The Man Who Lived
Chapter 7
Harry's breath turned to frost every time he exhaled, for northern Siberia was frigid even in the summer months. The host nation got to choose where exactly within their borders they wanted the Group Play matches to be contested, and the Russian Quidditch Federation had chosen the Arctic tundra. Harry knew that they'd picked the location specifically because of Colombia. Of the three opponents that the Russians had to play, it was widely predicted that the South Americans would give them the toughest match. Thus, the Russians had purposefully picked an inhospitable environment – one in which they routinely practiced and, therefore, would have an advantage. And it only helped them that a once-per-decade cold front had blown in a few days prior, causing the wind chill to dip below freezing temperatures.
As he sat on the bench watching his teammates play against Colombia in Saturday's second match, Harry thought that the Russians' plan had worked to perfection. For they had absolutely annihilated the South Americans in the previous day's contest. Though, he conceded that the host nation probably would have won regardless of the conditions. The Russian juggernaut was widely believed to be the best Quidditch team on the planet, and they were definitely performing up to expectations so far. England, however, had barely defeated New Zealand in their first match of Group Play – winning by a total of twenty points when the game had been called after six hours with neither team having caught the snitch.
Sitting and watching – as opposed to playing – was driving Harry mad. Especially when, twice during the previous day's match, he'd seen the snitch from his position on the sidelines. It had taken all of his self-control not to shout out and point when he'd seen the little, golden ball. He thought that there were only two good aspects to being a reserve. First, he was allowed to be covered in warming charms while he sat on the bench instead of facing the frigid elements. And, secondly, he'd been free of dealing with the press since IQF rules stipulated that only those players who'd participated in the match had to go to the Press Corps tent after the contest was over. However, Harry would have gladly suffered the biting winds and, afterwards, the annoying questions of Nuisance Beekman just to be on his broom again. Especially considering that Colombia was currently running roughshod over his teammates. The match had only started a little more than an hour ago, and the South Americans were already up by over a hundred points.
While the Colombian offense – the chasers – were quite formidable, it was their defense that was proving to be the greatest challenge. Their keeper and two beaters were world class and were darn-near impenetrable. So far, the English had only scored two goals throughout the entire game, and with every fumbled and failed attempt, Coach Barker seemed to get angrier and angrier. The man's face and bald head were already tomato-red from his constant yelling, and Harry thought that the man might be on the verge of a heart attack.
But, as frenetic and exciting as the Group Play's atmosphere had been, Harry's mind hadn't been solely focused on Quidditch during the past two days, not even during the matches. He constantly found his thoughts turning to God, the Bible, and the 'Parable of the Lost Sheep' sermon from the past Sunday – particularly to the pointed questions that Festus had asked at the end. Harry hadn't changed his mind in the past week regarding his answers to those questions. He still believed and accepted the fact that he was a sinner. He couldn't deny it. However, he'd also still refused to call Jesus his Lord and Savior. The thought of calling anyone 'Lord' – even Jesus – simply rubbed him the wrong way. For he'd spent the past four years of his life working hard to become his own man – something he'd never truly been during his first eighteen years. In fact, he was to a point where he was finally fully autonomous. Because he had what Ron called 'screw-you' money – meaning he was independently wealthy – he'd never again have to sit under anyone's authority if he didn't want to. If a coach or owner ever ticked him off, he could simply walk away. Truth was, because of who he was and what he'd recently accomplished, if he and his Chudley coach ever did have a falling out, he could probably convince the owner to fire the coach. The bottom line was that he'd finally taken control of his life, and he didn't want to give that up. And while he wasn't sure of the details, he knew without a doubt that if he accepted Jesus as his Lord, then that meant he'd have to be subservient to someone again. And that wasn't anything he was interested in.
Harry was suddenly pulled from his thoughts by a loud, collective gasp from the crowd. He blinked his eyes and immediately saw his teammate, Jonas Cartwright, falling from his broom. A second later, the seeker hit the ground with a thud followed by the sound of the referee blowing her whistle. The coaches and medical staff rushed onto the pitch where the Englishman was writhing on the ground in pain.
"Did you see what happened?" Harry asked his teammate next to him.
"Bludger hit him in the back of the head. From Salazar."
Salazar was one of Colombia's beaters. He was a mountain of muscle who wielded his bat with lethal precision.
Harry turned his focus back to the pitch and, after about a minute, he saw Coach Barker make eye contact with him through the crowd and then twirl his finger upwards. Harry immediately shed the parka he was wearing and grabbed his Hawker broom. He instantly felt the fierce wind stinging the exposed skin on his face, but he blocked it out, for he had more important matters to deal with. He ran out onto the field a play and into a huddle with Bulldog and the rest of his teammates.
"We've got to win this game," growled out Barker, reiterating what he'd already told them in the locker room. Russia had won its match that morning and by a large margin. Thus, England knew that they'd have to beat Colombia for any chance to advance out of the Group. He then looked up at the scoreboard, which showed Colombia up by 170 points.
"We've got to go on the 'Power Play,'" he continued. All the players nodded in understanding before mounting their brooms and flying off.
Bulldog, however, had grabbed ahold of Harry's sleeve.
"I don't know what the hell's been wrong with you for the past two weeks, but if we're going to have a chance at winning, I need you to fly like we both know you're capable. Understood?"
Harry stared him in the eyes and nodded. While he hadn't wished for Cartwright to be injured, this is what he'd been hoping for all week – a way to get into the match and to prove himself.
"Then, go to it," said Barker before walking off toward the sideline.
As soon as the medical staff took Cartwright off the pitch, the match resumed, but Harry didn't fly off in pursuit of the snitch. Given that the English were down by more than 150 points, catching it wouldn't help them win the match. They had to get the deficit to 140 or less before Harry could attempt to track down the golden ball, and that's why Bulldog had called for the 'Power Play.' While the IQF rules stipulated that beaters could not enter into the offensive zone, there were no such restrictions for seekers. Thus, for the time being, Harry would act as a fourth chaser, helping his teammates to hopefully score some goals and reduce their deficit. There was, obviously, a huge risk in this tactic as it freed up the Colombian seeker to hunt for the snitch all by himself, but, as the saying goes, desperate times called for desperate measures.
Fortunately, this wasn't a spur of the moment decision on Bulldog's part. While Harry didn't particularly care for the man's demeanor, he had to admit that the coach was fantastic at preparing his players for any and all circumstances. As such, they'd practiced the 'Power Play' for at least a half-hour during every practice for the past two years. Therefore, Harry was confident in his skills at tossing the quaffle.
Immediately, the new game plan started to pay off. As good as the Colombian defense was, it couldn't stand up to the onslaught of an extra attacker, and with every goal scored, the hitherto subdued English crowed became louder and louder. Within twenty minutes, the English team had pulled to within 120 points, at which point, Harry saw one of the coaches waving a large yellow flag from the sidelines, signaling him to begin his pursuit of the snitch. Instantly, he pulled his broom upward, elevating himself above the chasers and beaters.
Over the next ten minutes, the Colombians counter-attacked, scoring twice more and pushing their lead back up to 140, but it was then that Harry saw a movement in his peripheral vision. His eyes darted in that direction, and he involuntarily sucked in his breath upon seeing the snitch. It was on the opposite side of the pitch, hovering right behind the Colombian seeker, Jose Garcia. All the South American had to do was turn around, and the game would be over. Harry immediately took off like a shot, but not at the snitch. He was flying towards a spot about fifty meters in front of Garcia, hoping to lure the man away.
A moment later, Harry knew his feint had worked for Garcia began flying away from the snitch and in hot pursuit of wherever Harry was headed. Harry could see the Colombian's head swiveling back and forth, trying his best to find the little ball. Half-way there, Harry veered hard to his right, away from the direction in which Garcia was flying and back toward the snitch, causing his opponent to make an abrupt U-turn.
Even though Harry had the advantage, it was short-lived for the snitch immediately darted downward into the chaos of the chasers and beaters. While he was forced to weave between all of the other players, Garcia quickly caught up to him by flying above the fray before instantly swooping down next to Harry. Suddenly, the two seekers were side-by-side in their chase as the fans in the stadium shouted out exhortations.
They pursued the snitch around the English goalposts and then back towards mid-field when Harry's eyes immediately went wide. Salazar - the Colombian's best beater – had just smashed a bludger towards Harry. It was coming in from his left side and was zooming right at his head. Harry instantly cork-screwed his broom, just evading the bludger, and an instant later, he heard Garcia cry out in pain as the large, metal ball made impact with the Colombian seeker. Once he was upright again, Harry glanced back to see Garcia half-way off of his broom, his feet dangling in the air, but he didn't stop to lend any aid. This was his best chance and he wasn't going to waste it. He immediately brought his eyes forward and found his prey flying off towards the sidelines. Harry urged more speed from his Hawker, and a second later, he snatched up the flying snitch with a victorious yell. He immediately looked up to the large board at one end of the stadium to check the score. England had won by 10. He glided down to the ground where, an instant later, he was mobbed by his teammates.
oOo
"Harry, if Jonas recovers from his injuries, who do you think will get the starting nod for tomorrow's match against the Russians?" asked Nuisance Beekman.
A half-hour after the victory, Harry and Barnabas were sitting at a table in the Press Corps tent, answering questions from the international press.
"I have no idea, Beekman," Harry answered.
"After your performance today, do you think that you should start tomorrow over Cartwright?"
"This guy just loves stirring the pot, doesn't he?" Harry heard Barnabas whisper next to him.
He smiled at Beekman.
"Doesn't matter what I think. Since I don't make those decisions. You'll have to ask Coach Barker if you want to know tomorrow's lineup. Next question."
A dark-haired man that Harry had never seen before stood up.
"Vladimir Larionov, from the Quidditch Times," he announced in heavily-accented English. "A question for Mr. Potter."
Harry gave a nod of acknowledgment toward the man.
"Yesterday, Russia beat Colombia by more than three hundred points. Today, you English pull off miracle against them by ten. What chance do you give yourself for win tomorrow?"
Both England and Russia were going into tomorrow's match with identical 2-0 records. Thus, England had to win in order to advance out of Group Play and into the Sweet Sixteen of the World Cup Tournament.
"Honestly, not much," Harry answered with a smile. He turned to Barnabas. "You?"
His teammate held up his thumb and index finger less than an inch a part.
This elicited some chuckles from the Press Corps.
"We know the challenge that's ahead of us. We've known it since the Group was announced. Russia's the best team in the world." And Harry wasn't just being modest. On paper, the Russian team was perhaps better at every single position than the English – even at seeker. The Russian seeker, Sergei Zubov, was definitely one of the top five seekers in the world. "They're without a doubt the favorites," he added. "But that's the beauty of sport. It's full of upsets."
"So, you actually think you can win?" asked Larionov. He sounded incredulous.
"Can? Definitely. If we don't believe that, then why even bother playing?"
Harry and Barnabas answered questions for a few minutes more before being replaced by a couple of their teammates. They walked through a tunnel that connected the stadium to the players' pavilion that was located just to the north. The pavilion was protected by magical wards so that only players and other team personnel could enter. As they approached his tent, Harry noticed Tracey waiting for him at the entrance. He'd granted her access into the pavilion the previous day.
"Damn, Harry. Your agent is a looker," said Barnabas under his breath. "When are you going to set us up?"
Harry laughed.
"Never. I'd never do that to Tracey. I actually like her."
"Fine, wise-ass. See if I keep those bludgers off of you tomorrow." A moment later, they arrived at the tent. "Hey, Davis," he said with a grin. "You're looking good."
"Bulwark," she stated neutrally.
"What'll it take for you to go out on a date with me?"
"I don't date Quidditch players."
"What? Why?"
"Because I've been around too many of you, that's why." Then she smiled widely. "So, quit Quidditch, and then I might consider it."
Barnabas scoffed. "You're hot, Davis, but you're not that hot. I'm not giving up Quidditch for anyone. Besides if I quit, who'd protect your Golden Boy here?"
"He'll manage."
"Knock it off, you two," interjected Harry before Barnabas could reply. "You can flirt later. I got important business to discuss with my agent."
"Fine, fine," said the beater. "See you at the meeting, Harry."
After he walked way, Harry turned back to Tracey.
"You get it?" he asked.
"Yes," she answered, handing him a small, empty inkwell. "Though you wouldn't believe the red-tape I had to go through to arrange it. Do you know how rare it is for an individual to be given an international portkey? I still don't know why you couldn't have just gotten Granger to get it for you. With her ministry connections, she could have set it up much easier than me."
"Yeah, well, sometimes she asks too many questions."
"Sometimes?"
Harry smirked. "Yeah, I guess it's more like all the time, huh?"
Tracey's face suddenly turned serious. "Harry, just please tell me that you're not going to carry that with you tomorrow during the game. I could only manage to get a pre-set portkey, and I had it set for the time you told me. But more than likely that's going to be right in the middle of tomorrow's match. Can you imagine the scandal it would cause if you're suddenly whisked away during the match and don't return until it's over?"
"Don't worry, Tracey. I wouldn't let my teammates down like that. I'll only use it if the match is over. Regardless, I really appreciate you getting it for me. You're a good agent."
"I am," she replied with her beaming smile. "Just remember that when it's time to renew our partnership."
"Will do," he answered with a smile of his own. He then looked at his watch. "Now, I've got to go. Bulldog's called for a team meeting to go over the gameplan for tomorrow's match. And I want to grab a bite to eat beforehand – because who knows how long the meeting will last."
oOo
Harry looked at his watch for what must have been the hundredth time that day, and then he let out a small sigh. It appeared that, in spite of all trouble that Tracey had dealt with in order to obtain him an international portkey, he was going to miss church that morning anyway.
He was decked out in his white-with-red-piping English uniform – as were the rest of his teammates – and he was sitting in front of his locker down in the bowels of the stadium. They'd all been there for several hours. Their match had been tentatively scheduled to begin for just after one o'clock in the afternoon. However, everyone knew that was dependent upon how long the first match lasted. That was always the downside to playing the second game. You never really knew exactly when your match would start since the first match could be over in a matter of minutes or it could last six hours. Apparently, the Colombia-New Zealand contest was going to go the full six, which meant that, even with the time difference, he wasn't going to be able to hear Festus preach today. He did the math and figured that the match would have to end within the first half-hour or so for him to have any chance of making it to the service in time. And that caused him to sigh again, for he had really been looking forward to hearing the sermon.
He'd even done some 'homework' that week, reading over the second half of Luke chapter 15 several times in anticipation of how Festus would expound it. The section had a heading which stated, 'The Parable of the Prodigal Son,' and the first thing that Harry had done was to look up the definition of the word 'prodigal.' He had no doubt that Hermione would know what the word meant, but he had never heard of it before. He'd discovered that it meant 'spending money or resources freely and recklessly; wastefully extravagant.' That certainly fit with the parable, which was about a man and his two sons - one of whom demanded his inheritance early and then, subsequently, lost it all. While Harry would admit that the previous week's parable – that of the Lost Sheep – had applied to him, he didn't think that the 'prodigal son' did at all. For the truth was that he was actually quite responsible with his money. Having grown up destitute with the Dursleys – without any toys of his own and being forced to wear Dudley's hand-me-down clothes – when he finally did acquire some wealth and possessions later in life, he was very careful not to waste them. Being wealthy gave him both immense freedom and a tremendous sense of security, which he was definitely loath to lose. So, he just didn't see any connection between himself and the 'prodigal son.'
"Maybe not every section of Scripture actually applies to me," he whispered to himself as he looked down at the open Bible in his hands. His eyes scanned over the words on the page one more time before he finally shut the book, stood, and placed it on the top shelf of his locker in front of the small, glass inkwell that would act as a portkey later in the day.
Harry glanced around the locker room at his teammates. The environment reminded him of the Chudley Cannon locker room before games – subdued and serious. There was no loud music being played. No running or shouting or loud laughing. A few players were having a quiet conversation, but most were sitting alone in front of their lockers, mentally preparing themselves for the ensuing competition. Harry nodded his head at the sight. Except for Barnabas – who also played for the Cannons – he didn't know these men and women as well as his Chudley teammates. However, after two years of practicing and playing international matches with them, he had formed a bond with them, and he realized that today might be the last day that they'd all play together as a single unit. For he knew that some would not make the next iteration of England's national team. And that thought – the idea of having to say goodbye to some of them – suddenly brought on a feeling of melancholy. But he quickly clenched his jaws, banishing the thought from his head.
"We can win this," he thought resolutely to himself. "We can win this."
He then sat back down in his chair, closed his eyes, and pictured himself catching the snitch over and over in his mind until he heard a large cheer echo down from the crowded stadium above. A few moments later, an assistant coach came into the locker room, announcing that the morning's match had finally ended. Coach Barker entered the room right after that. He immediately got everyone's attention.
"We coaches have prepared you the best we know how," he said as he looked each player in the eyes. "You know what to do. It's now just a matter of doing it. So…we'll now see just how badly you want to win…for your family…for your friends…for yourselves…for England. Because it's either win or this World Cup is over for you. And for some of you, this will be your last one. It's all your hands." He peered around the locker room one more time before giving a slight nod of his head. "Take the pitch."
As one, all the players grabbed their gear, exited the locker room, and made their way down the tunnel toward the pitch. As soon as they stepped out into the sunlight, Harry heard a small cheer coming from one end of the stadium, where a small contingent of white-clad, England fans was sitting. He knew that Ginny, Ron, and Hermione were somewhere in that section. He looked around to see that the rest of the stadium was dominated in Russia's red, blue, and white colors. To Harry's eyes, it appears as if ninety percent of the fans were rooting for the home team. He mounted his broom and flew off into the sky, getting himself warmed up - for Bulldog had picked him to start today's game as seeker. A few moments later, a deafening roar exploded from the stadium as the Russian team entered the pitch. Harry didn't think that he had ever heard a stadium that loud – not even during the BIQL championship match two weeks past.
He immediately found his Russian counterpart – Sergei Zubov. He was an older man in his thirties with dark eyes. His gaunt face sported a scar on his cheek and a black goatee. Harry thought that the man carried himself like an older, more grizzled version of Victor Krum - for he flew with an air of supreme confidence. When Harry glanced at the other Russian players, he saw the same look of confidence. They knew that they were the best team on the planet. It was going to take a miracle to beat them. And Harry was fully aware that if that miracle was going to come, then it would come down to him because the Russian beaters, keeper, and chasers were simply too good. Therefore, if England was going to win, then he was going to have to catch the snitch before the Russians could grab a lead of over 150. Because he was pretty sure that the 'Power Play' strategy wouldn't even work against them as it had the previous day against Colombia. The problem with him catching the snitch that quickly was that so much luck was involved.
Eventually, the warm up session ended, and once the England and Russian national anthems had played, the referee blew her whistle. The match commenced, and the crowd roared in anticipation. Harry immediately flew high above the pitch and, as was his custom, positioned himself above the English goal posts. His routine was to start there and then casually zig-zag his way across the pitch and back again, his eyes scanning the entire time for the snitch.
He had just gotten into position when he looked down and sucked in his breath. Right behind the middle, English goal was the snitch. It was just hovering there, as if it was hiding from the Russian team. Instantly, he could feel his heart start thumping in his chest. He quickly glanced up to see Zubov on the other side of the field. The Russian was looking off in another direction so he immediately dropped his eyes back down again. The snitch was still there. He couldn't believe his eyes. In all of his years of playing, he'd never seen the snitch this quickly. This was his chance to pull off a miracle, and if he blew it, he'd never forgive himself.
As casually as possible, Harry began slowly descending in a zig-zagging pattern. For, if he could, he didn't want to alert Zubov that he'd seen the prey. As he got closer and closer to the snitch, his mind and muscles were poised for it to immediately shoot off in some random direction. When he was only three feet away, he stopped with a puzzled look on his face. The snitch still had not moved. It was still simply hovering in place. He'd never seen a snitch act in this manner. Finally, with a small shrug, he shot his broom forward and easily snatched the snitch out of the air, bringing about one of the most controversial – and anti-climactic - upsets in Quidditch World Cup history.
Once it was discovered what had happened, the small section of England fans shouted in joy while the rest of the stadium sat in stunned silence. The Russian coach immediately demanded an inquiry – believing that the snitch had somehow been illegally charmed. But all the diagnostic spells from the IQF official revealed that the snitch had not been tampered with in any way. England's win would stand, and Harry once again found himself as his nation's hero.
oOo
Harry entered the church slightly out of breath and with a bead of sweat on his brow. He sighed in relief when he heard the band singing. While the service had obviously already started, at least he hadn't missed any part of the sermon. He found an empty row about halfway down the aisle and placed his Bible on one of the chairs while he stood in front of it. Just like the previous week, he read the song lyrics on the screen but felt no compulsion to sing along. At that point, he just wanted to catch his breath, for he'd sprinted to the church all the way from the park.
As he ran his hand across his damp forehead and then wiped it on the side of his trousers, he thought again about just how lucky he was to even be there. It was an absolute miracle that England had been victorious against the Russians and an even bigger miracle that they'd won the match so quickly. After celebrating with his teammates, Harry had rushed to the Press Corps tent to satisfy the IQF requirements regarding granting interviews. He'd answered questions for about fifteen minutes before running back to the locker room and grabbing the portkey just before it activated, sending him back to the English National Team stadium. Once back in England, he'd apparated to Grimmauld Place, changed out of his Quidditch uniform, apparated to the park in Newton Abbot, and run to Grace Bible Church. He'd considered apparating straight to the church but hadn't wanted to risk the chance of being seen. He'd been afraid that some random, unnoticed person would be looking out their window and would see him remove his Invisibility cloak.
For the thousandth time in his life, Harry reminded himself how fortunate he was to be a wizard. Less than an hour ago, he'd been in the frozen tundra of Russia, and now he was in the southwest of England. And it was all because of magic. Even though he'd spent his first eleven years like a Muggle, he couldn't imagine living his life without magic now. It would be like going back to the 'stone age,' he thought.
A few moments later, the song ended, and everyone took their seat as Festus walked onto the stage.
"Good morning. If you're new here to Grace Bible Church, my name is Festus Gold, and I'm the lead pastor. For the past year or so, we've been systematically working our way through the Gospel according to Luke, and this week we come to perhaps one of the most famous stories in all of Scripture. If you have your Bibles open to chapter 15, then about halfway down you may see the heading, 'The Parable of the Prodigal Son.' As a reminder, while Scripture is inspired by the Holy Spirit, these headings are not. Just as the chapter breaks and the numbering of the verses are not inspired. They were simply inserted later by man as a way to more easily reference the lengthy scrolls. Thus, I'd like to humbly submit that this very famous parable is actually misnamed. It should be 'The Parable of the Two Sons,' for there are actually two sons in the story, and Jesus teaches truths related to both of them. Though, we're going to save dealing with the second son until next Sunday, if God is willing. Today, our focus will be on 'the prodigal.' Out of respect for God's Word, if you're able, please stand as we read from verses eleven through twenty-four of Luke 15."
Harry followed along as Festus read the now-familiar verses. Verses that he'd already gone over a couple of times that week. Once Festus was done, he began to pray.
"Father, we come to You now, asking for Your wisdom. None of us are here simply to listen to a man speak. We want to hear what You have to say. So, we ask that, by Your Holy Spirit, You speak truth to our hearts and minds. Where needed – please convict us, exhort us, and encourage us – for Your glory and for our good. We ask these things in Your Son's name. Amen.
"We all have a father. And since I buried mine on Tuesday, he was definitely on my mind this week as I prepared this sermon. For just a moment, I would like all of you to think of your father. If you can, picture him in your mind's eye. Can you see him there?"
Harry swallowed hard as he thought of James Potter. The father he'd never known and had no memories of. He'd only ever seen the man through a magical mirror, a few photographs and the memorial statue in Godric's Hollow. And, immediately, he felt a hollow pain in his chest.
"If we had time, and if I asked you to describe your relationship with your father, then I have no doubt that your answers would run the gamut. Some of you would joyfully recount stories of a loving father, who raised you with kindness and wisdom. Others may speak of a more distant father – a man who was physically present in your home, who provided for your material needs but who wasn't there for you emotionally. A man who never hugged you or encouraged you. In a congregation this size, I know that, unfortunately, there would be some who feel nothing but bitterness and resentment towards their fathers. Perhaps, they were abusive – physically, verbally, even sexually. And I also have no doubt that there are probably a few in here who never knew your father at all. He walked out of your life when you were still an infant, and you've never even met the man. Or, perhaps, he died when you were very young.
"Regardless of your answer, there is no doubt that fathers are important, and the relationship you had with your father – good or bad – has impacted your life. Either positively or negatively. Most likely, it may have even affected the way you view God, Himself.
"In my younger days, before becoming a lead pastor, I was involved with a men's prison ministry - sharing the gospel of Jesus with inmates. My mentor and I would typically start by speaking to them in a large group, and we'd always ask them a couple of questions. We'd ask them to raise their hand if they had a good relationship with their mothers. Invariably, almost every hand would go into the air. And we weren't really shocked by that because, well, mums are great, aren't they? And then we'd ask them if they had a good relationship with their fathers. In all the years that I served in that ministry, I bet I can count on one hand the number of men who raised their hand to that question. And, unfortunately, we weren't really surprised by that either. Because fathers play a critical role in the lives of their children. I'm not saying that if you had a poor relationship with your father that you're destined for prison, but the research doesn't lie. Children raised without fathers are more likely to end up in prison; to drop out of school; to live in poverty; to suffer from alcohol and drug addiction; to acquire sexually transmitted diseases; to have children out of wed-lock; to commit suicide. And why is this? Because fathers are important.
"You may be wondering why I'm speaking so much on fathers when the title of the parable is 'The Prodigal Son.' It's because there is a father in the story, too, and I believe that he actually plays the most important role. But we'll get to him later. First, though, we need to look at the son.
"I've broken the story down into three sections. Each section beginning with the letter D – a departure, a disaster, and a discovery. Perhaps that will help those whose brains are wired that way.
"The first section deals with a departure - specifically a departure from his father's house. We don't know if the younger son's departure was planned. It could have been a spur-of-the-moment decision when he demanded what he thought was his due. But it was clear that he didn't want to wait for his father's death in order to obtain his inheritance. He was essentially telling his father, 'I wish you were dead. Now, give me what's mine.' He'd seen Robin Williams in the 'Dead Poet's Society' telling those teenage students, 'Carpe diem – seize the day, boys,' and said, 'Good idea. I'm out of here.' But, regardless of whether the departure was planned or spontaneous, we can infer that it was definitely meant to be permanent, for in verse 13 we read that the prodigal gathered 'all that he had.' He wasn't leaving anything behind when he took off for that distant and foreign land.
"And once there, for a while, he was living the dream. He had wealth and all of the benefits that come with it – freedom, popularity. The text says that he was living 'wild.' Now, it doesn't specify exactly what that is, but it's not too difficult for us to imagine, is it? Wine, women, and song, right? And two-thousand years later, not much has changed. When I was growing up it was 'sex, drugs, and rock-and-roll.' I'm sure the youth these days have their own unique – but similar - slogan to convey the same sentiment. The bottom line was that he was chasing what this world tells us will bring us ultimate satisfaction.
"And then came the second D – the disaster of his futile plan. All was going well, until, poof - the money is gone. He squandered it all. And if that weren't bad enough, then a severe famine hits the land, and, suddenly, he found himself in need. I imagine that this was the first time in his life that he'd ever truly been in need. For prior to this, he'd been on his father's estate – with a house, and cattle, and servants. But, now, he's in such need that he actually has to find a job. Think he'd ever had a job before? I don't. But here he is – a Jewish boy feeding slop to pigs, and that's about as low as a Jew could get. He's starving. In fact, he's so hungry that he would've eaten the pigs' slop, but no one gave him anything to eat. What happened to his friends – the ones he'd been partying with? We don't know, but they're either no longer around or simply not willing to help.
"I want to pause here for a second. For I'm sure that many of you are thinking, 'Great story, but what's this got to do with me? I'm not living in a pigsty. My home costs six figures. I drive a nice car and wear designer clothes. I'm definitely not 'in need.'' And you're right, physically speaking, most of you are not in need. I don't know of anyone here that's homeless or living in poverty. And I'll be honest - that's one of the difficulties of preaching in an affluent, first-world, highly advanced nation. Most never see their need. But remember – this is a parable. Jesus used parables and figures of speech and analogies about earthly things in order to teach deeper, spiritual truths.
"So, what was Jesus trying to teach here? This young man's greatest problem wasn't that he was broke. It wasn't that he was homeless, friendless, hungry and destitute. Though, those were definitely a problem. No, his greatest dilemma was that he'd broken his relationship with his father. His futile plan had led to disaster. But that's what sin always does. Oh, sure, sin might lead to temporary pleasure. The Bible doesn't deny that. But it also makes clear that the ways of sin are ultimately hard and cruel. We cannot turn our backs on God, His plans and purposes, His commands and love, and it not turn to futility. The Bible sums it up perfectly in Proverbs 14: 'There is a way that seems right to man, but in the end, it leads to death.' So, Jesus was teaching that, spiritually speaking, without God, we're all in the pigsty. Similar to how, in last week's parable, He was teaching that we're all lost sheep. Now, let's continue with the story.
"Verse 17 says, 'When he came to his senses,' he decided to go back home. I love that phrase – 'when he came to his senses.' Though, I may prefer the King James Version even more, which states, 'And when he came to himself…' That sounds so contemporary, doesn't it? I hear people – especially younger folk - saying all the time, 'I'm just trying to find myself.' It's the modern-day quest. So many of us are in constant search for our identity and purpose."
Suddenly, Harry was reminded of the three questions that his counselor, Eugenia Hartwell, had asked him all those years ago. The same questions he'd come back to just two weeks past – about his identity, his purpose, and his destiny.
"So many young people these days don't know who they are. Or they do know who they are and simply don't like it. So, they go looking for another self. They try to create a new identity - an identity based upon being the party girl, or an identity revolved around being the athletic hero, or an identity of the super-smart, well-read academic. But eventually, they discover that those identities don't truly fulfill. Not spiritually, they don't.
"You wonder why it is that men and women in contemporary society find themselves with such an experience of angst—worried, perplexed, overwhelmed, unable to fill what Pascal described as the God-shaped void within their lives. It's because we look to the wrong things. We look on the horizontal plane - to the things of this world. Which is full of nothing but lies and empty promises - telling us if we just had that better job or better car or better wife or better kids or better body or better drugs, then, finally, we'd be happy. And you know who's the best at it – advertisers. It's to the point that I can't even watch a round of golf on television anymore. Every five minutes, they're trying to convince me that I'll be happy if I just invest in their retirement fund or drive their luxury sedan or take their little, blue pills. But none of the horizontal issues matter…not until we've dealt with the vertical.
"Well, the prodigal son finally came to his senses, and what did he realize? That he needed to go back to his father. But why? Was it his guilt compelling him to go back? I say no. He could have stayed right there in the pigsty, wallowing in his guilt and shame. Living out the rest of his life in regret. 'Oh, I used to have it all, but how I blew it.' He could have stayed there, tormented by his guilty conscience. Lady Macbeth was tormented by a guilty conscience. 'Out, out, damned spot!' she cried. But no amount of external hand-washing could get rid of the stain of guilt on her soul.
"So, no, it wasn't his guilt. The Scottish theologian, Macleod, put it masterfully when he said, 'The prodigal went back to his father not primarily because he was tormented by a guilty conscience, but because he was driven by the hope of mercy.' I'm going to repeat that. The prodigal was driven back to his father by the hope of mercy. So, he comes up with a little monologue: 'Father, I have sinned against heaven and against you. I am no longer worthy to be called your son; make me like one of your hired servants.' And then he got up and went to his father. He went from earlier in the story demanding of his father, 'Give me…' to now pleading with his father, "Make me…' Big difference, isn't it?
"And notice this – the prodigal had nothing on his return. He didn't go back to his father with his 'hat in hand' because he didn't even own a hat. He didn't bathe and clean himself up. Or put on nice clothes and get a haircut. No, he went back filthy, smelling like a pigsty. As the old hymn puts it, 'Nothing in my hands I bring. Simply to Thy cross I cling.'
"And now we come to the third D – the prodigal son's discovery of his father's love. And this is the most beautiful part of the story. Verse 20 says, 'But while he was still a long way off, his father saw him and was filled with compassion for him; he ran to his son, threw his arms around him and kissed him.' The father didn't stand on the porch with his arms crossed, glaring down at the boy as he trudged, head down, up to the house. No, he was filled with compassion, and he ran to his boy. He ran to him and hugged him."
As Harry played the scene out in his mind, his eyes began to well up with tears. He then imaged himself within the story and that it was an older James Potter welcoming him home with a hug. And, suddenly, he felt a sob trying to escape his throat. He clenched his jaws and brought his hand to his mouth, trying his best to hold it all in. For his emotions were about to overpower him.
"The son started his speech," continued Festus, "but he only got halfway through before the father interrupted him. But did the father scowl at him? Did he say, 'Well, you've certainly made a hash of things. Just look at you. You ought to be ashamed of yourself. You're filthy!'? Did he give him the old, 'I told you so' treatment? How about putting him on some type of probation? 'Okay, I'll take you back, but you're not getting your old room. You'll stay out with the servants, and you're going to have to earn your way back into my favor. You're going to have to prove that you've changed. And you can bet your life that if you make even one little mistake, then you're out, buster.' If the father had said and done those things, could you blame him? I mean, it was true. The son had made a hash of things. With no one to blame but himself. Being sent to the servants' quarters would have actually been better than he deserved. What he truly deserved was to wallow in the pigsty. He'd made his bed, now he could lie in it.
"But the father didn't give his son what he deserved. Instead, he showed him mercy. More than that, he showed him grace – which is unmerited favor. The father yelled to the servants, 'Quick! Bring the best robe. And my ring and sandals. And kill the fattened calf. We're going to have a party. For my son was dead and is alive again.' All of those things – the robe, the ring, the sandals, and the calf – even simply being invited into the house - were all expressions of the father's grace-filled love for his son. The son hadn't done anything to earn those gifts, and he certainly didn't deserve them. But his father offered them to him anyway.
"At the beginning of this sermon, I asked you to think of your earthly fathers. Whether you had the best of fathers, or the worst, or none at all, God wants to be your heavenly Father. And He's the perfect Father – full of compassion and forgiveness, wisdom and goodness, mercy and grace - who doesn't treat us as our sins deserve. David called God 'a father to the fatherless…who sets the lonely in families.' James said God was 'the Father of heavenly lights, from whom comes every good and perfect gift.' Paul stated that, for those of us who have received Christ as Savior, we are God's adopted children. That He sends the Spirit of His Son into our hearts to cry out, 'Abba, Father.'
"If you've never turned to God – or if you have in the past, but are in a season of rebellion – then I urge you to turn to Him now. He longs to adopt you as His child, to wrap you in His arms and clothe you in His robe of righteousness. He wants you to call Him, 'Father.' And just like in the parable, He doesn't ask that you clean yourself up first. Just come – just as you are. There's no probationary period. There are no rules to follow. You don't have to prove your worth or earn your way into His family. He provided you the way – through His Son Jesus. Jesus died on the cross, paying the penalty of your sins – all of your sins – past, present, and future - so that you can come straight to the Father. So, while that way cost Jesus His life, it's free to you. It's a gift. You simply have to receive it through faith. Simply turn to Jesus in repentance and faith and be reconciled to God. He loves you."
The tears were running down Harry's cheeks, and he couldn't stop them. He could barely breathe, and he felt as if his heart was about to burst. The band had started playing a slow song, but he didn't even notice due to overwhelming feelings within. He dropped his eyes to the floor between his feet, but he wasn't truly seeing anything at that point. For his mind was focused on one solitary thought, 'I believe.' He believed everything that Festus had just preached. Deep down in his soul, he knew that he had just heard the truth – about everything. That he'd just heard the truth about why he'd been feeling so empty – and not just for the past two weeks but for his entire life. He knew that he'd just heard the truth about the one and only true remedy to that emptiness. He couldn't explain how it got there, but he also couldn't deny the complete and utter conviction that he felt at his core – that he was a lost sinner who longed to know the love of the Father and, therefore, was in desperate need of Christ's salvation. For he remembered what Jesus had said in John's letter: 'I am the way and the truth and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me.'
Harry kept saying, 'I believe,' over and over in his head as the tears continued to fall. He didn't know how many times he must have repeated the words or how long he'd been sitting there, but suddenly, he felt a hand on his shoulder. The song was over, and people were now leaving the building or simply milling about. He looked up to see Festus sitting next to him, a concerned look on his face.
"Harry, are you okay?"
He shook his head and didn't say anything at first. He looked down at his hands, which were trembling. He swallowed hard and then brought his tear-filled eyes back to Festus.
"I believe," he finally said, his voice breaking. "I don't understand how or why…but I believe."