Lent 4C
March 30, 2025
Luke 15:1-3, 11b-32
INTRODUCTION
Today’s readings are about wandering and finding our way back home – and they leave us with a strong sense that seeking reconciliation, and God’s surprising grace, might play a significant role in that effort.
Here’s some context. The reading from Joshua marks the end of 40 years of the Israelites wandering in the wilderness. Forty years was long enough to let the old generation die before starting fresh with a new generation in a new land, the Promised Land of Canaan. In today’s reading, for the first time, the Israelites will eat food from the land of Canaan, rather than eating the manna God has been providing for the past 40 years. It is a new and exciting moment in their life!
In Paul’s letter to the Corinthians, he speaks to a new Christian community that has some serious infighting, and he tells them a bit about what it can look like to be reconciled – which is its own sort of homecoming.
And we will also hear the famous parable of the so-called Prodigal Son, the tale of a son who literally wandered away from his home and his father, and his brother who stayed, but with a troubled spirit. This parable is the third in a series of “lost” parables, in which something is lost and then found: first the lost sheep, then the lost coin, and now the lost son (or you could argue, lost sons). In each one, the finder celebrates in an extravagant and frankly ridiculous way – the same way that God behaves when we sinners find our own way back to God’s loving embrace.
These all have a sense of homecoming and reconciliation. As you listen, think about what it takes truly to be reconciled, and how it feels once you’ve made it to that point. Let’s listen.
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Grace to you and peace from God our Father and our Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.
In the past couple of years, I have gotten into reading murder mysteries. The series that got me into this genre is Louise Penny’s Chief Inspector Gamache books. Inspector Gamache is wise, thoughtful, and patient, and he is on my list of literary characters with whom I would love to sit down and have a conversation. In the first book of the series, Still Life, he is teaching a young agent about this work of investigation, and investigating murders in particular. “There are four things that lead to wisdom,” he tells her. “Four sentences we learn to say, and mean: I don’t know. I need help. I’m sorry. I was wrong.”
I don’t know. I need help. I’m sorry. I was wrong. They are, each one, simple to say, but difficult to mean. And yet Gamache is right – they do lead to wisdom, if we take them seriously! I can think of important moments of personal growth that came from each one of these statements. But at this point in Lent, and in life, I am especially drawn to the fourth one: I was wrong. (Bonus wisdom on this from Inspector Gamache!)
Anyone here like admitting you were wrong? Yeah, me neither. I am more willing to say, “You were right,” because it still leaves some room for me to have been partially right, even if I was mostly wrong. Like, “Well, when I checked yesterday we had plenty of milk, so I didn’t buy any – someone must have drunk it in the meantime.” We do love to save face when we can, right?
That’s a small example. Of course, in our important relationships, and especially in our volatile political climate, it feels all the more risky to admit when we are wrong. We’ve spent so long digging in our heels on something, investing our time, our energy and our resources, that to admit we were wrong feels like giving up a piece of who we are. It’s embarrassing. We would sooner ignore the facts, or tell them differently, or just go on the attack, than dare to face the truth that we put our eggs in the wrong basket.
On the other hand, we have much less trouble pointing out when someone else is wrong, right? When we are (or want to be) in the right, it is so easy to see others’ shortcomings!
We see this play out so clearly in the character of the older brother in today’s parable. He sees himself as above reproach – he has stayed home and done his duty, never asked for anything in return, played the role of the Good Son, and played it well. But, he has a list of things his family members have done wrong:
• His deadbeat brother squandered his inheritance, and then came crawling back.
• His spineless father should never have welcomed him back, let alone celebrated him.
• His father is also unappreciative – he should have rewarded him, the elder son, for his years of loyalty and dedication to the family.
• Really, this whole situation isn’t fair. It isn’t right, or good. It is wrong.
So… he’s pretty good at noticing when others are wrong! (I’m pretty good at that too, if I do say so myself.) But let me ask you this: did the older brother do anything wrong? He sure doesn’t think so… but, do you? Was he wrong, in any way?
How about… he was closed-hearted and unforgiving of his brother. He lacked grace and mercy. He made assumptions about both his brother and his father. He was judgmental of both his brother and his father. He squandered an opportunity for and an invitation into joy.
Now, I am sure he had really good reasons for all these thoughts and actions. (We usually do have justifications for what we think and do, and to spare!) But… did any of his good reasons lead to life? Did any of them bring him closer to God, or to his neighbor? Did any of them look like the life that God wants for us?
If you always do the by-the-book “right thing,” but it doesn’t lead to life or joy, or mend relationships…. Is it right? If it’s not right, does that make it wrong?
I’m sorry, but, I don’t know the answer – not for myself, and certainly not for all of you! But the asking does lead us into the next painful and important question: what are YOU wrong about? Or what have you been wrong about in the past? When did you say or do the wrong thing, fail to say or do the right thing, or even just get so caught up in pointing out what everyone else was doing wrong that you missed seeing your own mistakes or shortsightedness?
Lent is a time that calls us into this deep reflection, when we are repeatedly confronted with the reality that we are, in fact, wrong a fair amount of the time. We make mistakes, say the wrong thing, go down the wrong path and suffer the consequences. And we would do well to say so now and then, and, as Inspector Gamache instructs, also to mean it.
We’ve got a few weeks left of Lent, so I encourage you: try it. Try noticing, even just one time each day, even just one small thing, a time when you were wrong. Try saying it aloud: “I was wrong.” Try writing it down, or even telling a close friend. See how that practice changes you, how it changes your heart, how it changes your relationships. Perhaps this regular acknowledgment is enough to exercise your “I was wrong” muscles, strengthening them on some small things until you are ready to use them on the bigger things – the things that will allow for the longed-for reconciliation, for the restoration of an important relationship, for transformation of your heart – and maybe even the peace that we all crave so deeply. Eventually, our ability to admit when we are wrong will, I believe, bring us closer to healing ourselves, our relationships, and the world.
It's hard, and it can be really painful and discouraging. And so also, in the meantime, know this: that there is no amount of being wrong that will burn the bridge between God and God’s beloved children, no amount of wrong that will be too much for God’s mercy to reach you. There is no depth into which you can dig your heels that will keep you from God’s love. That’s the real message of this story. And more, God’s love and mercy do not even depend upon you first realizing you were wrong. God’s grace comes first. The Father goes running to his younger son to embrace him before the son has said anything. The Father invites his older son to the banquet while he is still mired in resentment and judgment. In God’s reality, grace comes first, and that grace is what softens our hearts, and leads to the possibility of transformation.
So go ahead: admit you were wrong. It may hurt in the moment, or for a while after. It may bruise your ego a bit, or take you down a notch. But it will never, ever, keep our loving God from running with reckless abandon toward the horizon to meet us on the way, to embrace us, and to celebrate that we are not lost; we are home.
Let us pray… Merciful God, we love to be right, and we sure hate to be wrong. Grant us humble hearts that are ready and willing to see things with clarity, and grant us courage to admit when we are wrong. Finally, show us the way forward toward peace and reconciliation, with you and with our neighbor. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.