In This Edition:
The God Who Welcomes
Coming Up On The West Side
The God Who Welcomes
“But the Pharisees and the teachers of the law muttered, ‘this man welcomes sinners and eats with them’” (Luke 15:2 NIV).
WELCOMING SINNERS TO THE TABLE
Don’t you love a good dinner table? These tables tell a story. That spot right there is where my daughter hit her head (and hasn’t done it again since). That cut on this leg happened in packing when we moved away from here. That cut on the other leg happened in our move back. I can think of friends who have sat across from us at this table… We have told good stories, sad stories, and challenging stories at this table as we shared life with friends. Oh, the stories this table could tell.
Table is where you tell stories; its where you share stories. And who you eat with tells me a lot about your story.
The self-righteous and well-to-do tried to think up the worst thing they could say about Jesus. And here is what they came up with: “this man welcomes sinners and eats with them” (Luke 15:2).
Welcomes sinners. Let’s focus on that first word. “Welcomes.”
When I picture someone being welcomed, the picture always involves touching. The right hand of fellowship, or the pat on the back, or the great big bear hug. This man welcomes sinners. And not only that—it is still true that nothing defines your social status like who you eat with. Go to any cafeteria in any high school in America. You see that kid sitting all by himself in the corner? Tells you everything, doesn’t it? See the table where all the girls are dressed like cheerleaders, and all the guys are wearing their jerseys for the Friday night game? You know that table too, don’t you? To eat with someone is to share social rank; and in the first century—it was also an intimate act, where you raid the pantry reserved for your own family to feed your guest, treating them as if they were family. “This man welcomes sinners and eats with them.”
Now let’s think about that second word: “sinners.” That covers a big group, doesn’t it? But the people making this accusation don’t mean to include themselves in that group. No. Surely they have in mind the “others” (like Gentiles). The “lesser thans” (like the Samaritans or what not). And the weak. Too weak to live up to the rules like they did. Too weak to be thought of as reputable in polite society. Just weak.
We know God doesn’t want us to be weak. He wants us to be strong. But how does God feel about the weak? The words “weak” and “weakness” appear around 80 times in the New Testament… not one of which carries a word of condemnation attached! How does God feel about the weak? He loves the weak. He died for the weak… And he even calls you and me to be strong for this purpose: that we might bear with and bear up and bear the infirmities of the weak. And that’s good news. Because all of us, at some times, in some ways, are weak.
As Jim McGuiggan notes, “Jesus always seemed to be defending the wrong kind of people.” Always sticking up for the moral reprobate, the tax-collecting swindlers, the folks who haven’t been to Temple in their entire lives. Maybe it’s because he saw them as most in need of peace and rest. Most in need of something to live for.
It’s why he came. He came to preach good news, said Isaiah, but not just that: to preach good news to the poor. He came to set free the captives. Surely that includes those caught up in a system that perpetuates cycles that need to be broken so people can have a fighting chance.
Knowing the heart of God, the great mystery here is not that He invites such people, but that they wanted to be around him! Why did the immoral, non-church-going outsiders with bad reputations want to be around the holiest person who ever lived? What was it about him that drew sinners to his side? He wasn’t light on sin. In fact, he despised it. He died to save us from its clutches. So what was it? It was this: He made them feel safe; “that God meant them no harm.” That even now, in the sordid mess you’ve made of your life, God loves you like a father loves his only child; and he wants you.
And how did he let them know that? Well, by inviting them to the table, for one. By inviting them to the table. Tell me your story. Let me tell you mine. Share life with me. And imagine a new way of life, where all heirs to the throne are equal—and equally blessed—in the sight of God. And everything about you can be redeemed because you are beautiful in the eyes of the God who made you. Has no one ever told you that?
Who told you that God only loves you when you’re good? When Jesus chose Matthew to be his disciple, he pulled him right out of his taxing toll booth. And Matthew invited him to dinner. And all of Matthew’s friends came too—you know, tax collectors and sinners. To eat with Jesus. The Pharisees saw this. So they asked “why does this man eat with such people?” Do you what Jesus said? Jesus said, “I’m a doctor. I help sick people. I’m a mercy-giver, not a sacrifice-seeker. “I have not come to get those who think they are right with God to follow me. I have come to get sinners to follow me” (Matthew 9:13 NIrV).
BIRTHDAY PARTY FOR A PROSTITUTE
In his book, The Kingdom of God is a Party, Tony Campolo shares an experience he had late one night in Hawaii. Through a series of unusual circumstances, he ends up throwing a surprise birthday party for a prostitute in a local diner, surrounded by her “colleagues,” and assisted by a man named Harry who worked behind the counter.
When I finished, Harry leaned over the counter, and said, “Hey! You never told me you were a preacher. What kind of church do you belong to?”
In one of those moments when just the right words came, I answered, “I belong to a church that throws birthday parties for whores at three-thirty in the morning.”
Harry waited a moment, then he answered, “No you don’t. There’s no church like that. If there was, I’d join it. I’d join a church like that!”
Jesus founded a church like that. Jesus said to the leaders of his day, “What I’m about to tell you is true. Tax collectors and prostitutes will enter the kingdom of God ahead of you. John came to show you the right way to live. And you did not believe him. But the tax collectors and the prostitutes did” (Matthew 21:31). Oh, we know the unrighteous will not inherit the kingdom of God. Paul says that in 1 Corinthians 6. He says we know the sexually immoral and the swindlers won’t inherit the kingdom of God. But God loves such people, invites such people, sets down with them in table fellowship and shares his heart. And it changes a man or woman. Paul lists all these things and then he says “and such were some of you. But you were washed, you were sanctified, you were justified in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ and by the Spirit of our God.” Yes…God calls tax collectors and prostitutes to his table. And so should we. How else will they ever know there is a better life just waiting for them?
A CHURCH THAT WELCOMES ALL
On my try-out Sunday here at Westside, someone came forward to ask for prayers. What I witnessed next was truly remarkable. Every Shepherd here—all of them—came down the aisles and sat with that young man. They held his hand. They patted his back. They sat with him and cried with him. Come to find out—that’s not unusual here. A few weeks after I began preaching, on a Wednesday night, a sweet lady raised her hand during the service where an elder was talking about all the great things going on in this church and how you can get involved. She said “excuse me, but I am brand new. Do you mind if I ask who you are?” “I’m Steve Moore,” he said, “I’m one of the elders here. How can I help?” Armed only with that information, “I’m brand new,” I wanted to run over to her after services to introduce myself. But after the closing prayer, I couldn’t make it through the mob. So many women in this congregation had already gathered around her to welcome, answer questions, and make friends. It’s just who you are.
And that’s going to come in handy as God answers our prayers and sends more and more of his children to us. Dan Dawson and the other lovers of Christ who are praying every day that we can be a light in our community and share Jesus with hurting people told us—on a Wednesday night—that if we open our doors and welcome, truly welcome any and all who need Jesus Christ and hear that his love is on display here, they won’t always look like me, or think like me, or even smell like me. But Jesus adores them, and he welcomes them just the same as he welcomes me.
I once lived two blocks from this building. It was a sweet deal—my little 900 square foot house was only $300 a month rent. Can’t beat that! And I learned to really appreciate my neighbors, some of whom were very much like me, and some whose background and interests were very unlike me. On the one hand, the neighbor to my right moved down here from the Northeast. She was a well-to-do regal woman who loved older houses and put quite a bit into restoring the corner lot. On the other hand, I had a steady stream of meth addicts who walked through my front yard, heading to my neighbor’s house on the left. And I would sit on my front porch and remind myself that God welcomes everyone on my street and wants to eat with us. Living next door to each other is one thing; sitting on the same pew, drinking from the same cup is quite another.
THE AWAITING FATHER
He was a child in the house of his father. Enjoying the splendor of having everything he could ever want, and heir to even more. But one day he cried out “I must have my freedom.” Picture the Father as he speaks softly to his son: “Have you no freedom? You live here free of charge. You can come and go as you please. You have access to food and shelter. All that I have is yours. I give you daily bread and forgive even the gravest offenses. You are my son and there is nothing I would keep from you. Have you no freedom?” “No” the stubborn kid replied. “Freedom is doing what I wish as I wish.” “Oh” replies the Father ever so tenderly, “But freedom as I define it is that you become what you ought to be. All these rules I give you, all these ‘thou shalt’s’ and ‘thou shalt not’s’ you are so upset about are intended to help keep you free—free from becoming a slave to your own desires; free from finding out just how binding the slavery of self-deception can be. I want to keep you free from all this. You are a king’s son, and I am here to make sure you have the best, and that you are safe and sound when the day comes for you to receive it.” The boy didn’t want to become a rebellious youth. He didn’t want to renounce the family name. He heard that burning cry we all hear from time to time within us: “Just once! Let me try the tempting glamour on the other side of the hill, just once. Let me experience the life I am missing.” Imagine the discussion around the dinner table that evening. When the Son makes it clear he is determined in his mind. He’s going. But he needs money. Kenneth Bailey lived in this part of the world for a while, and he wrote a book to help us American city-slickers think like people from a rural Middle-Eastern village. He says that when the boy left town, everyone in the village would have taken offense. If they were to ever see him again, he would get more than a mere protest. Adults would seethe with anger, while boys would throw rocks at him. And no one would speak to him. This is more than slipping away from mom and dad in the middle of the night.
The Father doesn’t say a word. He gets up, goes over to the vault behind the picture hanging by the doorway, and gives the boy—his son—the money he has been saving. Do not miss this important part of the story. The boy didn’t run away, unannounced. Every step that boy took, the Father knew. And the Father, watching from the house had only one question on his mind: “How will my boy come back?” As he sat, night after night, at the dinner table with an empty seat.
So the boy spends his money as he wishes. He shows off his new clothes; he provides great feasts for his new “friends.” Everything he has, of course, comes from his father! But in the wrong hands, with the wrong motives, even good things can be turned into idols that get in our way, or vehicles to hurt one another and ourselves. It leaves you stuck in emptiness. When the money runs out, so do the friends…along with any hope of a ‘better life.’ And for the first time in his life…“he began to be in need.” Now the son who wanted nothing more than to be free, is mastered by himself. “And no one gave him anything.”
But “when he came to himself” the story says. That’s the turning point, you know. That’s when the plot starts toward resolution. He’s not disgusted with himself because of what he sees in front of him. That could only turn him into a cynic. No. He’s disgusted with himself because of what he remembers used to be before him. He remembers home. It was the idea of home that awakes his sense of lostness. He knows how bad off he is because he has experienced a better way! A Father who gave…and never left him in need.
He prepares a speech to tell his father. “Father, I have sinned against heaven, and in your sight. And am no longer worthy to be called your son. Just make me like one of your hired hands.” I don’t deserve grace. But maybe he’ll show mercy.
But the father doesn’t know how to lower his gaze; and is unable to think less of the Son He loves. When the boy was still a long way off, the Father—who stood watch at the gate every day and every night—locked eyes on his precious child and, picking up the train of his robe, he runs to the boy! Bailey tells us that adult men at that place at that time didn’t run. It wouldn’t be dignified. Least of all, for the most respected man in the village to run past the angry crowd seething with hostility at the news that the wretched one who offended us all, cutting our resources and abandoning our village is daring to come back home! But “Oh”, says one commentator, “see how love gives wings to a Father’s feet.” The Father is filled with compassion, and can’t stop kissing his boy…even when the boy has done his very worst, the Father thinks only the very best.
The son begins his prepared speech and says the words “I am no longer worthy to be called your son.” There was more speech prepared; there was a plea for some semblance of mercy—‘treat me like one of your hired hands.’ “Maybe I can work off my debt, or at least, earn your tolerance.” But a Father’s love doesn’t work like that.
Harold Shank offers up an imagined response along these lines. “Not worthy to be called my Son? Not one more word. Someone, go to my closet and bring out my best robe (the one reserved for royal guests)—and wrap it around my boy. Get the signet ring—you know, the one that shows who owns the farm and runs the place—and put it on his finger. Bring shoes to comfort his tired feet. Servants in the field don’t wear shoes. But this is no servant in the field. This is my son. I’m not finished. Forget what we had prepared for dinner. We aren’t going to just fill up one more bowl of soup. No. I want you to go get the fatted calf—Ole Bessie. And I want you to kill it! One calf could feed a hundred, and if not eaten by sundown, all that meat will spoil. Do you understand what I’m telling you? I’m throwing a party to end all parties! For this, my son was dead and is alive again, was lost….but now is found.”
For years we have called this story “the prodigal Son”—making use of one definition of ‘prodigal’: to spend one’s money or resources in reckless fashion. But there is a second definition of prodigal: “having or giving something on a lavish scale.” And on that definition, is there anyone more prodigal that the Father? We can’t outspend God! We throw half of our inheritance to the wind, he doubles down and puts every resource of heaven at our disposal upon our return. For that reason, Tim Keller argues we ought to call this story “The Prodigal God.” “See what manner of love the Father has lavished on us, that we should be called Sons of God. And that is what we are!” (1 John 3:1).
Keller wasn’t the first to put the focus where it should be. Helmut Thielicke years ago called this parable “The Waiting Father.” Ah yes. He waits. He waits. He sends out his invitation to all who are far off. He sends his messengers into the highways with a “whosoever will” call to come and feast at the marriage supper of the Lamb. He wants his house to be filled, and he wants all of his children home. He waits. But he waits to welcome.
(picture credit: Rembrandt, via Wikipedia/ Google arts & culture; public domain)
In 1669, Rembrandt painted one of the most stunning pieces of Baroque art, one he entitled “The Return of the Prodigal Son.” Most of the painting is dark, with characters in the shadows. But the father and his son stand in fresh light. There’s the father, in costly apparel, but with outstretched arms, hoving over, cradling his long-lost son. And there’s the son, dressed in rags, one shoe gone, on his knees, his head buried in his father’s bosom. But Rembrandt added another subtle feature we should be sure to notice (as Harold Shank pointed out to me). It is not his nose that is buried in his father’s chest, but his ear… As the son listens to the racing heartbeat of a love-sick father. And there, the old man short of breath, but full of Spirit, welcomes his son home.
WHERE ARE WE IN THE STORY?
And what about us? Where are we in this story? God, our Father, has given us life and breath. Every good thing we’ve ever known has been given to us by our Father. But have we taken for granted his good things and given up our seat at the table in search of something else? To deny life in the kingdom and at the table, to deny this constant relationship is like holding our breath and refusing to breath. It’s not just sinful, it’s silliness. But sometimes we do it. And in doing so, we don’t only hurt ourselves. We often hurt others in the process as we lose our sense of identity. And we hurt the heart of God. What is our “far country”? Where do we go to get away from God? Maybe it's money. Or technology. Maybe its something we take to forget, someone we use rather than love, some place we go to escape his provisions. Maybe we, like the prodigal, have squandered away our lives. Squandered away our marriage. Squandered away our reputation in this community. Filled our bodies and our minds with useless things and given in to our basest desires. If that’s true, hear Helmut Thielicke echo the Father, and hear it well:
God has not given me up. He still counts me his child. He tells me that he cannot forget me. When anybody has don as much for me as my Father in heaven has done, when he sacrifices his best beloved for me, he simply cannot forget me. And therefore I can come to him. God pays no regard to what I have lost; he thinks only of what I am: his unhappy child, standing there at his door again.
When the Father sits down at his dinner table, and looks over at the seat which has sat empty all this time, now filled with his long-lost son, he can hardly contain his excitement. But now, he looks over at the well-worn seat on the other side of the table, where his dutiful, always-faithful, diligent other son always sat, only this time, it is empty. The text says the brother was angry and refused to go in (Luke 15: 28). Another empty seat. Another son estranged. And yet again, it’s the Father who goes out to meet his boy. You can imagine how that boy felt this day, can’t you? This guy wanted you dead, Father! He took our money and abandoned us! That’s double the work for me with less to work with. And now, without so much as a slap on the wrist, you’ve thrown a feast for him. And killed the fatted calf. Not Bessie! Who do you think has fattened her up all these years? No—this isn’t fair. This isn’t just. I will stand here outside—just me in my rightness—as I stand for truth. It’s just the principle of the thing.
He doesn’t even call him brother. Even the servant told him, “your brother has come home.” But the only words this older brother can muster when he speaks to his father is to call him “this son of yours.” After all, says the older brother, with righteous indignation in his voice, “he’s spent all his money and time with prostitutes for Pete’s sake. And you are going to eat with someone like that? Who would do something like that?” (Luke 15:30).
I look over at this side of the table, and I am reminded of what my good friend Kent Jobe recently told me: that according to the 2010 Census data, 42% of White County residents have no church home of any kind. 42%! That’s our neighbors, for sure. And lots of people who live three streets over—you know, in the neighborhoods we don’t visit much and don’t drive through. 42% that surely experience homesickness but have no home to go to. And many of them let you know they are in that crowd by how they live their lives. And it’s easy, tempting, maybe even reasonable, to stand opposed to everything they are and everything they stand for. To let them know it on facebook every chance we get, and through our body language, to let them know that only if and when they shape up and share my views will we share any of our hard-earned resources or welcome them into our home or save a spot for them at the table of the Lord. I don’t think there is a person in here who says that; or even consciously thinks that. But I wonder---does my life shout the opposite? It must not, because such people don’t seem to be running to me like they did to Jesus. And they won’t know that that seat—that one right there—has their name on it. And if my Lord invites them—even them—into loving fellowship, will I join the party?
I hope so. Because to the lost son the Father said “don’t you understand? You don’t earn your keep with me. No ‘make me a servant’ talk. You’re my son.” But to the older brother the Father said, “don’t you understand? You can’t earn your keep with me. Your righteous deeds are simply what is required of a dutiful son. You haven’t been collecting points. You are in my eyes just as welcome as your brother because you are my son. Can’t you see that? Can’t you see him the way I see you?
Sometimes I can’t believe God would let such riff-raff at his table. When the prodigal Son comes home, you better believe he brings his baggage with him. And when sinners come here, expect that to be the case, too. But remember this: he calls me even with my baggage; sone sons live in recklessness; others in self-righteousness. But God loves us in spite of that, and calls us to his table.
And you know, there’s another brother at that table. Oh yes. There are three brothers. The older brother who stayed. The younger brother who came back home. But this is the home of the Father. And sitting at the right hand of the Father, is our older brother, Jesus Christ. Look into his eyes. See his hands and side as proof. He doesn’t want an empty seat in the house.
A sermon preached at the West Side Church of Christ titled “The God Who Welcomes.” It is the sixth sermon in the series “A Good & Beautiful God.” This lesson also appears on the Life on the West Side podcast (Season 2, Episode 21). Available on all podcast platforms.
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My name is Nathan Guy, and I serve as the preaching minister for the West Side Church of Christ in Searcy, Arkansas. I am happily married to Katie and am the proud father of little Grace. You can find more resources on my website over at nathanguy.com. Follow me: Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, and YouTube.
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