made us to be. And so seeing ourselves as the prodigal

is an appropriate role for Lent.

But today, on this Sunday, deep in the heart of that useful enterprise, we are called

to look not just to the prodigal, or his elder brother. But let us look to the Father. The

father, who somehow found a way to accept the sons for who they were, and to forgive

who they were not.

That is the ministry that we are called to when it comes to one another. The

ministry of Grace. And, even more deeply still, we are called see and to know that this is

how God our Creator is with us.

For the Father, in this parable, did not go off to that far country, point the finger at

the lost son and say, “See, I told you so.” In fact, please notice that the Father did not

punish at all.

For the “punishment” of our mistakes are buried not too deeply in the mistakes

themselves. No, God, you see, is not in the punishment business at all. God is not in the

terrible consequences of our mistakes. God is in the healing. God is in the reconciliation.

God is in the Grace. God is the Grace.

“Son, you are always with me. All that is mine is yours.” “You love the land. You

love the land.” May we find ways to be like the Father with one another. And may we

see and know our God as the giver of Grace, the One who loves us so. Amen.