The Parable of the Not-Wanted-To-Be-Lost Sister

We are reading through Luke, me and my two girls. We got a bit stuck on the Parable of the Lost Son. I know I got stuck on it as a kid: why did the younger son get to be a pain, and then when he came back he was showered in love, and there was a party and how unfair for the older brother... Actually, I still get a bit stuck on that as an adult.

- Mummy, I don't exactly get this. Can you re-tell it in a way that's more relevant to me?
- Sure. Maybe tomorrow, when I've had a chance to think about it...

"There was once a mummy who had two daughters. The younger one said to her mother, 'Mummy, I want all my stuff, right now.'

So the mummy divided all she had between them. It wasn't long before the younger daughter had packed up all her stuff and gone far away..."

- NO!
- What's wrong?
- I don't want my little sister to run away!

And suddenly I could see the Father's response, and it made perfect sense. And I could see the older brother's response, and it was jarring.

I wonder... what if the younger brother had heard his brother say 'I don't want my little brother to run away'.
I wonder how I can be a better older sibling.

Wasted love

I've had my mind drawn to the theme of waste recently. I've been working as a cleaner, and so I see a lot of waste of all sorts. Plus I've been listening to a lot of audiobooks. And watching my kids.

One book I was listening to calls the reader's (or in my case, listener's) attention to the story in the Bible about the woman who may or may not be Mary who breaks the jar of extremely expensive perfume over Jesus' feet. And those around are shocked at what they perceive as a huge waste. The perfume could have been sold and the money given to the poor! 

(The cynic in me has never liked that reaction. Yeah, really? You would really have sold it and given all of the money to the poor? Hmm.)

Anyway. The book suggests that we should put ourselves in the position of the perfume. Too many of us rush around being useful, and don't get poured out extravagantly on God. Worth pondering, I thought. 

Today in church we were looking at a part of the Bible in which the people are giving a whole bunch of money to God, and the temple. And having done that, they then sacrifice thousands of animals.

What a waste! Couldn't they have been used for the poor? 

Er, no. God is more important. Showing extravagant love to God is actually more important.

Which brings me to my kids. They have been preparing a Mother's Day fiesta for the last two weeks. They were so excited last night, they were counting the hours until The Big Day (I pointed out that, yes, while it started just after midnight, if they woke me then, I would be Sad). They bought gifts Two Weeks Ago, and they prepared a monster hand-made card, which they have been working on after dinner each night. They prepared a song and dance routine. They chose and made dinner and dessert, and are cleaning up after themselves. 

What a waste of effort! Surely they could have been doing more productive things with their time? Tidying their room springs to mind. Doing their homework. Music practice. 

But no. They are choosing to 'waste' their time showing a huge amount of love to me. 

I wonder what difference it would make to my life, if I showed love to God like my kids show love to me. 

Signs of life

Some months ago I heard a sermon that broke my heart. 

The preacher was doing what happens in a number of churches: a call to 'encourage' (convince?) people to serve more, so that more ministry is done by more people. The theory is that most of the people in a given congregation are doing very little in the way of ministry and that the bulk of the work is being done by a small minority. Yep, I understand the idea. And I've heard sermons like this before. 

I'm not well known for being the person who is doing too little in a church setting. I have in the past been told I'm doing too much. At the moment, though, I'm in something of a ministry hiatus. 

What I heard the preacher say was directed to the people who are 'just sitting there in the pews'. He said, and I quote 'stop sucking the life out of this church'.

Sorry, what?

My heart broke for the pregnant women, the parents of small children, the abused, the downtrodden, the sick, the grieving, the children... the people that Jesus died for, and whom, during his life, he specifically oreached out to and raised up. 

I'm working as a cleaner just now. One house I clean has four human occupants, two adults and two children. I was pondering this sermon while vacuuming, and I saw this: 

In an otherwise clean and clear floor we have a gold star. It's stuck there. It's not doing anything. I doubt that it was put there by an adult. It looks more like something that was left on the floor by a child. 

A child who was being untidy. A child who did not clean up after themselves. A child that creates work for the adults who live there (and, thankfully, me!)

A child who could be said to be 'sucking the life out of this house'.

But they aren't. They are the life of the house. Without the people to serve, the servers have nothing to do. And in the serving, beauty is seen. 

Like the star. 

I wonder how the child would feel if they were berated by their parents for 'sucking the life out of the house'? (The parents in the star-encrusted house thought it was lovely, by the way)

I wonder what stars we don't see because we are too busy complaining about the work that hasn't been done.

I wonder if we ever achieved the 'perfect', everyone-is-pulling-their-weight (I don't know who decides this) community, would we be happy, or would we miss the stars?

I think everyone needs a star in their house.

Of course!

-- Fiona, you're a real sucker.

-- Sorry?

-- Sucker for punishment. Doing the kids program again. 

-- You have parents, and I love them, and so I need to look after you. I love you too, of course...

-- Of course!

In one day, I had these two important conversations. The first is with an adult. The second was with a child. 

The first conversation is the one that is all too familiar for those of us who minister with children. Adults speak to us as if we are a bit slow, got our arms twisted, not able to do 'real' ministry, etc. It's demeaning and demoralising, but I'm so used to hearing it, I almost never respond. That day I did. I've had a hard year, and I now no longer minister with children on a regular basis. And I'm grieving. The person who spoke those unkind words knows that. I pointed out that I had chosen to be there, and I politely excused myself to go see my (own) child. 

The second conversation was part of a longer dialogue. A child told me they needed to go to the toilet. I said, awesome, I'll go with you. He said it was okay, he knew where it was. I said yes, but you have parents, and I love them (they are good friends of mine) so I need to look after you. Then I realised that sounded odd, so I said 'I love you, too, of course'. His reply, the very sure, 'of course!' made my day. He knew that I loved him. His mum told me later that he was very confident, very sure of himself. But I think that it shows surety in me, as well. He knew that I loved him. 

The Bible tells me 'A new command I give you: Love one another. As I have loved you, so you must love one another. By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another.' (John 13:34-35). 

That boy knew me by my actions, even before my explanation. My adult acquaintance did not. 

There was a saying in my workplace a little while ago: 'playing for an audience of one', which referred to doing stuff just for God. That little boy made me realise the extreme wrongness of that saying. I do ministry with kids for God's glory, it is true. But in doing so, I love each person, each child who comes to me. It is incredibly important what they think. Because if they do not experience God's love from me, how will they know who I am, and how will they know who God is? How will I?

I wonder ... many things, and many of them are painful.

I wonder how I can cherish my conversation with my young friend, and let it change who I am for the better.