Sermon by the rev'd. Pamela Snare

Sermon
March 18, 2007
The Reverend Pamela P. Snare

The most memorable meal of my life was Christmas Day 1987. I was at the time a student in Paris. A classmate of mine, Loick, a Roman Catholic priest, was the pastor of a parish in a small village on the outskirts of the city. He invited me to spend Christmas Eve and Christmas Day with him and his assistant Marick, a former Carmelite nun. They had invited Loick’s family for the Christmas Day meal. There were, altogether, about 23 or 24 of us.
The first course was a dozen oysters on the half shell, provided and freshly opened by his brother who lived on the Normandy Coast. They were served, of course, with champagne. The second course was fois gras with toast points, brought by his sister from the Perigord, the home of fattened ducks and geese. A sauterne had been carefully chosen to complement this delicacy. The main course was roasted turkey, served with peas and roasted chestnuts, and a hearty red Bordeaux. Then followed a salad of fresh greens, four or five cheeses with fresh fruit, and the traditional French dessert, a Buche de Noel – a moist genoise cake, filled with pastry cream and frosted with chocolate buttercream.
At this point we had been at table for three or four hours, and Loick’s oldest brother, who had presided over this banquet, rose and welcomed everyone. He then sang (a cappella) a lovely French Christmas carol, and invited yours truly, as their honored guest, to sing a song of her own choosing from the repertoire of her native land. I demurred with much embarrassment, despite their enthusiastic encouragement, so he opened the floor for anyone to sing, or recite poetry, or share anything that might enhance the festivity of this table fellowship. Once the singing and reciting and sharing of great joy had come to a close, we all left the table and reconvened in the parish hall for dark chocolates and after dinner digestives of Cognac, Armagnac or Calvados, a Norman apple brandy.
I had never before, and have never since, been party to such an extravagant, lavish, festive and joy-filled feast. It is not only the extravagance of the food and the wine which have remained in my memory, but more than that, the lavish welcome, the absolute openness, the extraordinary joy and good will that enveloped the occasion from beginning to end. It was one of those high-water events in life that one could never duplicate if one wanted to. It was all sheer gift, simply from these people being who they were – generous and kind and welcoming and full of good will.
The parable in today’s gospel is familiarly known as the Parable of the Prodigal Son, “prodigal” meaning “given to extravagant expenditures; expending money or other things without necessity; exceedingly or recklessly wasteful.” But it is the Father, and not the son, who is truly the central figure, and the Father is if anything, more prodigal than his son, “prodigal” meaning “profuse, extremely abundant, extremely generous, lavish,” and yes, even “wasteful.” The best robe, the gold ring, the shoes, the fatted calf, and all this thrown away on a son who has spurned his love, wished the Father as good as dead, left home so as to do as he pleased, frittered away his inheritance, and returned home shame-faced, empty-handed and in absolute poverty.
What parent would be so foolish as to dress such a son in finery and throw a banquet to end all banquets to welcome him home? No “I told you so’s,” no gloating over vindication, no lectures on the foolishness of dissolute living, no reprimands, no condemnation.
Rather, the Father is a picture of unmitigated joy, unconditional welcome, and unreserved compassion. I repeat. What parent would be so foolish as to welcome home in so lavish a manner such an errant and undeserving son?
That’s what the older brother is asking himself. Not only what parent could be so foolish, but what parent could be so unfair as to seemingly reward wrongdoing, overlook faults, and restore such a truant type in his household as a beloved son? Especially since he, the older son, has never left home, has always done what was asked of him, has always been frugal, economical, respectful, dutiful, obedient. It’s not fair for his Father to be so generous toward this wastrel. He doesn’t deserve it. The elder son deserves it. He has earned it - with his hard work, with his obedience, with his super-responsible behavior. By rights, he should have what’s being wasted on this good-for-nothing younger son.
Where are you in this story? Have you been where the younger son has been, shame-faced before God, fully conscious that you have squandered yourself, your life, and your gifts? Have you ever had the realization that you have lost the self God intended you to be, and that you are living in a strange, bleak, and heartless land, far away from God and from your truest and best self? Have you known yourself to be unworthy, undeserving of God’s love, and yet you desire with all your heart to be near him, at home with him?
Or have you been where the older son has been, angry that others, not as competent, dutiful or responsible as you seem to go about in their bumbling, irresponsible way, yet somehow - they are provided for, even seem blessed or favored, in their incompetent and wasteful ways? Have you ever been resentful that others, less worthy than you, seem to receive more than you - more joy, more peace, more friends, more love? Have you felt that you’ve received less than is your due, less than what you’ve earned by your hard work, diligence, reliability? Have you compared yourself with others and found yourself angry, resentful, jealous that they seem to have been given more than you?
Well, listen to this. Whether we see ourselves more in the younger son, or in the older son, or in a mixture of both, we all have the same Father. “For he makes his sun rise on the evil and on the good, and sends rain on the righteous and the unrighteous” (Matthew 5:45b). He doesn’t favor any of us more than the other; he doesn’t love any one of us more than the other.
His care and compassion for each of us is tailored to our particular need and circumstance. He is not put off by our unworthiness nor by our childish self-righteous, self-pitying resentment. He wants us all home, under the same roof. His sole joy consists in this: that we all sit down together at his table, and welcome each other as he has welcomed us. And he will not rest and his love will not be satisfied until he has all of his sons and daughters, all of us, and all who are not here, from all times and places, together at his banquet. “For many will come from east and west and from north and south to sit at the table in the Kingdom of God” (Luke 13:29).
My vision of that table is the memory of a meal in a small village in France, where the food was rich and abundant, even prodigal, the wine flowed freely, and I, the interloper, the foreigner, the one with no right to be there, was welcomed - generously, kindly, unreservedly and unconditionally - as a cherished daughter of a great extended family.

The Reverend Pamela P. Snare

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