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Fourth Sunday in Lent

March 31, 2019 Speaker: Murray Keith Series: Lent

Passage: Luke 15:1–15:3, Luke 15:11b–15:32

†††In the Name of Jesus†††
Pastor Murray Keith
Text: Luke 15:1-3, 11b-32
Date: March 31st, 2019; Lent 4; Series C
Grace and peace to you from God our Father and our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ.
  • A young girl grows up on a cherry orchard just above Traverse City, Michigan. 
  • Her parents, a bit old-fashioned, tend to overreact to her nose ring, the music she listens to, and the length of her skirts. They ground her a few times, and she seethes inside.
  • "I hate you!" she screams at her father when he knocks on the door of her room after an argument, and that night she acts on a plan she has mentally rehearsed many times. 
  • She runs away.
  • She has visited Detroit only once before, on a bus trip with her church youth group to watch the Tigers play. 
  • Because newspapers in Traverse City report in lurid detail the gangs, drugs, and violence in downtown Detroit, she concludes that is probably the last place her parents will look for her. 
  • California, maybe, or Florida, but not Detroit. 
  • Her second day in Detroit she meets a man who drives the nicest car she's ever seen. 
  • He offers her a ride, buys her lunch, and arranges a place for her to stay. He gives her some pills that make her feel better than she's ever felt before. 
  • She was right all along, she decides: Her parents were keeping her from all the fun. 
  • The good life continues for a month, two months, a year. 
  • The man with the big car - she calls him “Boss” - gives her everything she wants, as long as she keeps doing what he wants and keeps making him money. 
  • She lives in a penthouse and orders room service whenever she wants. 
  • Occasionally she thinks about the folks back home, but their lives now seem so boring that she can hardly believe she grew up there. 
  • She has a brief scare when she sees her picture printed on the back of a milk carton with the headline, "Have you seen this child?" 
  • But by now she has blond hair, and with all the makeup and body-piercing jewelry she wears, nobody would mistake her for a child. Besides, most of her friends are runaways too, and nobody squeals in Detroit. 
  • After a year, the first signs of illness appear, and it amazes her how fast the boss turns mean. "These days, we can't mess around," he growls, and before she knows it she's out on the street without a penny to her name. 
  • She still turns a couple of tricks a night, but they don't pay much, and all the money goes to support her drug habit. 
  • When winter blows in she finds herself sleeping on metal grates outside the big department stores. 
  • "Sleeping" is the wrong word—a teenage girl at night in downtown Detroit can never relax her guard. 
  • Dark bands circle her eyes. Her cough worsens. 
  • One night, as she lies awake listening for footsteps, all of a sudden everything about her life looks different. She no longer feels like a woman of the world. She feels like a little girl, lost in a cold and frightening city. 
  • She begins to whimper. Her pockets are empty and she's hungry. She needs a fix. She pulls her legs tight underneath her and shivers under the newspapers she's piled atop her coat. 
  • Something jolts a synapse of memory and a single image fills her mind: of May in Traverse City, when a million cherry trees bloom at once, with her golden retriever dashing through the rows and rows of blossomy trees in chase of a tennis ball. 
  • God, why did I leave? she says to herself, and pain stabs at her heart. My dog back home eats better than I do now. 
  • She's sobbing, and more than anything else in the world she wants to go home. 
  • Three straight phone calls, three straight connections with the answering machine. 
  • She hangs up without leaving a message the first two times, but the third time she says, "Dad, Mom, it's me. I was wondering about maybe coming home. I'm catching a bus up your way, and it'll get there about midnight tomorrow. If you're not there, well, I guess I'll just stay on the bus until it hits Canada." 
  • It takes about seven hours for a bus to make all the stops between Detroit and Traverse City, and during that time she realizes the flaws in her plan. 
  • What if her parents are out of town and miss the message? Shouldn't she have waited another day or so until she could talk to them? 
  • Even if they are home, they probably wrote her off as dead long ago. She should have given them some time to overcome the shock. 
  • Her thoughts bounce back and forth between those worries and the speech she is preparing for her father. "Dad, I'm sorry. I know I was wrong. It's not your fault, it's all mine. Dad, can you forgive me?" 
  • She says the words over and over, her throat tightening even as she rehearses them. She hasn't apologized to anyone in years. 
  • The bus has been driving with lights on since Bay City. Tiny snowflakes hit the road, and the asphalt steams. She's forgotten how dark it gets at night out here. 
  • A deer darts across the road and the bus swerves. Every so often, a billboard. A sign posting the mileage to Traverse City. 
  • When the bus finally rolls into the station, its air brakes hissing in protest, the driver announces in a crackly voice over the microphone, "Fifteen minutes, folks. That's all we have here." 
  • Fifteen minutes to decide her life. 
  • She checks herself in a compact mirror, smooths her hair, and licks the lipstick off her teeth. She looks at the tobacco stains on her fingertips and wonders if her parents will notice. 
  • If they're even there. 
  • She walks into the terminal not knowing what to expect, and not one of the thousand scenes that have played out in her mind prepare her for what she sees. 
  • There, in the concrete-walls-and-plastic-chairs bus terminal in Traverse City, Michigan, stands a group of 40 family members—brothers and sisters and great-aunts and uncles and cousins and a grandmother and great-grandmother to boot.
  • They are all wearing ridiculous-looking party hats and blowing noisemakers, and taped across the entire wall of the terminal is a computer-generated banner that reads "Welcome home!" 
  • Out of the crowd of well-wishers breaks her dad. She looks through tears and begins the memorized speech, "Dad, I'm sorry. I know … “  He interrupts her. 
  • "Hush, child. We've got no time for that. No time for apologies. You'll be late for the party. A banquet's waiting for you at home." 
  • This story, written by the author Philip Yancey, so clearly illustrates the love, mercy, and compassion of a father who is reunited with his lost daughter.  
  • This is the same love, mercy, and compassion that the father had for his son in our Gospel lesson - when he embraced and kissed his lost prodigal son.
  • This is the same love, mercy, and compassion that our Father in heaven has for all of us - we who were dead and lost in our sin.  
  • The prodigal son, and the young woman in our story, teach us that all we can do with our sin that has separated us from our Heavenly Father - is return to him a seek his mercy and forgiveness.    
  • And we trust God’s promise that forgiveness has come by way of Christ Jesus who joined us in the pig pen of our sin and death to rescue us, to seek and to save the lost, all who have run away and separated themselves from our Father in Heaven. 
  • There is joy in heaven over the repentance of a sinner. When a lost child is turned home again. 
  • My brothers and sisters in Christ, when you come to the Lord’s Supper this morning, imagine yourself as that rebellious, prodigal son returning home to his father, walking down that road that leads to home. 
  • Imagine the Father saying to you as you receive Christ’s true body and blood: “It is fitting to celebrate and be glad - for you who were dead are alive; you who were lost have been found.”  Amen.
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The peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus unto life everlasting. Amen.

More in Lent

April 19, 2019

Good Friday

April 18, 2019

Maundy Thursday

April 7, 2019

The Fifth Sunday in Lent