God ran.
See, there were two sons -- one satisfied with the duties which his father gave him, the other unsatisfied with duty and with life. This second son asked of his father his inheritance, everything that was to be given to him upon his maturity. Even after recognizing his son’s mistake, the father granted of him all that was to be his at a later age. Upon receiving it, the son squandered it on women, gambling, alcohol, food, temporary friendship and unlasting pleasure. And upon spending the last of his money, and realizing he had been removed from the lavish life which he had been living, forcibly removed from the pleasure which money, not merit, had attained for him, he found a job feeding the pigs. And finding himself unable even to eat the food on which the swine were fed, he realized that at his father’s house, there was much to eat. Determined to return, if only to beg of his father servitude at his house, if only to be able to sustain his life, if not to be called a son, the second son returned home.
And while he was still a long way off, the father spotted him. Which means, the father had been looking. His eyes should have hurt from the dust which must have entered his eyes, from squinting to see but a few feet further up the road. But the physical pain in his eyes paled in comparison to the ache in his soul.
And upon diagnosing the speck on the horizon line which the father knew was his son, he did not wait for his own blood to walk a step further. Rather, the father ran to meet his second-born, and after dismissing the son’s offer to return as less than he was before, the father embraced him, reveled in his return and celebrated.
Assuming now the obvious comparison between the father and God the Father, there appear to be two options which would explain why the parable father would run. Most evidently, God could run, much like an ambulance speeds to the scene of a crash, to prevent disaster. But that metaphor cannot sustain itself against the argument of emotion. An ambulance is dispatched out of necessity, and medics are paid to save the lives of those in danger. But when there was nothing left to gain for the father, when the son had taken from him not only his money, but his trust, the father ran to meet his son. And not only did he run, but he ran when the son was still a fleck on the distant horizon. He was waiting. And with desperate love flowing through his veins, he was looking for his own flesh.
The other alternative, if not out of necessity, is one much harder to justify, because the second option requires a Nazarene man to fall three times on his way to a brutal Roman crucifixion. And it would take nails in the hands and feet of a man who deserved none of what he was receiving to ever offer an alternative to necessity. This, the second explanation, that of love, would require arms quite literally nailed open in love.
Amazingly, the story could have been resolved in three sentences: “There were two sons, one satisfied with the duties which his father gave him, the other unsatisfied with duty and with life. This second son asked of his father his inheritance, everything that was to be given to him upon his maturity. And the father, recognizing the son’s immaturity, wholeheartedly refused to allow the second son his inheritance.” The problem would be solved before it ever began, and all the father would remove from the equation was an unrequited love.
Except that’s impossible. God cannot remove love. He cannot remove love any more than He can separate Himself from us. If the father could for a second deny his son the love necessary to provide him with free will, he could have prevented the son from his sin. Whenever love is to be removed from life, whenever separation between man and his Creator is to be induced, that separation is incurred from the end of man, by man’s actions, and by man’s actions alone. And as much as that separation pains an ever-perfect Savior, it can never pain Him so much that He would prevent our free will.
Perhaps the greatest act of love in the parable, then, is not when the father runs to meet his son. If we are indeed to believe that the father indeed represents God the Father, then the greatest act of love in the Prodigal Son parable could present itself within those first three sentences, in what is not said. If the father really is God the Father, then he knows that the second son, when given his inheritance, will squander it, will distance himself from his father, will render meaningless the loving connection between father and son in his younger’s own selfishness. It is likely, therefore, that the greatest act of love in the parable is the father’s delivery of the inheritance to the second son, with the full knowledge that the son will use his own father’s earnings to sever the ties between the two men.
So often we are that son. Except when we leave the house of the father, intent on squandering everything that He has given us, it isn’t the first time we’ve done so, and it will not be the last. We leave that house again and again, sometimes with so little time in between that our father can scarcely put his ring on our finger and fatten the calf before we decide we know what’s better. We leave so often that the father has worn thin the grass in the spot where he knows he must stand and await our return.
Perhaps the only thing more impressive than having our Heavenly Father watching for us on the horizon, and running towards us when we are but a speck on the skyline, is his commitment to do it all again. And that’s how we know it’s out of love, because if there were any other impetus behind the father running to meet us, it would die after we left again. The only drive which thrives is love. Love is strengthened by trial, not weakened, contrary to any weaker reasoning behind sacrifice. When all else fails, when there is literally no benefit for the father, he cannot run fast enough to lay it all down. And in appropriate metaphorical comparison, he cannot accept his nails fast enough to save us.
The son had to leave before he could ever come back. Through pain, through loss, through a final refusal to indulge in the food which the swine consume, the food which the world provides, the son was ready to receive the father’s love for what it was. And only then could the father pursue the son.
When there was nothing left to gain for the father, he was waiting for the son. And when there wasn’t anything left for Christ to give, we still could do nothing to deserve any of it.
For the first, last and only time in the Bible, God ran.
