By Dr. John Singarayar SVD –
My friend Sarah told me something that broke my heart. Her teenage son had been stealing money from her purse. Using drugs. Staying out all night. One morning she found a note on his pillow: “Do not look for me. I am done with your rules.”
For three months, Sarah did not know where he was. Every night she left the porch light on. Every morning she checked her phone for messages. Her friends told her to change the locks. “He made his choice,” they said. But Sarah could not stop hoping.
Then one rainy Tuesday, she saw him through the kitchen window. He was standing at the end of their driveway, soaking wet, looking scared. Sarah did not wait for him to knock. She ran outside in her bare feet, through the puddles, and pulled him into her arms. They both cried on that wet driveway for ten minutes.
That is when I truly understood the parable of the prodigal son.
Jesus told this story about a young man who wanted his freedom. He asked his father for his inheritance early. In that culture, it was like saying, “I wish you were dead.” But the father gave him what he asked for. Sometimes love means letting go when everything screams to hold tight.
The son took the money and left. He spent it all on wild living. He thought freedom meant doing whatever he wanted. But real freedom is not the absence of boundaries. It is knowing where you belong. When the money ran out, his friends disappeared. He ended up so hungry he envied the pigs he was feeding.
That is what sin does to us. It promises everything but delivers emptiness. It tells us happiness is just one more purchase away. One more relationship. One more achievement. But we end up further from home than ever.
Luke 15:17 says, “He came to his senses.” That is often how God reaches us. Not through lightning bolts or dramatic visions. Just a quiet moment when we realise where we are is not where we want to be. That whisper of clarity is grace breaking through.
So the young man started the long walk home. Every step must have felt heavier. What would he say? How could he explain? What if his father slammed the door?
But his father had been watching that road every single day. Hoping. Praying. Believing his son would return. And then he saw a familiar figure walking toward home, still far away but getting closer.
Luke 15:20 paints 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. Dignified men in that culture never ran in public. Running meant hiking up your robes. Looking undignified. Making a scene. But this father did not care what anyone thought. Love made him run.
Before his son could finish his prepared speech, the father was calling for celebration. The best robe. A ring for his finger. A feast that would last all night. This was not just forgiveness. This was restoration with joy.
This is God’s heart toward us. Not the harsh judge we sometimes imagine. Not the disappointed parent keeping score. But the Father runs toward us while we are still deciding whether to come home. Who covers our shame before we can confess it.
But Jesus was not done with the story. There was an older son who had never left home. Never broken the rules. Never caused any trouble. When he heard the party music, he got furious.
“I have been faithful for years,” he told his father. “Where is my celebration? This is not fair.”
The older son was just as lost as the younger one. One was lost in rebellion. The other was lost in resentment. And amazingly, the father went out to both of them. Love that runs toward the wayward also pleads with the bitter.
We are both sons, are we not? Sometimes we are the rebel, running from what is good for us. Sometimes we are the rule-followers, angry that grace seems unfair. Both need the father’s love. Both get it.
Paul knew this truth. In Romans 5:8 he writes, “God demonstrates his love for us in this: while we were still sinners, Christ died for us.” Not after we cleaned up. Not when we deserved it. While we were still far off.
Sarah’s son told me later that the hardest part of coming home was not admitting he was wrong. It was believing his mom would still want him. That is often our struggle too. Not whether God can forgive us, but whether he wants to.
The answer is written in every line of this parable. God does not just tolerate our return. He celebrates it. He does not just accept our apology. He throws a party.
But this story calls us to something more. Jesus said, “Be merciful, just as your Father is merciful.” We are called to be like that running father. To watch for the lost ones. To run toward the broken ones. To celebrate restoration over punishment.
The porch light is still on. The Father is still watching. And love is still running toward anyone brave enough to take one step toward home.