One of the fascinating things about Jesus is the fact He appealed to people that weren’t particularly religious. There were probably a number of reasons. Obviously, he cared. Common folks felt loved and valued by him, which was in stark contrast to the sensation they got from the religious elites who often viewed them as inconveniences and irritants. My guess is they also sensed an authenticity and genuineness in Him. He didn’t evidence some of the self-importance typically present in the lives of those thought of as religious leaders. His simple background from Nazareth—his realness and modesty—resulted in him being perceived by the masses as one of them … someone who was in touch with, and could relate to, their lives.
But I also think a key ingredient that contributed to Jesus’ appeal was the way He taught. His use of story—his ability to convey truth, not in a pretentious and preachy way, but in a way that was accessible and engaging—left people captivated and enthralled by his words. They weren’t made to feel dumb, as is often the case with people that are really bright. Jesus was as mentally sharp as anyone, but He didn’t demonstrate it in a way that belittled or denigrated people … that put them down or made them feel “less than”. Couching his deep insights in the form of stories endeared him to ordinary folk.
Perhaps the most memorable story Jesus told is the story of the Prodigal Son—a story most of us think we know but really don’t because there are numerous points of application embedded in the narrative. It’s a story that addresses a variety of timeless themes that make it incredibly impactful—rebellion … regret … forgiveness … pride … love … grace. It’s a story that, when we dig into it, applies to every one of us—one we can each see ourselves in. If we don’t come away from this story with something that challenges or convicts us, we’re not really trying. Or we’re glossing over and dismissing its insights because it’s hitting too close to home.
In the previous post, I left off with the younger son in a “distant country.” He left home with his portion of the inheritance, lived irresponsibly, and squandered it all. In fact, the word Jesus uses for inheritance is the word “bios,” which means life—the root from which we get our word ‘biology.’ Chances are the majority of the father’s wealth was tied up in property. So, to honor his younger son’s request it wasn’t a matter of him going to down to the bank, cashing in some investments, withdrawing money and saying, “Here you go, son. See ya’!” For his request to be met, the father would have likely had to sell a portion of the family’s land which would have taken weeks, if not months to finalize. And it would have come at great cost to the family.
In addition, the word “bios” speaks to the emotional tie people of that day had to their land. In the musical Oklahoma! there’s a line in the title song that says, “We know we belong to the land, and the land we belong to is grand!”—i.e., the land doesn’t belong to them, but they belong to the land. That captures, in some small part, how people’s identity and sense of place in the world was tied up in their land. For the father to lose part of his land was, in many ways, to lose part of himself.
And what did the son do with the proceeds? He blew it all! He was having the time of his life until a famine struck and suddenly there was no safety net. All his friends who enjoyed the carousing when he had a large bankroll were suddenly nowhere to be found. He took a job as a laborer working with pigs—a development that would have been about the nastiest, dirtiest, and most humiliating job the average Jew could imagine. It’s something the younger son never anticipated or foresaw to where he entertained the notion of doing something he couldn’t have imagined he’d ever consider. He thought about returning home.
As he headed toward home, he rehearsed the lines he intended to use when he saw his father—“Dad, I’ve sinned against heaven and before you. I don’t deserve to be called your son. Take me on and treat me as one of your hired hands.” But what happened didn’t play out according to his script—in fact, what happened ended up going a direction he never imagined it could or would.
“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.“ The son said to him, ‘Father, I have sinned against heaven and against you. I am no longer worthy to be called your son.’ “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. Bring the fattened calf and kill it. Let’s have a feast and celebrate. For this son of mine was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found.’ So they began to celebrate. (Luke 15:20b-24, NIV)
The father saw him “while he was still a long way off.” How many days had the father walked to that path and looked toward the horizon, hoping to see the silhouette of his wayward, rebellious son? How many times, when he was out working the fields, did he pause to gaze across the landscape, hoping against hope he’d see off in the distance this one whose absence created such a void in his life? My guess is not a day passed when the father didn’t look up hoping he’d see the shadowy, distant figure of this boy from whom he was estranged. And then one day, it happened. He saw him—thin … ragged … tired … disheveled. But he knew this gait anywhere. The way he slumped his shoulders, held his head, and the distinctiveness of his stride—the body language was unmistakable. So the father took off at a dead sprint, robes flying, and ran until he reached his son.
The word Jesus uses to describe what the father did was a word normally reserved for athletic contests. Literally—the father “raced”. In the Middle East, family patriarchs were men of great dignity and authority who dressed in elaborate, ornate robes. They never ran anywhere; they typically walked in a very dignified and stately fashion. They carried themselves like John Wayne did in those classic old Westerns. Did you ever see a John Wayne character run and take off at a dead sprint? No! He had this really cool, tough guy walk that said, “I’m not threatened or intimidated.” He was strong and in control, and men that were strong and in control didn’t run. That’s the way family patriarchs were. So, for this father to run—sprint—out to meet his son … to have him gather up the edges of his robe so he didn’t trip … the very thought was odd and uncommon, not to mention a bit shameful and humiliating.
Fathers just didn’t do that, but this father did. And what’s more, when he met up with his son, he threw his arms around him, kissed him, and said to his servants, “Quick, bring a robe and put it on him. Put a ring on his finger and sandals on his feet. And get the fatted calf and kill it. It’s time to celebrate!”
The father’s response was far different than what it would have been had it happened in our day. His first course of action was not to quarantine his son or have him evaluated by a medical professional. In our day, when a person is rescued from a hostage-type situation—discovered in a pile of rubble in the wake of a natural disaster, or returning to civilization after having been thru an excruciating ordeal … trapped miners … that kind of thing—the first order of business is to get them checked out and make sure all their vital signs are in order. But that’s not where the father begins. He begins is by conveying his heart. All of the things that were given to the son—the robe, the ring, the sandals and the celebration with the fatted calf—were all designed to send a single, powerful message. He wanted to let his son know he was loved—categorically and unconditionally.
One of the realities this story points out has to do with the popular notion in our day of being on a quest for God. We hear an awful lot about people searching for God. But I believe this parable points out we’ve got it backwards: We’re the ones doing the hiding and God’s doing the searching. In fact, in many ways, Jesus is God’s way of running down the road after us. Just as the father put his heart on display when he ran down the road to embrace his son, so Jesus’ entry into the world revealed to us the nature of God’s heart. The apostle Paul says it so clearly in Colossians 1:15—that Jesus “is the image of the invisible God” and a few verses later that “God was pleased to have all his fullness dwell in him” (v. 19). Jesus is God’s way of saying to the entirety of the human race, “This is who I am. This is what I’m like. And this is what I think of you. You don’t have to wonder. You don’t have to speculate. You don’t have to hazard a guess and hope you’re right. This is me!”
Which means it’s not the father who has the talent for hiding. It’s us! Some of us, like the prodigal, hide in our mistakes and missteps. Others of us, like the elder brother (who’ll we’ll examine in detail in a subsequent post) hide in our insistence we’re upright and good. We can hide in a variety of ways and for a variety of reasons. We hide in our guilt, our hurt, and our failures. We hide in our intellect, our respectability, and our success. But the bottom line is: (1) we all have our unique ways of hiding, and (2) the end result is it keeps us out of the Father’s arms. The outgrowth of all our attempts to keep the Heavenly Father from discovering who we really are is it prevents us from experiencing the depth of the love He has for us. It’s only when decide to stop hiding and come out in the open with the truth about ourselves that we can experience it.
And—that’s a step we’ve got to take. In Jesus, God has already stepped toward us, but it’s up to us to reciprocate. One of the powerful lessons of this story is that the father’s love is such that he waited. He didn’t strike out after his son the moment he left and track him down. He gave his son the space and freedom to choose for himself—in spite of how foolish, ill-advised, and injurious to himself and others many of his choices turned out to be. While the father never forgot about his son—a day didn’t pass that he didn’t miss his boy and long for his return—his love was such that he didn’t thrust Himself upon him. He waited. But the moment his son appeared on the horizon—once he made the first move and began the process of retracing his steps—the father ran out to meet him. And when he welcomed him back, it was not in a probationary or provisional sense. He welcomed him back fully, completely, and unconditionally.
God is so filled with compassion for you that regardless of what distant country you’ve been in, when you take a step toward him, he’ll pick up his robes and start sprinting. Absorbing the humiliation that by all rights should be yours, he’ll allow it to fall upon himself—in fact, that’s precisely what he did in the person of his son Jesus. Jesus is God’s way of running out to meet rebellious children like you and me. He is God’s way of taking upon himself the shame and disgrace that should have been ours. And He is God’s way of saying to each of us, “You can come home. I doesn’t matter what you’ve done. It doesn’t matter if you’ve been in a really distant place and made some really bad choices. It doesn’t matter if you’ve been selfish, or slept around, or cheated, or committed crimes. It doesn’t matter if you’ve been involved in a lifestyle that would make everyone blush. For nothing can disqualify you from my mercy, love, and grace. You can come home.”
If you want to know how much the Heavenly Father loves you, look at Jesus. Gaze at the cross. That lets you know just how much God loves you … how much he values you … how much he cherishes and takes pleasure in you. And whenever you take one small step toward Him—when you make the slightest move in His direction—he will run out to meet you, embrace you, hug you, and let you know how thrilled he is you’ve decided to come home.
Over the years this story has been characterized a number of different ways. Some refer to it as the parable of the rebellious younger brother. Some refer to it as the parable of the resentful older brother. But I think, at its heart, it’s the parable of the running father—the father who refuses to allow our failures to disqualify us from his love and sprints toward us when we make the slightest move toward him.