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HOW DOES DAD FEEL? #1

A PRODIGAL SON NAMED JERRY

When you want to make a point, they say in Toastmaster get-togethers or in Speech 101, you always do the same thing: tell a good story. So when Jesus, the greatest Storyteller who ever lived, tells three of them right in a row — all of them to make the exact same point — you've got to figure it's a point He really wants to nail down forever.

That's the conclusion bestselling authors Bill Hybels and Mark Mittelberg come to in their excellent witnessing book, Becoming a Contagious Christian. Why else, they ask, would Jesus Christ tell, back-to-back-to-back, the parable of the one lost sheep, the one lost coin, and the one lost prodigal son? If you read through Luke 15 where this trilogy of stories is found, you discover that the Pharisees and religious rulers were muttering to themselves about the kinds of people Jesus hung around with: tax collectors and sinners. Riff-raff and jerks. Losers and boozers. And so the Savior reels off not one but three stories right in a row to illuminate just one truth: "Something of great value was lost, and that ‘something' really matters to God."

That's basically what we want to explore this week. How much do we actually mean to God? Our series title is this: HOW DOES DAD FEEL? I mean, how does He really feel? Are those three words "God is love" just a King James slogan that carries more dust than it does destiny? Are we honestly worth more than the sparrows, and if so, how much more?

A quiet little eavesdropping story hit the video stores not too many months ago; maybe you're familiar with the tale. Jerry Maguire, a talented but broke sports agent, has been fired from the high-powered parent company and ends up out on his own with just one secretary and one client. He gets ten percent of just one football player's salary. But he does have this very loyal, very dedicated secretarial assistant, Dorothy Boyd.

Well, a bit of a romance springs up between the two, but it's one of those relationships that flows pretty much in one direction. She's a lot more interested in him than he is in her. Maybe you know what that's all about. But one day as he's in the hallway of the house, standing in the shadows, he hears Dorothy talking to her sister in the kitchen. And she's saying with all earnestness: "I love him. I really love him. He's so special — and I love him." And this Jerry Maguire realizes with a start that there's someone who feels that way about him. Wow! He's the object of those expressions! She's talking about him: "I love him. I really, really love him."

I guess I wish that we could all have the experience of hearing God tell someone — anyone — exactly how He feels about us. Can you comprehend what that moment would mean? To hear Him say to Jesus or to a host of angels, or maybe even to Lucifer, our enemy, "Listen, I love him. (Or her.) And that's all there is to it. Maybe you can't understand it; maybe you can't see what I'm seeing. But I love him!" You know, it might be good for us to do a bit more eavesdropping than we do; what do you think?

The problem is, most of us have the same malady as this Jerry Maguire. As the Psalmist says in chapter 115:

"They have ears, but cannot hear."

We hear God saying it — "I love him" — but somehow, we don't believe it or accept it or register it. Or something! Because we carry on as though we aren't the most loved people in the world. And this sports agent, who hears Dorothy expressing such incredible love, doesn't really pick up on it. Oh, the relationship bumbles along and they even get married. But he doesn't grasp how huge her love for him really is. He's right there in the picture, but he doesn't get the picture. And the marriage slowly begins to drift apart despite Dorothy's best efforts. He's blind to what he's got.

And then right at the end of the story — and we might as well be reading about the Prodigal Son here — there's a moment of coming to his senses. In the biggest football game, his one client turns in an incredible performance. The Arizona Cardinals are heading into the playoffs, and he's going to be a multimillionaire with a fat new contract. Which means Jerry Maguire and Company are suddenly in good shape too. And Jerry watches as Rod Tidwell, his client, celebrates on the phone with his own wife. "I love you," he repeats over and over, tears of joy in his eyes. And we can hear her saying it back: "I love you too." Jerry senses for the first time the incredible possibilities of shared love, of an affection and devotion that are returned and shared and exchanged. And with a huge smack in the forehead, he realizes what a fool he's been. He's been so stupid! Like the prodigal son, he's been surviving emotionally on the scraps fed to the pigs when he could have been feasting, banqueting on the shared love of a good woman.

He rushes home, just like the wayward son in Luke 15, and bursts through the front door. "Hello. Hello," he cries out in desperation. "I'm looking for my wife." Well, she's there, along with about ten divorced women who are involved in a therapy "men are no good" session. They all look up at this frantic reprobate who's come crawling back.

And slowly his wife stands up. Dorothy, the girl who loved him so much . . . and said so a million times to such little effect. There she is — but does she still love him? The dad in Luke 15 accepted his boy back, but will that biblical miracle be repeated?

So he starts into his little speech. "I'm not complete without you," he begins, twisting and turning with anguish and faint hope. And then he launches into this prepared, scripted, pathetically packaged request for her to come back to him. He's come to his senses, he confesses; he finally realizes how much he needs her. It was supposed to be such a triumphant night, but he wasn't able to share it with her. Etc. Etc. Etc. And for several long minutes Dorothy simply lets him go on, as the ten divorcees listen in. What will her answer be? Is there any love left after what's happened? Can the lost lamb come home?

And they wait. And we all wait too. And finally Dorothy just plain interrupts him. She can't wait for the end of this speech; she cuts him off. "Shut up," she says. "Just shut up." And then she says what she's been waiting so long to say. And here it is: "Jerry," she says, "you had me on ‘hello.'"

And do you know something, friend? That's the gospel message right there! That's how much God loves you right now. Maybe you've tuned out a million of His messages in the past. You heard Him say: "I love him. I love her." He said it in the Bible. He said it in the spread of beauty all around you, the nature scenes you saw on vacation this last summer. He said it in the flowers and the trees. He said it in the miracles He worked for you, the healings, the moments of protection. He said it in the sermons you heard preached. He said it in all the blessings He sent your way. But you were too busy charging off to another football game, trying to get another client, trying to hold the business together, trying to see who ELSE out there loved you. And you wandered off to "a far country" and hung out in a sports bar with Jerry Maguire and his lonely friends.

But then finally, when you shake off that dazed look, that thickness of not comprehending what you might have had, and you come crawling back, you hear that same line as Jerry Maguire. God reaches out to you and brushes away your speeches, your begging and your bowing. "You had Me on ‘hello,'" He says, His own voice choked with the joy of it all. "You're accepted back even before you can ask." And then there's talk of celebrations and parties and fatted calves.

Let me say again: this message doesn't belong to Columbia TriStar Studios. This is God's message for you today! June 14, 1999! "You had Me on ‘hello.'"

I don't know if this message has maybe gone on autopilot for you. It's turned hollow because you heard it without hearing it too many times. Well, friend, stop and hear it again right now for real. God loves you and me so much, His love is so unconditional, that He says, almost before we can clear our throats, "You had Me on ‘hello.'"

Did you ever look up what the word "prodigal" means? I'll bet you never have. "The Prodigal Son"; what's it mean? If you're typical, you probably thought that referred to his long crawl back; the disgraced kid returning with the stench of the pigs in his clothes.

But you know something? It doesn't mean that at all. Look it up. "Prodigal" refers to the wasteful spending the boy did in the far country, throwing his money out the window on bar drinks and babes and blackjack and burgundy wine. That's "prodigal" — lavish overspending.

Here's what I have to say, then. Friend, it's the Father who's "prodigal." So lavish in His love. So over-abundant, almost throwing extra, overflow piles of it out the window and into your life. The universe looks on in amazement, I'm sure, with how much — how OVER-much — He loves me and He loves you. It's not the prodigal son, it's the Prodigal Father.