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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.
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