Halfway

I like knowing who people identify with the most, when they read a story. Is it the main character, the brave hero, the witty side-kick, the loser parent? Who do they think they are most similar to?

So there’s this story, with a rich father and two sons. The younger son demands an early disbursement of his inheritance, and after receiving it, he promptly throws it away on gambling, women, and the pleasurable life. The boy becomes a pauper, and while feeding some pigs, the light comes on. He decides to return home to his father and beg to be a family servant. Of course the father refuses to make his son a servant, but welcomes him with open arms and throws a huge celebration to welcome him home. The older son is obviously distraught over the unfairness of the situation, and complains that his hard work is never rewarded. The father tries to appease the older son, but basically, that is the end of the story.

I’ve heard plenty of sermons where we are the lost son, coming home. It’s sweet and touching, to know that we have a Heavenly Father who will throw a robe on our shoulders and a ring on our hand, and kill a cow to feed the friends.

And there are preachers who think the congregation in full of older brothers, and preach about hypocrisy and harshness. We need to let God work, they say. We can’t think of our lives as less godly or less deserving, just because God chooses to forgive someone less worthy than us.

But I just wonder if we might be missing the whole point.

Could it be that we are meant to identify ourselves with the Father? The rich one, the successful patriarch, the stable character full of wise words of wisdom. Let me explain.

The father saw the son from afar, while he was just entering the city limits, but hadn’t even made it to the driveway yet. He recognized him as his own. The resentment and anger that he had every right to harbor against his son was non-existent. Not diffused, not set aside, not pushed into a corner for discussion on another day. There simply was none.

The sight of his boy lit up his face, his mouth dropped open. Tears flooded his eyes and he started running.

No preparations of what to say, or how to behave, or how to handle the potentially awkward family tension. Before the son even arrived, before he even had a chance to experience the degradation and humbling sensation of returning with shame, the boy was met. In essence, he saw his son coming, and met him halfway.

Open arms of grace. Shouts of excitement and thrilling reunion. You are back, and I can’t believe it. I’ve missed you. I thought I lost you. Give me a hug, he says, and don’t leave again.

Stay forever this time.

I wish I knew how to do that.

To see someone who has hurt me, abandoned me, someone who has knowingly inflicted pain in my life. And to experience a sensation of love so deep that I am swept away by its resounding current. I can’t help myself. I see them coming towards me, thinking about reconciliation, wondering about forgiveness.

And I meet them halfway.

What kind of mind-blowing grace is that? You belong here, and I never wanted you to leave. Welcome back.