Introduction — When Words Can’t Touch the Wound
There are some wounds in life that do not bleed outwardly, yet they bleed continuously inside a parent’s heart. These wounds have no bandage, no cast, no sling. They don’t show up in X-rays or MRIs. And yet they ache every single day. They are the wounds of distance — not geographical distance, but emotional, spiritual, and relational distance.
There is a pain that comes when someone you love is far away… even while their mail still comes to your house. There is a pain that comes when the person is alive, but the relationship feels buried under layers of decisions, trauma, addiction, brokenness, or confusion. There is a pain that comes when a parent realizes that the child they remember — the child they held, shaped, guided, taught, prayed over — is still alive somewhere inside, but unreachable through the fog of their present struggle.
These wounds have names only heaven hears. Sometimes they make their way into your prayers as groans. Sometimes they come out as a father’s silence, or a mother’s tears behind a closed bedroom door. Sometimes they come as fear, sometimes as exhaustion, sometimes as hope flickering like a candle in a drafty room.
And yet Jesus meets that pain.
He doesn’t avoid it.
He doesn’t dismiss it.
He doesn’t call it weakness.
He tells a story — the greatest story ever told about the heart of God — not to entertain us, but to interpret our deepest ache.
It is the story of a father.
It is the story of a son.
It is the story of a home.
It is the story of a heartbreak.
It is the story of a miracle.
And it is the story of God.
Today’s message is titled “My Child Has Come Home.”
Not because life is neat.
Not because every story ends beautifully.
Not because every prodigal returns on schedule.
But because Jesus Himself wants you to know:
If your child ever turns — even slightly, even briefly, even uncertainly —
the Father runs.
Runs fast.
Runs freely.
Runs joyfully.
Runs with tears on His face.
Runs with love in His stride.
And that’s not just the story of one boy in the Bible.
It is the story of your child.
It is the story of God’s heart toward your family.
It is the story that still unfolds in rooms, phone calls, living rooms, and hospital beds today.
Let’s walk into Luke 15 with that in mind.
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1. The Pain of Distance — A Father’s Breaking Heart
Jesus begins the parable so simply, so quietly, that we often miss the emotional violence in the son’s first request:
“Father, give me the portion of goods that belongs to me.”
In that culture, the only time an inheritance was distributed was after the father died.
So the boy wasn’t saying:
“Dad, can I borrow money?”
He was saying,
“Dad… I want the benefits of your existence without the burden of your presence. I want your things… not you. I want your resources… but not your relationship.”
Few sentences pierce deeper into a parent’s heart.
The boy didn’t leave because he was evil.
He left because he was restless.
Because he believed that fulfillment was “out there” somewhere.
Because home felt too small, too slow, too ordinary.
Because he mistook structure for suffocation and boundaries for bondage.
We’ve seen this in our day.
Sometimes you can feel a child slipping away before they ever take a physical step.
Their answers grow shorter.
Their laughter dries up.
Their room becomes a cave.
Their eyes avoid yours.
They become distant, irritable, unreachable.
All while still under your roof.
Distance often begins long before departure.
And Jesus wants us to see something important:
The father does not force him to stay.
Not because he doesn’t care,
but because forced proximity is not love,
and coerced relationship is not relationship.
Freedom is risky.
But love without freedom is not love at all.
So the father lets his son go.
Not because he approves the choice.
But because he chooses love over control.
God knows this pain Himself.
Scripture says, “All day long I have stretched out My hands” — not arms folded in anger, but hands open in longing.
The father in the parable never moves from the place of hope.
He stays near the road.
Not obsessively, not anxiously, but faithfully.
Hope becomes his daily posture.
Love becomes his endurance.
Memory becomes his motivation.
This is how God watches you.
This is how God watches your child.
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2. The Far Country — The Illusion and the Crash
The son travels far — not just geographically, but emotionally and spiritually.
He enters what Jesus calls “a far country,” which is what life looks like when you try to live without the Father’s voice.
A far country doesn’t need a passport.
Some far countries are right here in our towns.
Some far countries are inside a person’s mind.
Some far countries look like success.
Some look like addiction.
Some look like rebellion.
Some look like numbness.
In the far country:
Money flows until it doesn’t.
Friends gather until the resources disappear.
Dreams soar until they crash against reality.
Pleasure numbs until it stops working.
Escape feels like freedom until it chains the soul.
Then the famine hits.
And famine always hits.
The boy, who once strutted boldly out of his father’s home, now finds himself feeding pigs — the lowest possible job for a Jewish young man.
He becomes so hungry that he envies the pigs’ food.
That’s what the far country does.
It breaks illusions.
It strips pride.
It suffocates fantasy.
It forces confrontation with reality.
And then… the miracle phrase:
“He came to himself.”
He didn’t come to religion.
He didn’t come to theology.
He didn’t come to moral resolve.
He came to himself —
the self he had lost,
the self buried under decisions and pain,
the self he had forgotten.
Sometimes before a child comes home,
they must come back to themselves.
That awakening — that inner moment —
is often the first miracle.
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3. The Road Home — One Step at a Time
The son rehearses a speech soaked in shame:
“I am no longer worthy to be called your son. Make me like one of your hired servants.”
Shame always argues in the language of unworthiness.
Shame preaches:
“You’ve done too much.”
“You’ve gone too far.”
“You’ve used up your chances.”
“You’re beyond restoration.”
But the Father of Jesus’ parable knows nothing of that language.
The boy starts home — slowly, unsure, trembling, practicing his apology over and over.
Every step is a mixture of fear and longing.
He expects a closed door.
He expects anger.
He expects conditions.
He expects the coldness of disappointment.
He has no idea that his father has been waiting,
watching,
hoping,
praying,
and loving him every single day.
And that brings us to the most explosive verse in the Bible about the heart of God:
“But while he was still a long way off, his father saw him…”
How?
Because the father had not stopped watching the road.
Not every moment.
Not obsessively.
But faithfully.
He saw the silhouette.
He recognized the walk.
He recognized the hesitation.
He recognized the son.
Before the son can finish walking home…
the father begins running toward him.
Not dignified steps.
Not cautious strides.
Not slow evaluation.
Running.
Running like a man who forgot the rules of age.
Running like a heart that has waited too long to walk.
Running because love always moves faster than shame.
This is God.
This is who He is.
This is how He sees your child.
This is how He comes after you.
This is how He races toward every homecoming.
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4. The Father Who Runs — Grace in Motion
When Jesus says the father “ran,” every person in His original audience would have gasped.
Middle-aged Jewish men did not run.
Children ran.
Servants ran.
But patriarchs did not run — ever.
It was considered undignified.
Robes did not allow for it.
Honor prevented it.
Age resisted it.
For the father to run, he would have to:
gather up his robe,
reveal his ankles,
forget social expectations,
abandon dignity,
and sprint like a man half his age.
Why would he humiliate himself?
Because love outruns dignity.
Grace overrules protocol.
Joy ignores propriety.
And the father is not embarrassed.
He’s relieved.
He’s ecstatic.
He’s undone by love.
The boy rehearses his apology repeatedly:
“I’ve sinned…
I’m unworthy…
I’ll be your servant…”
But the father interrupts him.
He has no interest in hired-servant theology.
He has no desire for anything less than full restoration.
He wraps the boy in his arms —
before the boy can clean up,
before the boy can explain,
before the boy can work his way back,
before the boy can prove sincerity.
Grace does not wait for proof.
Grace creates the possibility for transformation.
He kisses him.
He calls for the robe — identity.
He calls for the ring — authority and belonging.
He calls for the sandals — dignity restored.
He calls for the feast — joy overflowing.
The father is not concerned with the past.
He is consumed with the miracle standing before him.
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5. When the Parable Became My Life — A Father’s Testimony
This is where Jesus’ story touches us today.
This is where Scripture meets life.
And this is where I share something sacred with you — carefully, respectfully, with the tenderness it deserves.
I am a father of three sons.
And like many of your children, each of them has walked through seasons that stretched my heart until I didn’t think it could stretch any further.
There were nights I could not sleep.
There were prayers that were more like groans than words.
There were moments when I wondered if the child I once held, once guided, once laughed with — was still reachable inside the fog of their struggle.
I don’t say this as a pastor today.
I say it as a father.
As a man who has prayed in the dark.
As someone who has carried fear and hope in the same breath.
Then, a few months ago… the phone rang.
You know how it is when you see a child’s name on the screen?
Your heart doesn’t know whether to leap or brace itself.
A phone call can bring joy… or collapse a world.
And sometimes you are afraid of the silence, and other times you are afraid of the sound.
I answered.
I said, “Hello?”
And what I heard next…
I will remember as long as I live.
Because in that moment, something lifted.
A fog broke.
A voice returned.
It was my son.
Not the struggle.
Not the fear.
Not the heaviness.
My son.
The warmth I remembered,
the clarity I had prayed for,
the steadiness that once defined him —
it all came through the line like sunlight after years of gray skies.
I sat still.
Very still.
I didn’t want to breathe too loudly.
I didn’t want to break the moment.
I didn’t want anything to interrupt what God was doing.
Sometimes God restores your child gradually.
Sometimes slowly.
Sometimes painfully.
But sometimes… God gives you a moment —
a moment so pure, so unmistakable, so holy —
that you can only call it a miracle.
And that phone call was a miracle.
Because for the first time in a long while…
I heard the boy behind the struggle.
The child behind the pain.
The son behind the darkness.
And right there, in that moment,
Luke 15 became more than a parable.
It became my life.
It became my tears.
It became my hope.
It became my miracle.
When Jesus says the father ran —
He described exactly how God met me in that phone call.
He described exactly how God met my son.
He described exactly how grace sounds when it finds a voice again.
When your child comes home —
even partway, even slowly, even through a single phone call —
the Father runs.
He doesn’t wait for perfect repentance.
He doesn’t wait for full explanations.
He doesn’t wait for proof.
He doesn’t wait for guarantees.
He doesn’t wait for a neat story.
He runs.
And when the Father runs,
He brings hope with Him.
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6. A Word to Every Parent With a Prodigal
Let me linger here — because this is where many of you are living.
Some of you are praying for children today:
children tangled in addiction,
children lost in depression,
children overwhelmed by anxiety,
children caught in destructive relationships,
children numbed by technology and distraction,
children wrestling with identity,
children who feel far from everything familiar,
children who are physically present but emotionally absent,
children who have drifted from faith,
children who don’t know how to come home.
Some of you have prayed until your prayers felt empty.
Some of you have cried until your tears felt dry.
Some of you have talked until your voice grew tired.
Some of you have watched until your eyes burned.
Some of you have waited so long that waiting itself became a kind of quiet grief.
And you wonder:
Is the story over?
Has too much time passed?
Has too much damage been done?
Is there anything left to hope for?
Let me answer you gently — as a father, as a pastor, as a man who has lived this:
God is not finished with your children.
Not while the Father is still on the porch.
Not while grace still runs.
Not while mercy still pursues.
Not while the Savior still watches the road.
Your child is not beyond God’s reach.
Your story is not beyond God’s healing.
Your home is not beyond God’s restoration.
The far country cannot cancel the Father’s love.
The famine cannot erase the Father’s memory.
The pigpen cannot silence the Father’s voice.
The wandering cannot prevent the Father’s embrace.
And when God begins the miracle —
you will know.
It might come as a phone call.
It might come as a moment of clarity.
It might come as a request for help.
It might come as a softened tone.
It might come as a returned text.
It might come as honesty.
It might come as tears.
It might come quietly, gradually, slowly…
But when the Father runs,
you will know the sound of His footsteps.
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7. A Theology of Homecoming
There is a humility in every return.
The son came home expecting judgment —
but the Father gave joy.
He expected scolding —
but the Father gave celebration.
He expected a contract —
but the Father gave a covenant.
He expected penalties —
but the Father gave a party.
This is the gospel.
This is grace.
This is the Father’s heart.
In the kingdom of heaven:
Confession is met with embrace.
Humility is met with restoration.
Tears are met with kisses.
Steps are met with running.
Shame is met with honor.
Lostness is met with music.
And heaven’s choir begins to rehearse
every time God sees one of His children turn toward home.
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8. The Miracle in the Middle of the Road
Before the party,
before the feast,
before the robe and the ring and the sandals —
there is a moment in the middle of the road.
A moment when a parent sees their child again —
not fully home,
not fully restored,
not fully healed,
but unmistakably alive,
undeniably present,
undoubtedly touched by grace.
That moment deserves to be honored.
That moment deserves to be savored.
That moment deserves to be remembered.
Because miracles often come in pieces before they come in fullness.
The moment you hear your child again is the moment grace breaks through.
And for some of you,
that moment is coming.
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9. The House Turns Into a Home Again
When the father reaches his son, he shouts to the servants:
“Bring out the best robe!”
“Put a ring on his hand!”
“Put sandals on his feet!”
“And kill the fatted calf — we’re going to celebrate!”
Everything the father does is symbolic.
The Robe — Identity Restored
The robe was not just clothing; it was the father’s own robe,
the garment reserved for honored guests.
Putting it on his son was the father’s way of saying publicly:
“You are not a servant.
You are not a stranger.
You are not damaged goods.
You are my child.
And nothing can change that.”
The Ring — Authority and Belonging
In that culture, a ring wasn’t jewelry —
it was a signature.
It meant the son could transact business in the father’s name.
It restored trust, worth, belonging.
The son did not earn that ring.
He couldn’t.
It was given by grace.
The Sandals — Dignity Restored
Servants, hired workers, and slaves went barefoot.
Sons wore sandals.
The father refuses to let his son carry the identity of a servant.
He restores dignity immediately, before the son even has time to process it.
The Feast — Joy That Cannot Be Contained
You didn’t kill the fatted calf for casual guests.
This was a once-in-a-year celebration — a festival meal.
The father didn’t just forgive his son.
He rejoiced over him.
This is who God is.
God restores identity.
God restores belonging.
God restores dignity.
God restores joy.
And He does it all faster than shame can protest.
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10. Meanwhile… the Older Brother
The older brother stands outside —
angry, rigid, resentful.
He hears the music.
He smells the food.
He sees the dancing.
And he refuses to go in.
He’s not angry that his brother came home.
He’s angry that grace is too big.
He demands fairness.
He wants a ledger, not a party.
He wants justice, not joy.
But the father does something remarkable:
He leaves the party to meet him outside.
This father runs to the younger son…
and walks out to the older son.
He is a reconciling Father —
a Father who refuses to lose either child.
The older brother’s struggle is common:
“I’ve stayed faithful. Why does he get celebrated?”
“I’ve been responsible. Why does she get the feast?”
“I’ve done the right thing. Why does grace go to them?”
Jesus is teaching us:
Grace does not diminish the faithful.
It rescues the lost.
And there is room in the Father’s house for both.
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11. The Sound of Music in a House Once Silent
The story ends with music.
Not with tension.
Not with punishment.
Not with coldness.
Not with conditions.
Not with fear.
With music.
Because music is what happens when wounds begin to heal.
Music is what happens when hope replaces despair.
Music is what happens when distance collapses into embrace.
And Jesus leaves the story open-ended —
because He wants you to step into it.
He wants every parent in this room to know:
Heaven is tuned to the frequency of homecoming.
When the father ran, the angels tuned their instruments.
When the son embraced restoration, the heavens began humming.
When forgiveness flowed, joy overflowed.
This is the gospel.
Not God waiting for perfect people.
Not God demanding performance.
Not God sitting with arms folded.
But God — the Father — running, embracing, rejoicing, restoring.
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12. Your Child… and the Father’s Heart
Now let me speak to your heart directly —
not as a preacher, but as someone who knows the ache.
Some of you have been praying for years.
Some of you have whispered your child’s name to God thousands of times.
Some of you have cried in the shower so no one would hear.
Some of you have been strong in public and shattered in private.
Some of you have asked God questions you were afraid to say out loud.
Let me tell you something tender and true:
God is not done with your children.
Not the one who left.
Not the one who stayed but drifted.
Not the one struggling in silence.
Not the one wrestling with mental health.
Not the one trapped in addiction.
Not the one buried under fear.
Not the one who pushes you away.
Not the one whose life looks like a far country.
Not the one who doesn’t know how to talk anymore.
Not the one who seems unreachable.
God sees them.
God knows them.
God loves them.
God runs toward them.
Even when you don’t see it.
Even when you can’t measure it.
Even when you don’t know what’s happening inside.
Even when the process is slow, uneven, messy, nonlinear.
The Father is watching the road.
The Father is ready to run.
The Father is waiting for the moment the heart turns.
And when it does —
He will move faster than any parent, faster than any mistake,
faster than any shame, faster than any history.
Because love moves faster than lostness.
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13. Before the Feast, There Is the Embrace
We often rush to the celebration in this parable —
the robe, the ring, the feast.
But the heart of the story is not the feast.
It is the embrace.
That moment when the father throws his arms around a dirty, broken, trembling son —
and restores him before the son can utter his full confession.
This is where healing begins.
This is where grace breathes.
This is where shame dies.
This is where identity is reborn.
This is where the story turns.
And this same Father —
this same heart —
this same embrace —
is reaching for your child.
Even now.
Even today.
Even in this moment.
You do not see everything God is doing.
But heaven sees the road clearly.
Heaven measures hope differently.
Heaven runs faster.
Your prayers are not wasted.
Your waiting is not in vain.
Your hope is not foolish.
Sometimes God answers suddenly.
Sometimes slowly.
Sometimes in pieces.
But every miracle begins with a turn.
And every turn is seen by the Father.
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14. Letting Hope Live Again
Some of you have quietly stopped expecting good news.
Not because you don’t believe —
but because you’re tired.
Hope is heavy when you carry it alone.
Let me speak this over you:
You do not carry this alone.
Heaven carries it with you.
The Father carries it for you.
Let hope breathe again.
Let hope rise again.
Let hope whisper again.
Your child is not defined by their worst decisions.
Your family is not defined by the hardest season.
Your story is not defined by the darkest moment.
Love is still writing.
God is still moving.
The Father is still watching the road.
And the next step your child takes toward home
will be met by a running Savior.
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15. The Invitation — For Parents and Children Alike
Today, the invitation is twofold.
1. For Parents
If you are carrying a child in your heart,
a son or daughter who is far —
emotionally, spiritually, or physically —
God sees your tears.
God hears your prayers.
God is closer than you think.
God is working in places you cannot see.
Place that child in the Father’s arms.
Let Him run.
Let Him do what you cannot.
Let Him finish what He started.
2. For Anyone Who Is the Prodigal
You do not have to stay in the far country.
You do not have to rehearse speeches.
You do not have to carry shame like a backpack.
You do not have to negotiate your return.
The Father is already watching the road.
He already sees your silhouette.
He is already running.
He is already reaching.
He is already rejoicing.
Come home.
Even if it’s one step.
Even if it’s one prayer.
Even if it’s one moment of clarity.
Come home, and let the music begin.
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Closing Appeal
If you have someone on your heart today —
someone you love, someone you miss,
someone you pray for, someone you long for —
lift their name to the Father.
Heaven is not indifferent.
Grace is not passive.
The Father is not slow.
Your story is not over.
God runs.
He runs with mercy.
He runs with love.
He runs with healing.
He runs with power.
He runs with joy.
And He is running toward your family.
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Closing Prayer
“Father,
We bring our children to You —
each one by name, each one by story, each one by need.
You know them better than we ever could.
You see the far country they walk through.
You know the wounds they carry.
You know the battles we cannot fight for them.
Lord, run to them.
Break through the fog.
Speak into the silence.
Restore the voice.
Bring them to themselves… and then home.
Heal the discouraged parent.
Lift the weary heart.
Strengthen the tired soul.
Let hope live again.
Thank You that You never stop running,
never stop loving,
never stop reaching.
In Jesus’ name,
Amen.”
