We serve different Gods. Even those of us who attend the same church and proclaim to be Christian. Some of us serve a God who puts us in our place.
The dad of the prodigal son didn’t serve this god.
When he saw his son, a long way off, he could have stood in his window or at the edge of his land with his arms folded.
“Is this kid serious? He was so rude. He couldn’t even wait for me to die before taking his inheritance. And then he squandered it. I heard he’s been eating with pigs. He could have stayed with our family and been blessed.”
But he said none of this. He learned to be a father from a different God. Our God. The God. Our good, good Father.
He loved his son so much he wouldn’t even let him do the walk of shame.
He ran out to him. He met him where he was. On the road of hurt and repentance.
He ran out to him with gifts as he hollered behind him, “Find the best cow for dinner! My son is home!”
I was contemplating communion today. I thought about what that time means each week at church and what God means it to be. Because I’m a sinner, He means it to be me as the prodigal son and him as the dad running to meet me at the edge of his property yelling behind him to make the best meal possible. His baby has come home.
Happy Father’s Day, friends. We all have this daddy.