The God Who Runs Toward Us Series

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.