Sermon - Lent 4 - Luke 15:11-31

Luke 15:11-31

Lent 4

March 31, 2019

“What Reckless Love Is This?”

Reckless behavior. That's what sin is. It doesn't care about the consequences or whom it hurts. When you sin you even hurt yourself, bu

t you aren't thinking about that usually. Sin doesn't make sense. It never has. But we do it anyway. It's reckless. Senseless. Foolish. Selfish and short-sighted.

Take the prodigal son. He squandered the inheritance in “reckless living”. Wine, women and song. Drinks are on me. Prostitutes. Gambling. Party hardy. But then it was gone. He hadn't saved for his retirement. He wasn't shopping for bargains. He thought only of himself and his momentary pleasures. He was reckless.

But the recklessness began long before he made it to the foreign land. How bold, how brazen, to ask for his inheritance – long before dad died! Father, I want my money and I want it now. I wish you were dead. Just give me what's coming to me. Reckless with his father's feelings, he cares only for himself.

Reckless – in setting off for a foreign land. Away from the protection of his father's house, to a strange place. He didn't care. All that was good about home and family – he must have thought it was a drag. It kept him from doing what he REALLY wanted to do. Living the high life. He didn't plan it out, he just goes. No GPS, no AAA maps. Reckless. Careless. No thought for tomorrow.

What a picture of sin. What a picture of our sin. We want what we want, and we want it now. We don't care who we hurt. We don't think about the consequences. Or maybe we do, and that doesn't stop us anyway.

Reckless living doesn't just mean sex, drugs and rock and roll. It means rolling the dice with our very soul. It means turning away from the true and sure and perfect word and will of God. It means biting the forbidden fruit and well, maybe God wasn't serious about that dying stuff. It means sin now and pay later. No thought or care for the wake of destruction that will follow.

But we all do it. And we can see what it brings.

Your sins may not be as sexy as the prodigal son’s.  They may not be quite so bombastic or spectacular.  But that doesn’t make them any less reckless or destructive.  Every sin tears away at some good gift God has given.  Either we trash his name or despise his word, or we spit on the authorities he places over us.  We claw and scratch at our neighbor, if not physically, then in our thoughts and words – venomous gossip and careless chatter that shatters reputations and drags a good name through the mud.  We’re just as covetous and greedy as anyone, and we lust for things and people and pleasures in ways that would shock people. 

Sin’s wake of destruction is not just seen when your family weeps over your casket – it leaves a trail of broken relationships, hurts, failures and regrets through the pages of your life story.  Every sinner is a mess.  Every sinner has left his loving father and wandered off to squander our good inheritance.

And we don’t act in such reckless ways because of mere ignorance.  Sinners often know exactly the destruction sin will bring, and we do it anyway!  We just don’t care.  Adam and Even knew the consequences of eating forbidden fruit.  “You will die”.  They had been told.  They knew better.  But they did it anyway.  They chose to believe the lie.

And we, too, lie to ourselves.  “This sin won’t hurt anyone”  “No one will ever know” Sometimes we even rationalize evil and try to make it seem good.  But we know.  We know better.  We just don’t care.  Sin doesn’t make logical sense.  Sin isn’t simply “not knowing any better”.  That law is inscribed not just in stone but on our hearts.  And so we are without excuse.

The prodigal ended up in the pig-pen. And we too, wallowing in our filth, often find ourselves there too. How did it come to this? How did I get so low? Only at the rock-bottom do we see how good we had it. Only when our chickens come home to roost, only when our sins stand bare and bold before us can we clearly see what we have become. Worse than the pigs. More filthy and disgusting are our sins. We wish we could be those pigs instead. And the hunger begins.

The prodigal son “came to himself” or “came to his senses”. He began to see what his recklessness had wrought. He began to turn, to change his heart and mind, to repent. He started out again for home, to a father he hoped would show him one last kindness – not even forgiveness, but at least a meager job. He didn't even deserve that. It was begging time.

And so the first part of repentance is contrition – sorrow over sin.  But without God’s love and forgiveness, that’s just a recipe for despair.  The second part of repentance is to turn to Christ, in faith, and live.

And so the prodigal son begins to come home.  He rehearses his speech, he plans his apology, but he doesn’t really expect full restoration.  He’s hoping against hope for a chance to earn his own way, at the very least.  But what he finds will shock him.  He isn't the only one who is reckless.

The father – he too – reckless. Not in sin and selfishness, but in love and selfless-ness. For what father would grant such a request, “give me my inheritance so I can go spend it!” What father would welcome his son back after he spent it? What recklessness – he might do it again, hurt him again, dishonor him again!  Fool me one, shame on me, fool me two, shame on you, right?

But the father is reckless in his love. He “wastes his time” waiting for his son, and sees him coming from a distance. He must have neglected other duties around the estate. But nothing is more important to him than his son.  And when he sees him, he runs, recklessly – embraces and kisses his wayward boy. He doesn't care who sees him or what they think of him. He makes a fool of himself.

And he lavishes gifts on the poor boy. A ring, shoes, a robe, a feast. Reckless giving. The son's reckless living didn't matter anymore. He was home, safe and sound. In the loving arms of his father.

The parable is clear. God, our heavenly Father, loves us with a reckless love. Though we are reckless in our sins, he loves us abundantly, egregiously, ridiculously. So much so that he gives us what is most precious. Not a ring or a robe, but his only begotten Son. He doesn't kill the fattened calf, but he does better: he provides the Lamb of God for the sacrifice.

And he prepares a feast for us prodigals. Each time we come to our senses, with repentant hearts... each time we approach our Lord in confession and faith – he feeds us. He gives us of himself. Body and blood, given and shed for you. And someday we’ll all feast in the halls of heaven in the fullness of that restoration.  Even these bodies that we wreck with sin and death will be restored.  And he will say, “My son who was dead is alive again!”

It's Lent. Calvary approaches. The disciples say, Jesus, don't go to Jerusalem, it's too dangerous! The Jewish leaders are out to get you! Peter tries to rebuke Jesus. The others just don't get it.

But Jesus sets his face like flint. His reckless love says, “I know I'll die. Better me than you. This is the plan. That I am about to be arrested and tried, condemned and crucified. And on the third day rise” No thought for himself. Only, always, for you.

His reckless love makes amends for your reckless living. God's own Son for every prodigal son and daughter that ever wallowed in the muck of sin. A love which forgives and forgets – no questions asked, no hoops to jump through. Jesus sinners will receive. What reckless love is this!?

So celebrate with him, and with all of us, the foretaste of the feast to come. And live now as a son or daughter of the Father. All his blessings are for you, in Jesus Christ. Amen.