Luke 15:1-3,11b-32

Once upon a time there was a father, who had a son whom he loved very much. And every morning when the little boy arose, and every night when he went to bed, the father would sing to him. The song was always the same, sung off-key, in a tune and in words that came out of his heart. And it went something like this:

And the little boy would giggle, and the father would laugh.

As the boy grew, every morning and every night he would continue to sing his song. But the boy grew embarrassed by it. "Oh, dad," he would say. "That's silly. I'm too big for that." So the father would quietly slip into the boy's room and whisper it to the boy before he awoke, and sneak into his room after he had gone to sleep, and softly sing into his ear:

So the song went on. Every morning and every night. Whether the boy had been bad or good. Whether the father was busy that day or not. Year after year, he softly sang his song into the boy's ear, never missing a day, until the boy had grown up and moved away. And even then, even through the many years when he heard little from his son, the father would look at the boy's picture on the wall, and at the picture in his wallet. And he would continue his song:

One day at work, the father felt a deep pain in his chest. An ambulance was called and he was taken to the hospital, where the doctors said that he had a very serious condition. They said it was good that they were called immediately, so that they could save him. And someone thought to call the son, whose address and phone number were written on the back of an old, tattered picture in the father's wallet. An operation was done, after which many tubes went in and out of the man's body, and he was hooked up to machines which monitored him and administered medicine to him. It was all very frightening so that the father, himself, wondered whether he would live through it all. He also wondered what his life might be like if he did live - whether he would be able to plant his garden again, and fish, and do the things he loved to do. He wondered whether he would see his son again. And he wondered whether he had the strength to get through this.

Then, as he wondered these things, he felt a hand on his hand. It wasn't the rough hand of the doctor, or the gentler hand of one of the nurses. It was a large hand, but infinitely familiar to him. And he heard a voice. It was singing to him, softly, and somewhat out of key, in a tune and in words that came right out of his own heart:

And he was happy.

Your Father is waiting. He is waiting for you. He has sung his song throughout your life. From the day he created the first star and flung it out into space, until the last one blinks out far into eternity, he continues to sing his love song to you. Sometimes he has sung it joyfully, exuberantly in your presence. Other times he has softly whispered it in your ear after the lights have all gone out, in the stillness of the night. Sometimes he has sung it to an old photo he has kept in his wallet, a tattered picture of a child who moved far away from him, but who still lives in the middle of his heart.

"Child of God, you are mine forever. I will never leave you nor forsake you. You are always in my heart," he whispers to you. Then he begins to sing softly, with the music of stars swirling through space, with the whisper of clouds, and the song of waves lapping gently against the shore. He sings it with the music of crickets, of booming bullfrogs, and the laughter of many children. He sings the song of his heart, with the tune of the universe, to the child of his dream, the child in his heart - to you:

Amen.