So Near -- So Far

INTRODUCTION – MEMORIAL DAY WEEKEND

Today our nation pauses to remember those who gave their lives for freedom.

For many, Memorial Day is a date on the calendar; for me, it is a name.

My older brother Bob, now laid to rest in Arlington National Cemetery, reminds me that freedom always carries a cost.

Every time I see the images of those endless white markers stretching across the green hills, I think of sacrifice, duty, and love that keeps no record of self.

Those rows whisper the same truth the gospel proclaims: someone paid the price so that others could live free.

I have another brother, Stephen, retired now, entering the season where life’s pace slows and reflection deepens.

My prayer for him is simple—that he finds joy, strength, and the quiet assurance that God still has purpose for every sunrise ahead.

Growing up, I had two older brothers… but I rarely lived with them.

My father’s medical work carried our family across oceans and continents.

By the time I was twelve, I had circled the world five times.

At thirteen I left for boarding school and, except for brief holiday visits, never truly lived at home again.

I belonged to my family, yet I grew up in motion—connected by love, but always leaving one home and learning another.

There is a strange ache that follows a child who never really settles; it’s the ache of being loved yet distant, included yet traveling.

So when Jesus tells a story about sons and home and distance, I pay attention.

Luke 15 holds truth for every heart that has ever felt inside the family but outside the joy.

Jesus begins:

> “A certain man had two sons…”

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TWO WAYS TO BE LOST

We all know the younger son first.

He’s the headline grabber—the runaway, the rule breaker, the one who says out loud what most people only think quietly.

He goes to his father and says:

> “Give me my inheritance now.”

To the Middle Eastern mind, that request was unthinkable.

It was the same as saying, “Father, I wish you were dead.”

Inheritance came only after death; to demand it early was to cut the family tie at its root.

But here is the shock of the parable:

the father doesn’t rebuke him.

He doesn’t argue.

He simply lets him go.

Because love, to remain love, must allow freedom.

If there is no freedom, there can be no love.

So the father divides the estate.

The younger son packs up his belongings and leaves home—no keepsakes, no reminders.

He wants nothing that smells of the old life.

He’s determined to find himself by erasing his past.

He travels far, burns through his money, burns through his friends, and ends up feeding pigs—an image that would have made any Jewish listener wince.

He goes from heir to hired hand, from favored son to foreign servant.

Then Luke writes five of the most hopeful words in Scripture:

> “He came to himself.”

He remembers.

Memory becomes mercy.

He rehearses a speech:

> “I have sinned… I am no longer worthy… make me one of your hired servants.”

That’s the language of shame—trying to negotiate your way back into grace.

But while he is still far off, the father sees him.

Why?

Because the father never stopped looking down that road.

The old man runs.

He lifts his robe, exposes his legs—something no dignified patriarch would do.

But love outruns decorum.

He races down the path, gathers that broken boy into his arms, and kisses him before a single apology can spill out.

The son begins his speech, but the father cuts him off.

The words “make me a servant” never make it past his lips.

The father will have none of it.

“Bring the best robe.

Put a ring on his hand.

Shoes on his feet.

Kill the fatted calf.

We’re going to celebrate.”

The robe covers the shame.

The ring restores authority.

The sandals mark him as family, not slave.

The feast proclaims to the village that reconciliation has already happened.

Grace doesn’t wait for proof; grace throws a party first.

Jesus paints this scene so vividly that you can almost hear the laughter, smell the roasted meat, feel the tears on that father’s cheek as he says:

> “This my son was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found.”

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GRACE THAT RUNS

Pause here for a moment.

The Father’s sprint is the gospel in miniature.

It is what God has always done—run toward humanity.

From Eden to Calvary, the story of Scripture is God moving toward us.

The younger son expected condemnation; he found celebration.

He expected punishment; he found a party.

He expected probation; he found restoration.

That’s what grace does—it turns the courtroom into a banquet hall.