Home Is Where The Heart Is

Sermon by James W. Crawford

May 11, 1997

Luke 15: 1-2, 11-32

In the Church year, today is the Seventh Sunday after Easter. In the flower shops, the candy stores, the E-mail channels, the restaurants and on my pocket calendar, today is Mother's Day. And on my United Church of Christ desk calendar, both of these occasions are cited, except Mother's Day is altered to read, "The Festival of the Christian Home." A nice citation, I think, so in the next few minutes we will take a look at a particular home described in the New Testament, a home bearing, it seems to me, some insights into what makes human community work, what gets in its way, and the challenges lying there for all of us as we seek to make our families, our places of work or study, our community organizations, perhaps our churches settings for grace, mutuality, solidarity and what some people might dare call family spirit.

And as we look at that New Testament home, described for us in the passage we read a few moments ago, I want to focus on a particular member of that home, the elder brother. Remember him? He is the one who refused to come to dinner, the one who resentfully stood outside while the rest of his family, his father in particular, welcomed a younger brother home from a distant country--a far country measured not only in miles but in emotional distance. This elder brother gives us some insight, if you will, into that hackneyed, but oh so true aphorism, "Home is where the heart is."

I

I suppose we could call Elder Brother in his way a model child. We might speculate that as a youth he vigorously attacked his homework, got it into the teacher's hands on time, did the required work for extra credit, that his syntax and grammar were advanced and his spelling perfect. His advisor bore high regard for the youth's future; his prospects looked unlimited.

And as an athlete: a little above average, but whatever the sport, he was always the first to practice and the last to leave, a better than mediocre talent, highly motivated and fiercely competitive. In contrast to his younger brother, Elder Brother maintained a rigorous training regimen. In games the referees became no less antagonists than the opposing team; and whereas the younger brother possessed flash and agility, Elder Brother played a solid, dependable game. And when it came to electing captains, Elder Brother  seldom received a nomination, though that younger brother captivated others and always seemed in the running. As for camping trips, this elder faithfully pulled his own weight, but tended to stick by himself, he seemed a loner; while his younger sibling out-canoed and out-swam him and held the campfire gathering spellbound with jokes and ghost stories late into the night.

And if you toured their house, you could tell the difference in their rooms: Elder Brother's room impressed one with everything in its proper place, immaculate, really. He regularly accomplished his domestic chores without prodding, whereas the young brother procrastinated, and found himself frequently diverted to more pleasurable things. As they became more mature, their parents offered increasing responsibility. Of course, this elder child responded by working fifteen hours a day, keeping accounts clean, always paying in cash, sustaining regular church attendance, promising to become a respected member of the community.

Not bad, really. In fact, superb. The human community at whatever level needs men and women with tough minds, focused energy and self discipline. The problems of the world will, on balance, be worked at and drawn closer to solution by those who possess the virtues of that elder sibling--a good, decent, able, competent human being.

II

Now friends, we really know very little about that young man, this Elder Brother, and these conjectures arise from reading a single event in that elder brother's life. Remember? One afternoon, while pursuing with his usual dependability and competence the chores around the family estate, the boy rests for a moment, broods about the tasks yet to be done, looks into the distance. . . and. . . and. . . barely distinguishes a profile emerging against  the horizon. What is it? Who is it? "O Lord, No!" That figure belongs to his younger brother, the runaway, the scandal of the village, the one whose leaving sent his mother into a deep depression and broke his father's heart. That figure advancing through the haze with familiar, though now halting gait, belongs to the one who so shamed his family that when asked by acquaintances about the young man's whereabouts, Elder Brother finds himself tongue-tied, distracted, mumbling nonsense and changing the subject. Lately, people stopped asking altogether. Now that boy traipses home: a failure, an ingrate, a drifter. Well, by God, he will get what he deserves.

And then a startling thing happens. As Elder Brother waits there, smugly arming himself for the assured humiliation of his younger brother, he witnesses his father--old, dignified, stately--he witnesses his father dash from the house, trip over his cloak, stumble down the road, stagger to meet the boy. He sees that loathed younger brother try to stammer something out, but the words dry up and dissolve in the father's embrace. He sees his father and the boy make their way slowly to the house. What is that glistening in his father's eyes? And that animated face, that spring in his step, that radiance in his face so long gone, now seemingly recovered, the two of them now walking arm in arm, his father chattering excitedly.  What's going on? Doesn't that fool of a brother have anything to say? No apology? No rationalization? No justification? "Dad, I'm sorry." "Dad, can I come home?" "Dad, just let me work for room and board." What kind of reception is this for a child who wastes his life, squanders his assets, shames his family? And as Elder Brother stands there, baffled at what he sees, plotting a way to handle his brother, music pours from the house--cheers, toasts, exuberance--and he catches a whiff of fresh meat on the fire.

Oh, Elder Brother, do not miss that chance. You will pass this way but once. Now pocket your pride. Now wipe away your resentment. Now say the word, press the hand, offer the look. But no, you are angry! You stand outside. You sulk. You tally up your goodness and lay it beside your brother's prodigality. You compare your days of hard work against his nights of loose living and you cry, "Unfair!" When your father comes to plead with you, when he begs you to join him, your family, your friends, your brother in celebration, you berate him for a double standard: "The years I slaved for you; neglected nothing, did everything: No parties for me!" O Elder Brother, this is the moment for magnanimity and you miss it; an occasion for generosity of spirit, and you spew "sour grapes." And the opportunity--poof!

III

Do we see what Luke is doing? Can we catch the Evangelist's drift? Luke makes vivid in this parable two kinds of spiritual erosion, both equally disastrous to human community. Hardened hearts, he says, subvert our life together no less so than prodigal habits; bitterness deforms our souls no less so than self-indulgence; self-righteousness undermines our lives no less so than unrighteousness. Luke knows that human community collapses, not only through some selfish, indulgent action, but perhaps even more so as a consequence of soured hearts and shriveled spirits.

Luke understands that beneath our efforts to be decent to our neighbors, honorable to our parents, courteous to our acquaintances, faithful to our work, there lurks the complicated chemistry of self regard: the craving for attention, the dread of being overlooked, the intolerance of others' happiness while we are desolate, the blaming of others while excusing ourselves. Luke knows the things warping our lives, corroding our friendships, tormenting our cities, lying in wait to wound our churches, straining our families. These things lie not so much in the "sins of the flesh" but rather from the acid dripping in our hearts day by day, the absence of charity, of good will, forgiveness, magnanimity, benefit of the doubt.

You know the drill: "Treat me like that. Wait 'til I get my chance." "Forget me? See if I'll ever give you a break!" "You did that without consulting me? I'll get my revenge." No change in our attitudes until we get an apology, equal time, due respect, a ton of appreciation. Robert Burns crystallized the sentiment when, in "Tam O'Shanter," he shows us a woman waiting for that tardy husband, "nursing her wrath to keep it warm." O Luke, how well you know what wounds our relationships, keeps others at bay--and how ingeniously you draw the picture.

III

Before we close, one final image. Do you recall how the father, celebrating the return of the Prodigal, meets the heartless accusation of Elder Brother--a  brother whom we see lost really, right there at home? Is the father defensive? Is he condemnatory? Does he meet anger with anger? Hardly.  For here we see the heart beating in that home. . . a heart racing out, on the one hand, to welcome the Prodigal, a heart reaching out to this sullen, this distant elder son: "My child," says the father, "My child, for your patience, your dependability, your presence, your loyalty, your life, I stand grateful. That feast in there in no way indicates which of you I value more; you know everything I have is yours. My child, for me, we operate hand in hand, heart to heart. But your brother, lost, is found. He returned home. . . And I beg you, come home, too."

We do not know what happens: whether that Elder Brother, himself so far from home, changes his mind; whether he receives, welcomes, embraces his younger sibling. Clearly, that Elder Brother, in Luke's view, represents no less a strayed child, one who in his eagerness to slam the door on his brother shows a shriveled heart with door slammed, locked already from the inside.

And yet, I am confident--and this is the marvel behind this story--I am confident the kind of father, the kind of mother, the kind of person who welcomes and celebrates a Prodigal, can reach and win an Elder Brother; that finally in God's boundless love we can all be reached, searched, changed, and find ourselves, with hearts transformed, finally, at home.