TD Jakes - Discovering God's Unwavering Love
Brothers, shut up. They can’t see it until they see it. They can’t know it until they know it. They can’t be it until they be it. They can’t see it just like you couldn’t see it when you were their age. They can’t see it either, and you have to— the Bible says, «In patience, you possess your soul; you possess your mind; you keep yourself from a nervous breakdown.» When you develop patience, you have to know that you shall bring forth fruit in your own season, your leaf shall not wither, and whatsoever you do shall prosper. But it’s not the boy’s season; you have to wait on that girl to grow up. Yes, she’s going to act like a fool; yes, she’s going to do stupid things; yes, she might come home pregnant; yes, she might get on drugs. Yes, your heart is broken; yes, you feel like you’re a disappointment; yes, you feel like a failure. At your most vulnerable age, you feel like, «I failed. I put everything I had in you and looked at you.» But you have to wait. I don’t know who I’m preaching to, but I feel like I’m preaching—I’m preaching to somebody today.
See, we have lost our ability to wait. If the marriage doesn’t work out in the first three years, we’re out of there. If we’re not happy in the first five years, we’re out of there. You don’t understand how long it takes for two different people from two different worlds and two different family backgrounds to mesh together and figure out how to make this work. You aren’t going to be happy every day. I can’t make you happy; I’m trying to make me happy. I don’t even know what I want. How do you expect me to know what you want? I don’t know what you want, and I can’t make you happy. So the old man waited. This Jewish boy has gotten tied up with some Gentile people.
Wait a minute— you couldn’t stay with me, and I loved you, and now you have attached yourself to a citizen of that country. I had to wait while you gave them honor; you couldn’t be attached to me? Wow! But you attached yourself to the Gentiles who sent you out there to feed what I would never feed you. For a Jew to eat swine was a curse, and the moment they got his attention, they sent him to the hog pen—not to eat the swine, but to feed the swine. The boy is so low in his vision and self-esteem that now he’s craving stuff he’s never been exposed to at home. And it’s not that he was about to have a ham sandwich or some barbecued ribs; he was lusting after corn husks. Y’all are city people; you don’t know anything about a hog pen. A hog pen stinks, it’s full of slop and feces and mud.
This son, at his lowest estate, you can tell he’s at his lowest estate because when you get down to your lowest, things that never looked good to you start looking good. Stuff that you weren’t attracted to, you start being attracted to. Things you said you’d never do, now you start doing. He would fain have filled his belly with that which the swine did eat because he was hungry. I’m not blaming him; he was hungry. But while he was hungry, there was food at his father’s house. If a man gets hungry enough, he’ll eat anything; he’ll do anything. I understand that; I know what it is to be desperate.
I want to talk to desperate young men in this place right now. When you get desperate, stop telling people what you won’t do. Stop telling people where you won’t go, what you won’t smoke, what you won’t drink, stop telling people who you won’t sleep with—that’s because you’re not hungry. If you get hungry enough, oh, you have to sit there and act like you don’t know what I’m talking about. You have to sit there with your church face on and act like you haven’t done anything that you thought you would never do. You have to sit there and look at me on this Father’s Day and act like you ain’t got no mess, no secrets, no stuff you don’t want nobody to know about—like you have never been to the hog pen. You’re such a phony; that’s why I’m through with church folk.
I want to talk to some real people who have done some nasty stuff, some stinking stuff, some wretched stuff, some stuff you had to blindfold yourself to do. I want to talk to some people who looked at corn husks and thought it was sexy. All the while, this boy has broken his own values, his own rules, and his own integrity, and everything I put in him and everything I put on him, and now he’s down in the hog pen where my parenting is tested. My parenting is not tested when you’re in my house; my parenting is tested when you leave. My parenting is not tested at 9:00 in the evening; it’s tested at 3:00 in the morning. My parenting is not tested when I’m driving you to the prom; my parenting is tested when you have your own car and you’re over somebody else’s house you shouldn’t be over. My parenting is tested when you fall in love with that married man. My parenting is tested when that boy gets ready to kill you over a girl who is just using you for your money.
You don’t have to be a father to understand this pain because there are a whole lot of women in this room who have been raising children. You know what it’s like to walk the floor at 3:00 in the morning and you can’t fix it, you can’t stop it. They won’t talk to you; they won’t take your calls; they won’t listen to you, and all you can do is wait. You tried fussing, and it didn’t work. You tried cursing, and it didn’t work. You tried praying, and it didn’t work. You spoke in tongues, and it got worse. They went to jail; they got in trouble. And even on this day, some of you are hurting because the people you love are locked up. And he would fain have filled his belly with that which the swine did eat.
And all the while he was about to eat slop: have you ever waited on somebody you love? Have you ever waited on them to call you? Have you ever picked up your phone and kept looking for a text? Have you ever waited on somebody to miss you? He looked out the window; he waited—not knowing if he would ever see him alive again, not knowing if the ambulance that had just passed by was carrying my son, my child, my wife, my future. Whatever it is you’re waiting on, I’m wondering if it’s going to get back—is it ever going to get back? Is it ever going to come home? It’s not just waiting; it’s worrying—it’s worrying and waiting and worrying and waiting. See, the worry is the torment that the devil leaves with the waiter so that you can’t get comfortable in the waiting.
That’s why you have to wait on the Lord and have your strength renewed so you can fight off the worry—all the images that come to your mind, all the could-haves, would-haves, and should-haves—all the «this might happen, that might happen; this might die, that might happen.» There he is, where his father can’t help him, where his father can’t reach him, where his father can’t touch him, and he’s already spent everything his father put in him, and now he’s down to nothing. And that’s when we find out what you’re really made of—when you’re down to nothing, when all hell has broken loose in your life, and it looks like you’ll never get back up again. That’s when we find out, «Are you a man?» I don’t know; I know you’re a man while you got money.
I know you’re a man when you’re broke. I know you’re a man when you’re backed in a corner and you’re shoved to the wall, and if you don’t fight your way out, you won’t get out. That’s when I find out what you’re really made of. And I don’t know what the father did wrong. Every father does something wrong, something stupid, something crazy. And all the while you’re waiting, you don’t have anything to think about but, «Maybe if I spent more time right; maybe if I’d taken him to the movies; maybe if I’d been at the football game; maybe if I’d been at the dance; maybe he wouldn’t be in the hog pen. Maybe it’s my fault.» Maybe.
I’m talking about guilt. I’m talking about guilt. I’m talking to the men, but I’m really talking to everybody because these feelings are genderless; they don’t really have anything to do with gender. I’m talking about guilt. Maybe I should have said something. Maybe if I’d made the sandwich before they died, maybe if I’d gone to the hospital that night. Maybe if I’d gone to get them out of jail. Maybe, maybe, maybe. If I’d driven down to the crack house—maybe, maybe, if I’d fought a little harder. Maybe if I had argued one more time, maybe if I had pleaded, maybe if I had started crying, maybe if I’d sat down on the floor—maybe these are the thoughts of the waiter while you wait. Yeah, maybe if I’d been a better wife, he wouldn’t have left me.
Maybe if I’d been a better husband, she wouldn’t have cheated on me—maybe, maybe, maybe. It’s the thoughts that run through the minds of the people who are waiting, and maybe the waiting isn’t worth it; maybe I’ll never see him again—maybe my son is dead. All of this Jesus teaches to tell you what God goes through. See, you think I’m talking about Father’s Day, but I’m not. All of this Jesus is teaching is to illustrate what God goes through with you while you spend everything He gave you in riotous living and being irresponsible and going your own way.
What you don’t realize is that God is waiting on you. He’s looking at the watch; He’s watching. «I gave you a chance; I gave you another chance; I gave you another chance; I gave you another chance. I’m waiting on you; I’m waiting on you to come back home. I still love you; I still want you; I’ll take you back. Even though your friends have dropped you, your girlfriends have dropped you, the harlots have dropped you, the money is gone, I’ll take you broke; I’ll take you stinking; I’ll take you dirty; I’ll take you smelling like feces—I’ll take you any way I can get you back. I so love you that I’m willing to do whatever I have to do to get you back.»
This is not just about the love of a father; everybody doesn’t have a father who loves him like that. This is the love of our Father, our God, who so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth on Him shall not perish but have everlasting life. And you are making Him… And so the Bible says that there was this moment—there was this moment in his life, oh my God, Lord, have mercy; there was this moment in his life—this epiphany, this divine awakening, this illumination, this apocalyptic unveiling of truth—that he came to himself. And he wasn’t in church, and he wasn’t in prayer meeting, and he wasn’t in Bible class. You don’t have to be in a special place to come to yourself; sometimes you can wake up in your own bed, sometimes you can come to yourself in a nightclub, sometimes you can come to yourself in the street.
Sometimes you can be half-drunk and have an epiphany and say, «Wait a minute; I’m better than this. I know better than this. I come from better stuff than this. I’m meant for more than this. Surely my destiny doesn’t end here; surely my life doesn’t end here; surely I was made for better than this.» Surely, surely, surely—no choir, no praise team, no preachers, no singers, no dancers—he came to himself. And I’m wondering if there’s anybody in here that’s having a moment where you come to yourself. I came to myself.
Wait, that’s a strange statement. I came to church this morning; I came to the Potter’s House. That’s travel, that’s distance, that’s time, that’s motion, that’s movement, that’s logistics. I came to myself? You mean I have to travel to get to me? You mean I have to get on the road and start the car to find who I really am? Yes, it takes a long time to come to yourself— to come to yourself, where you really know who you are. He came to himself without moving his body; he’s still in the hog pen. They’re still snorting; they’re still stinking; it’s still dirty; it’s still a mess. But nothing that hell sends against you can stop you from coming to yourself. I don’t care what you’re surrounded by; I don’t care who’s around you; I don’t care what it looks like; I don’t care what you did and who you did it with—when you get ready to come to yourself, you can come to yourself. I wish I had a witness; is there anybody in here that ever came to yourself? Holler at your boy.