By Reverend Rodger Allen
Luke 15: 11-32; Luke 10: 25-37
The Gospel of Luke, in the order in which the New Testament is arranged, is the third of four gospels. Four accounts of the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus. Some material in the gospels is common to all four accounts; some material you find in each gospel is unique to that one account—not found in any of the other three. Or maybe found in one other, but not the other two. One thing we can do as we read and study each gospel is to look into: what are some characteristics of this gospel which distinguishes it from the other gospels? What is different about Matthew’s presentation, or Mark’s presentation, and so on? Today we begin by doing that with the Gospel of Luke. What is distinctive about the way Luke tells the story of Jesus?
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One of Luke’s concerns is alluded to in his own statement of purpose at the gospel’s beginning: Luke is writing to early Christians to assure them that what their church is teaching and preaching is rooted in the teachings and life of Jesus of Nazareth. Luke’s intent is to strengthen these young Christians in faithfulness to their church; “Be strong in your church,” Luke is saying in effect, “because your church is carrying forward what Jesus wanted—as I prove by setting forth this account of his life and teachings. Believe in your church.” It’s not unlike the way we evaluate our own church’s decisions or denominational decisions, and it is a good test. I encourage you to keep asking this question: does what we’re doing as a church conform to what Jesus taught and would have done?
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Second, Luke is anxious to present Jesus and the church in their rightful place in Biblical history. He is writing an extension to the Hebrew Scriptures, to the Old Testament—saying that the story that began with Abraham and Moses and David and Isaiah and Nehemiah continues with Jesus and with the church. It is all part of one story, the history of God’s relationship with humanity.
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Third, Luke’s gospel differs somewhat from other early Christian writings in that he writes with a realization that Jesus’ return may not be real soon. Unlike Paul, for example, who encouraged people to plan for the imminent return of Jesus, any day now, Luke addresses the issue of the continuing day-to-day existence for the Christian community: we may be here for a while; here’s how we’re going to set up shop, and how we’re going to live out our lives together.
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Fourth, Luke’s presentation of Jesus’ life is not quite so dominated by the cross, by Jesus’ death, as some of the other writings. We find attention to his birth and childhood, for example, that we see nowhere else in the Bible. Luke is presenting the whole life, death, and resurrection of Jesus as important for us and for our salvation, rather than singling out a particular key moment.
In the characters surrounding Jesus, we find a unique interest in and concern for the people who were often overlooked or excluded in Jesus’ day. Luke repeatedly draws our attention to Jesus’ care for the poor and oppressed; lifts up the stories of women and women disciples; and emphasizes Jesus’ use of outcasts as heroes and examples—lepers, Samaritans, Gentiles. Luke, more than any other, is the gospel of the underdog.
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And perhaps most obvious to us, Luke had access to some stories and teachings of Jesus that none of the other gospel writers had. There is plentiful material in Luke’s telling, including some of our favorite stories, found nowhere else. The whole birth cycle is one example: the angel’s visit to Mary, the birth at a manger, the coming of the shepherds, the blessing in the Temple—only in Luke. The raising of a woman’s dead son, and the visit with a tax collector named Zacchaeus—only in Luke. And two of our favorite parables which we have heard again today, “The Prodigal Son” and “The Good Samaritan”—these are among the stories found only in Luke.
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It is to these two stories that we turn our attention today, and as we do so, I’m going to ask you to try a particular technique with me—a Bible reading technique. Often when we hear familiar stories from the Bible, our first reaction is to say: “Oh, I know this one. This one is about such-and-such a character, and its point is that we should behave such-and-such a way.” Oh yeah—Jesus’ birth: stable; animals; poverty; a different kind of king. Our mind races ahead of the story: been there; done that—next! What we miss when we do that, when we rush to our traditional interpretation once again, is the fact that there is often more than one point or thing to learn in a story. Sometimes there are two lessons, or three; sometimes we hear a story for the fifteenth time and discover something new in it.
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One way we can look for the “something new” in a story is to try to put ourselves in the place of a character we haven’t thought about much before. If we’ve always said of Christmas, for example, “Wow, imagine what it would be like to be one of the shepherds coming to see the baby,” we could try instead “what would I think if I were Mary, and had just given birth, and here came all these strangers to see my kid! How would that feel?”
That’s the technique that we’re going to try with these two stories today; putting ourselves in a different place from usual. And then I’m going to encourage you to do that in any other Bible reading you do for a while as well. Example one: The story we know as “The Prodigal Son.” Oh, I know that one, we say: young man takes all his money, wastes it on loose living, hits bottom, is sorry and apologizes, is taken back into his home. Point: no matter how much you’ve messed up, you can repent and start again. The end. It’s a good point.
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But is it the only one? What if we start here?
My name is Jared, and I have two sons. They were always good boys and normal boys—quarreled a bit, like all brothers do, but overall, we got on fine. Me—I’ve tried to be a good father to them—kind, but firm, and consistent. There are rules to life, after all. Expectations. You can’t do just whatever you want. God has standards. Your town, your neighbors, have standards. A father can’t be seen as being too soft, letting his kids run all over him, running wild in the streets. He needs to be dignified, in control—sometimes tough. There are rules to life.
One rule: you don’t get your inheritance until your parents die. That’s the way it is. To ask for it is the same as saying you wish your parents were dead. You don’t do it. And your parents don’t give it to you.
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But I did. I don’t know what got into me, but I gave in to my younger boy when he said he wanted his share right then, that day. Maybe I was thinking, “I guess he has to find his own way, spread his wings.” My neighbors were very angry with me. “Now every kid will want his inheritance early.” And they’re right—rules are rules. I don’t know why I did as he asked, and let him go. I used to watch down the road he left by, but I really never thought I’d see him again.
Then one day a servant ran back from the market, out of breath: “He’s back; he’s on the edge of town; he’s coming this way. He says he wants to be a servant too. He’s back. And I know what I should have done. And I know the neighbors were watching. I should have let him sit down there by the gate while I thought it over. I should have let him be ridiculed by passersby. I should have treated him coolly, as if he were a stranger applying to be a servant—and then at best put him on probation in our lowest job.
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But I didn’t. As soon as I saw him, I ran down the road, right in front of everybody. I haven’t run in thirty years! I lost my sandal. They say my underwear showed. And I hugged him, and kissed him, and called him “my son”—right away—and I set up a celebration. My neighbors turned their backs on me in embarrassment. They know the rules. I know the rules. He shouldn’t be back as my son. But I couldn’t help myself. I don’t know why I broke down that way.
Then my other son . . . well, he knows the rules. He’ll make a good neighbor. He wouldn’t come to the party—would have none of the celebration over such a sinner, such a loser, and such a shameful father. Never mind that as older son it’s his job to be host, to do whatever his father says—no, he’s too proud. Now he cuts himself off from me. And I have a chance to restore my dignity by publicly straightening him out.
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But I don’t. I go out and beg him now, like he’s the parent and I’m the child. My few remaining friends left in disgust. They know the rules. And they’re right. I don’t know what got into me. I don’t know why I shamed myself that way. I guess I just wanted the whole family together, no matter what anyone had done. The end.
The story told this way is “The Parable of The Loving Father,” not just “The Prodigal Son.” And the loving Father . . . is God. It doesn’t matter that, throughout the whole Old Testament, there are established rules about right and wrong. It doesn’t matter that there are expectations, standards of behavior. It doesn’t matter that promises and threats have been made.
Who knows what gets into God? But over and over again, in the story of human history, and in each of our individual stories, God breaks the rules, and loves us instead. All kinds of sinners, the over-indulgent and the over-judgmental. It’s the “Parable of The Loving Father.” God loves us instead.
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The second parable we heard today from Luke is known as “The Good Samaritan.” We know this one too: look, there’s a guy beat up on the side of the road. It’s a dangerous place; he might bleed all over us; he might have some disease. Oh look, he’s one of them! Our enemies! Those people we hate! But the right thing to do is help him anyway, ‘cause everybody’s our neighbor. The right thing to do is help.
Ah, but we’re not putting ourselves in our usual place, remember? What if we’re not the one in a position to help? What if we’re . . . the hurt guy?
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You may be groggy. You may be semi-conscious. But you’re aware enough to know, as he approaches, that he’s one of them, one of those people you hate, and who hates you. What’s he doing here—come over to finish the job, to kill you, to make sure there’s nothing else left to steal? Oh, if only you had enough strength left to at least take him with you, right? Then your death wouldn’t be a complete loss.
But what’s this? He’s washing your wounds. He’s bandaging them. He’s tearing up his own clothes to bandage them. He’s putting you on his donkey. He’s paying for your stay at the inn! What are you gonna tell your family when you get home, and your friends—that you were wearing his clothes, accepting his money; that you’d be dead without him? You gonna give him the credit? You gonna write him a thank you note?
It’s one thing to put oneself in the role of the magnanimous hero/rescuer, swooping down to help a poor inferior victim out of the goodness of one’s heart. It can be quite another to think of your worst enemy rescuing you, of being beholden to her, of having to trust him, being powerless to do otherwise.
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Can you do that? Can you trust? Can you let yourself be helped? Can you let yourself be helped by someone you prefer to look down on, prefer to despise, prefer to think of as bad and useless? Imagine being the person receiving the grocery bag at the food pantry, or a lunch at the soup kitchen, instead of handing it out; or receiving money from people who know you’re desperate. Imagine giving up the idea that you’re strong and independent and on-your-own-two-feet and never needing anyone else.
Jesus also tried to teach us how to be that person in the parable, how to perceive those who give us help—whoever they are—as beloved neighbors; to look at them in love, not resentment. Will you help build a loving community, by accepting help, from anyone?
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Well, those are just two of the stories Luke has given us from Jesus’ life and ministry. There are many more, and I invite you to read them using our new technique too: put yourself in the place of a different character in the story from where you’ve been before. Read the story with a friend, and get them to help you shift gears. The gospel of Luke has much to offer us about Christian living. Read it again—with eyes open wide.
Let us pray: “God, thank You for the stories of Jesus. Thank you for the story of your love, in the parable of the loving Father. Thank you for the story of human love, in the parable for the enemy who helps us. Help us put these stories to work in our lives in many ways. Amen.”