"Throwing Parties"

ou’ve heard about the irresponsible little brother who wastes his part of the inheritance, the Father who generously welcomes him home with a party, and the older brother who is angry at both of them. But do you remember how the story starts? It starts with grumbling.

Luke 15:1-3, 11b-32

March 30, 2025

Dr. Todd R. Wright

I think we can all agree that last week was a pretty good party!

Tony Campolo, who died late last year, used to tell a story about a party: He had been invited to speak to a gathering of pastors in Honolulu and so even though he was exhausted after the flight, his inner clock woke him at 3 o’clock local time. He decided to go for a walk and eventually wandered into a nearby greasy spoon. It was filled with the sort of people you’d expect at that hour – truck drivers and shift workers, late night partiers and the homeless, all seeking a cup of Joe.

Campolo grabbed a stool and asked for a cup of coffee and a donut. About 3:30 a whole group of prostitutes breezed in and sat on either side of him. The most boisterous one announced, “Tomorrow is my birthday!” And then in a quiet voice, “I’ll be 39.” The guy behind the counter growled, “So it’s your birthday, Agnes, what do you want? You want us to sing happy birthday? You want a gift? You want a cake? You want us to throw you a party?” She looked like a dog that had been kicked. “Why do you have to be so nasty, Harry? I don’t expect a party. I don’t expect anything. I’ve never had a birthday cake in my whole life. I don’t expect one now.”

Campolo couldn’t leave it alone. When she’d left he asked the fellow behind the counter if she came in every night. “Yeah, every night.” “What d’ya say the two of us throw her a party?” “Mister,” Harry said, “that’s genius! Let me get my wife.” So the three of them planned a party.

Campolo came in early the next morning and decorated the diner with balloons and a big sign that said “Happy birthday, Agnes!” Harry made a cake and his wife got the word out so that by 3:15 the diner was packed.

When Agnes arrived, she was stunned. They sang happy birthday, and she began to cry. Harry told her to knock it off and blow out the candles. She couldn’t, so he did it for her. Cut the cake he growled, but she just shook her head. “I can’t do it,” she said. “You understand, don’t you? I think I’d like to show it to my mother first. She lives just two doors down. I’ll bring it right back.”

Into the silence, after she left, Campolo said what preachers often do, “Let’s pray!” and so he prayed for Agnes – that God would deliver her and protect her and make her new again. When he was finished, Harry said, “You didn’t tell me you were a preacher. What kind of a church do you preach in?” And Campolo replied, “I preach in a church that throws birthday parties for prostitutes at 3:30 in the morning!” In response, Harry protested, “No you don’t. There's no church like that. If there was, I’d join it!”[1]

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I thought of that story when I read this passage in Luke. You know the story of the prodigal son. You’ve heard it a hundred times. You remember that it is bundled together with the stories of the lost sheep and the, less familiar, lost coin. You’ve heard about the irresponsible little brother who wastes his part of the inheritance, the Father who generously welcomes him home with a party, and the older brother who is angry at both of them.

But do you remember how the story starts? It starts with grumbling.

Luke says Jesus is making his way toward Jerusalem, stirring up hope and trouble along the way, attracting tax collectors and sinners, as well as Pharisees and scribes. It was the latter bunch who were grumbling.

The Greek word Luke uses is die-gon-gud-zon – murmur, grumble, mutter. Luke is the only New Testament writer to use this word. That should set off alarm bells for us. Poke around and you’ll discover that diegongudzon is the word used in the Greek translation of Exodus 15 and 16 used by the early church. In those Exodus passages the Israelites have been delivered by God from slavery in Egypt. The exhilaration of escape quickly gave way to hard travel through the wilderness. Their feet were sore, their lips were chapped, and an adventure turned into an ordeal. (Believe me. I know what that’s like.) After six weeks, “the whole congregation of the people of Israel murmured [diegongudzon] against Moses and Aaron … and said to them ‘If only we had died by the hand of the Lord in the land of Egypt, when we sat by the fleshpots and ate our fill of bread; for you have brought us out into the wilderness to kill this whole assembly with hunger.’”

Luke is drawing our attention to the similarities. Israel murmurs against Moses because he has led them into dangerous, unmapped, difficult territory. They feel lost and long for the security and safety of the past. Some people murmur against Jesus for the same reasons.

Eugene Peterson asserts that “the people of Israel murmured not because they were bad and evil but because they were good and scared. The Pharisees and scholars … are good and scared [too]. The murmurers in both cases are reverent and devout worshippers of God … But now something is taking place that turns everything topsy-turvy … They are disoriented, lost. They don’t like the feeling and so they murmur.”[2]

And in response to this murmuring, Jesus tells a string of parables. Three times the pattern is repeated: the thing that is lost is found and the joy is so great that a party is thrown! It is only with the last story, the story with the older brother, that the pattern is left dangling. Lost. Found. But then in the place where the party should be – the place for laughter and music, for neighbors and family to gather, there is also an awkward silence.

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Something has happened while the crowd has been listening to this string of parables. Maybe you, like them, have gotten so caught up in the stories that you missed it. The silence between the Father and the older son cloaks the crowd. The silence of amazement, of internal struggle, of anticipation, camouflages the fact that the Pharisees and scribes are no longer grumbling.

How could they? The stories have done their work.

Peterson says, “We can all identify with the everyday dramatics – a lost dog or cat, a misplaced ten dollar bill, a lost or runaway child … Who could keep indignation smoldering through such stories. These are people who have been through lost-and-found stuff all their lives … Every time it happens, they determine never to lose anything again. From now on they are going to play it safe. They are not going to be careless with their lives. They know where everything is – especially the things that have to do with God – with a place for everything and everything in its place. … They may have lost things in the past but no more. They keep a careful eye on things now ...”[3]

And yet the Pharisees, who have been murmuring about Jesus and his careless ways, are, for a moment, caught up in these stories. The silence develops suspense. The silence becomes uncomfortable, and then unbearable, and finally seismic. That which has been solid and stable shifts and shakes, it cracks and crumbles. You can sense that can’t you?

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We don’t know what broke the silence.

Maybe someone, like Campolo said, “Let’s pray,” because when you’ve witnessed the holy … ;

maybe the grumbling resumed as Jesus’ march to Jerusalem unsettled everyone;

maybe the silence was broken by the cries “Crucify him!” or the clank of hammer on spike;

but I’d like to think it was some Pharisees and scribes who blurted out,

“We want to join this party. We are drawn to this kind of God. And we feel called to throw a few parties of our own for prostitutes and brothers, tax collectors and sinners.”

Usually we focus on the ins and outs of the parable, but I want to ask, “How will the silence be broken in your life? In our life? In this church’s life?”     Amen

[1] Adapted from his sermon. See https://www.preachingtoday.com/illustrations/2008/june/15742.html

[2] From Eugene Petersons book, Tell it Slant, page 93

[3] Ibid, page 95-96