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WOULD GOD REJECT A REALLY BAD SON?

The Bible has a couple of stories about bad sons. The most famous, certainly, is the prodigal son. He took his dad’s hard-earned estate, and with reckless impunity — with prodigal extravagance — blew the fortune on girls, guns, grenadine cocktails, and gambling at the Golden Nugget. He deliberately lived in the very opposite lifestyle from how he’d been raised.

A good-looking kid named Absalom — same story. He actually set himself up against his own father’s kingdom. It was military war between David and Absalom until Joab assassinated the rebellious young prince. You can read the whole bloody story in the book of II Samuel.

What does it take before a father finally severs the last strand between himself and a son? When is a son no longer a son? When is a child cast out of the family?

The October 21, 2002 issue of Newsweek had an absolutely chilling story entitled “Saddam’s Sons.” Two young men named Uday and Qusay, as of this writing, are just terrifyingly evil men, according to secret reports that have trickled out of Iraq. As reporters Evan Thomas and Christopher Dickey describe them, the two offspring of Saddam Hussein are “Gothic in their monstrosity.” Both have accompanied their father on trips to see the Baath Party’s infamous torture chambers where political prisoners are maimed and mutilated. Both are “into” torture; both are experts at grand larceny, extortion, and bribery. And some of the stories involving women are simply too gruesome to be repeated. The older boy, Uday, once confronted a young couple on their honeymoon. “You’re much too good for this simple man,” he barked at the bride. He dragged her to his hotel room and abused her all night, in front of guards and aides. When finished, he had her thrown from the sixth-story balcony and ordered her husband executed for “defamation of the president.”

If I were to ask you today, “Are you bad like that?”, I’m sure you could say no. Have you slipped away from the heavenly family tree until now you are a prodigal-son rebel against heaven? Again, you could probably say no. This Hussein illustration isn’t a perfect story for our discussion today, because these two young psychopaths don’t appear to be rebels against their father’s rule and wishes, but rather cut from the same cloth. Ironically, Newsweek reports that even the elder Hussein may be disgusted and appalled by his children; it’s possible that he has looked the other way and even encouraged assassination attempts against them. But very often Christians, who look into their own hearts and see wrong deeds and thoughts there, begin to wonder: At what point would I stop being God’s son? God’s daughter? Where does God draw the line?

We’ve studied for two days now this important matter of salvation assurance. God has deliberately chosen to portray our connection with Him using the expression “adoption.” When we come to Jesus, His Son, we become GOD’S son or His daughter. And the Bible shares promises that describe this as a permanent arrangement. God will not let us go; nothing can separate us from His love and His forgiveness. But can we lose it if the violation is severe enough, or if our reciprocal attitude toward “Dad” deteriorates past a certain point?

One leading Christian writer who has written a book entitled Eternal Security makes this bold statement:

“If our salvation can be lost, our adoption into the family of God is NOT permanent. We can be UNadopted, so to speak. Such a process, however, is never described or even alluded to in the New Testament. Never once are believers threatened with losing membership in the family of God.” Then he adds: “Jesus taught just the opposite. As far as He was and is concerned, adoption is forever!”

To explore this further, let’s go back to that first bad son I mentioned, the prodigal one. Because if anyone ever deserved to lose his standing in Dad’s family, this boy did. Here’s the story, as told by Jesus Himself in Luke 15.

“There was a man who had two sons. The younger one said to his father, ‘Father, give me my share of the estate.’ So he divided his property between them.”

Even before the boy leaves town, let’s think about this. You usually get your share of the family fortune . . . when? After Dad passes away. So this boy is saying to Dad, “I can’t wait. I really wish you were dead, actually. So just fork it over now.” This is a rude, in-your-face statement of rebellion. He is leaving the home, leaving the town, leaving the family. On we go into verse 13:

“Not long after that, the younger son got together ALL HE HAD” — again I say, he’s leaving for good — “set off for a distant country and there squandered his wealth in wild living.”

Now we skip down. The famine come along, he’s stone broke and starving to death, he’s feeding the pigs for a man he doesn’t know, and finally comes to his senses. “I’ll go back home and say I’m sorry,” he decides at last. “I know I can’t be a son anymore, but maybe at least I can get a job there and some food in my stomach and a bed to sleep in.” So, as the King James puts it, “I will arise and go to my father.”

But now we want to slow things down and really analyze what is going on. Let’s pick it up in verse 20:

“But while he was still a long way off, his father saw him and was filled with compassion for him; he ran to his son, threw his arms around him and kissed him. The son said to him, ‘Father, I have sinned against heaven and against you. I am no longer worthy to be called your son.’”

Now, friend, that’s a pretty good little speech. We would maybe call that speech “repentance.” “I’m sorry; I have sinned. I shouldn’t be your son anymore.” But as we go now into verse 22 it appears that the dad doesn’t even hear that speech. In any case, he completely disregards it. Notice:

“But the father said to his servants, ‘Quick! Bring the best robe and put it on him. Put a ring on his finger and sandals on his feet. Bring the fattened calf and kill it. Let’s have a feast and celebrate. For this SON of mine was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found.’”

And the reality that almost scares me, and certainly gives me spiritual goosebumps, is this: In the mind of the dad, this is still his son! Totally! That bedraggled, rebellious boy who had lost everything and spit in his face, is still a son to him. “This SON of mine,” he says. Not “this FORMER son.” Not “this outcast who must say he’s sorry before I will change my will and put him back in.” All through the entire story, from the first scene to the last, this son is still a son.

And with what factors on the table? First of all, sins. Lots of ‘em. Drunkenness and debauchery. Selfish sin and sexual sin. Wastefulness and wantonness. This boy did it all, but Dad kept going out to the front gate to see if his SON — his wayward SON — was on his way back home.

What’s more, this boy had rebelled. He traveled to a farther-away country than most backsliding Christians ever dream of. He had said to his dad, “I am out.” But in the heart of Dad, he was NOT out. Because the father knew his child was confused, mixed up and messed up. He would not let the boy’s foolish words, spoken in a fit of temper — even a long-considered fit of temper — sever the secure ties of family.

This same Christian writer, Charles Stanley, writes about the story:

“If ever there was a son who deserved to be disowned, it was the son in the parable. If ever there was a set of circumstances within a family that called for extreme action, that was it. Yet there was no hint of rejection on the part of the Heavenly Father. The father in the story was not portrayed as one battling in his heart over what to do with his sorry son. . . . He demanded no explanation; no apology; nothing. There was no probationary period, just acceptance and joy. . . . In [the father’s] mind, once a son, always a son. The father’s first emotion as he saw the son returning wasn’t anger. It wasn’t even disappointment. He felt compassion for him. Why? Because the younger man was his son!” Then he adds: “There is no hint that the relationship was ever broken, only the fellowship.”

In that Old Testament story where Absalom declares war on his dad, and is killed because of it, what is the essence of King David’s lament and grief-stricken prayer? He still calls Absalom his son — FIVE TIMES!

“O my son Absalom! My son, my son Absalom! If only I had died instead of you — O Absalom, my son, my son!”

When Jesus was crucified on that fateful Friday afternoon, Roman soldiers and the priests of Israel participated in the worst sin this universe has ever seen. These people actually took God and nailed Him to a cross. And what does Jesus pray? “Father, forgive them; they don’t know what they’re doing.”

Friend, you ask most earthly dads — frail, fragile as we are — “What would it take before you cast away your own son?”, and most will reply: “That could never happen.” With God it’s just the same, only infinitely more so. It’s scary that He loves us that much.