Where Am I in the Story? (Funeral Sermon using The Prodigal Son)

A Funeral Sermon Romans 2:4; Luke 15:11–32

Introduction

I've been in this calling long enough that I can say it has taught me a few things. I've officiated at a lot of funerals, about one hundred in the past nine years alone. Families have let me in to some of the most complicated moments of their lives. And it is from their generosity and openness that I share these ideas with you today.

Sometimes death is expected. Sometimes death is a shock. Sometimes death is expected and it is still a shock, like the floor has been taken out from under you. Sometimes death is a mercy. Suffering has ended. A well-known writer calls that a "severe mercy." Sometimes death is tragic, and there is nothing to say that would make it less than that.

At a memorial service, everyone arrives with their own interior lives, their own set of questions and wonderings. We live with the words we wish we would or would not have said to someone. We may have feelings we don't know what to do with. Today, like years ago in school, many of us will leave this memorial service with a good bit of homework to do.

That's not a bad thing. That's just the truth about love.

The Question

Sometimes preaching should teach us, but often a sermon simply reminds us of important things. I want to spend a few minutes with a story you probably know, just to remind.

Most people call it the Parable of the Prodigal Son, but if you read the story carefully, I'm not sure we know which one is the prodigal. Jesus told the story so we could become aware of whether we personally and really believe in redemption: for ourselves, for someone else.

The better question to ask when you read a passage in the Bible is this:

Where am I in the story?

Not where should I be. Not where would I like people to think I am. But where am I, honestly, in this moment?

Finding yourself in the story is part of the work that love asks us to do.

The One Who Went Away

The story starts with heartbreak: a once unified family breaks apart. The younger son goes to his father and says, "I know that when you die, I will get money. I want the money now. I'm leaving you, them, and all of this. I'm going to live life on my own terms."

In other words, drop dead, Dad.

And the father gave it to him.

The son went away, far away, as if your inner pain, resentments, insecurity, and unhealed hurts don't travel with you. He spent that money without restraint. He drank and ate and slept his money away. New friends became fair-weather friends when the money dried up, and when they did, the son found himself in a field with pigs, hungry enough to eat what they were eating.

Jesus says, "And one day, he came to himself." There in the mud, with the pigs, with nothing. He woke up to his own life. With overwhelming regret he remembered who he was, where he came from, and what he had thrown away.

Going to the far country feels like freedom, but it's just fantasy, a way to numb your feelings, a way to avoid. He could have worked things out between himself, his dad, and his brother.

And there, with the swine and the mud and the grit, he longed for grace, and began the long journey back home.

Where are you in the story?

The One Who Waited

Jesus turns our attention to the dad. "And while the son was still a great way off, he ran to him to greet him." Mud and distance and grit don't disqualify the son from being someone deserving of love.

The dad ran. He didn't wait for excuses or groveling. He didn't make the son complete a rehearsed apology. He ran, threw his arms around his son. "Give him new clothes. Bring the family ring. Light up the grill in the backyard, because tonight we celebrate."

Later in the Bible, Paul would teach about this idea, and he would say, "It is the kindness of God that leads to repentance." Not the anger, judgment, or shaming of God. Kindness. The road that takes you to the far country is the same road that leads back home. Kindness keeps the door open.

The dad did the holy work of waiting, of giving his son agency. While the son was away, the dad made sure that everything held together so there would be a home for him to come back to.

That is an exhausting kind of work: keeping the door open when you have every reason to close it. Answering the phone at hours when it is inconvenient. Showing up, waiting, hoping. Maybe you prayed with hope and maybe sometimes you prayed in anger. Nevertheless, you prayed. And those efforts aren't wasted. It is the kindness of God showing up in your life.

Where are you in the story?

The One in the Field

And then there is the older brother. The responsible one. The duty-bound one. The good one. He stayed, was dedicated, handled his job and the job of his brother. He was the one working, worrying, helping his father, consoling his mother.

He's out in the field, hears the music, and asks what's going on. "Your dad is throwing a party." Why? Tonight? It's Tuesday evening! It's not even the weekend.

"Your brother came back home."

"I don't want to go. No thanks. I'll stay here in the field."

His father goes out to meet him just as he went out to meet the younger son. Kindness doesn't stop at the door.

Just like his brother, the older son has a speech ready: I never left. I did things the right way. And now this son of yours (he can't bring himself to say "my brother") comes back after all that, and he's treated like this? What about me? What's fair and unfair? What about how what he did hurt you, and Mom, and me?

This is what it feels like to have been hurt, to have no closure, just one endless run-on sentence that says something like, "I can't believe they decided to live that way."

And Jesus concludes with the father's reply: "Well, your brother was dead and now he is alive, was lost and is found."

Jesus doesn't tell us what happens next. Did the brother stay in the field while the party echoed through the farmland? Did the two brothers ever hug and make up? Was there ever a time the older brother called him "brother" again?

I think that was on purpose. I think it means the story isn't finished. It's never finished.

Where are you in the story?

The Homework

I share that with you not just as a pastor, but as a son.

My father died when I was 29. He was young. His death was a surprise and a tragedy. I had to spend years unpacking that relationship, working through memories, disappointments, and regrets.

What I learned is this: when someone dies, contrary to what we may believe, the relationship continues. It changes form, but it continues, with all its mystery and complexity.

Will you work your way through the story? Will you leave the door open? Are you in the far country, longing to return? Are you someone who is waiting? Are you someone who is hurt?

Already Running

Kindness. Patient, persistent, come-to-meet-you kindness.

That same kindness is at work in this room, in whatever you are carrying today, in the unfinished story you walked in here holding.

The father in the parable doesn't just run toward the returning son. He goes out into the field and meets the older one who is holding anger, grief, and complicated feelings that don't yet have names.

Maybe when you are doing your homework later, you will see yourself in the story, and also see God. That God, filled with love and tenderness and kindness, is already out on the road looking for you. Already running.

A Closing Prayer

Gracious God, we come to you today carrying a lot: grief and gratitude, questions without answers., and memories of all sorts. We thank you for the life that brought us here today, for the road that was traveled, for the kindness that would not let go. We pray for those who loved easily, and for those who loved hard. For the ones who waited, and for the ones who are still standing in the field. Meet all of us in this moment with that same running, patient kindness. And give us the grace to leave the door open. In the name of the one who came to seek and to save the lost, Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.