Let’s be thankful for little things: at least she didn’t read that prodigals thing again. The sermon title is misleading, though—Prodigal Implications. Implications of what? Implications of a whole month of sermons on the same text? Or implications of wherever it is that we find ourselves in the story of the two brothers and their father? I hope it’s the latter for you. Where do you find yourself in the story? If you recall, I invited us to find ourselves in both brothers—as both the Good One and the Gone One, the one who receives forgiveness and the one who refuses to believe he needs it. Then last week I asked you to imagine yourself as the parent—having received much, now able to give much. What further implications could there possibly be?

Ten days ago, when my lectionary discussion group discussed today’s texts, the pastor who presented the gospel study ended our conversation by asking about the context in which we celebrate Eucharist (communion, the Lord’s Supper). He asked, “We always put it in the context of, ‘On the night in which Jesus was betrayed and arrested, just before he was crucified . . .’ This story about the anointing takes place at about the same time,” he said. “What if we celebrated Eucharist with the words, ‘At about the time Jesus was adored by Mary—‘” That was the implication I’ve been pondering for the last ten days. What if we understood the Lord’s Supper in the context of such love? What if we broke the bread, not just over the rejection and betrayal, the blood and suffering? Certainly those things are part of that Meal. Certainly our understanding of salvation involves that. Certainly our acceptance of God’s gift has to include an appreciation of the cost to God. But what if we also remembered that God’s love and our adoration was part of salvation? What if we inserted ourselves into the dinner party, celebrating the miracle of new life from the old and sick and worn out and dead? Here is Lazarus-new-life, passing the butter as if it were the most natural thing in the world. What if we inserted ourselves into the party, serving this Man by pouring out a small fortune in good smells—just days after our sister reminds Jesus of the smell of our brother’s body, four days dead. Here is a sweet smell filling the house. What if we inserted ourselves into the story and wiped Jesus’ feet—just as he himself will wipe his disciples’ feet in less than a week. Here is servant activity, but a servant motivated by love beyond job description, beyond hospitality. What if we inserted ourselves into the story? Perhaps we would see that the goal of Jesus’ life was not death.

What my colleague’s question made me consider was what Mary’s prophetic gesture—anointing Jesus’ feet—was saying. What if her message had as much to do with calling me to adoration and gratitude as it had to do with anticipating blood and brokenness and sacrifice? If only Isaiah hadn’t said what he did today, about forgetting the old rescue story. All of Israel’s past understanding of “how to worship” was based on “Remember!” Israel calls God to remember her and redeem, God calls Israel to remember past redemption in order to know God will still redeem. “Remember” is a big deal for a Jew, whether it’s a Jew wandering in the wilderness or being carried off to Babylon in exile. Christians get ready for the best party of the year (Easter) by remembering the passion of Jesus. But be careful what you remember.

I used to think the purpose of Jesus’ life was to die. I have come to understand that the purpose of Jesus’ life was to love and obey God. Suffering and crucifixion and death were part of what happened to him—and next week we will see that these were not exactly easy events in his life. But death was no more the point of Jesus’ life than it is of ours. His life was obedience—but more intimate and loving than the obedience of the oldest prodigal son on his best days, more grateful than that of the younger son grateful to do anything for the sheer joy of being home again.

As we remember Jesus’ passion this time of year, also remember that this is God’s enormous, fabulous, trailblazing, unimaginable new thing! It is the final sacrifice. The new thing that will never need to be replicated, the new thing that does not need to be done again. The new thing that proclaims “Enough with the killing! Don’t ever do this again!” This is a new thing so beyond human understanding that only saying things in the negative can describe it. No more killing, no more death. Jesus calls Lazarus out of the grave to experience the new thing, robbing death of its power to hold, its power to support deadly institutions, its power to intimidate. No wonder Jesus had to die.

What if we celebrated communion in the context of adoring this One who robs even our graves? Now, that would be a Prodigal Implication! “Prodigal,” as in its dictionary definition—reckless extravagance, wasteful expenditure, lavish. If we celebrated communion in that context, we would know that Jesus didn’t die for our sins, he died because of our sins. Jesus didn’t die to “pay off” debts that we incurred, as if our sins could be disposed of through payment. If that were true, we could just as easily be Judas, robbing the common purse to pay it off, treating God like the Chief Accountant in the Sky, who keeps track of our daily betrayals as part of some balance sheet. What is our minimum monthly payment, the annual compound interest rate?

If we finally figured out that Jesus wasn’t buying God’s favor in our behalf, but that his obedience was an act of love, we could only respond as prodigals. I don’t mean the one who takes the money and runs. Nor do I mean the one frozen in judgmental anger at the reckless forgiveness of the parent. I mean prodigal adoration, as extravagant as that which receives the hands of forgiveness in our Rembrandt picture. I mean prodigal adoration that pours a whole year’s worth of day labor onto someone’s feet. I mean obedience so prodigal—open-handed, extravagant, lavish—that we don’t wait for our change when we’re generous, nor do we say “yes” to God in small, one at a time pieces of obedience. We know we’re loved, and there’s plenty more where that came from.

What if we believed that all we are called to do is show up? Would that change your willingness to devote ten little minutes a day to listening for God’s call to obedience? Would you take some of that time to practice saying, “I love you” to God? Would that change the questions you bring to scripture, when you do happen to pick up the Bible, wondering if God has an answer for your problems? Was that “job” or “Job”? Would that change the attitude you have about bringing a jar of peanut butter for the Resource Center—from pity to compassion? Would that mean you took your own allowance to buy the peanut butter? Would you still buy school supplies for the ESL kids in the fall? Yes. But maybe you’d want to deliver the supplies to the school. Maybe you’d want to help the kids converse in English. Maybe you wouldn’t pity them so much. Maybe instead of seeing them as learning disabilities and impoverished learning environments and second language barriers, maybe you would see them as faces in the image of God. Maybe you would understand that God loves you for who you are, not what you can do for God. Would your response then be adoration?