The Prodigal Son: The Father

We're grateful for you and the gifts of God that you bring with you into this space.

As a church, we want to live in God's unfolding story, being transformed by Jesus, learning to belong to each other across our differences, as God invites us into freedom, joy, and boundless generosity.

We pray that whether this is your first time with us this morning, or you've been a part of our community for a while, that you will feel the invitation of the Holy Spirit to join in with our vision.

If you are looking for a church home, we would love to become your church home, and I in particular, would love to become one of your pastors.

Where We've Been

For three weeks we've been sitting with one story. Martha opened with the younger son. Last week Hannah sat us in the yard with the older son.

Today we come to the one character who never gets a name—the Father. If you read this story only through the sons, you miss the Father. The sons are the mirrors. The Father is the point. If prodigal actually means recklessly extravagant then it's the Father in his mercy who is recklessly extravagant.

Why Jesus Tells This Story

Let's not skip the setup. Luke 15 opens like this:

Now the tax collectors and sinners were all gathering around to hear him. But the Pharisees and the teachers of the law muttered, "This man welcomes sinners and eats with them." (Luke 15:1–2)

Jesus tells three stories in response—a lost sheep, a lost coin, two lost sons. Every one of them is an answer to the Pharisees' critique. You say, exclude the lost. Jesus, in telling these stories, reveals the Father's heart: it's a picture of pursuit, with a party thrown at the end.

So the Father in this story isn't a character Jesus invents to make a point about parenting. Jesus uses the Father in this story to reveal just who God the Father is.

Hold onto that. Everything Jesus does in Luke's gospel—every table, every touch, every welcome—is Jesus doing what this Father does.

The Father Who Lets Go

11Jesus continued: "There was a man who had two sons. 12The younger one said to his father, 'Father, give me my share of the estate.' So he divided his property between them. (Luke 15:11–12)

The first thing this story tells us about God is that God's love does not hold you hostage. The son says, in effect, "I wish you were dead"—and the Father lets him go. He doesn't coerce. He doesn't bar the door. He doesn't send servants after him. It costs him, and he lets him go anyway. The Father would rather have a son who is free to leave than a prisoner who stays. Some of us have a picture of God that is mostly surveillance—God watching to catch us. The Father in this story watches, but not to catch. Watch what he's watching for.

The Father Who Runs

13"Not long after that, the younger son got together all he had, set off for a distant country and there squandered his wealth in wild living. … 16He longed to fill his stomach with the pods that the pigs were eating, but no one gave him anything. … 17When he came to his senses, he said, '… 18I will set out and go back to my father and say to him: Father, I have sinned against heaven and against you. 19I am no longer worthy to be called your son; make me like one of your hired servants.' (Luke 15:13–19)

Now watch this,

20So he got up and went to his father. "But while he was still a long way off, his father saw him and was filled with compassion for him; he ran to his son, threw his arms around him and kissed him. (Luke 15:20)

Six verbs. Saw. Filled. Ran. Covered. Embraced. Kissed. Every one of them belongs to the Father. The son hasn't said a word yet.

He saw him. "While he was still a long way off." You don't see someone a long way off unless you're looking. This father has been looking down that road every day since his son left. He never stopped expecting him home.

He was filled with compassion. Compassion is a deep awareness of the suffering of another, coupled with the wish to relieve it. Not anger. Not "I told you so." Compassion. The son is coming home hungry, filthy, smelling like pigs, with a speech in his pocket—and what rises up in the Father is not judgment but ache.

He ran. Prominent men in that world did not run. Running meant hiking up your robe, showing your legs, making a spectacle of yourself in front of the whole village. But here's what Kenneth Bailey helped me see.

He covered his shame. That village would have gathered. A son who shamed his family and lost the family wealth among Gentiles would expect to walk a gauntlet of contempt through that town. The Father runs so that his son does not have to walk that road alone. He takes the shame on himself, so that by the time the boy reaches the house, the only thing anyone has seen is the Father's embrace.

He threw his arms around him. He deserved punishment. He received an embrace instead.

He kissed him. The son hasn't opened his mouth. The speech is still in his pocket. The embrace and the kiss are forgiveness—offered before repentance is. The Father forgives first; the confession comes second.

Now listen to what happens to the son's speech:

21"The son said to him, 'Father, I have sinned against heaven and against you. I am no longer worthy to be called your son—'

22"But the father said to his servants, 'Quick! Bring the best robe and put it on him. Put a ring on his finger and sandals on his feet. … 24For this son of mine was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found.' (Luke 15:21–24)

The son had a three-part speech. He only gets through two parts. He never gets to say "make me like one of your hired servants." Martha pointed this out two weeks ago—the Father interrupts his repentance with mercy.

Is that your picture of God? Because that is why Jesus is telling this story—so that we would know the Father, who he is and what he is like. Not a Father who makes you finish your speech. Not a Father who hears you out and then decides. A Father who is already calling for the robe, the ring, the sandals, and the fattened calf before you've finished confessing.

That is prodigal. That is spending without restraint.

The Father Who Goes Out Again

Here's the detail I don't want us to miss. The Father leaves the house twice. Once, running down the road for the son who left. And now, leaving his own party, for the son who stayed. Nobody in this story comes to the Father. The Father goes out to both of them.

31"'My son,' the father said, 'you are always with me, and everything I have is yours. 32But we had to celebrate and be glad, because this brother of yours was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found.'" (Luke 15:31–32)

And the older son talks to his father the way you'd talk to a boss. "All these years I've served you." He's been living in the Father's house with a servant's heart. He calls his brother "this son of yours." And the Father answers, "My son"—the word is tender, it's "my child"—"you are always with me, and everything I have is yours. But we had to celebrate."

The Father of this story is entitled to justice from both of his sons and collects it from neither. Hannah sat with those words last week, so I won't reprise them. But notice what the Father does not do. He doesn't defend himself. He doesn't argue about fairness. He doesn't demand an apology from the older son any more than he demanded repayment from the younger. He pleads.

Friends, this is the God Jesus reveals. Paul puts it this way:

"Or do you show contempt for the riches of his kindness, forbearance and patience, not realizing that God's kindness is intended to lead you to repentance?" (Romans 2:4)

It is kindness that brings us home. Not fear. Not debt. Not the threat of punishment. The Father's kindness. The younger son didn't repent on the road; he came home looking for a job. He repented in his Father's arms.

Your Picture of God

This is who God is. This is the Father Jesus wants us to know: a Father who welcomes us, loves us, nurtures us, protects us, and encourages us to live kingdom-inspired lives. A Father who is entitled to repayment and never demands it. A Father who spends without restraint. We can't earn this love. It's a gift.

Greg Boyd, quoting A.W. Tozer, says, "Your picture of God is the most important thing in your life."

If your picture of God is a master to be served, you'll live like the older son—in the house but never at the party, measuring, resentful, certain you're owed a goat. If your picture of God is a creditor waiting to collect, you'll stay in the far country, because who walks toward a creditor? The only reason anyone takes the road home is that somewhere, deep down, they suspect the Father might be watching for them.

So we need the tenderness of this Father to consent to the renovation the Spirit wants to do in us.

Why This Story Belongs to Us

If you've been the younger son, the Father is already running. You don't need to finish your speech.

If you've been the older son, the Father has left the party and is standing in the yard with you. You can stop behaving like a servant. You were always a son.

And if you've been standing outside the door—offended, unsure you want to go in—the Father's invitation is the same: "We had to celebrate."

Let's pray.

Father, our pictures of you are too small. Give us the Father Jesus gave us—the one who lets us go, who watches the road for us, who runs, who interrupts our speeches with mercy, who leaves the party to stand in the yard with us. Whose love for us is unrelenting. Amen.