The Road Home

The Prodigal Revisted under a different light

Transcript

SPEAKER_00 0:00

Now, if you will come in again this morning, good friend, and sit with me here a while, I shall tell you a story, not a story of storms, not a story of fishermen, not a story of anchors, but a story of home, the kind of home many people remember, and many people miss. The morning is still young. The eastern sky carries only the first hint of daylight. The world beyond the windows remain quiet. The old clock upon the mantle keeps steady time. The chair in the corner waits where it always has. You may take it. The pipe is lit slowly, not hurried, not carelessly. The smoke rises in gentle blue folds through the room, and for a moment nothing is said, because some stories deserve silence first. Welcome to the Parson Piper Podcast. If you have a pipe near at hand, you may pack it slowly, tamp it gently, and light it if you're so inclined. Not because a pipe matters in itself, but because the slowing down does. Come now, Citizel. There was in a small town, not remarkable by the world standards, the sort of town many people drive through without noticing. A church near the crossroads, a general store, a few old houses shaded by pecan trees, and at the end of one dusty road stood a white frame house. Its paint had weathered somewhat through the years. The porch sagged just slightly. The screen door creaked whenever it opened, but it was a good house. A lived in house, a loved house, and every morning before sunrise an old man sat upon that porch. His Bible rested upon his lap. A cup of coffee stood beside him, and while the town slept he rocked gently and watched the road. Not because he expected company, not because anyone had called, but because years ago a son had left, and fathers never entirely stopped looking. Now years earlier that son had stood in the yard, young, strong, and restless. The world seemed larger than that little town, the road seemed more exciting than the porch. Adventure seemed wiser than contentment, and like the younger son in Luke chapter fifteen, he believed happiness waited somewhere else. Now scripture says the younger of them said to his father, Father, give me the share of the estate that falls to me. Luke fifteen twelve. The request broke the father's heart, though he did not show it, because love often bears wounds quietly. The son packed his belongings, he loaded his car and then drove away. The old man stood in the yard waving until the dust settled. Then he walked slowly back toward the house. The porch looked emptier that evening. The supper felt larger, and yet every night he prayed. Years passed, birthdays came and went. Christmas mornings arrived. Thanksgivings gathered family around the table, but one chair remained empty. Always the same chair, always the same absence. Now visitors would sometimes ask about it, and the old man would simply smile, then quietly change the subject, because grief often learned silence. Yet every morning he continued watching the road. Every evening he prayed, and every Sunday he sat in the same church pew, praying for his son far away. Now here are the words of Paul Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things Corinthians thirteen seven. And that is what fathers do. They endure. They hope. They wait. Meanwhile, the son discovered something many people eventually learned. The far country always promises more than it delivers. At first life seemed exciting. Money came, friends appeared, opportunities multiplied, but sin never shows its final bill at the beginning. Eventually the money disappeared, the friends vanished, the excitement faded, and one day he found himself sitting alone in a small apartment. The television flickered, the room felt cold, and silence filled every corner. Now here are the words of Luke. When he had spent everything, a severe famine occurred. Luke fifteen fourteen. That famine was not merely financial. It was spiritual, because a man can possess everything the world offers, and still be starving inside. Then came one of the greatest praises in Scripture. But when he came to his senses, that occurs in Luke fifteen seventeen, repentance begins there, not with perfection, not with self improvement, but with honesty, a man finally seeing reality clearly. The son remembered home. The porch, the Bible, the smell of supper, the sound of his father's voice. And for the first time in years he realized what he had abandoned, not merely a house, a father. The next morning he began driving, mile after mile, past familiar towns, past fields bright with morning dew, past church steeples rising above the trees. And with every smile the same question haunted him. What if he doesn't want me back? Shame always speaks loudly on the road home. But grace speaks louder. Scripture says if we confess our sins, he is faithful and righteous to forgive us. Faithful, not reluctant, not hesitant. Faithful. Mercy reaches farther than regret. And love often arrives before words can. Now the dawn came beautiful that morning. Gold light spilled across the fields. Mockingbirds sang from pence posts. The town slowly awakened, and the old man sat upon the porch as he always had. Bible open, coffee cooling, rocking chair moving gently. Then he saw something far down the road a figure a man walking slowly, head lowered, and immediately he knew. Luke says, but while he was still a long way off, his father saw him. Luke fifteen, verse twenty. Of course he saw him. He had been looking for years, and before the son could reach the gate, before explanations, before apologies, before excuses, the father rose from his chair and ran. Because grace runs faster than shame, mercy reaches farther than regret, and love often arrives before words can, and love often arrives before words can. Now before you rise this morning, consider this carefully. Is there a road home you need to walk? A conversation you need to have, a burden you need to suffer. Because every one of us has wandered somewhere, and every one of us needs grace. The good news of the gospel is this the Father is still watching the road. His mercy has not grown tired. And so, good friend, as the morning rises beyond the fields and the church bells begin sounding across the town, I'll leave you with this. No matter how far a man has wandered, the road home remains open. The father still waits. The porch light still burns, and grace still welcomes weary travelers. Until we sit again, keep your heart open. Stay rooted and hold firmly to what is true. This has been the Parson Piper Podcast, where we slow down, think deeply, and stand firm on what is true.