"And Peter" and Other Sermons

*’But when he wa yet a great way off, his father saw him, and had compassion, and ran, and kissed him and said to his servants. Bring forth the best robe, and

put it on him, and put a ring on his hand, and shoes on his feet, and bring hither the fatted calf, and kill it,” — Luke xv: 20-23.

Of making many sermons on the prodigal son, there seems to have been no end. Yet I was in the ministry fifteen years before I preached from any part of the parable. There may be many reasons why, as a rule, we turn away from it. It may be that the picture is too realistic.

I was standing in the prison chapel at Joliet, Illinois, when a request was made that I should conduct a service for the convicts. Just as I was leaving the building the officer said to me, “By the way, if you should come, do not preach upon any part of the prodigal. We have had twenty-four ministers here by actual count, and every one of them gave us the prodigal son, and these poor fellows have had about as much prodigal as they can stand.”

It may also be that we have turned away from it because it is such familiar ground that it has lost its charm for us. I was sweeping through the magnificent Rocky Mountain scenery some time ago, and “AND PETER”

when we had plunged into the Royal Gorge, and later swung into the Grand Canon, it seemed to me that scenery more sublime could not be found in all the world, and if I had never been impressed before with the existence of God, I should have cried out unto Him in the midst of those mountain peaks. I noticed that every one in the car, with one single exception, was gazing in rapt admiration. This one woman was intently reading a book, and to my certain knowledge, she did not lift her eyes once from the printed page while we were in that wonderful scenery. When we had swung out into the great table land, I overheard her say to a friend, “This is the thirteenth time I have crossed the mountains. The first time I could not keep the tears from rolling down my cheeks, so impressed was I, but now,” she said, “I know it so well that I frequently go through the whole range with scarcely a glance cast out the window.” It is thus, alas! that we read God’s Word, and that which fills Heaven with wonder, and furnishes the angels a theme for never-ending praise, we read with indifference or fail to read at all. And yet my own confession is that I never have had, until recently, the best of this story of the prodigal.

I thought it was to give us a vision of the younger son, and as such it would be a message to backsliders; and while this is one part of the interpretation it is not by any means the best part. Then it occurred to me the story might have been given us that we should take warning from the selfishness of the elder brother; but I conceived such a dislike for this character that I never cared to consider him even for a moment. But it has in these later days become to me one of the sweetest portions of all the New Testament because I believe the parable was written that we might fasten our eyes upon the father of the parable and in that father get a glimpse of God.

It may be interesting to know how this sermon was born. I was sitting in my room in the Dennison Hotel, in Indianapolis, in November, 1894, looking into the face of my friend, E. P. Brown, the editor of the “Ram’s Horn.” I had known him in the days of his infidelity and had feared him because of his bitterness. I had heard him in some of his violent outbreaks against God and the truth, and this was the first privilege I had had of any extended conversation with him since his remarkable conversion, under Mr. Moody’s preaching in his own church in Chicago, when the theme was the father of this prodigal. I had heard repeated accounts of the conversion, and so I said to him, “Tell me, if you will, how you found Christ.” To my amazement he said, “I think I was born again when I was eighteen years of age.” This to me was startling; for a more violent infidel I had never known than this man in the days that were past. But said he, “I do not mean that I was born into the kingdom of God, but rather into the conception that my father loved me. To this thought I had always been a stranger, and that,” said he, “was the beginning of a remarkable series of events all of which culminated in my conversion.” Then he told me this story.

A FATHERS LOVE

“I was a wayward boy, and did many things that caused my father much anguish of heart, because I did not know that he was my friend. We never were near together. There was no communion of love between us, and the thought that I was anything to him never entered my mind; and so, when only a boy, I took my destiny into my own hands and ran away. Just as I was coming into manhood I was taken sick, and out of sheer necessity’! was obliged to turn my face toward father’s house, for I had been prodigal with my earnings, and had saved nothing for the time of need. There was no other friendly roof to which I could look for shelter, and so I had to go back home. I was given a friendly welcome, but in a few days I repented to the bottom of my soul that I had come. My father was very poor, and was himself just convalescing from a long illness. Every dollar that he earned cost him the most laborious effort and continual pain. I found that there was not bread for all, and to spare, but only a few crumbs for each. There was famine and want and hardship of which I had not dreamed, and the bread I took from my poor father’s table almost choked me, for it seemed to have the taste of blood upon it. It was agony to stay there and be a burden upon my parents, and I could not endure it. It would be better, I thought, to go out and die in the highway rather than live by eating bread which cost so much. And so after I had gained some strength I told father I would have to go. He begged me to stay, and said that times would surely brighten up soon, but I couldn’t do it; I had to

go-

“When he saw that I was determined not to stay, his face took on the saddest look I had ever seen him have, as he took his hat and cane to walk a short distance with me. We walked on slowly and almost silently together for perhaps a half a mile, when my father grew so weary he said he would have to go back. My parting with him at that time is one of the sad scenes in my life I never can forget. As he took me by the hand he said, with a voice trembling with emotion,

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