When God Ran

Posted on September 6, 2010 by me

My former pastor and continued friend, Ken Blue, calls the parable of the Prodigal Son The Greatest Story Ever Told. I am guessing that of all of Jesus’ parables, this one — found only in the Gospel of Luke (15:11-32) — has to be the most well-known. I knew is well as a child, hearing it in Sunday School as well as in church, both as the Gospel reading for the day and as a few sermon topics.

It is a truly great story. It has everything (except for a love interested): family issues, a great deal of sin, inner conflict, sibling rivalry, a change of heart, and a happy ending. (Well, sort of — the elder son still has issues at the end of the story, and as I’ll deal with in an upcoming post, it’s up to the audience to determine how that resolves.)

As with most people (as is obvious from the popular title of the story) as a child I was focused on the younger, prodigal son. The prodigal is the obvious focus, as this is who we follow in the story; we really don’t know much about what the Father and the good son were up to while the prodigal sowed his wild oats.

The story begins like an old Vaudeville joke; imagine George Burns: “A man had two sons…” Jesus, of course, was a great storyteller, and no doubt had the crowd’s undivided attention as he began (actually, this is the third in a series of three stories about the recovery of something presumed lost).

The younger son, according to Jewish law, would get a lesser portion of the inheritance when the father died. Rather than wait around for this, and obviously not placing any value in his relationship with his father, requests his share of the inheritance now. Essentially, he says, “Our relationship is as good as dead now, so let’s quit pretending.”  The father, rather than just kicking him out into the cold, agrees to the son’s demand.

The prodigal takes off and starts to party. He breaks as many commandments as he can, until suddenly he finds himself stung out, broke, homeless and hungry. He’s got a part time job feeding pigs, perhaps the worst job a good Jewish boy could imagine.

He realizes that there’s food back at his Father’s place, and he devises a plan. At this point, he still isn’t looking for relationship, nor is he looking for forgiveness. He just wants food. He knows his father’s business, and figures that his father may hire him on and let him sleep in the barn; at least he’ll be inside.

The amazing thing about this story is that if you read it a certain way, the prodigal remains a jerk throughout the story. As a child, I’m not sure I understood this part; in fact, most people don’t seem to. Most people imagine that some kind of repentance happened, that the prodigal’s “I am no longer worthy” speech indicates humility and that he is mourning the loss of relationship. However, the son’s speech could just be a clever attempt to diffuse his father’s presumed anger so he can make his pitch: “Hey, I know I blew it, so don’t preach at me. I’m not asking to rejoin the family, just let me be one of the day-laborers.”

I was a good kid, always afraid of getting in trouble or having my parents mad at me. I was, for the most part, Charlie Brown. I couldn’t really imagine why any son would act like the prodigal; that part of the story was a mystery to me. I understood, however, that the father in the story symbolized God, and that even if I did run off and do bad things, God would always be my father. He would never stop loving me, and it didn’t matter whether I was truly repentant or not; all that mattered was that I knew where my home was.

To some people, whether the prodigal really repented or not is of great importance. God will forgive you and welcome you back, but only if you’re really, sincerely sorry. Any attempt to scam God, and you’re out on your ear. You’ve got to really know that you’re a sinner, and that God by rights should be dangling you by your feet over the fires of Hell.  If you can manage to scrape together enough sincerity, God will turn back into the loving Father-God.

In truth, it doesn’t matter. Pay close attention to the father’s response — he doesn’t even listen to the prodigal’s speech! As soon as he sees his son, before he can even hear him, the father is running down the road to embrace and welcome his son home. It didn’t matter to the father why his son was coming home, only that he was within reach.

You see, the father never disowned the prodigal; the son may have wandered off, and he may have imagined that he was an orphan, but in reality he never lost his place in the family. We remain children of God by His love and grace, not ours.

For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord. (Rom. 8:38,39 NIV)

Questions:

  1. How have you viewed the son’s repentance? Have you ever considered whether the son was sincere or not?
  2. Have you ever identified with the prodigal?  If so, how did you view God’s attitude toward you?

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An analysis of the “new” Calvinism

Posted on August 31, 2010 by me

From Chaplain Mike at the Internet Monk blog, a look at the recent resurgence of Calvinism, especially among young adults:

Like many previous incarnations of Calvinism, and despite its use of contemporary methods and inclusion of theological commitments previously considered suspect (such as charismatic gifts), TNC maintains a firm commitment to being “right,” to standing for “truth,” and to attacking those they think are “compromisers.” As Mark Driscoll said, it’s about authority. This makes TNC’s just as vulnerable to becoming Pharisaic, divisive, angry, power-hungry, and controlling as any fundamentalist group. If they succumb to the temptations of being dogmatic, doctrinaire, and dismissive of those who disagree with them, this will not serve TNC well in the long term. Many who are now fleeing to them for refuge from a failed evangelicalism will become disillusioned and seek other paths.

To me, Calvinism, whether old or new, misrepresents both the nature of God and the nature of man. Calvinism was seen as “more protestant” than Luther, because it tossed out Roman Catholic forms. However, in my opinion it was Luther who was more protestant, as he embraced the reality of God’s love as His prime motivator. Calvinism kept and locked on to some of the worst aspects of Augustinian philosophy and theology. I still don’t get what makes Calvinism so attractive to people.

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I Love To Tell the Story

Posted on August 30, 2010 by me

One of my favorite songs from Sunday School was I Love To Tell the Story. I haven’t heard the song in years, but it seems like just yesterday I was singing it in the back seat of our car on our way to my grandma’s house for Sunday dinner. This probably dates me — this was in the early 60’s, long before Sunday School kids sang “Pharaoh, Pharaoh” (sung to the tune of “Louie, Louie”). Thinking back, I Love To Tell the Story doesn’t really seem to fit the mold of what you’d expect from old Lutherans, but I guess there were some cross-denominational influences even then.

The first verse starts, “I love to tell the story, of unseen things above; of Jesus and his glory, of Jesus and his love.” I don’t recall how most of it goes, but I could never forget the chorus:

I love to tell the story,
’Twill be my theme in glory,
To tell the old, old story
Of Jesus and His love. (lyrics by Arabella K. Hankey)

I don’t know that many people love to tell that story anymore. Even in church, there are so many distractions — you can sit through years of sermons without ever hearing the Gospel. In some churches children learn about tolerance and social awareness; in others, they learn various rules to follow so that they grow up looking like solid Christians. In other churches they sing songs with little or no real theology and hear touchy-feely messages. If they’re lucky, they will watch videos of the latest craze in youth ministry, geared to those with short attention spans.  And of course, there are the snacks.

But it seems that very few are telling them the story.

According to a recent article on CNN.com, a study of teens across denominational lines showed that “most American teens who called themselves Christian were indifferent and inarticulate about their faith.”

Nobody is telling them the story.

Perhaps it’s because adults have lost their love for the simplicity of the Gospel. Do we think that our children will see us worshipping to vacuous songs with good beats and guitar solos and listening to boring sermons about financial responsibility and want to grow up to be just like us? Do we adults even remember what the story is?

A 2007 poll by the Pew Forum on Religion showed that as many as 57% of evangelicals thought that many religions could lead to eternal life. They know how to live purpose-driven lives, they are taught how to manage their finances and how improve their marriages, and many are politically motivated, but they don’t know the Gospel from a hole in the ground. The renewal movements of the twentieth century are over, and it seems that we are slipping back into that same sort of cultural Christianity that existed in the 50’s.

For some time, my wife and I have been concerned about the quality of our children’s Christian education. When our kids were of Sunday School age, we evaluated various Sunday School curriculums for a church we were in, and for the most part determined they were terrible. They were perhaps fine for becoming “morally therapeutic deists,” Kenda Creasy Dean’s term, but not for raising intelligent Christians. It’s no wonder that so many teens today believe Christianity is nothing special.

As a Lutheran, besides having actual Bible teaching in Sunday School we went through confirmation classes, learning basic theology as well as church history. And of course, we said one of the creeds every Sunday.  We visited other churches, learning what makes them different from Lutherans. Do any churches still teach this stuff?

When I was still quite young, I knew the story. And, I understood it, and understood that it was important. I guess that’s why I am writing; I still love to tell the story.

Questions:

  1. If you had a Christian education as a child, what do you remember about it?
  2. How did this impact what you believe today?
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Even in the Darkest Moments

Posted on August 28, 2010 by me

For children, as you may recall, the world is a very unsettling place. Parents often take the place of God for children, which is one of the reasons I believe God invented them. Parents model God to their children. Parents, though, are all too human (I’m a parent, so I am painfully aware of this fact); sometimes they let us down. However, I understood early on that while parents and other people can and will fail us, God never fails. He is perfectly trustworthy, always, even when it seems He isn’t listening.

Of course, the reality about trusting God is that you don’t need to do it — or at least it’s quite easy — when everything is going well. When we really need to trust God, it’s typically because we’re in some kind of crisis. Either we are fearful of the future, or we are fearful of the present. We find ourselves in some situation where we know we lack control, and distrust our own ability and the abilities of those around us.

The rest of the time, we probably don’t even think about trusting in God; we can take God for granted. Even when we think we are trusting God, often we are merely trusting in something we can see, and imagine that God is standing behind the scenes, pulling strings like some invisible Geppetto. For example, I can trust God for my finances because I happen to have money in the bank. If that were not the case, I’m sure I’d look at life a bit differently.

I do hate when my ability to trust in God is really tested. The first time I can recall really having my faith challenged was the day before my fourteenth birthday. We were having a terrible rainstorm, and I was in our entryway trying to keep rain from pouring under the door, when my aunt came bursting in. Within a few moments we understood that my uncle had been in a terrible car accident at an intersection about a half-mile from my house. Had it not been storming so hard, we probably could have heard the impact and could have seen the crash site (I lived on a country gravel road). Of course, had it not been raining so hard, my uncle may have seen the other car coming.

I recall sitting in our car outside the hospital emergency room, praying harder than I had ever prayed in my life that my uncle would be okay. Eventually, my parents came out to tell me he had been dead at the scene.

At that moment, I was confused. Could we or could we not trust God? Why were my prayers completely ignored? I don’t recall how I eventually worked through the issues, but I do know that my faith in God remained, even if I never understood why God didn’t save my favorite uncle.

Trust is like grace; you aren’t aware of how much you need it until you need it. The whole concept of trusting God would be moot if we didn’t have the need to trust in God. Because we live in an imperfect “world, with devils filled” that “should threaten to undo us,” as Martin Luther wrote (A Mighty Fortress), our ability to trust will be tested. This is not to say that God “tests” our faith to see whether He’ll save us or not. Rather, I think it’s like testing a parachute — you only really know it works after you’ve jumped out of the plane.

I am not claiming any kind of unique ability to trust; in fact, I’ll claim the opposite. I admittedly am a very weak and often undisciplined person. I have never been “religious” simply because I fail at it so miserably. I require loads of grace, even to get through one day. Part of the grace that I have been given is the knowledge that God is there, and that I have to trust Him, no matter what.

I am often unable to put on that strong, “man of faith” persona that some people expect from Christians. I don’t think trust requires us to be brave or strong at all. Trust by definition requires us to be weak, to recognize that we’re completely helpless without God. There are times when I am totally freaking out. I have occasional panic attacks. I have suffered from nearly every stress-related condition you can think of. However, deep down I know without a doubt that God is there, and I have no choice but to trust Him, even — or perhaps especially — in the darkest moments.

Questions:

  1. Think back to your childhood; how did you learn to trust?
  2. When has your ability to trust been really put to the test?
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