[Propertalk] Gospel tidbits - March 14 - Lent 4 - Part 3

[Joe Parrish]

My favorite story about the waiting father is the old classic sermon illustration. I would like to share this old favorite story with you. The young son had gone to San Francisco. He was out of money, out of friends, out of options. He had hit the bottom and was at wits ends. This lost son wrote a letter home to his parents living in the Seattle area. He wrote, "Dear Mom and Dad, I have sinned deeply against you. I have sinned against you and I have sinned against God and I am not worthy to be called your son. There is no reason for you to love me or welcome me back home. I am at the bottom of the barrel and I need to come back home. I hope that you would welcome me. I have been given a ticket for a train, a ticket to get me back to Seattle.  The train comes past our farm south of Seattle. The train comes around the bend and right past our farmhouse. If you want me to come home, please put a white towel on the clothesline, out in the back yard near the tracks. I will then know that you want me to come back home. If there is no towel there, I understand. I will understand that it is not right for me to come back home." The young man sent the letter, got on the train, and started heading north. As he came closer and closer to home, he became more nervous inside and was pacing up and down the center aisle of the train. As the train came closer and closer to his farmhouse, he couldn't bear it anymore. He was momentarily  sitting next to a man, and he said to him, "Sir, around this next corner, this next bend, there is going to be a farm house of the left. A white house. An old red barn behind it. A dilapidated fence. There will be a clothesline in the back yard. Would you do me a favor and look and see if there is a white towel hanging on the clothesline? I know it sounds peculiar, but I can't bear to look."  Well, the train came closer and closer to the bend and started to go around the bend, and the young man's heart was racing as fast as it could. The man said, "Look, look, look. Open your eyes." The whole clothesline was covered with white towels. The oak trees were covered with white sheets. The barn roof was covered with sheets. The old dilapidated fence was covered with white sheets. There were sheets everywhere. The father and mother so deeply wanted their son to come back home. 

http://www.sermonsfromseattle.com/series_c_the_prodigal_son.htm

Edward F. Markquart
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According to Charles Dickens, the story of the Prodigal Son, the gospel reading for today, is the finest short story ever written and told.  

http://www.sermonsfromseattle.com/series_c_the_lady_of_brimstone_park.htm
 
Edward F. Markquart
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 Recently the San Francisco Unified School District questioned several thousand Junior Highs regarding a broad set of issues, from satisfaction with school to sexual experience. Thirty of every 100 of these teenagers said they had considered suicide. Fifteen of every 100 had thought about it seriously enough to make suicide plans, and 6 of every 100 had made at least one suicide attempt
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So, dear one, imagine it! Cut that little girl some slack! Cut that little boy some slack! God won't mind. Would you believe your heavenly parent might even smile?

http://www.csec.org/csec/sermon/landgraf_3801.htm

John Landgraf, 1994 
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I have a daughter named Sarah -- and I can tell you with absolutely no bias that she is beautiful, talented, bright, marvelous. When she was just four years old, she entered our church talent show. I accompanied her on the piano as she sang, "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" -- sitting on the piano, cabaret style. Again, with no bias, I can tell you Judy Garland never sang it better. After the last note, the audience erupted in applause. We took a bow, then hurried side-stage where I swooped her up, twirled her around, hugged and kissed her, and said, "Oh Sarah, I love you." One of my church members was standing right there, looking at us. She said to me, "I wish my father had done that." A little slow to catch on, I said, "You wish your father had played the piano?" She said, "No, I wish my father had loved me."

http://day1.org/895-the_end_of_all_exploring

James C. Howell, 1996 
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...a book by Joyce Rupp called Praying Your Goodbyes . I hadn't. She said it had meant a great deal to her. And a few days after I returned home, a package came in the mail, bearing a copy of the book. 
The book begins with the author's recalling how she felt when her brother died. It was her first hard experience of loss. Then she talks about other losses in her life, and losses in the lives of people she has known and counseled. Life, she concludes, is a pilgrimage in which we are constantly losing loved ones and possessions, and at the same time encountering new people and acquiring new possessions. 
That's true, isn't it? Life is like crossing the country on a wagon train during pioneer days. Looking back, you remember the tree where you buried a little child, the river where you lost your prized china, the mountain where a sister fell to her death. But you also recall where you picked up the stranger who became a dear friend and the trading post where you purchased the warmest blanket you have ever owned and the visions of those unforgettable sunsets on the prairies. Life is a pilgrimage of having and letting go, of letting go and finding new things to replace the old ones. 
About a third of the way into Sister Joyce's book-she's a member of a Catholic group called the Servite sisters-there is a wonderful little essay about having everything on loan. She cites an ancient Aztec prayer that reflects on the wonder and brevity of life, and how all things fade. "Oh, only for so short a while," it says, "you have loaned us to each other." This understanding, this attitude, says Sister Joyce, is "the first and most important attitude of a pilgrim heart." If we can only grasp it, and make it central to our thinking, it will help to ease us in all our losses. People and things don't belong to us. They are not ours to keep. We are only on pilgrimage. We aren't permitted to own or hold on to anything forever. We only enjoy it-and celebrate it-and let it go.

http://www.csec.org/csec/sermon/killinger_4221.htm

John Killinger 
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