Title: The God Who Runs Toward Us
Intro: On the cross, He carried both sons—the wayward rebellion of the younger and the self-righteous resentment of the older.
Scripture: Luke 15:1-32
Reflection
Dear Friends,
There is a road in Jesus’ story that changes everything. It is dusty and long, and on any given day, you might see an old man standing at the end of it, shading his eyes with his hand, looking into the distance. Waiting. Always waiting.
This is the story we know so well—the prodigal son. But maybe we have been calling it by the wrong name all along. Maybe it is really the story of the father who could not stop watching the road. The father who ran when running was not dignified. The father whose love was bigger than pride, bigger than hurt, bigger than everything that should have made him turn away.
The younger son in this story starts where so many of us do—restless and hungry for something more. He is tired of rules and routines. Tired of being told what to do and when to do it. So he does something that would have been unthinkable in his culture. He asks his father for his inheritance while his father is still alive. It is like saying, “I wish you were dead, but I will settle for your money.”
Can you imagine the father’s heart breaking in that moment? Yet he gives his son what he asks for. He lets him go. Sometimes love means opening your hands even when everything in you wants to hold on tight.
Off the young man goes with his pockets full and his future bright. At least, that is what he thinks. The world is wide and full of possibilities, and he is finally free to taste them all. But freedom without wisdom is just another kind of prison. The money runs out. The friends disappear. The parties end. And he finds himself feeding pigs, so hungry he is jealous of what they are eating.
This is where sin always takes us, is it not? It promises us the world but delivers emptiness. It tells us we will finally be happy if we just get what we want, do what we want, and be who we want to be. But in the end, we are alone with the pigs, wondering how we got so far from home.
Luke 15:17 tells us that “he came to his senses.” That is all it takes sometimes—just coming to our senses. Realising that where we are is not where we belong. That who we have become is not who we are meant to be. That moment of clarity is grace breaking through. It is God whispering, “There is still a way home.”
So the young man starts the long walk back. Every step probably feels heavier than the last. What will he say? How can he possibly explain? What if his father will not even see him? But something inside him keeps moving his feet forward, one step at a time, down that dusty road toward home.
Meanwhile, the father is doing what he has been doing every day since his son left—watching the road. Scanning the horizon. Hoping against hope. And then it happens. There is a figure in the distance, still far off, but something about the walk looks familiar. Something about the way the shoulders slump speaks to a father’s heart.
Luke 15:20 gives us one of the most beautiful pictures in all of Scripture: “While he was still far off, his father saw him and was filled with compassion; he ran and put his arms around him and kissed him.” He ran. In a culture where dignified older men never ran in public, where running meant hiking up your robes and losing your composure and looking foolish, this father ran anyway.
Love made him forget his dignity. Love made him forget what people would think. Love made him run down that road like his life depended on it. Before his son could even finish his rehearsed apology, the father was covering him with kisses, calling for the best robe, putting a ring on his finger, and planning a feast that would shake the house with joy.
This is the heart of God. Not the stern judge we sometimes imagine, keeping score of our failures. Not the distant deity who demands we clean ourselves up before we dare approach. But the God who runs toward us while we are still far off, who sees us coming and cannot contain his joy, who covers our shame with his love before we can even say we are sorry.
David knew this heart when he wrote in Psalm 103:8, “The Lord is compassionate and gracious, slow to anger, abounding in love.” He does not say God tolerates us or puts up with us. He says God is compassionate and gracious, that his love abounds—it overflows, it runs toward us like a father down a dusty road.
But the story does not end there. There is another son in this parable, and he represents something just as real, just as human, and just as close to home. The older son has been everything the younger son was not—faithful, responsible, and obedient. He has never run away. He has never wasted anything. He has worked hard, day after day, doing what was expected of him.
So when he comes in from the fields and hears music and dancing, when he learns that his wasteful, irresponsible brother has come home and is being celebrated, something bitter rises up in his chest. “Listen!” he says to his father in Luke 15:29, “All these years I have been slaving for you and never disobeyed your orders. Yet you never gave me even a young goat so I could celebrate with my friends.”
Can you hear the pain in those words? The older son feels forgotten, overlooked, and taken for granted. He has done everything right, but where is his party? Where is his celebration? Why should his brother get the feast when he is the one who stayed faithful?
Here is the thing—the older son is just as lost as the younger one. The younger son was lost in rebellion; the older son is lost in resentment. The younger son was far from home geographically; the older son is far from home emotionally. He is standing outside his own father’s house, refusing to come in, because mercy seems unfair to him.
And what does the father do? He did the same thing he did for the younger son. He goes out to him. He pleads with him. “My son”, he says in Luke 15:31, “you are always with me, and everything I have is yours. But we had to celebrate and be glad, because this brother of yours was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found.”
The father’s love is big enough for both sons. His mercy extends to the one who ran away and the one who stayed home but lost his heart along the way. He runs down the road for the rebel, and he steps into the night to plead with the righteous. Because love does not choose sides. Love just loves.
We are both sons, are we not? Sometimes we are the younger one, running from God, chasing things that promise joy but deliver emptiness. Sometimes we are the older one, doing all the right things but growing cold inside, wondering why other people seem to get grace we feel we have earned but never received.
Paul understood this. In 1 Timothy 1:15, he calls himself the worst of sinners, but he also talks about his former life as a Pharisee, zealous for the law, convinced he was serving God when he was actually persecuting the church. He was both sons at different times in his life. And he discovered that God’s mercy was big enough for both versions of himself.
“The saying is trustworthy and deserving of full acceptance,” Paul writes, “that Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners.” Not to save the good people. Not to save the ones who have it all figured out. To save sinners. People like us. People who run away and people who stay home but lose their hearts. People who waste their inheritance and people who count everyone else’s blessings while forgetting their own.
This is the good news that should make us want to dance in the street. God does not love us because we are good. He loves us because he is good. He does not run toward us because we deserve it. He runs toward us because love is what he does. It is who he is.
But this story also calls us to something. It is not just about receiving love; it is about becoming love. Jesus told this parable in response to the Pharisees grumbling about him eating with tax collectors and sinners. They were like the older brother, standing outside the party, angry that the wrong people were being welcomed.
Jesus was showing them—and us—what the heart of God looks like. When someone far from God takes a step toward home, heaven throws a party. When someone lost gets found, the angels rejoice. When someone broken gets restored, God runs down the road to meet them.
The question is: are we running too, or are we standing outside, arms crossed, upset that grace looks too much like unfairness?
In Luke 6:36, Jesus says, “Be merciful, just as your Father is merciful.” That is our calling. To be like the father in the story. To watch for the lost ones. To run toward the broken ones. To throw parties for the found ones. To step into the night to plead with the bitter ones.
This is not always easy. Our world often celebrates justice more than mercy. We love consequences when they apply to other people and grace when it applies to us. We cheer for punishment and struggle with redemption. But the father in this story shows us a different way.
He shows us love that runs. Love that embraces. Love that restores before we can even finish apologising. Love that pleads with the resentful heart and throws parties for the repentant one. Love that refuses to write anyone off, that keeps watching the road, that never stops believing in the possibility of homecoming.
This is the love that changed the world when it put on flesh and walked among us. Jesus was the running father in human form, seeking the lost, eating with sinners, touching the untouchable, and forgiving the unforgivable. And on the cross, he carried both sons—the wayward rebellion of the younger and the self-righteous resentment of the older.
He died for our running away and our staying put in bitterness. He died for our waste and our withholding. He died for our rebellion and our religion when it becomes cold and hard. And he rose again to prove that love really does win, that mercy really does triumph over judgement, that no one is too far gone to come home.
So what does this mean for us today? It means if you feel far from God, you can come home. No matter how far you have run, no matter what you have wasted, no matter how long you have been gone, there is a Father watching the road for you. He sees you coming while you are still far off, and he is already running toward you.
It means if you feel forgotten, taken for granted, or tired of doing right while others seem to get away with wrong, you are loved too. The party is not just for the prodigals. It is for you. Everything the Father has is yours. But do not let resentment keep you outside when mercy is being celebrated inside.
And it means we are called to live like the Father. To watch for the lost ones in our lives. To run toward them when they take steps toward home. To embrace restoration over condemnation. To choose mercy over judgement. To throw parties when Grace wins.
Because in the end, this is not really a story about two sons. It is a story about a father whose love is so big it runs down roads and steps into dark nights. A father whose mercy is so deep it covers waste and welcomes home. A father who will never stop watching for us, never stop hoping for us, never stop loving us back to life.
That is our God. That is our hope. And that is the love that changes everything—first in us, then through us, then around us, until the whole world knows what it means to be welcomed home.
The road is still there. The father is still watching. And love is still running toward anyone brave enough to take a step toward home.
May the heart of Jesus live in the hearts of all. Amen…
