The Father Who Runs to Meet Us
I will go home to my father and say, ‘Father, I have sinned against both heaven and you, and I am no longer worthy of being called your son. Please take me on as a hired servant.’
So he returned home to his father. And while he was still a long way off, his father saw him coming. Filled with love and compassion, he ran to his son, embraced him, and kissed him. — Luke 15:18–20 (NLT)
In high school, I tried out for the basketball team, and before we ever played a real scrimmage, the coaches set out to get us into running shape. Basketball is a game of constant motion, back and forth for the whole game, and the drill they used to build our lungs was the one every player dreaded. You sprint full speed to the quarter-court line and back, then half court and back, then three-quarters and back, then the full length of the floor and back. Then you flip it and run the whole thing again in reverse. Just thinking about it is exhausting. By the end, nobody was running with good form. We were bent over with our hands on our knees, wondering whether our legs had one more trip left in them.
Hebrews 12:1 invites us to “run with endurance the race God has set before us,” and I have always appreciated that picture of faith as a long, steady race. But some seasons don’t feel like a race at all. They feel like that drill. A child gets in trouble at school. The finances stretch thin. A parent’s health declines, and suddenly we are the caregiver. We sprint to one line, touch it, turn around, and sprint to the next, lungs burning, from crisis to crisis. Somewhere in all that running, many of us drift. Not always out of rebellion; sometimes it is simple exhaustion. We stop praying the way we used to. We put distance between ourselves and God without quite meaning to. And when we finally notice how far we have gone, the trip back can feel like one more sprint we just do not have in us.
That is often when the rehearsing begins. We start working out what we will say to God when we get there. We line up our apologies, our explanations, and our promises to do better, as though we need to arrive with a strong enough case to be let back in.
Jesus told a story about a young man who did exactly that. He asked his father for his share of the inheritance early, left home, and wasted it all on wild living, until he was so hungry that even the pigs’ food looked good to him. When he finally came to his senses, he started rehearsing: “Father, I have sinned against both heaven and you, and I am no longer worthy of being called your son. Please take me on as a hired servant.” He had his speech ready. He had already lowered his hopes to the level of a servant. Then he started the long walk home.
What happens next is the heart of the story. “While he was still a long way off, his father saw him coming. Filled with love and compassion, he ran to his son, embraced him, and kissed him.” The father did not wait on the porch with his arms folded. He didn’t make his son cover the whole distance and stand at the door to plead his case. He saw him from a long way off, which tells us he had been watching the road. Before the son could say a single word, his father was already running. And when the son did begin his speech, he never reached the part about being a hired servant. His father cut him off by calling for the finest robe, a ring, and sandals (Luke 15:22).
If we are honest, many of us approach God like that son on the road, rehearsing and bargaining and trying to make ourselves presentable before we come home. This story turns that thinking upside down. We don’t return to God to earn back His approval. We return to be honest about where we have been and to ask for His help to live differently. Confession still matters; the son still said, “I have sinned.” But his confession was never the price of his welcome. His father’s love was already moving toward him before the first word left his mouth.
Maybe you are in one of those seasons right now, bent over with your hands on your knees, not sure you have another sprint left. Maybe you have drifted further than you meant to, and you are still polishing your speech. This story holds out something better: you do not have to cover the whole distance. God isn’t standing on the sideline with a stopwatch, waiting to see whether you finish the drill. He is the Father who sees us while we are still a long way off, and He runs.
What speech have you been rehearsing before you feel ready to come back to God? What might change if you believed He is already running toward you?
A PRAYER
My prayer is that we are thankful He does not wait for us to get it all together before He come to meet us. When we are worn out from running from line to line, Father remind us that we do not have to cover the distance alone. Quiet the speeches we rehearse, and help us simply turn toward home, trusting the love that is already running toward us. Amen.