"A Brother's Story"
August 6, 2006: 9th Sunday After Pentecost, Year B
The Rev. John MacIver Gage, pastor
United Church on the Green, UCC: New Haven, CT
www.newlights.org

Scripture:
Luke 15:1-3a, 11-32
Now all the tax collectors and sinners were coming near to listen to him. And the Pharisees and the scribes were grumbling and saying, "This fellow welcomes sinners and eats with them." So he told them this parable: "There was a man who had two sons. The younger of them said to his father, 'Father, give me the share of the property that will belong to me.' So he divided his property between them. A few days later the younger son gathered all he had and traveled to a distant country, and there he squandered his property in dissolute living. When he had spent everything, a severe famine took place throughout that country, and he began to be in need. So he went and hired himself out to one of the citizens of that country, who sent him to his fields to feed the pigs. He would gladly have filled himself with the pods that the pigs were eating; and no one gave him anything. But when he came to himself he said, 'How many of my father's hired hands have bread enough and to spare, but here I am dying of hunger! I will get up and go to my father, and I will say to him, "Father, I have sinned against heaven and before you; I am no longer worthy to be called your son; treat me like one of your hired hands."' So he set off and went to his father. But while he was still far off, his father saw him and was filled with compassion; he ran and put his arms around him and kissed him. Then the son said to him, 'Father, I have sinned against heaven and before you; I am no longer worthy to be called your son.' But the father said to his slaves, 'Quickly, bring out a robe—the best one—and put it on him; put a ring on his finger and sandals on his feet. And get the fatted calf and kill it, and let us eat and celebrate; for this son of mine was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found!' And they began to celebrate. "Now his elder son was in the field; and when he came and approached the house, he heard music and dancing. He called one of the slaves and asked what was going on. He replied, 'Your brother has come, and your father has killed the fatted calf, because he has got him back safe and sound.' Then he became angry and refused to go in. His father came out and began to plead with him. But he answered his father, 'Listen! For all these years I have been working like a slave for you, and I have never disobeyed your command; yet you have never given me even a young goat so that I might celebrate with my friends. But when this son of yours came back, who has devoured your property with prostitutes, you killed the fatted calf for him!' Then the father said to him, 'Son, you are always with me, and all that is mine is yours. But we had to celebrate and rejoice, because this brother of yours was dead and has come to life; he was lost and has been found.'"

Sermon:
Well, I suppose you may be wondering what I'm doing out here on the front porch when there's such a big party going on inside. Yeah, I know there's music and dancing and a whole mess of Dad's best barbecue in there, but I'm not going in. And yeah, I know my long-lost baby brother is in there, too, and Dad, but they're the reason I'm out here in the first place, so I'm going to stay right here.

You have to understand: my little brother has always been a flake... you know, a black sheep, a rebel. Every family's got one, and he's ours. He's been a Grade-A mess since he was in diapers—always running around, running wild, always getting into trouble. He was just a disaster looking for a place to happen. He was a hopeless show-off, a first-rate attention-getter. He'd do anything to get Mom and Dad to notice him. They'd just smile and say, "Oh, that boy! Just look at him, running naked as a jaybird across the front lawn in front of all the neighbors! Awww." He used to spit up, and they would just coo. It was embarrassing.

But he wasn't just silly. He was reckless, too, always getting in way over his head, always pushing the limits, getting lost, getting hurt. I tried to be a good older brother to him, just like I always tried to be a good son. I spent those first eight or ten years constantly bailing him out or taking the fall for him. Eventually, though, I gave up trying to be his knight in shining armor, right about the time he started to get into serious trouble. Instead, I learned to keep my head down and avoid the shrapnel. You see, after high school, I lived at home and went to the local college, so I'd be up in my room when I'd hear him come home late, way after his curfew. He'd knock into something, the lights would go on, and that would be the cue for the shouting to begin—his shouting, mostly. He'd rant about how Mom and Dad were always on his back, like they were out to destroy his personal life with their rules. Nevermind the late hour or the beer on his breath or the smoke all over his clothes, never mind that he was hanging around with the worst possible crowd at school, when he was in school.

I mean, look, I like to have as much fun as the next guy, don't get me wrong, I guess I just understand that life is serious business. No one is going to come along and just hand you a free ticket to the good life. You can't party all the time. You have to work hard and fly right. You have to make sacrifices. But my brother just doesn't get it. Honestly, something I don't know how we could be brothers, we are so different. I'm the good one, the one who stuck by Mom and Dad and never got in their way, never caused a fuss. When Dad needed help mending the fences, I was there. When a storm took out that big oak tree in their backyard, I was there. I was always there.

All my little brother ever did was take—take and take and take. "Uh, Mom, can you lend some money till next month? I'm just a little short right now. I'll pay you back, but, um, just don't tell Dad, okay?" Or, "Hello, Dad? I need you to come bail me out of jail. There was this big mistake, see. I didn't know those guys were doing that stuff, I swear, or I would never have gotten a ride to that party with them, honest." It was enough to turn your stomach.

And I used to think, "Poor Mom and Dad." They were always ready with a helping hand for him, or a handout, quick with a "There, there, son—everything will be alright." But frankly, after a while, it started to make me really angry. I mean, the way he was just using them, living off their misguided charity. I felt so sorry for them, They were completely blind to his wounded-bird tactics. This one time, I even tried to explain to them what was going on, how he was abusing their love for him, how they need to show some 'tough love' and set some boundaries with him. But I should have saved my breath. It was useless. All I got out of them was a big sigh and "Oh, now, you know your brother. He's a free spirit. He loves us, and he loves you. He just needs some time to sow his wild oats, that's all." Heck, as far as they were concerned, all he had to do was show his face at Thanksgiving or Christmas, and all was right with the world.

It was almost enough to make me want to go wreck a car or charge up all my credit cards just to earn one of those adoring looks they saved for him when he screwed up. Don't get me wrong, I love my parents, but it was so infuriating to watch them fawn all over him when we would come crawling back home for help after one of his escapades. It felt like they had never given me that much attention in my entire life. But I guess that's the price you pay for being responsible: people don't notice you as much. It's the squeaky wheels who always seem to get the grease in this world. But that's okay. Some of us have too much sense to go gallivanting around, swinging from the trapeze by our heels, heedless, reckless, thinking there's always going to be someone there to catch us or pick up the pieces.

Now, I don't want you thinking I'm some sort of stick in the mud, because I'm not. Sure, I would have liked to stay out late with my friends, to go running around without a care in the world, but that's not the way the world works for decent folks, not the way I work. Someone in this family has to have a sense of responsibility, and, well, it's sure not going to be my brother. He couldn't care less.

The lowest point was when Mom died back several years ago. My wife and I sold our house in town and moved back onto this old place with Dad, because, God knows, he's pretty much helpless with Mom around, no matter what he says, and I knew he'd need me to help with chores around the place. But what did my baby brother do? He had the nerve to walk up to Dad and ask for his share of Mom and Dad's little nest egg. Can you believe that? The gall! How heartless can a guy get? But that's my brother for you, always thinking only of himself.

But, honestly, that wasn't the worst of it. The worst was when my Dad gave him the money! He actually sold off half the land and half his assets and gave my brother the cash—with his blessing, even! It took a couple of days, but as soon as he got his hands on the money, my brother was out of there. He left town and headed God-knows-where without so much as a good-bye. Where he went, I don't know, and I don't really care. Last I heard, he was out on the coast, living it up, indulging all his favorite bad habits with his trashy friends, do things that, you know, if he had to do them, frankly I'm glad he ran away, because Dad would have died with embarrassment if he'd gotten wind of it. At least I was embarrassed. But you never know—Dad might have just slapped him on the back and given him the other half of the farm, my half, for being such an industrious little sinner.

Anyway, like I said, I couldn't care less. I had more important things to do—though I'm sure they couldn't have been nearly as exciting as running around like a chicken with my head cut off, things like taking care of Dad and this place. He took Mom's death pretty hard and, well, he wasn't getting any younger. I took on more and more of the work around here, pretty much killing my marriage in the process, but hey, that's okay, I don't regret the sacrifice. After all, that's what a dutiful son is supposed to do, right?

What was so frustrating, though, was that I don't think Dad ever really appreciated how much I gave up for him, how I reshaped my whole life just to please him. It was just like the old days again. There I was, working my tail off for him, and all he could talk about was his other son. Well, I mean, he talked about other things, of course, and he always said "Thank you," but every afternoon when I brought the mail in from town, as soon as I opened the door, he'd ask "Any word from your brother?"

I got so sick of it. And besides, I just didn't have the heart to tell Dad the little I had heard, that times were hard out on the coast, that food prices were soaring, and my little brother had finally gotten himself into some kind of trouble he couldn't wriggle out of. I thought it would be best for dad and for me if we just forgot about him and got on with our lives.

Now, I know that sounds bad, but hey, I don't mean to be mean. I know, "Love the sinner, hate the sin" and all that, but there's just no helping some people. If they don't want to change, they won't. They'll just continue on their merry way, traipsing though life, la di da, absorbed in their own needs. Sadly, I've come to realized that my brother will always be one of those people, so unlike Dad, I've learned to stop worrying about him. But poor Dad—all the anxiety over the years has really taken their toll on him, left him just about half-dead, in fact. And I don't care to end up like that, thank you very much, not over my selfish, self-indulgent little brother. Don't get me wrong, I'm always going to take care of Dad, but I sure hope I don't end up being a burden on my kids.

So, anyway, tonight as I was coming back to the house, I couldn't believe my nose. I spent all day working out in the back pasture, and as I was coming up the path toward the house I caught a whiff of smoke and roasting meat. Then I heard the music—loud music—and the laughter, pouring out of the house. I walked around the side to the front here, and was surprised to see a whole stream of people parking their cars and heading on into the house. I recognized most of them. They were our neighbors from all over this part of the county, and so I waved one down on his way up the driveway and asked "What's going on here?"

"Don't you know?" he answered. "Your dad called up and invited us other. Seems your little brother's come home at last, and your dad decided to throw a party to celebrate having him back safe and sound."

Well, you could have knocked me over with a feather. That was just about the last thing I expected to hear. And all at once, in a rush, I felt all the old anger and resentment rise in my throat. How could he? How could my dad do this to me, after all I'd done for him? I choked back the tears of frustration that welled up behind my eyes. Just what did I have to do to earn that miserable old man's love? Here I had practically wasted my entire life playing the good son, and now... this?

Just then, Dad himself came out the front door onto the porch. I turned away from him, not wanting him to see me like that and, well, frankly afraid of what I might say if I opened my mouth. I could hear the tap of his cane on the steps as he made his way down to meet me. He put his hand on my shoulder and turned me around with a grip like I hadn't felt in years.

"Please, come on in the house, son. We're celebrating because your brother has come home."

Celebrating? Celebrating?? How could he! The word rang in my ears and stung my heart. I just couldn't hold back any longer.

"Look, old man, I've been slaving away for you for all these years, never once disobeying you, and you never saw fit to invite even a few of my nice friends over for a cookout, but this son of yours comes home, after literally throwing away the gift of your hard-earned money with his crew of lowlife buddies, and you throw a party in his honor?!"

Well, Dad just stood there for the longest time looking up at me, tears in his eyes now, too. Then after a long pause, he said in a still, small voice, "Child, you are always here with me, and all that I have is yours, you know that. But can't you see that we had to celebrate and rejoice? For all practical purposes, your brother has been dead all this time. But now he's come back to us, back to life. Like the old hymn says, he 'was lost and now is found.' Can't you see that? Can't you share in my joy, in our joy as a family?" He held my eyes just a moment more, then he turned back around and slowly climbed the steps to the porch and disappeared back into the roar of the party once more.

In all my life, I have never been angrier or more hurt than I was at that moment. How could my Dad just leave me out here alone like that? How could he? Suddenly all the years I devoted to being the good son, the responsible son, to following the rules and playing it safe, seemed like a waste... or worse, some kind of cruel joke. If love comes that easy, how could they let me go on fooling myself into thinking I could ever be good enough to earn it? After all, if all you have to do to be loved and appreciated is to ruin your life however you please and then come crying back to Daddy for forgiveness, that sure sounds a lot easier and a whole lot more fun than what I'd been doing. What an idiot I'd been! I almost decided to leave home right there and then to begin my career as a "free spirit."

But that's when I caught myself, though, thank goodness. I don't know what came over me. After all, I still know the difference between right and wrong, even if my apparently repentant little brother and sentimental push-over of a father don't. I know how the world is supposed to work and how people are supposed to behave. There are supposed to be consequences for our actions—pleasant ones for good behavior and, more importantly, unpleasant ones for bad—a system of rewards and punishments. That's what justice is, and, after all, our God is supposed to be a God of justice, right? So God wouldn't let any sinners off the hook, would He? Of course not.

So, you see, that's why I'm sitting out here on the porch instead of in there. I'm here as a witness against my brother, and against my father, too. What they're doing in there—all that noise and hoopla and rejoicing—that's just plain wrong. My brother doesn't deserve this. No matter how you dress him up, no matter how many times he comes crawling back with his tail between his legs to say he's sorry, there's no getting around the fact that my brother is a sinner. And Dad's just encouraging him. If my Dad were a little bit more like God, I'm sure he'd throw him out on his ear, back into the gutter where he belongs, where God intends him to be, and I'd be the guest of honor in there, as just a partial repayment for all my years of loving service to that old man.

But now? Now you couldn't pay me enough to go in there. I'm standing out here on principle. I don't care how much fun they're having or how good the food smells—there's not a chance I'd set foot in that house now, not even if Jesus Christ himself were to walk out that front door and invite me in. Not a chance in hell.