From Across the Ancient Waters (21 page)

“Reconciliation is the goal and purpose of God’s heart. He would have His created beings reconciled with His Father-heart. That is the ultimate oneness, the ultimate unity. Until this reconciliation is perfected between God and His created universe, all within that creation is at strife.”

Drummond paused and drew in a deep breath. His eyes closed briefly then opened, and he continued. “But this unity is not a reconciliation that can take place in some grand and sweeping way between
mankind
and God. It is a reconciliation that takes place individually—one man, one woman at a time. It takes place in
my
heart, not mankind’s heart. And it takes place in
your
heart, not the whole world’s heart.

“If God is anything,” he went on, “He is our Father. We have in this parable before us no mere story of a broken family. Our Lord here offers us a picture of the entire scope of the human drama. In a mere twenty verses, we are given a microcosm of the grand epic of the biblical saga. A loving father gives his children all they could ask for. Instead of being content with this provision, one decides to seek his fortune outside the loving abundance of this home. He squanders the inheritance that is his, at length returns to his father, repents of his foolishness, and is happily restored.

“This morning, however, it is not the son’s sin that I want us to focus on, but rather the father of this wonderful parable. For if we can truly see into the heart of this man whom Jesus described, we discover a picture of God found nowhere else in the Bible.

“Look, my friends—see the parable with new eyes. How does
God
respond when we return to Him?

“The Lord’s words tell us God’s response upon the return of a single wayward prodigal to his father’s home. They are more beautiful even than the son’s humble repentance. They are among the most important words in the Bible, for they tell us what God is like. ‘But when he was yet a great way off, his father saw him, and had compassion, and ran, and fell on his neck, and kissed him.’

“See the father of the parable! He is waiting with a great smile on his face, a smile of welcome, arms outstretched. He is not waiting to judge or punish his wayward son; he is waiting to embrace him and kiss him and love him and be all the home a father can be to him.

“The image makes my heart swell. God is waiting for us! He sees us coming even while we are yet far off! He runs
to
us. Can you grasp it—God running to us to throw His arms around us and kiss us in welcome!

“How different is this from the austere image of God presented by the old theologians. Does this sound to you like the God of the hellfire evangelists who rant about sinners in the hands of an angry God, about sinners being dangled over the flames of hell?

“Of course not. The Father of Jesus Christ does not demand that we repent in sackcloth and ashes before He will deign to look down upon us from His almighty throne, wielding thunderbolts of retribution if we do not. He is a
loving
Father, a
patient
Father, a
good
Father, a
forgiving
Father.

“Of course there are consequences if we refuse this reconciliation. But they are consequences we bring upon ourselves, consequences He observes with tears in His eyes. They are not the consequences of vengeance, retribution, and wrath. They are consequences of our own reluctance and stubbornness.

“In Luke 15 we are presented the Gospel in its fullness: Our Father is a good and loving and forgiving Father. He is the perfection of that broken and incomplete fatherhood that we all experience in our earthly families. Our earthly fathers are incomplete and broken. They have hurt us. We who are fathers have done a poor job of it and have been broken and incomplete examples of what God intended. We, too, have hurt our sons and daughters.

“But earthly fatherhood, in its imperfection, is intended as a reflection of what lies beyond. It is meant to lead us to our true Father. It is thus the human doorway to God Himself. In spite of its flawed nature, it is the most important relationship in the world for us to get
right
. We must make
our
hearts right with our fathers and mothers that we can be right with God.

“God is the
perfection
of the broken earthly image. He is everything we hoped our fathers would be, all we wanted them to be. He is the perfection of all that lies in your father’s heart and mine to be to our children that which we were incapable of being. He is a God whom to call
Father
. Not Monarch, not Terror, not Judge—though He can surely be those to those who continue to refuse Him—no, nor Tyrant nor Despot … not even Holy, though He is that, not even Omnipotent, though He is that … but He whom Jesus taught us to call ‘Abba, Father!’

“He is our Father
. And He waits for our return. In the embrace of His love is our home. There only is it possible for us to find the home in which we were created to live.

“That is where unity originates—in my heart and yours. The words of the prodigal are the universal words of the reconciliation of the universe. They are the words by which we acknowledge our disconnection from our Life-Source. They are the words by which we return to oneness with God, who is nothing more nor less … than our
Father.”

Drummond paused again and drew in a deep breath and closed his eyes briefly.

“It takes humility, great humility to seek reconciliation,” he went on after a moment. “Yet
humility
is the doorway into reconciliation. The prodigal son, whose story Jesus told, looked around and realized he was eating with pigs. He had had such dreams! He had been so eager to claim his inheritance and to live life, as we of this modern age say,
on his own
. But where had it brought him in the end? What did he have?

“Only loneliness. He was eating with pigs!

“When he realized it and admitted it … then was born in him the
humility
that leads to reconciliation. That humility, that swallowing of pride, that recognition of what he had sunk to, led him home to his father. It is humility that leads us home.

“It is that same humility that leads us to reconciliation in our lives. Humility, my friends. The humility to say to one we have wronged, to one who has wronged us, to one with whom misunderstandings have separated us for whatever reason … to say, ‘I no longer want to be disconnected. I do not want to be apart from this one whom I once loved.’ In humility I am ready to say, ‘I will arise and go to my brother … my sister … my mother … my daughter … my father … my son.’ I will say, ‘With all my heart I desire again to be in relationship with you. I am sorry to have failed in loving you, but I will try to love you again.’

“The humility to acknowledge, ‘I do not want to be separated one day more. I will arise and go.’

“Humility, my friends. Humility to recognize that life is not what we had hoped. Humility to recognize that life is full of mistakes, that we have made our own share of them. Humility to apologize. Humility to arise and go to the one we have hurt. Humility to go to one who has hurt us.

“Humility is the doorway, my friends. It is the door to all healings, the door that leads to our brethren, the door that leads to our sons and daughters and mothers and fathers and our friends … the door that leads to the heart of God.”

Drummond stopped. He glanced around for a moment and exhaled deeply. It was obvious he was spent. The church was silent.

Cryptic Words

I
n the humble cottage of Llanfryniog, Codnor Barrie’s great-aunt continued to stare into the fire. She had not yet poured out a drop of tea from the pot.

At length the old woman began to talk. Her speech was soft and faraway. “He wanted to take it from me,” she said in scarcely more than a whisper, “thought he had a right to it … but I wouldn’t give it to him … wouldn’t tell him where I’d kept it this many a year.”

The words were cryptic and strange. Percy asked no questions. Even after three weeks, he was still a stranger to this place. Nor could he keep from his brain reminders of his cousin’s claim that the old woman was a witch.

As Grannie rocked gently back and forth, she continued to say odd things in an otherworldly voice. Percy could not prevent a certain sensation upon neck and arms commonly known as feeling one’s flesh crawl.

Gwyneth busied herself around the cottage. She seemed to pay her aging aunt no heed. She had heard such oddities too many times to consider the words strange.

“Old man said it was
all
mine if only I could find it … out there, he said, though Sean always thought I knew more than I was telling … resented me having it … never know what fate your steps will lead you to, the old pirate said … now look where Sean’s have led him … dead on the same shores … just like the old sea dog we found.”

The cottage fell silent. By and by Grannie came to herself. She glanced about, saw the tea, reached out her hand and touched the lukewarm pot, then gave a little chuckle. “Have I fallen asleep in my chair?” she said.

“You were talking about the old man again, Grannie.”

“Ah,” she nodded. “It’s no wonder, after what happened to poor Sean. My mind’s been turned toward that day ever since I heard the evil news. Shall I put on a new pot?” she added, rising again to her feet.

“I have to go home, Grannie,” said Gwyneth. “I have to make tea for Papa.”

“Don’t forget the bread then, child,” said Grannie. She rose and picked up a fine brown loaf from where it stood on the table.

Percy rose also. “Thank you for the tea,” he said.

“The door of my cottage is always open to you.” Grannie smiled. “I hope you will visit me again. Gwyneth, dear,” she added, “here’s the loaf for your papa.”

By now Gwyneth’s shoes were back on her feet, and she had both hands available for it.

Grannie’s two visitors walked outside. Wondering if his cousins were still about, Percy glanced up and down the street. When he turned back, Gwyneth was already making her way homeward out of the village, carrying the large round loaf under her arm. Percy hurried after her.

“Where are you going, Percy?” she asked as he jogged up to her side.

“Home with you first.”

“W–w–with me!” exclaimed the girl in delighted surprise.

“I’m going to make sure Courtenay and Florilyn aren’t sneaking about somewhere waiting to hurt you. Once you are home, then I’ll return to the manor.”

“Thank you, Percy. N–n–no one’s ever looked after me like that before.”

“You’ve taken care of me twice now,” laughed Percy. “Isn’t it time I returned the favor?”

They continued out of Llanfryniog and up the rising plateau. Gwyneth felt safer with her grand knight beside her than she thought she had ever felt in all her life. She talked the whole way, explaining to Percy about every inch of the terrain about them.

Arrows of Prayer

D
rummond concluded the remainder of his sermon quickly, endured the handshakes and smiles and well-wishes at the door, then escaped with his wife to the solace of the parsonage.

She felt the ache of his heart. She said nothing, merely slipped her hand through his arm as they walked home. The mother, too, shared the universal parental heartache of unrequited love.

“What do you think, Mary?” He sighed at length, still reflecting on his own message. “What were the father and mother doing the whole time their son was reducing himself to such foolish straits?”

Both pondered the question as they walked.

“Even as I was speaking,” Drummond went on, “I found myself considering the parable from that light, wishing our Lord had spent more time on the
parental
side of the tale rather than following only the son. Now that we find ourselves in such circumstances, I am hungry for a specific example.”

“What could the father and mother do but pray?” suggested his wife. “It seems all other means of parental influence were taken from them.”

“Except keeping arms ready to open themselves,” added the vicar with a sad smile.

His wife nodded.

They reached home and went inside. Mary put on water for tea. In ten or fifteen minutes, husband and wife sat down together with steaming cups in the parlor of the parsonage. Oddly, for this man and woman of God whom so many in the city looked to as pillars of spirituality, Edward and Mary Drummond were in truth lonely at such times. Their family was broken, and they knew it.

“Did we do the right thing, Mary,” said Drummond at length, “by sending Percy to the country?”

“I truly believe so,” she answered. “Here he was only becoming wilder by the day. A city’s ways are not healthy for a rebellious spirit.”

“The country can sometimes allow God’s voice to get through more directly.” Edward nodded. “I only hope our son will open himself to its influences.”

“God has people everywhere,” rejoined Mary. “Percy will come into contact with those the Lord will use to help his eyes open.”

His wife’s words caused the vicar to burst into spontaneous prayer. “Oh Lord, our Father,” he said, “we ask You to bring our dear Percy into contact with Your people. May they touch his heart in ways even he perhaps does not see.”

They fell silent for several moments.

“Your prayer reminds me of that wonderful sermon you preach from time to time about arrows of prayer,” said Mary. “It is truly one of the profound truths God has revealed to you—how we can launch prayer arrows up into God’s heart and then must trust Him to resend them down to earth where He will in His time, turn them into arrows of light and clarity in human souls.”

“Even miraculously sending the answer arrows occasionally
before
the prayer arrows are launched.” Edward nodded. “Our notions of time are nothing to God.” Edward became thoughtful. “Your mentioning that …,” he mused. “You know, I honestly don’t know if I have prayed that prayer for our own Percy.”

“Lord,” Mary began almost immediately, “wherever our dear Percy is at this moment, whoever he is with, whatever he is thinking, we ask that You would be there beside him, inside him—speaking, wooing, luring him to Your heart. Send arrows of clarity into his thoughts, pleasant reminders and fond memories.”