The Melody of Lenten Grace

Nine years ago, the final Sunday of March fell on Palm Sunday/Passion Sunday. It stands apart among the hundreds of Sundays I’ve experienced at Apostles. In between our two services, I received a message that my grandmother passed away at the age 92. I remember an unusual sense of the Lord’s presence that day, knowing my Nan had been lying in great weakness, as our choir sang the final verse of O Sacred Head Now Wounded. “Be near when I am dying/Oh show Thy cross to me/And for my succor flying/Come Lord and set me free.”

Nine years ago, the final Sunday of March fell on Palm Sunday/Passion Sunday. It stands apart among the hundreds of Sundays I’ve experienced at Apostles. In between our two services, I received a message that my grandmother passed away at the age 92. I remember an unusual sense of the Lord’s presence that day, knowing my Nan had been lying in great weakness, as our choir sang the final verse of _O Sacred Head Now Wounded_. “Be near when I am dying/Oh show Thy cross to me/And for my succor flying/Come Lord and set me free.”

When Christ called Nan home to Paradise, we could sing with greater freedom and joy, knowing she entered into eternal life. We had to sing because we had a singing grandmother. “You can always tell that somebody’s happy if they’re singing,” she used to say.

When Christ called Nan home to Paradise, we could sing with greater freedom and joy, knowing she entered into eternal life. We had to sing because we had a singing grandmother. “You can always tell that somebody’s happy if they’re singing,” she used to say.

I can still hear her singing and humming her favorite hymns in their Kingston home: “Jesus Paid It All,” “Surely the Presence of the Lord,” “Nothing But the Blood.” Sunlight bathed the kitchen and living room of my grandparents’ home most days, and the hymns of grace gave the melody to those bright rooms. That’s how you knew she was happy. To enter her home was both a musical and spiritual eduction—stories and songs of the Lord’s great mercy wash over you morning, noon, and night.

The Sound of Lenten Music

There’s a melody washing over us this fourth Sunday of Lent. “Now his older son was in the field, and as he came and drew near to the house, he heard music and dancing.” Don’t you love Luke’s editorial detail here? He heard dancing. No restraint here. Where the younger son had been reckless, squandering his father’s livelihood, now the Father is reckless with grace and joy. Before you cross the threshold, you can hear music and dancing erupting from the Father’s house. And the music tells you the Father is happy.

I can still hear her singing and humming her favorite hymns in their Kingston home: “Jesus Paid It All,” “Surely the Presence of the Lord,” “Nothing But the Blood.” Sunlight bathed the kitchen and living room of my grandparents’ home most days, and the hymns of grace gave the melody to those bright rooms. That’s how you knew she was happy. To enter her home was both a musical and spiritual eduction—stories and songs of the Lord’s great mercy wash over you morning, noon, and night.

There are moments of silence in the season of Lent—Ash Wednesday, Tenebrae, Good Friday, Holy Saturday. The French composer Claude Debussy said, “Music is the silence between the notes.” These solemn and silent moments help create the music of our Lenten experience, but we also need notes in a sequence—a melody that forms a song.

The Sound of Lenten Music

And the refrains of Scripture we repeat throughout Lent are the notes that form the melody of grace. On Ash Wednesday: “Have mercy on me, O God, according to your steadfast love; according to your abundant mercy blot out my transgressions.” On Sundays: “Bless the Lord who forgives all our sins; his mercy endures forever.” In Morning Prayer: “The Lord is full of compassion and mercy, O come let us adore him.”

There’s a melody washing over us this fourth Sunday of Lent. “Now his older son was in the field, and as he came and drew near to the house, he heard _music_ and _dancing_.” Don’t you love Luke’s editorial detail here? He _heard_ dancing. No restraint here. Where the younger son had been reckless, squandering his father’s livelihood, now the Father is reckless with grace and joy. Before you cross the threshold, you can hear music and dancing erupting from the Father’s house. And the music tells you the Father is happy.

That refrain of God’s abundant compassion and mercy washes over us day after day, Sunday after Sunday, Lent after Lent, but has that melody reached your soul? Or has it become like a distant drone, background noise that doesn’t reach the depths of your heart?

This is a Lent of parables and in the middle of our Lenten course, we have the most beloved parable of all—the parable of the prodigal son. Near the end of Advent, we have Gaudete Sunday, a day set aside to rejoice in the Lord’s coming. Near the end of Lent this year, we have the story of the prodigal son to show us the depth of God’s grace—which means music and dancing when the prodigal comes home.

There are moments of silence in the season of Lent—Ash Wednesday, Tenebrae, Good Friday, Holy Saturday. The French composer Claude Debussy said, “Music is the silence between the notes.” These solemn and silent moments help create the music of our Lenten experience, but we also need notes in a sequence—a melody that forms a song.

Forfeited Inheritance

We love stories because we make sense of our own lives by stories. But Jesus’ stories are unlike other story forms. You can’t even call his stories short stories. They’re too short to be called short stories. Jesus’ stories take a shape all their own—parables. And parables have a way of reaching us in unguarded moments, even when you know the beginning, middle, and end of the story. That’s what I love about the parable of the prodigal son. You’ve heard this parable dozens of times, but there’s always something new in this ancient tale. Parables are wonderful mysteries.

Return with me to this parable on page ( ) of your pew Bible. There are so many textures we could explore in this story, but time forbids an extensive study of this parable. We don’t want to dissect this story, so much as here its music more clearly.

And the refrains of Scripture we repeat throughout Lent are the notes that form the melody of grace. On Ash Wednesday: “Have mercy on me, O God, according to your steadfast love; _according to your abundant mercy_ blot out my transgressions.” On Sundays: “Bless the Lord who forgives all our sins; _his mercy_ endures forever.” In Morning Prayer: “The Lord is _full of compassion and mercy_, O come let us adore him.”

If you have ever listened to Samuel Barber’s Adagio for Strings, you have a fitting soundtrack for the beginning of this parable. When you listen to Barber’s Adagio your heart is taken to a deep and solemn place before your mind can process what’s happening.

Such is the depths of the younger son’s disgrace. Asking for his inheritance in his youth is like a death wish for his father. The younger son’s demand is an act of relational violence. The younger son willingly chooses death to his father and family, seeking some kind of rebirth in a far country. Last week I spoke about the sin of restlessness. Well, here is restlessness writ large. Restlessness is no benign temptation; it can cause tremendous damage. Here the younger son treats his father as a thing, not a person, not as a father to whom honor is due.

That refrain of God’s abundant compassion and mercy washes over us day after day, Sunday after Sunday, Lent after Lent, but has that melody reached your soul? Or has it become like a distant drone, background noise that doesn’t reach the depths of your heart?

Hired Hands vs Sonship

The son’s restless, reckless life finds crisis not long after his arrival in that distant country. Risk assessment is a quality rarely found in the young, especially when it comes to money. When my parents gave me cash for youth group trips, I often found myself in crisis, squandering my allotment on candy, ice cream, and the irresistible allure of arcades. One does not budget well when playing Galaga. Thank God for merciful youth counselors, who paid for meals later in trips after the money ran out.

This is a Lent of parables and in the middle of our Lenten course, we have the most beloved parable of all—the parable of the prodigal son. Near the end of Advent, we have Gaudete Sunday, a day set aside to rejoice in the Lord’s coming. Near the end of Lent this year, we have the story of the prodigal son to show us the depth of God’s grace—which means music and dancing when the prodigal comes home.

The money runs out swiftly on our younger son and he’s penniless at the worst time. A famine descends on this foreign land and seemingly everyone searches for bread. The economy is destitute and the only gainful employment he finds is with a stock of pigs. To a Jewish boy, reared in a wealthy family with a large estate, there is no greater disgrace than to pine for the feed from the most ritually unclean animal in God’s world. And he’s invisible and alone in that distant land. And here the soundtrack of our story changes to a Bob Dylan tune:

### Forfeited Inheritance

Now you don't talk so loud

Now you don't seem so proud

We love stories because we make sense of our own lives by stories. But Jesus’ stories are unlike other story forms. You can’t even call his stories short stories. They’re too short to be called short stories. Jesus’ stories take a shape all their own—parables. And parables have a way of reaching us in unguarded moments, even when you know the beginning, middle, and end of the story. That’s what I love about the parable of the prodigal son. You’ve heard this parable dozens of times, but there’s always something new in this ancient tale. Parables are wonderful mysteries.

About having to be scrounging your next meal

When you got nothing, you got nothing to lose

Return with me to this parable on page ( ) of your pew Bible. There are so many textures we could explore in this story, but time forbids an extensive study of this parable. We don’t want to dissect this story, so much as here its music more clearly.

You’re invisible now, you got no secrets to conceal

I want us to notice the nature of the son’s disgrace in this story: he’s hungry. A parable is a shorter story than a short story, so everything matters. The story could have told us the son suffered violence from his debtors. He could have gotten in trouble with the law and landed in prison. He could have suffered some illness or disease in our story. But that’s not the story Jesus tells. Jesus tells us the son is hungry. Because ultimately sin and shame leaves us totally empty. Hunger reveals to this son an emptiness, not only of our body, but of his soul. No matter the depth of his shame and disgrace, his stomach tells him, ‘it’s not supposed to be this way.’

If you have ever listened to Samuel Barber’s _Adagio for Strings_, you have a fitting soundtrack for the beginning of this parable. When you listen to Barber’s _Adagio_ your heart is taken to a deep and solemn place before your mind can process what’s happening.

Imagined restoration vs unimagined restoration

On that empty, aching stomach, he comes to his senses. He realizes his father’s servants have more than enough bread, but he’s dying from hunger! Elsewhere Jesus teaches us to pray for daily bread—not tomorrow’s bread, not more-than-enough bread, but daily bread. But here he tells us the servant’s tables always have more than enough. The household servants always have leftovers. / While the son searches for leftover feed pods in the pigs’ field.

Such is the depths of the younger son’s disgrace. Asking for his inheritance in his youth is like a death wish for his father. The younger son’s demand is an act of relational violence. The younger son willingly chooses death to his father and family, seeking some kind of rebirth in a far country. Last week I spoke about the sin of restlessness. Well, here is restlessness writ large. Restlessness is no benign temptation; it can cause tremendous damage. Here the younger son treats his father as a thing, not a person, not as a father to whom honor is due.

Then he begins to rehearse his confession and petition to his father. ‘Father I have sinned against heaven and before you. I am no longer worthy to be called your son. Treat me as one of your hired servants.’ And here the prodigal son becomes our teacher in humility. This attitude and even some of his words form some of our ancient prayers of confession. There is no pretense, no presumption, just a plan to present himself to his father as he is.

Now notice, this is his plan. Notice the best possible outcome he can imagine: his father will treat him like one of the family servants. That is the extent of his imagination. Shame speaks so loudly and it stunts our imagination of what is possible. He just wants a seat with the servants and their more-than-enough bread. That’s best case scenario in his condition. Or so he thinks.

### Hired Hands vs Sonship

Rags of Shame vs Garments of Prince

The son’s restless, reckless life finds crisis not long after his arrival in that distant country. Risk assessment is a quality rarely found in the young, especially when it comes to money. When my parents gave me cash for youth group trips, I often found myself in crisis, squandering my allotment on candy, ice cream, and the irresistible allure of arcades. One does not budget well when playing Galaga. Thank God for merciful youth counselors, who paid for meals later in trips after the money ran out.

Hereafter everything that happens to the prodigal son is simply unthinkable. He imagined turning homeward in shame, but he could not imagine his father looking for him while he was still far off. The son imagined he could never be called a son again; he couldn’t imagine the eruption of his father’s compassion. He imagined speaking to his father when he arrived; he couldn’t imagine his father running to him. The father’s quickened pace may very well have been a protective measure. Any villager recognizing the returning son could have quickly recruited a mob to kill him for dishonoring his father. The father sprints to his son, not just to prevent any violence, but to greet him with his greatest affection—to embrace him and kiss him. The translation for ‘embrace’ means ‘to fall on the neck’. The father throws himself in love to his son.

And then notice what happens. With his father’s slobber on his face, the son steps back and still gives his rehearsed speech. He has his script ready to go. But he doesn’t finish all his prepared words. Compare verses 18-19 with verse 21. In the presence of the father, there’s one statement he won’t make: ‘Treat me as one of your hired servants.’ The Father interrupts the son’s script and summons his servants to serve his son, an unimaginable movement. ‘Bring the best robe, put the best ring on his hand, give him sandals for his feet.’ Isn’t grace marvelous? The son comes to father, literally in rags, and what does he receive? Clothes befitting a royal son.

The money runs out swiftly on our younger son and he’s penniless at the worst time. A famine descends on this foreign land and seemingly everyone searches for bread. The economy is destitute and the only gainful employment he finds is with a stock of pigs. To a Jewish boy, reared in a wealthy family with a large estate, there is no greater disgrace than to pine for the feed from the most ritually unclean animal in God’s world. And he’s invisible and alone in that distant land. And here the soundtrack of our story changes to a Bob Dylan tune:

_Now you don't talk so loud_

Oh the Gospel is always so much better than we imagine. I have my scripts and I know my lines, but when the Father comes to me, I learn the Gospel is so much better than I imagined. I’ve been converted by the Gospel, I believe the Gospel, I teach the Gospel, I preach the Gospel, but this I know: the Gospel is still so much more glorious than I imagine. When you think you know the height and depth of God’s compassion, it is still deeper and higher. When you think you know how wide his mercy forgives and saves, it is yet wider and greater.

_Now you don't seem so proud_

Shame is a cruel slavemaster. All slavemasters have a strategy to control the language, control the habits, control the thoughts of their captives. Shame is a cruel and controlling slavemaster. But the Gospel tells me that I am no longer a son of shame. The Gospel says that, ‘if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation. The old has passed away; behold, the new has come.’ When I come home to Christ, I don’t live in the house of shame, I live in my Father’s house which is filled with music and dancing. ‘Bring sandals for his feet!’ We’ll be dancing soon!

A Story of Resurrection/New Creation

_About having to be scrounging your next meal_

Time forbids me to adequately address the begrudging elder son. We cannot ignore him altogether, for he’s equally important to our story. The elder son, too, cannot comprehend his father’s love, but in a different way. He is concerned, even resentful, about justice. He seems to have a case for all his obedient years in his father’s house, but herein is his dangerous error: he has elevated justice above love. He is afflicted with a resentful spirit. If only he would confess his resentment. If only he could lower himself and say, ‘I do not see how your mercy is just.’ Then he might just be healed. Then he could join the dance.

_When you got nothing, you got nothing to lose_

Such are the final words of Jesus’ story, words spoken by the father: ‘It was fitting to celebrate and be glad….’ Wait, that’s not what it says. Oh I know that’s what it says in our English Bibles. But that’s not what it means in Greek. It’s far too restrained and careful speech. In Greek (and other English translations) it’s spoken as an imperative. ‘But we had to celebrate and rejoice.’ Why? Because a resurrection happened!

_ You’re invisible now, you got no secrets to conceal_

This is a resurrection story. And the clues have been there throughout the story. When the prodigal son thought about the servants’ more-than-enough bread, he said, ‘I will arise and go to my father.’ After he composed his speech (that was cut short, of course), the story says, ‘And he arose and came to his father.’ And then it’s clear to see the resurrection when the Father says—twice—this my son/your brother was dead, and is alive again.

I want us to notice the nature of the son’s disgrace in this story: he’s hungry. A parable is a shorter story than a short story, so everything matters. The story could have told us the son suffered violence from his debtors. He could have gotten in trouble with the law and landed in prison. He could have suffered some illness or disease in our story. But that’s not the story Jesus tells. Jesus tells us the son is _hungry_. Because ultimately sin and shame leaves us totally empty. Hunger reveals to this son an emptiness, not only of our body, but of his soul. No matter the depth of his shame and disgrace, his stomach tells him, ‘it’s not supposed to be this way.’

So the question before us is: do you desire the resurrection—for yourself andfor others? For this is the heart of the Gospel and nothing else. C.S. Lewis said, ‘Jesus didn’t come to make bad people good. He came to make dead people live.’

You see our faith and our Gospel is really about extravagance—extravagant mercy, extravagant grace, extravagant love. The Gospel is so much more extravagant than we can ask or think or imagine. And when you embrace the Gospel from the depths of shame, you have to celebrate. And sing. And dance. For that’s how you know people are happy—not bad people made good; but dead people made alive again. In the Name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

### Imagined restoration vs unimagined restoration

On that empty, aching stomach, he comes to his senses. He realizes his father’s _servants_ have _more than enough_ bread, but he’s dying from hunger! Elsewhere Jesus teaches us to pray for daily bread—not tomorrow’s bread, not more-than-enough bread, but daily bread. But here he tells us the servant’s tables always have _more than enough_. The household servants always have leftovers. / While the son searches for leftover feed pods in the pigs’ field.

Then he begins to rehearse his confession and petition to his father. ‘Father I have sinned against heaven and before you. I am no longer worthy to be called your son. Treat me as one of your hired servants.’ And here the prodigal son becomes our teacher in humility. This attitude and even some of his words form some of our ancient prayers of confession. There is no pretense, no presumption, just a plan to present himself to his father as he is.

Now notice, this is his _plan_. Notice the best possible outcome he can imagine: his father will treat him like one of the family servants. That is the extent of his imagination. Shame speaks so loudly and it stunts our imagination of what is possible. He just wants a seat with the servants and their more-than-enough bread. That’s best case scenario in his condition. Or so he thinks.

### Rags of Shame vs Garments of Prince

Hereafter everything that happens to the prodigal son is simply unthinkable. He imagined turning homeward in shame, but he could not imagine his father looking for him while he was still far off. The son imagined he could never be called a son again; he couldn’t imagine the eruption of his father’s compassion. He imagined speaking to his father when he arrived; he couldn’t imagine his father _running_ to him. The father’s quickened pace may very well have been a protective measure. Any villager recognizing the returning son could have quickly recruited a mob to kill him for dishonoring his father. The father sprints to his son, not just to prevent any violence, but to greet him with his greatest affection—to embrace him and kiss him. The translation for ‘embrace’ means ‘to fall on the neck’. The father throws himself in love to his son.

And then notice what happens. With his father’s slobber on his face, the son steps back and _still gives his rehearsed speech_. He has his script ready to go. But he doesn’t finish all his prepared words. Compare verses 18-19 with verse 21. In the presence of the father, there’s one statement he _won’t_ make: ‘Treat me as one of your hired servants.’ The Father interrupts the son’s script and summons his servants to serve his son, an unimaginable movement. ‘Bring the best robe, put the best ring on his hand, give him sandals for his feet.’ Isn’t grace marvelous? The son comes to father, literally in rags, and what does he receive? Clothes befitting a royal son.

Oh the Gospel is always so much better than we imagine. I have my scripts and I know my lines, but when the Father comes to me, I learn the Gospel is so much better than I imagined. I’ve been converted by the Gospel, I believe the Gospel, I teach the Gospel, I preach the Gospel, but this I know: the Gospel is still so much more glorious than I imagine. When you think you know the height and depth of God’s compassion, it is still deeper and higher. When you think you know how wide his mercy forgives and saves, it is yet wider and greater.

Shame is a cruel slavemaster. All slavemasters have a strategy to control the language, control the habits, control the thoughts of their captives. Shame is a cruel and controlling slavemaster. But the Gospel tells me that I am no longer a son of shame. The Gospel says that, ‘if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation. The old has passed away; behold, the new has come.’ When I come home to Christ, I don’t live in the house of shame, I live in my Father’s house which is filled with music and dancing. ‘Bring sandals for his feet!’ We’ll be dancing soon!

### A Story of Resurrection/New Creation

Time forbids me to adequately address the begrudging elder son. We cannot ignore him altogether, for he’s equally important to our story. The elder son, too, cannot comprehend his father’s love, but in a different way. He is concerned, even resentful, about **justice**. He seems to have a case for all his obedient years in his father’s house, but herein is his dangerous error: he has elevated justice above love. He is afflicted with a resentful spirit. If only he would confess his resentment. If only he could lower himself and say, ‘I do not see how your mercy is just.’ Then he might just be healed. Then he could join the dance.

Such are the final words of Jesus’ story, words spoken by the father: ‘It was fitting to celebrate and be glad….’ Wait, that’s not what it says. Oh I know that’s what it says in our English Bibles. But that’s not what it means in Greek. It’s far too restrained and careful speech. In Greek (and other English translations) it’s spoken as an **imperative**. ‘But we _had_ to celebrate and rejoice.’ Why? Because a resurrection happened!

This is a resurrection story. And the clues have been there throughout the story. When the prodigal son thought about the servants’ more-than-enough bread, he said, ‘I will _arise_ and go to my father.’ After he composed his speech (that was cut short, of course), the story says, ‘And he _arose_ and came to his father.’ And then it’s clear to see the resurrection when the Father says—twice—this my son/your brother was dead, and is alive again.

So the question before us is: do you desire the resurrection—for yourself _and_ for others? For this is the heart of the Gospel and nothing else. C.S. Lewis said, ‘Jesus didn’t come to make bad people good. He came to make dead people live.’

You see our faith and our Gospel is really about extravagance—extravagant mercy, extravagant grace, extravagant love. The Gospel is so much more extravagant than we can ask or think or imagine. And when you embrace the Gospel from the depths of shame, you have to celebrate. And sing. And dance. For that’s how you know people are happy—not bad people made good; but dead people made alive again. In the Name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.