March 12, 2006

How Far Does God's Love Go?

Hosea 4:1-3, 5:15-6:6
1 Timothy 1:12-17
Luke 15:1-10

Have you ever been lost? I mean, really lost, like you didn't have the foggiest idea where you were? This has happened to me a few times in my life, though usually I have a pretty good sense of direction. But I remember on more than one occasion getting hopelessly lost in Weymouth, and driving up one street and down another trying to get my bearings. For some reason I have a hard time figuring out how to get from one place to another in that town. Have you ever gotten lost like that?

Have you ever lost something that was really important to you? I seem to lose things with a fair amount of regularity - usually on my desk! I remember seeing someone from the church, who shall remain nameless, this was a few years ago, at Independence Mall. She was panic stricken because she had forgotten what entrance she had come in - and she'd temporarily lost her car. Together we retraced her steps, and before long, voila! the car. Have you ever lost something like that?

These are trivial examples of getting lost or losing something. They may feel important at the time, but in the scope of life, they are not huge. But think with me if you will about being lost or losing something of value at a deeper level. Have you ever been lost spiritually? Have you ever lost hope, or felt perplexed, bewildered, or disillusioned? Have you ever lost faith in someone, or in yourself, or in God? Have you ever lost your self-respect? Have you ever felt that a sin you committed was so bad that you were beyond God's forgiveness? - let alone beyond forgiveness from another person or from yourself? Have you ever felt that lost?

How does a person go about getting lost? How does one lose something of value? - certainly not intentionally, right? It's no fun to be lost or to lose something of real value, and sometimes it's very scary. Sometimes you and I get lost because of ignorance, like the sheep in Jesus' first parable today. We know that sheep are kind of stupid animals - they just follow the herd, or follow the green grasses, and may wander away oblivious of their surroundings. Sometimes we also wander away from where we should be.

Sometimes we become lost through no fault of our own, like the lost coin in the second parable. Coins don't lost themselves; they get lost through someone's carelessness or lack of attention. We also can become victims of another's carelessness. We also can be hurt, physically or emotionally; we can be left alone, ignored, forgotten, lost. Sometimes we become lost because of our own willfulness, like the prodigal son who squandered his inheritance in dissolute living. We'll look at him next week. Like the prodigal, we also may stumble off the pathway, searching for greener grasses elsewhere, being intentionally disobedient, not listening to guidance or advice until it's too late. And suddenly we find ourselves lost.

When we've become lost for whatever reason, how do we find our way back? Well, we could retrace our steps - but sometimes our footprints are obliterated. We could rely on our sense of direction - but sometimes we get disoriented. We could just doggedly persist until we find our way - and this might work if we are lost in Weymouth, but what if we've lost our way in life, or lost our faith, or lost our relationship with God? Sometimes when we're lost we can't find our way back all by ourselves. We need others; we need God. The good news of the gospel is that when we're really lost, it's not solely up to us to find our way. God does the searching, and God searches hardest for those who have strayed the farthest.

God is like that shepherd, searching for the one sheep out of a hundred, the one sheep that has strayed. God seeks us out, searches for us, until we are found. God is like that woman who's lost the valuable coin, and God searches everywhere, turning the world upside down, until we are found. God comes to us, as Hosea says, as surely as do the spring rains. God is always looking for us, even when we're not looking for God, even when we're in full flight away from God, even when we're in high rebellion against God. God follows us into our darkness, into our lost-ness, and even if we think we are trying to escape God, we find ourselves running straight into God's arms. (i) How far does God's love go? - very far, as far as necessary.

One more thing. As Christians, we're called to be like Christ, to be like God, like a shepherd seeking a lost sheep, like a woman searching for a lost coin. God calls each of us to seek out those who are lost - those who've lost faith or lost face, those who've lost their way, especially those who are down and out or who are thought less of by society. We're called to seek the lost, the lonely, the troubled, the hungry, the homeless, etc. And the question for us is, how far should our love go? As far as necessary.

Many years ago I heard a superb story-teller at Princeton, Peter Macky, and I want to share with you a story he told us. It spoke to me quite deeply, and I pray that it will speak to you also. The story is entitled, "Into the Depths."

The nightmare began the day I came home from work early and smelled something strange in the house. Our son David had come home from college the day before, even more shaggy-haired and unkempt than usual. Going upstairs, following my nose, I found him with his younger sister. The sweet-smelling smoke in the air made me angry. I knew that what he did away from home was out of my hands, but here? at home? As I came into the room I saw a look on his face that challenged me, seeming to say, "Well, what are you going to do about it?" "Is that what I think it is?" I asked, with a voice as controlled as I could make it. "Nothin' but a little pot to soothe away the cares of the day," he answered blithely. "If you didn't smoke that stuff you wouldn't have the cares you have," I argued. We went back and forth over the dangers and pleasures of drugs for a few minutes. Very soon I'd had enough. "I can't stop you doing what you want away from home," I said, "but here, you'll do as I say. And I say no illegal drugs are to come into this house - and especially none are to be given to your sister. Don't try to make her over into your ugly image." He stood up with a smirk on his face. "Okay, if that's the way it goes, I'll leave." And he did, right then, back to college.

Two weeks later the first of his mother's letters to him was returned, marked No Forwarding Address. Phone calls to the college only revealed that no one had seen him. "I've been expecting something like this," I told my wife. "He's been rebelling against us since he was thirteen. Now he's finally broken away." "Do you mean you're just going to let him disappear?" she asked. "Don't worry, as soon as he gets in trouble, he'll come heading home again." "What if he can't get away?" she asked. "Like you in the swamp?" When she said this, the memory of that day rose up and pushed everything else aside. I was only ten years old. All my life I'd heard, "Don't ever go into the swamp alone." But one day, when I was mad at my father over something, I ran out of the house and into the swamp. "They'll be sorry when they see I'm gone," I kept saying to myself. Until it began to get dark, and the mosquitoes came out. And I got more scared than I've ever been in my life, before or since. Sweetest sound I ever heard was my father calling me. Calling, calling, calling. And when he found me, that's when I cried. "Maybe that's where Dave is now, in his swamp. I'd better go calling," I said to my wife, and I left that day.

The kids at the college dorm didn't seem to know where he was. Finally I met a friend of his who said, "He's been living off campus with a bunch of others." I found the place, a rickety old house where thirty or so college-age men and women lived. I use the term "lived" loosely. It was the most depressing, dirty place I'd ever seen. Worst of all, the students seemed shell-shocked, due to the drugs and alcohol they used constantly. In the state they were in they hardly noticed me, but I was able to get one of the young women to answer my questions, without saying who I was. "Dave Young? He's gone, gone a while. Said his old man was too much for him. Some kind of big shot alumnus of the college. Everyone told Dave how lucky he was and how big a success he was going to be, but he said he couldn't be himself. So he dropped out. Said he hoped he'd never hear his father's name again."

He was really gone. And he was running away from me as if I was the cause of his problems. "Well, let him run," I thought. "Maybe he'll hit bottom, and then he'll know he caused his own troubles." That's what half of me said. The other half said, "But suppose he ruins his whole life? How can I just let him get lost forever in that swamp?" But I had no idea where he was.

Months later he sent a postcard to one of his friends, and he forwarded it to me. It said, "Been living off the county. Work is hard. Stay away from Turner County, Mississippi." The next day I drove to Turner County, Mississippi, torn between two impulses: to let him go as deep into the swamp as he could until he cried for help; or to try to rescue him now with the possibility he'd refuse my help. It turned out he wasn't there any more. The sheriff, his office in a cinder-block jailhouse, told me, "Oh yeah, I remember him. Dirty, long-haired hippie dope addict. Picked him up for vagrancy a couple of months ago. Let him earn his livin' for a change - on the road gang. You Yankees sure are soft, though. He wasn't much use. Kept on gettin' sick or gettin' hurt. So we let him go last week. Told him not to show his face around here again." "Which way was he heading?" I asked. "We put him on a bus goin' south. He said somethin' about New Orleans."

I still didn't know what I was going to do - wait for him to break, or try to reach him immediately. But I had to find him. When I reached New Orleans I drove everywhere. No Dave. So I began walking up and down every street, but with no success. I didn't even get a hotel, or change my clothes. I kept looking all through the night, and slept a few hours in the car before starting again. My clothes got dirty, my beard got scruffy, and I began getting disdainful looks from the folks I asked about Dave.

For the first two days I purposely stayed away from Skid Row. It was impossible for him to sink that low, I thought. But after finding him nowhere else, I went to that part of the city, to the dingy bars, the rescue missions, and the men sleeping in alleys. No one had seen him, so they said. But if he looked like everyone else, how could they distinguish him?

Finally, very early on the third morning, I saw someone sleeping on a bench in a decrepit little park. As I got nearer, the stench that drifted from him nearly drove me away. But something drew me closer. As I crouched beside him, I saw under the floppy hat and behind the dirty, scraggly beard the worn, tired, aged face that I had first seen when he was just born. My first reaction was disgust and disbelief. Face to face with him, I couldn't believe that a son of ours had sunk this low. "Can't be him," I thought. But then he moved, scratching his ear as he used to when he was a kid. It was Dave. Now there was not a question of waiting for him to hit bottom. He'd hit it. The question was, could I do anything to help him? At that moment I remembered my father finally reaching me in the swamp. No anger. No threats. Just hugging me with tears in his eyes, rejoicing to have found me.

Just then the forlorn figure on the bench awoke. Through his glazed stare he saw me and said thickly, "Hey man, you got somethin' to eat?" "No, but I can find something for you," I responded. I saw his eyes open wider as he recognized my voice, and saw me behind my dusty clothes, unkempt beard, and tired face. "How'd you find me, Dad?" he asked softly. "I just kept looking. I couldn't let you get lost forever in your swamp," I said through my tears. "You ought to look at yourself," he said, laughing a little. "You look as bad as I feel. Looks like we finally got into something together." "You're right, son. We're in this one together." And we hugged ... and cried.

That morning over breakfast in a dingy café, we started to get to know each other again for the first time. We were adults who accepted responsibility for the things we had done. There was no more blaming one another. Eventually, Dave rode home with me, to see what we could make of life, together. We take each day one at a time, for it will take a while before we get over what has happened. But now I am hopeful for the first time in a long time. The nightmare is over. You see, once again, I have a son. (ii)

Let us pray: O God, thank you for your love that goes so very far, as far as necessary; thank you for searching for us and coming to us in Jesus Christ, as if we were the only child you were looking for. Empower us to also search for others who are lost. Amen.

The Pilgrim Church of Duxbury
Rev. Kenneth C. Landall

i Simon Tugwell, Prayer, Word & Witness, 9/14/86.
ii Peter W. Macky, "Candles in the Dark," pp. 15-19.