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Both the one who makes men holy and those who are made holy are of the same family So Jesus is not ashamed to call them brothers. Hebrews 2:11

    British preacher and author J. H. Jowett called Jesus a “receiver of wrecks.’ I love that. But there are millions of people in each generation who live their lives without getting involved in things that wreck their lives. Not everyone is a “prodigal son” who has ended up in a pigpen, eating slop. The return of a prodigal is a beautiful and joyous thing, but it makes no sense to say it is more satisfying and lovely than a boy or a girl who never wallowed in shame and degeneracy. Jesus’ Luke 15 parable shouldn’t be understood to say otherwise.

    It’s finer and nobler that people resist the call of the “far country” and live in loving submission to God. It’s true that we’re all sinners and in need of forgiving grace (without exception), but it isn’t true that we’ve all wallowed in moral filth to the extent that our lives became a sewer. And while it’s true that God can make great use of those who’ve plumbed the depths of depravity and that the angels rejoice when his redeeming grace restores them to forgiveness and honorable living, we mustn’t give the impression that to miss the pigpen is a disadvantage. Those of us who’ve wallowed in muck and led others to join us know what it means to look at the lives of gallant and honorable people and wish we had not been so wicked.

    But having said all that, God’s joy over moral wrecks who have been welcomed home is something to behold. More amazing is to recognize that someone as holy, as clean, and as noble as the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ welcomes them—with joy! This is precisely what offended one of Christianity’s early critics, Celsus. He looked at these disciples of Christ and observed that they were all nobodies, ex-criminals, and slaves. There was hardly an honorable person among them. And as far as society viewed things, at least in Corinth, the famous apostle Paul saw it as Celsus saw it. He reminded the Corinthians that there were very few “big names” among them. Wasn’t it John Bunyan who said he was glad that John 3:16 said “whosoever”? If it had said “John,” he remarked, “I would have thought it was some other John; but since it said ‘whosoever,’ that let me in.”

    A story is told of an alcoholic who, though he lived with his other fellow victims of the booze industry on Skid Row, always insisted he had been a prominent businessman before he hit bottom. He smelled bad, looked bad, shook bad, and dressed bad, but he always told stories of better days—days when he was respected, wealthy, and had influential friends. His fellow alcoholics didn’t believe a word he said. “You were always nothing, you’re nothing now, and you’ll always be nothing!” they told him—and this just unzipped him. The more they scorned him, the more he felt the need to tell his story.

The Father of our Lord Jesus Christ welcomes them—with joy!

One day while he was talking about his respectable past and they were mocking him, he saw an obviously successful man walking down the other side of the street. Desperation made him claim he knew the man, that they had been close in former years. That was a mistake, because his friends called him a liar and urged him to prove his story by approaching the stranger. What to do? He felt he had no option. He hurried across the road, and with great urgency he said quietly, “Please, mister, I’m sorry to bother you. I don’t want any money, but please, will you pretend you know me? Please!”

    A quick glance at the gawking friends told the man what had happened, and he sensed the desperation in the one before him. He let out a whoop, threw his arms around him, slapped his back, nearly shook his hand off his shoulder, and said (loud enough), “I haven’t seen you in years. I wondered where you’d gotten to. How on earth are you managing?” He took him down the road, cleaned him up, got his hair cut, suited him up, fed him till he thought he’d burst, and put some money in his pocket. The rich man went on his way and the drunk back to Skid Row, but now he had substance for his stories. Someone had refused to be ashamed of him.

    I know life is complex, and things aren’t easily changed. I know simple acts of individual compassion and kindness don’t change the whole of society. I know that simplistic approaches to pain and poverty can turn out to be “benevolent bungling.” But I also know that it’s too easy to convince ourselves that we shouldn’t reach out and do crazy, compassionate acts.

    Many of us are “too wise”; we see the complex issues too clearly and are able to critically appraise the pros and cons of acting on our feelings. Our appraisals are accurate, clinical, and sterile. We’re never conned, never embarrassed by our enthusiasm, and we never feel sheepish or foolish for having acted passionately or spontaneously We’re everywhere known as the “prudent” ones who take our responsibilities seriously. In short, we are proper, deliberate, methodical, dispassionate—and barren.

    But there is one who came, refusing to be ashamed of us. This one offers us not only a meal, clothes, a bath, and a temporary release, but he offers us his name, his permanent cleansing, and a permanent home—we need not go back to our personal Skid Row. And he makes this offer and bears the burden of this offer in the people who are his disciples. They are the instruments of his compassion and rescue. How could it be otherwise?