The Fatherless

This is the deepest wound on the list and it presents in the most disguised ways. Your friend might be an overachiever trying to prove they're worth something. Or an underachiever who gave up trying. They might be angry all the time or numb most of the time. They might attach to any older man who shows them attention. They might be fiercely independent and refuse help from anyone.

All of it is the same wound. A father is supposed to give you your name. Not just what people call you — your identity. Who you are. What you're worth. A father is supposed to protect you, provide for you, show you how to move through the world. When that's gone, you're left guessing. And the guesses are usually wrong.

The lie they believe makes perfect sense: I'm on my own. I don't need anyone. Or its twin: I'll find someone to fill this. Both are survival strategies. Both are killing them slowly.

What they actually need is to be claimed. To have a name that means something. To belong to someone who won't leave. What they do NOT need is another person telling them to get over it, another temporary relationship that pretends to be permanent, or another Christian saying God is like a father when every father they've known has failed them.

There's a story Jesus told about a son who had a father and walked away from him anyway. The son asks for his inheritance early — which in that culture was basically saying, I wish you were dead. The father gives it to him. The son leaves. He goes to a far country and burns through everything. Money, dignity, future. He ends up feeding pigs, which for a Jewish kid is about as low as you can go. He's starving. He's alone. And he realizes: even my father's hired servants have it better than this.

So he decides to go back. Not as a son — he knows he gave up that right. He'll go back as a servant. He practices his speech: Father, I have sinned against heaven and before you. I am no longer worthy to be called your son. Treat me as one of your hired servants. It's a good speech. Humble. Realistic. But he never gets to finish it.

Because while the son is still a long way off, his father sees him. And the father does something no Middle Eastern father would ever do. He runs. In that culture, a man of his age and status does not run. It's undignified. It's shameful. But this father hikes up his robe and sprints down the road toward his son. He doesn't wait for the apology. He doesn't make the son prove himself. He runs.

When he reaches his son, he throws his arms around him and kisses him. The son starts his speech — Father, I have sinned — but the father cuts him off. He calls for the best robe. The family ring. Sandals for his feet. He throws a party. He says: This my son was dead, and is alive again; he was lost, and is found. The son came back expecting to be a servant. The father gives him back his name.

The older brother — the one who stayed, the one who did everything right — he's furious. He refuses to come to the party. And the father goes out to him too. He pleads with him. He says: Son, you are always with me, and all that is mine is yours. Both sons are loved. Both are claimed. One knew he needed it. The other didn't.

This story is about a father who runs. It's about a son who thought he'd lost his name and got it back. And it's about Jesus, who told this story to show us what God is actually like when a son or daughter comes home.