Doors of Mercy
4th Sunday in Lent
6 March 2016
The Revd Jenny Wilkens
Joshua 5: 9-12
2 Corinthians 5: 16-21
Luke 15:1-3, 11-32
http://www.stlukesinthecity.org.nz/sermons_pid_22.html
One of the most interesting things I saw in St Peter’s Basilica in Rome last year
was a brick wall! But no ordinary brick wall, this was the wall covering the Holy
Door which was opened by Pope Francis last December, inaugurating a special
Holy Year of Mercy. What happens is that the Pope strikes the brick wall with a
silver hammer, the wall is then taken down and then the Pope opens up the
great bronze doors illustrated with scenes of our redemption.
He said on that day, “To pass through the Holy Door means to rediscover the
infinite mercy of the Father who welcomes everyone and goes out personally
to encounter each of them”.
What a powerful contemporary symbol of the love of the Father who will do all
in his power to reach out to his prodigal son, even to the extent of taking a
hammer to a brick wall! This is the story of Jesus, the one who called himself
the door for the sheep (John 10:7), the one who ‘breaks down the walls that
divide’ (ANZPB/HKMOA p. 485).
Hold onto that image, for I want to place beside it another door, this time a
picture I think you will know well: Holman Hunt’s Light of the World,
where Jesus is standing outside an overgrown and long unopened
door holding a lantern and preparing to knock at the door. This is
meant to illustrate Revelation 3:20 ‘Behold I stand at the door and
knock, if anyone hears my voice and opens the door, I will come in
and eat with them and they with me’. You’ll recall explanations of
this: the door has no handle and can only be opened from the inside.
I recall being told that God is a gentleman and will not force entry!
If I equate the flinging open of the Holy Door of mercy with the Father rushing
out to embrace his errant younger son, then I associate Holman Hunt’s door
with the elder brother, not that sure of his Father’s love that he is willing to
open the door to him, and so holding out on him, stalemated and yet longing
to know the embrace of the Father, and the party that is for him also. There’s
something very English, very Anglican about that ‘elder brother’ reserve – shall
I open the door to him, or shall I not? Best wait till he knocks – and what then?
Coming back to the younger brother for a moment, we often think of his
hitting rock bottom in the pigsty moment as his conversion, his repentance,
turning round to face the Father and return home. In fact the words Jesus uses
of him are very simple: He came to himself (Lk 15:17). He literally came and
stood in front of himself and was able to see himself in reality, to have a clear
picture of himself.
Our Epistle reading today talks of us having a ministry of reconciliation, but
only because we have been first reconciled to God in Christ (2 Cor 5:18).
I wonder if part of our reconciliation with God is becoming reconciled to parts
of ourselves, for example both the ‘younger brother’ part of yourself and the
‘older brother’ part of yourself.
Let’s think for a moment about the ‘younger brother’ part of yourself. Is there
something in you or me that actually would quite like to let the younger
brother in us have his head, to go off and satisfy those hungers, to live life to
the full, to get away from all those cares and responsibilities, the banalities of
everyday existence? Do I usually try to ignore my hunger, or to repress it, or
minimise it? Is there a chance my hunger rightly acknowledged before God
and rightly channelled can actually be part of my journey to God?
For the younger brother it was risky, there were hard lessons learned on the
way. For the Father it was risky too. I love the image of God’s relationship to us
being a bit like we are joined by a very long rein, a bit like we might have had
as a toddler. We pull at the reins until there’s a break, but each time God fixes
the rein by tying a knot at the broken place, and of course each time the rein
becomes a bit shorter, we end up that little bit closer to God. Of course it
doesn’t always happen that way, it doesn’t have to happen that way, but that
is the risk of freedom and the risk of love.
Another question the younger brother in you might be asking is now I’m back
home, will I get bored? How will I cope with life back with my family, with that
older brother of mine, with my parents, with my community? What will they
think of me? Will that wonderful welcome I’ve received last? Will I disappoint
my parents again? Will I want to run away again? These too are the risks of
love, the risks of grace, the challenges of discipleship, the joy and pain of life in
the community of God’s fallible faithful people.
Then we may need to become reconciled to the ‘elder brother’ parts of our
self. Do you in reality envy the courage and the freedom of the younger
brother to go off and live life to the full, while you stayed home as the dutiful
eldest child, fulfilling your responsibilities to your family and community?
Do you resent the fact that he came back to a rapturous welcome and seemed
to get off scot-free, without any consequences for his thoughtless actions and
the pain he caused?
Do you look on as the Father hugs your younger brother, and stand there selfprotectively, arms folded, suffering in silence, longing for the love of the Father
but not the huggy sort, struggling with your own self-acceptance, not really
sure whether the Father really loves you or not?
I came across a poem called The After Party1 which I think expresses this well:
‘The prodigal has long since gone to sleep – too much wine, too many dusty
miles, too much surprise, and looking for that safe, safe bed.
The three of us sit —me, my old sweetheart, dozing, wrung dry by emotion,
and my first born – steady as a rock, and with about as much to say.
How many nights have we sat just like this after supper – talking over the day,
the weather, what field to work tomorrow? How do I say I’m sorry? I clear my
throat, “We should have more parties.” He shrugs.
I look around at the mess, and I know who will clean it up.
“I haven’t laughed like that in such a long time – and I do not mean just at you
trying to do the chicken dance.” He gives me a small smile.
“Next time, we’ll invite your friends.” I look over at this undemanding child of
mine, the stay-at-homer. I see tears – not quite falling, but his eyes shine.
What does the ‘elder brother’ in you have to say to you today? What does the
‘younger brother’ in you have to say to you today? Be reconciled to both, as
you were reconciled to God in Christ.
A word we often use in Lent is repentance, translating the Greek word
metanoia, literally turning around to face God, just as the prodigal son at
length turned around to face the Father. But perhaps we can also think of
repentance as transformation, with its roots in metamorphosis, the changing
of the caterpillar into a butterfly. Be transformed by the renewing of your
mind says St Paul to the Romans (12:2).
At the end of the parable we heard today, both sons have the possibility of
transformation, of new beginnings, new relationships, new possibilities.
Jesus deliberately leaves the story open-ended, and it is the same with our
lives. As we come to our self, as we come home to our self and to God this
Lent, we too may know new possibilities, new transformation in Christ.
Thanks be to God.
1
Maren Tirabassi, Lenten Reflection: The After Party https://giftsinopenhands.wordpress.com/page/2/