- Sermon - Mickey Anders

Text: Luke 15:1-3, 11b-32

(This fictional sermon story was inspired by a similar story told by Pamela J. Tinnin in her sermon "Never Too Late" posted March 24, 2001 on PRCL)

Being an older brother is not an easy thing to do. I was almost 11 when my little brother came kicking and screaming into this world. He was a demanding child from the beginning, but he was always the apple of my father's eye. And my mother fussed over him like he was the king of Egypt.

I remember being jealous at times of all the attention that my brother got as a baby, but I was old enough that it didn't bother me too long. That's because I loved him too. Who wouldn't love a little baby? Before long he was toddling and following me around the house. He was fun to play with, and everybody we knew thought the same thing. When men came into the house, they loved to swoop him up in the air or pretend that they were horses. He would squeal with delight as he bounced on their crossed leg or straddled their broad backs. And the women loved to give him sweets and admire his curly hair. Yes, my little brother really brought a special joy into our home.

But the sweet baby ways did not last. As he grew, problems began to crop up with him. Since I was so much older than him, I was often given the responsibility of making sure he did his work on the farm. As long as I was with him showing him exactly what to do, he did alright. But as soon as I left the field, he would slip away. I often found him down by the river, singing and skipping rocks across the water.

My father got him a job with a carpenter one summer, but he didn't last long at that either. Sometimes he was late for work; other times he didn't show up at all. Sometimes he clowned around so much with the other workers that nobody got any work done. Finally, the contractor had enough, and let him go. I think that's when my father should have put a stop to my brother's bad behavior, but he loved him so much that he just didn't seem to have the heart to punish him.

When he graduated from high school, he said he wanted to become a lawyer. He was the first one in our whole family to ever go to college. So my parents took out a second mortgage on the house and the farm to pay for it. It would have been nice if he had earned a scholarship, but my brother's grades just weren't good enough. He could have gone to college on student loans, but instead my parents sacrificed half of everything they owned so that he wouldn't have loans to pay back. And my brother knew what a hardship it was on the family. He could have at least gotten a job at school, but he didn't. I think he should have insisted on paying for some of the expenses himself, but he took all that money acting like it was his right to have it.

The day my brother left for college was a mixture of hope and despair for my parents. They wanted the very best for him, but they were filled with grief at his leaving. As my brother drove down the lane, I saw tears in my father's eyes for the very first time. Of course, my mother was sobbing like somebody had just died. I was sad too, but for a different reason. I knew my brother too well. I knew in my heart that he wouldn't succeed at college. My parents refused to face the facts, but I knew they had just mortgaged the farm for nothing.

During the first couple of years, my brother barely squeaked by in college. His grades were terrible, but just good enough that they didn't kick him out. So he kept soaking my parents for their money and having a big time at school while I stayed home and worked the farm with my father. When he was home, he would tell me of wild parties with lots of booze and loose women. It was the sixties and my brother had joined the hippie movement and the sexual revolution. I tried to tell my father that he was wasting his money on my brother, but he didn't want to hear it.

We hardly ever heard from my brother during that whole long semester. Every day my father would eagerly walk down to the mailbox hoping for a letter. And he would drag his feet back up the lane when he found the box empty. Conversations at the dinner table often turned to their hopes and dreams for my brother, but usually they ended in silence after someone would say, "But why doesn't he write?" He called home a couple of times, but the conversations were brief. He didn't have much to say about how things were going at college.

Things finally came to a head during his junior year. In November, we got a call from the police - in Nassau! My brother had been arrested for petty theft. Turns out that he had never even enrolled that semester. He had taken his college money and gone on an extended vacation with his girlfriend who left him when the money ran out. When the money got low he started gambling, and then it disappeared even faster. It ran out completely one night after he had paid a quarter to cross the bridge to the casino. After the evening of gambling, he didn't even have the quarter to get back across the bridge. He had to swim back. Then the first time he tried to steal, he was caught. That's when he turned to my father to bail him out. Now that he had spent half my parents net worth, he was ready to come home.

Of course, my father once again anted up the money for his travel. I just knew that my brother was really going to get it when he finally got home. Boy, was I wrong.

When my brother drove up, my father ran out to the car to greet him. He threw his arms around my brother with tears of joy in his eyes. He called for my Mother to bake a German Chocolate cake, my brother's favorite. My brother started to mumble some kind of an apology, but my father wouldn't hear of it. He put his arms around my brother's shoulder and said, "That's not necessary. I'm just glad you are home. We'll make a good place for you right here on the farm. We'll build you a little place on the north forty, and you can work right here with me."

When I heard that, I couldn't help myself. Through clinched teeth, I growled, "I can't believe you!" And I didn't know whether I meant it more for my brother or for my father. Then I spun on my heels and headed out to the barn.

Soon I heard the barn door creak open, and my father came in with a confused look on his face. He couldn't understand why I was so mad. I said, "Look, I've been here working for you like a slave while he has spent three years wasting your money, and ruining the reputation of the whole family. I can't believe you are going to let him come back, much less build him a house."

But my father just shook his head and said, "Listen. Your brother was as much as dead, but now he is alive. He was lost and now is found."

And I guess that was the turning point in my life. I could have forgiven them both right there. I could have accepted my brother back and helped him restore his life. I could have had something of the grace of my father. But I couldn't find anything but bitterness in my heart. I looked my father right in the eye, spit on the ground, and said, "He may be your son, but let me tell you one thing. From this moment on, I don't have a brother!" Then I stormed out of the barn.

For forty years, we worked the same farm without speaking to each other. We worshipped in the same church, but seated on opposite sides of the congregation. Our children never once played with each other. I didn't even speak to him at our father's funeral five years ago. When my brother came into my sight, I just pretended that he was not there.

And all these years I have never doubted that I was right. At least, not until last year when my wife was dying. There in the hospital with her face red with a raging fever, she pulled me close and talked to me like she never had before. I told her to save her strength, but the words could not be held back.

"I should have said this to you a long time ago," she whispered. "But forty years is too long! There has been too much hate, and it's done nobody any good. I have prayed for years that you would be reconciled with your brother. I prayed that you would see what it has done to you and to our family, but you never did. Remember, dear, God never turns people away."

"I'm going to miss you," she said. "But I want you to know that I am also going to miss the family life that we never had because of your hatred of your brother." Then with tears in her eyes, she whispered, "It's not too late. It's never too late." A few days later she was gone.

Her words haunted me for a long time. When I closed my eyes, I could see and hear her dying appeal to me all over again. Then I would look across the valley and see the house of my brother. Night after night, my wife came to me in my dreams, and I would hear her words again, "It's never too late."

Finally one morning, I got up, stepped out into the bright morning of a new day and headed across the valley. All the way to my brother's house, I tried to form the words I would say. I had my speech all set when I finally tapped on the door. My brother answered it. There he stood with the morning sun shining bright in his face.

I started to speak, but I was having trouble with a lump in my throat while I was choking back the tears. I heard his wife call from inside the house, "Who is it, honey?"

That's when my brother reached out his hand, took me by the shoulder and called back to her, "It's my brother. He was as much as dead, but now he is alive. He was lost and now is found." And he welcomed me into his house.

Standing there with the tears streaming down my cheeks, I knew that I was the one who had finally returned home. My brother had learned grace from my father, but I never had. And now I am an old man who has wasted far too many years, but maybe it's not too late for me to learn. I have found that my wife was right when she said, "It's never too late. It's never too late."