The Prodigal'S Reception
DELIVERED ON SUNDAY MORNING, SEPTEMBER 4, 1864, BY C. H. SPURGEON, AT
THE METROPOLITAN TABERNACLE, NEWINGTON.
"And he arose and came to his father. 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."
Luke 15:20.
THERE he is! He is as wretched as misery itself–as filthy as his brute
associates who could satisfy themselves with husks–while he could not.
His clothes hang about him in rags and what he is on the outside, that
he is within. He is disgraced in the eyes of the good and the virtuous
remember him with indignation. He has some desires to go back to his
father's house but these desires are not sufficient to alter his
condition. Mere desires have not scraped the filth from him, nor have
they so much as patched his rags. Whatever he may or may not desire, he
is still filthy, still disgraced, still an alien from his father's
house–and he knows it–for, by God's Grace, he has come to himself.
He would have been angry if we had said as much as this before, but now
we cannot describe him in words too black. With many tears and sighs he
assures us that he is even worse than he appears to be and that no man
can know all the depth of the vileness of his conduct–he has spent his
living with harlots–he has despised a generous parent's love and
broken loose from his wise control. He has done evil with both his
hands to the utmost of his strength and opportunity. There he stands,
notwithstanding this confession, just what I have described him to
be–for even though he has said within himself, "I have sinned"–yet
that confession has not removed his griefs.
He acknowledges that he is not worthy to be called a son–and it is
true he is not. But his unworthiness is not removed by his
consciousness of it nor by his confession of it. He has no claims to a
father's love. If that father shuts the door in his face, he acts with
justice. If he shall refuse so much as to speak a single word, except
words of rebuke, no one can blame the father, for the son has so sadly
erred. To this the son utters no denial. He confesses that if he is
cast away forever, he well deserves it.
This picture, I know, is the photograph of some who are now present.
You feel your vileness and sinfulness but you cannot look upon that
sense of vileness as in any way extenuating or altering your condition.
You feel, but you cannot plead, your feelings. You confess this morning
that you have desires towards God but that you have no rights to Him–
you cannot demand anything at His hands. If your soul were sent to
Hell, His righteous Law approves it and so does your own conscience!
You can see your rags. You can mark your filthiness. You can long for
something better but you are no better. You have no more claims than
you used to have upon God's mercy. You stand here today a
self-convicted offender against the loving kindness and holiness of
God.
I pray that to such of you as are in this shape I may be the bearer of
a message from God to your soul this morning. O you who know the Lord,
put up earnest and silent prayers just now that my message may come
home with power to troubled consciences! And I beseech you, for your
own profit, look back to the hole of the pit where you were dug and to
the miry clay where you were drawn and remember how God received you!
And while we talk of what He is willing and able to do to the far-off
sinners, let your souls leap with joyous gratitude at the recollection
of how He received you into His love and made you partakers of His
Grace in days gone by.
There are two things in the text–the first is the condition of many a
seeker–he is yet a great way off. And then, secondly, the matchless
kindness of the Father towards him.
I. First, dear Friends, THE CONDITION OF SUCH A SEEKER–HE IS YET A
GREAT WAY OFF. He is a great way off if you consider one or two things.
Remember his need of strength. This poor young man had, for some time,
been without food–brought so very low that the husks upon which the
swine fed would have seemed a dainty to him if he could have eaten
them. He is so hungry that he has become emaciated and to him every
mile has the weariness of leagues within it.
It costs him many pains and sore griefs to drag himself along, even
though it is but an inch. So the sinner is a long way off from God when
you consider his utter need of strength to come to God. Even such
strength as God has given him is very painfully used. God has given him
strength enough to desire salvation but those desires are always
accompanied with deep and sincere grief for sin. The point which he has
already reached has exhausted all his power and all he can do is fall
down before Jesus and say–
"Oh, for this no strength have I,
My strength is at Your feet to lie."
He is a great way off, again, if you consider his need of courage. He
longs to see his father but yet the probabilities are that if his
father should come he would run away–the very sound of his father's
footsteps would act upon him as they did on Adam in the garden–he
would hide himself among the trees. So instead of crying after his
father, the great father would have to cry after him–"Where are you,
poor fallen creature? Where are you?" His need of courage, therefore,
makes the distance long–for every step up to now has been taken as
though into the jaws of death. "Ah," says the sinner, "it must be a
long time before I can dare to hope–for my inequities have gone over
my head so that I cannot look up."
Are you, then, in alarm and dread this morning? Do your prayers seem to
have been no prayers at all? When you think of God, does terror come
over your mind and you feel that you are a long, long way from Him? Do
you imagine that it is not likely that He will hear your cries nor give
heed to your words? You are yet a great way off. You are a great way
off when we consider the difficulty of the way of repentance. John
Bunyan tells us that Christian found, when he went back to the arbor
after his lost roll, that it was very hard work going back. Every
backslider finds it so and every penitent sinner knows that there is a
bitterness in mourning for sin comparable to the loss of one's only
son.
A drowning man feels no great pain–the sensations of drowning are even
said to be pleasant. It is only when the man is being restored to
life–when the blood begins to make the veins tingle because life leaps
there, when once again the nerves are sensitive–then, we are told, the
whole body is full of many agonies! But then they are the agonies of
life! And so the poor penitent feels the goal must be a great way off,
for if he had to feel as he now feels, even for a month, it were too
long a time. And if he had to journey many miles as he now journeys, so
painfully, with such bleeding feet, it would, indeed, be a great way!
Let us look into this matter and show that while the road seems long on
this account, it really is long if we view it in a certain light. There
are many seeking sinners who are a great way off in their life. I think
I see the man now and hear him thus bewail himself–"I have left off my
drunkenness. I could not sit where I used to sit by the hour. I thank
God I shall never be seen reeling through the streets again, for that
groveling lust I detest. I have given up Sabbath-breaking and I am
found in God's House. And I have endeavored, as much as I can, to
renounce the habit of swearing, but still I am a great way off–I do
not feel as if I could yet lay hold of Christ for I cannot master my
own passions yet.
"An old companion stopped me this week and he had not long been talking
before I found the old man was in me and the old lusting came up into
my face again. Why, Sir, the other day an oath came rapping out. I
thought 1 had got over it, but I had not–I am a great way off. When I
read of what saints are and observe what true Christians are, I do feel
that my conduct is so inconsistent and so widely apart from what it
ought to be that I know that I am a great way off."
"Ah, dear Friend, you are. And if you had to come to God by the way of
your own righteousness you would never reach Him for He is not thus to
be found. Christ Jesus is the way! He is the safe, sure, and perfect
road to God. He who sees Jesus has seen the Father. But he who looks to
himself will only see despair. The road to Heaven by Mount Sinai is
impassable by mortal man, but Calvary leads to Glory! The secret places
of the stairs are in the wounds of Jesus.
Again, you feel yourself a great way off as to knowledge. "Why," you
say, "before I felt thus I considered myself a master of all theology.
I could twist the doctrines round my fingers. When I listened to a
sermon I felt quite able to criticize it and to give my judgment. Now I
see that my judgment was about as valuable as the criticism of a blind
man upon a picture, for I was without spiritual'sight. Now I feel
myself to be a fool! I do know what sin means, but only to a degree.
Even here I feel that I am not conscious of the heinousness of human
guilt. I have heard the doctrine of the Atonement of Christ and I thank
God I know it to some degree, but the excellence and glory of the
Substitutionary Sacrifice which Christ offered–I confess I do not
fully comprehend."
The sinner's confession now is that instead of understanding Scripture
he finds he needs to go, like a child, to school to learn the A B C of
it. "O Sir," he says, "I am a great way off from God for I am so
ignorant, so foolish. I seem to be but as a beast when I think of the
deep things of God." Ah, poor Soul! Poor young wandering Brother! I
wonder not that it seems so to you for the ignorance of the carnal man
is, indeed, fearful, and only God can give you light. But He can give
it to you in a momentand the distance between you and Him upon the
score of ignorance can be bridged at once and you may comprehend even
today, with all saints, what are the heights and depths and know the
love of Christ which passes knowledge.
In another point many an earnest seeker is a great way off, I mean in
his repentance. "Alas," says he, "I cannot repent as I ought. If only I
could feel the brokenness of heart which I have heard and seen in some!
Oh, what would I give for penitential sighs! How thankful would I be if
my head were waters and my eyes fountains of tears. If I could even
feel that I was as humble as the poor publican and could stand with
downcast eyes and beat upon my breast and say, 'God be merciful to me a
sinner.' But, alas, I have been a hearer of the Word for years and all
the progress I have made is so little that while I know the Gospel is
true, I do not feel it. I know myself to be a sinner, and sometimes I
mourn over it, but my mourning is so superficial, my repentance is a
repentance that needs to be repented'of O Sir, if God would use the
heaviest hammer that He had–if He would but break my heart–every
broken fragment should bless His name!"
"I wish I had a genuine repentance. Oh, how I pant to be brought to
feel that I am lost and to desire Christ with that vehement desire
which will not take a denial. But in this point my heart seems hard as
Hell-hardened steel. Cold as a rock of ice. It will not, cannotyield
though wooed by Divine love. Adamant itself may run in liquid torrents,
but my soul yields to nothing. Lord, break it! Lord, break it!"
Ah, poor Heart. I see you are a great way off, but do you know if my
Lord should appear to you this morning and say to you, "I have loved
you with an everlasting love," your heart would break in a moment?–
"Law and terrors do but harden, All the while they work alone. But a
sense of blood-bought pardon, Can dissolve a heart of stone."
Great way off as you are, if the Lord pardons you while yet callous and
consciously hard of heart, will you not then fall at His feet and
commend that great love with which He loved you–even when you were
dead in trespasses and sins?
Yes, but I think I hear one say, "There is another point in which I
feel a great way off, for I have little or no faith. I have heard faith
preached every Sunday. I know what it is–I think I do–but I cannot
reach it. I know that if I cast myself wholly upon Christ I shall be
saved. I quite comprehend that He does not ask anything of me, any
willings, or doings, or feelings–I know that Christ is willing to
receive the greatest sinner out of Hell if that sinner will but come
and simply trust Him. I have tried to do it! Sometimes I have thought I
had faith, but then, again, when I have looked at my sins I have
doubted so dreadfully that I perceive I have no faith at all! There are
bright moments with me when I think I can say–
'My faith is built on nothing less, Than Jesus' blood and
righteousness,' but oh, when I feel my corruptions within rising upon
me, I hear a voice saying, 'The Philistines are upon you, Samson,' and
straightway I discover my own weakness. I have not the faith that I
want! I am a great way off from it and I fear that I shall never
possess it."
Yes, my Brethren, I perceive your difficulty, for I have felt the
sorrow of it myself. But oh, my Lord, who is the Giver of faith–who is
exalted on high to give repentance and remission of sins–can give you
the faith you so much desire and can cause you, this morning, to rest
with perfect confidence upon the work which He has finished for you! To
gather up all things in one word, the truly penitent sinner feels that
he is yet a great way off in everything. There is no point upon which
you can talk with him but it will be sure to lead to a confession of
his deficiency. Begin to put him in the scales of the sanctuary and he
cries, "Alas, before you put in the weights I can tell you I shall be
found wanting." Bring him to the touchstone and he shrinks from it!
"No," he says, "but I cannot endure any sort of trial–
'All unholy and unclean, I am nothing else but sin.'"
Look, look how well my Master has pictured your case in this
parable–"Yet a great way off"–yet covered with rags! Yet polluted
with filth! Yet in disgrace! Yet a stranger to your Father's house!
There is only this one point about you–you have your face towards your
Father–you have a desire towards God and you would, oh, you would if
you could, lay hold upon eternal life! But you feel too far off for
anything like comfortable hope.
Now I must confess I feel many fears about you who are in this state. I
am afraid lest you should come so far and yet go back–for there are
many whom we thought had come as far as this and yet they have gone
back, after all. Oh, remember that desires after God will not change
you so as to save you! You must find Christ! Remember that to say, "I
will arise," is not enough, nor even to arise–you must never rest till
your Father has given you the kiss–till He has put the best robe on
you.
I am afraid lest you should rest satisfied and say, "I am in a good
state. The minister tells us that many are brought to such a state
before they are saved. I will stop here." My dear Friend, it is a good
state to pass through, but it is a bad state to rest in. I pray you
never are content with a sense of sin, never be satisfied with merely
knowing that you are not what you ought to be. It never cures the fever
for a man to know he has it. His knowledge is in some degree a good
sign, for it proves that the fever has not yet driven him to delirium.
But it never gives a man perfect health to know that he is sick. It is
a good thing for him to know it, for he will not otherwise send for the
physician–but unless it leads to that he will die whether he feels
himself to be sick or not.
A mere consciousness that you are hungry while your father's hired
servants have bread enough to spare will not lessen your hunger–you
need more than this. You are a great way off and I beseech you remember
what the danger is lest you should stop here or should lose what
sensibility you already have. Perhaps despair may come upon you. Some
have committed suicide while under a sense of the greatness of their
distance from God because they dared not look to the Savior. Our
prayers shall go up to God that the second part of our text may come
true to you and that backsliding and despair alike may be prevented by
the speedy coming of God dressed in the robes of Grace to meet your
guilty soul and give you joy and peace through believing!
II. Secondly–and O, may the Master give us His help–we have to
consider THE MATCHLESS KINDNESS OF THE HEAVENLY FATHER. We must take
each word and dwell upon it. First of all we have here Divine
observation. "When he was yet a great way off his father saw him." It
is true He has always seen him. God sees the sinner in every state and
in every position. Yes, and sees him with an eye of love, too–such a
chosen sinner as is described in this text–not with complacency, but
with affection God looks upon His wandering chosen ones.
I say that Father saw His son when he spent his living with harlots. He
saw him with deep sorrow when he gladly would have filled his belly
with the husks which the swine ate. But now, if there can be such a
thing as for Divine Omniscience to become more exact, the Father sees
him with an eye full of a more tender love, a greater care. "His father
saw him." Oh, what a sight it was for a father to see! His son, it is
true, but his reprobate son, who had dishonored his father's
name–brought down the name of an honorable house to be mentioned among
the dregs and scum of the earth!
There he is! What a sight for a father's eye! He is filthy, as though
he had been rolling in the mire. And his fine clothing has long ago
lost its fine colors and hangs about him in wretched rags. The father
does not turn away and try to forget him–he fixes his full gaze upon
him. Sinner, you know that God sees you this morning! Sitting in this
house you are observed by the God of Heaven. There is not a desire in
your heart unread by Him, nor a tear in your eye which He does not
observe! I tell you He has seen your midnight sins. He has heard your
cursing and your blasphemies and yet He has loved you notwithstanding
all that you have done!
You could hardly have been a worse rebel against Him and yet He has
noted you in His book of love and determined to save you! The eye of
His love has followed you wherever you have gone. Is there not some
comfort here? Why could not he see his father? Was it the effect of the
tears in his eyes that he could not see? Or was it that his father was
of quicker sight than he? Sinner, you can not see God for you are
unbelieving and carnal and blind, but He can see you! Your tears of
penitence block up your sight, but your Father is quick of eye and He
beholds you and loves you now. In every glance there is love.
"His father saw him." Observe this was a loving observation, for it is
written, "His father saw him." He did not see him as a mere casual
observer. He did not note him as a man might note his friend's child
with some pity and benevolence, but he marked him as a father, alone,
can do. What a quick eye a parent has! Why, I have known a young man
come home, perhaps for a short holiday–the mother has heard nothing,
not even a whisper, as to her son's conduct and yet she cannot help
observing to her husband, "There is a something about John which makes
me suspect that he is not going on as he should do. I do not know, my
Husband," she says, "what it is. But yet I am sure he is getting among
bad companions." She will read his character at once. And the father
notes something, too. He cannot precisely say what, but he knows it to
be cause for anxiety.
But here we have a Father who can see everything and who has as much of
the quickness of love as He has of the certainty of knowledge. He can,
therefore, see every spot and bruise and note every putrefying sore. He
sees His poor son right through as though he were a vase of crystal–He
reads his heart–not merely the telltale garments. Not merely the
sorrowful tale of the unwashed face and those clouted shoes, but He can
read his soul! He understands the whole of his miserable plight. O poor
Sinner, there is no need for you to give information to your God for He
knows it already! You need not pick your words in prayer in order to
make your case plain and easy to understand! God can see it! All you
have to do is to uncover your wounds, your bruises and your putrefying
sores and say, "My Father, You see it all, the black tale you read in a
moment. My Father, have pity upon me."
The next thought to be well considered is Divine compassion. "When he
saw him he had compassion on him." Does not the word "compassion" mean
suffering with, or, fellow-suffering? What is compassion, then, but
putting yourself into the place of the sufferer and feeling his grief?
If I may say so, the father put himself into the son's rags and then
felt as much pity for him as that poor ragged prodigal could have felt
for himself. I do not know how to bring up your compassion this morning
unless it is by supposing that it is your own case.
I saw, not many hours ago, a young man who brought to my mind the
prodigal in this case–his face marked with innumerable lines of sin
and wretchedness. His body lean and emaciated, his clothes
close-buttoned–his whole appearance the very mirror of woe. He knocked
at my door. I knew his situation–I cannot hurt him by telling it. He
had disgraced his family–not once or twice–but many times. At last he
drew out what money he had in the business of a respectable family,
came up to London with four hundred pounds and in about five weeks
spent it all!
And, without a single farthing to help himself, he often begs for
bread. And I fear that he has often crept at night into the parks to
sleep and thus has brought aches and pains into his bones which will be
with him till he dies. He wanders the streets by day a vagabond and a
reprobate. I have written to his friends–the case has been put before
them. They will not have anything to do with him. And considering his
shameful conduct, I do not wonder. He has no father and no mother left.
If he were helped beyond mere food and lodging, as far as we can judge,
it would be money thrown away.
If he were helped, he seems so desperately set on wickedness that he
would do the same again. Yet, as I think, I can but desire to see him
have one more chance, at least, and he would have it, I doubt not, if
his father yet lived. But others feel the fountains of their love are
stayed. As I think of him, I cannot but feel that if he were a son of
mine and I were his father and I saw him in such a case come to my
door, whatever the crime was that he had committed, I must fall upon
his neck and kiss him. The biggest sin could not put out forever the
sparks of paternal love. I might condemn the sin in sharpest terms and
most severely. I might regret that he had ever been born and cry with
David, "O my son Absalom, my son, my son Absalom! Would God I had died
for you!" but I could not shut him out of my house, nor refuse to call
him my child. My child he is and my child he shall be till he dies.
You feel just now that if it were your child you would do the same.
That is how God feels towards you, His chosen, His repentant child. You
are His child–I hope so, I trust so–those desires which you have in
your soul towards Him make me feel that you are one of His children.
And as God looks out of Heaven He knows what you mean. What is it? What
shall I say? No, I need not describe, but, "Like as a father pities his
children, so the Lord pities them that fear Him." He will have
compassion upon you. He will receive you to His bosom–be of good
courage, for the text says, "He had compassion on him."
Notice and observe carefully the swiftness of this Divine love. "He
ran." Probably he was walking on the top of his house and looking out
for his son, when one morning he just caught a glimpse of a poor sorry
figure in the distance. If he had been anything but the father he would
not have known it to be his son. But he looked and looked again, till
at last he said, "It is he! Oh, what marks of famine are upon him and
of suffering, too!" And down comes the old gentleman–I think I see him
running downstairs and the servants come to the windows and the doors,
and say, "Where is Master going? I have not seen him run at that rate
for many a day."
See, there he goes! He does not take the road for that is a little
round about. But there is a gap through the hedge and he is jumping
over it! The straightest way that he can find he chooses. And before
the son has had time to notice who it is, he is on him and has his arms
about him, falling upon his neck and kissing him! I remember a young
prodigal who was received in the same way. Here he stands. It is I,
myself. I sat in a little Chapel, little dreaming that my Father saw
me. Certainly I was a great way off.
I felt something of my need of Christ, but I did not know what I must
do to be saved. Though taught the letter of the Word, I was spiritually
ignorant of the plan of salvation. Though taught it from my youth up, I
knew it not. I felt, but I did not feel what I wished to feel. If ever
there was a soul that knew itself to be far off from God, I was that
soul. And yet in a moment, in one single moment–no sooner had I heard
the words–"Look unto Me and be you saved, all the ends of the
earth"–no sooner had I turned my eyes to Jesus Crucified than I felt
my perfect reconciliation with God! I knew my sins were then forgiven!
There was no time for getting out of my heavenly Father's way–it was
done and done in an instant! And in my case, at least, He ran and fell
upon my neck to kiss me. I hope that will be the case this
morning–before you can get out of this place–before you can get back
to your old doubts and fears and sighs and cries–I hope here the Lord
of Love will run and meet you and fall upon your neck and kiss you!
After noticing thus–observation, compassion and swiftness, do not
forget the nearness–"He fell upon his neck and kissed him." This I can
understand by experience, but it is too wonderful for me to explain.
"He fell upon his neck." He did not stand at a distance and say, "John,
I would be very glad to kiss you but you are too filthy. I do not know
what may be under those filthy rags. I do not feel inclined to fall
upon your neck just yet–you are too far gone for me. I love you, but
there is a limit to the display of love. When I have got you into a
proper state, then I may manifest my affection to you but I cannot just
now, while you are so very foul."
Oh, no! But beforehe is washed He falls on his neck–thereis the wonder
of it! I can understand how God manifests His love to a soul that is
washed in Jesus' blood and knows it. But how He could fall upon the
neck of a foul, filthy sinner as such! There it is–not as sanctified,
not as having anything good in himself–but as nothing but a filthy,
foul, desperate rebel, God falls upon his neck and kisses him! Oh,
strange miracle of love! The riddle is solved when you remember that
God never had looked upon that sinner as he was in himself–He had
always looked upon him as he was in Christ!
And when He fell upon that prodigal's neck, He did, in effect, only
fall upon the neck of His once-suffering Son, Jesus Christ, and He
kissed the sinner because He saw him in Christ! He did not see the
sinner's loathsomeness, but saw only Christ's loveliness and therefore
kissed him as He would have kissed his Substitute. Observe how near God
comes to the sinner! It was said of that eminent saint and martyr,
Bishop Hooper, that on one occasion a man in deep distress was allowed
to go into his prison to tell his tale of conscience. But Bishop Hooper
looked so sternly upon him and addressed him so severely, at first,
that the poor soul ran away and could not get comfort until he had
sought out another minister of a gentler aspect.
Now Hooper really was a gracious and loving soul, but the sternness of
his manner kept the penitent off. There is no such stern manner in our
heavenly Father! He loves to receive His prodigals. When He comes there
is no, "Hold off!" No "Keep off!" to the sinner. No, He falls upon his
neck and He kisses him! There is yet another thought to be brought out
of the metaphor of kissing. We are not to pass that over without
dipping our cup in the honey. In kissing his son the father recognizes
relationship. He said, with emphasis, "You are myson," and the prodigal
was–
" To his Father's bosom pressed, Once for all a child confessed."
Again, that kiss was the seal of forgiveness. He would not have kissed
him if he had been angry with him. He forgave him, forgave him all.
There was, moreover, something more than forgiveness–there was
acceptance–"I receive you back into my heart as though you were worthy
of all that I give to your elder brother and therefore I kiss you."
Surely this was also a kiss of delight–as if he took pleasure in him,
delighting in him, feasting his eyes with the sight of him and feeling
more happy to see him than to see all his fields and the fatted calves
and all the treasures that he possessed! His delight was in seeing this
poor restored child. Surely this is all summed up in a kiss.
And if this morning my Father and your Father should come out to meet
mourning penitents, in a moment He will show you that you are His
children! You shall say, "Abba, Father," on your road to your own
house! You shall feel that your sins are all forgiven, that every
particle has been cast behind Jehovah's back! You shall feel today that
you are accepted–as your faith looks to Christ you shall see that God
accepts you–because Christ your Substitute is worthy of God's love and
God's delight! I trust you shall, this very morning, delight yourself
in God, because God delights Himself in you and you shall hear Him
whisper in your ear, "You shall be called Hephzibah . . . for the Lord
delights in you."
I wish I could picture such a text as this as it ought to be. It needs
some tender, sympathetic heart–some man who is the very soul of
pathos–to work out the tender touches of such a verse as this! But,
oh, though I cannot describe it, I hope you will feel it and that is
better than description. I come not here to paint the scene, except to
be the brush in God's hand to paint it on your hearts. There are some
of you who can say, "I do not want descriptions, for I have felt it. I
went to Christ and told Him my case and prayed Him to meet me. Now I
believe on Him and I have gone my way rejoicing in Him."
We will just say these words and have done. In summing up, one may
notice that this sinner, though he was a great way off, was not
received to full pardon and adoption and acceptance by a
gradualprocess, but he was received at once! He was not allowed to
enter into the outhouse first and to sleep in a barn at night. And then
afterwards allowed to come, sometimes, and have his meals with the
servants in the kitchen. And then afterwards allowed to sit at the end
of the table and by degrees brought near. No. The father fell on his
neck and kissed him the first moment! He gets as near to God, as he
ever will, the very first moment! So a saved soul may not enjoy and
know so much, but he is as near and dear to God the first moment he
believes as he ever will be–a true heir of all things in Christ and as
truly so as even when he shall mount to Heaven to be glorified and to
be like his Lord.
Oh, what a wonder is this! Fresh from his pigsty, was he not? Yet in a
father's bosom! Fresh from the swine with their grunts in his ears and
now he hears a father's loving words! A few days ago he was putting
husks to his mouth and now it is a father' s lips that are on his lips.
What a change and all at once! I say there is no gradual process in
this, but the thing is done at once–in a moment he comes to his
father–his father comes to him and he is in his father' s arms!
Observe again, as there was not a gradual reception, there was not a
partialreception. He was not forgiven on conditions. He was not
received to his father's heart if he would do so-and-so. No. There were
no "ifs," no "buts." He was kissed and clothed and feasted without a
single condition of any kind whatever. No questions asked–his father
had cast his offenses behind his back in a moment and he was received
without even a censure or a rebuke. It was not a partial reception. He
was not received to some things and refused others. He was not, for
instance, allowed to call himself a child, but to think of himself an
inferior. No! He wears the best robe. He has the ring on his finger. He
has the shoes on his feet. And he joins in eating the fatted calf.
And so the sinner is not received to a second-class place, but he is
taken to the full position of a child of God. It is not a gradual nor
yet a partial reception. And once more, it is not a temporary
reception. His father did not kiss him and then turn him out at the
back door. He did not receive him for a time, and then afterwards say
to him, "Go your way. I have had pity upon you. You have now a new
start–go into the far country and mend your ways." No, the father
would say to him what he had already said to the elder brother, "Son,
you are ever with me and all that I have is yours."
In the parable, the son could not have the goods restored for he had
spent his part. But in truth itself and matter of fact, God makes the
man who comes in at the eleventh hour equal with the one who came in at
the first hour of the day–He gives every man the penny. And He gives
to the child who has been the most wandering the same privileges and
ultimately the same heritage which He gives to His own who have been
these many years with Him and have not transgressed His Commandments.
That is a remarkable passage in one of the Prophets, where he says,
"Ekron as a Jebusite," meaning that the Philistine, when converted,
should be treated just the same as the original inhabitants of
Jerusalem–that the branches of the olive which were grafted in have
the same privileges as the original branches! When God takes men from
being heirs of wrath and makes them heirs of Grace they have just as
much privilege at the first as though they had been heirs of Grace
twenty years! In God's sight they always were heirs of Grace and from
all eternity He viewed His most wandering sons–
"Not as they stood inn Adam's fall, When sin and ruin covered all. But
as they'll stand another day, Fairer than the sun's meridian ray."
O, I would to God that He would in His infinite mercy bring some of His
own dear children home this day and He shall have the praise, world
without end. Amen.