Luke 15:20. So he got up and went to his father. But while he was still a long way off, his father saw him and was filled with compassion for him; he ran to his son, threw his arms around him, and kissed him.

Introduction

Good morning, church! Today, I want to talk about a celebration—an unforgettable party for someone no one ever imagined would become the guest of honor. We find a picture of this party in the parable Jesus told of the Prodigal Son, found in Luke 15:11-32. It is one of the most profound illustrations of God’s grace. It’s a story of rebellion, repentance, redemption, and restoration. But above all, it’s about the love of a Father who celebrates with extravagant and unapologetic grace the return of his wayward son.

The Journey to the Far Country

Jesus opens the parable by introducing a man with two sons. The younger son, restless and ambitious, demands his share of the inheritance. In Jewish culture, this request was tantamount to saying, “I wish you were dead so I could get what’s coming to me.” Yet, the father grants his request.

The young man takes his inheritance and sets off for a “far country.” The far country represents more than geographical distance; it symbolizes a place of spiritual and moral rebellion. He soon squanders his wealth in reckless living, enjoying temporary pleasures but reaping long-term consequences. When famine strikes, he is left destitute, feeding pigs—a job considered detestable for a Jewish man.

How many of us have experienced our own version of the far country? It’s not always a physical place or reckless lifestyle—it’s a state of heart where we push God aside and let self-will take over. The far country can be chasing things we think will make us happy but ultimately leave us empty. Maybe we didn’t waste money on wild living, but perhaps we’ve wasted the opportunities God gave us, choosing our own plans instead of His for our lives.

Sometimes, the far country is simply a slow drift away from God—when prayer becomes an afterthought, and His voice is drowned out by the busyness and noise of life.

The truth is the far country never delivers what it promises. What we think will bring freedom ends up feeling like bondage. What looks like joy leaves us empty and longing for more. But here’s the incredible part: no matter how far we’ve wandered, we’re never too far for God’s grace. He’s always there, ready to welcome us back with open arms.

So, the question I’d like for all of us to ask ourselves is this: Have we settled into our own far country? And if we have, are we ready to turn back to our Heavenly Father who is waiting to restore us?

The Turning Point

The turning point comes in the story when the young man “comes to himself.” Sitting in the muck of his choices, he realizes that even his father’s servants live better than this. He rehearses a speech of repentance: “Father, I have sinned against heaven and before you. I am no longer worthy to be called your son. Make me like one of your hired servants” (Luke 15:18-19).

Notice his humility. True repentance begins when we acknowledge our sin and recognize our need for God’s grace. The far country may break us, but it can also lead us back home.

The phrase “comes to himself” is so much more than just a moment of clarity—it’s a moment of awakening, a turning point deep within the soul. It’s that jarring realization that you’ve drifted farther than you ever thought possible, and the person you’ve become feels unrecognizable even to your own self. It’s the moment when you think about your life—the emptiness, the brokenness, the regret—and think, “How did I get here? This wasn’t the plan. This isn’t who I’m supposed to be.”

Maybe you’ve been there. Maybe you’re there right now. Spiritually, you feel lost and disconnected from the closeness you once had with God, struggling under the weight of decisions you wish you could undo. You look at yourself in the mirror, and it feels like the person staring back is a stranger. Someone almost unrecognizable.  You might even be thinking, “There is no way back.”  “I will never be who I once was.  I will never be able to have what I once had in God.”

For the prodigal son, “coming to himself” happened in the muck of a pigpen—a place he never dreamed he’d end up. It wasn’t just about his physical surroundings; it was about his spiritual condition. He realized how far he’d wandered from the safety and love of his father’s house. In that moment of despair, he didn’t come to himself by sheer willpower or strength. It happened because deep down, a small flicker of truth remained—the memory of his father’s love and the hope that maybe, just maybe, his father would welcome him back, even if only as a servant in his household.

No matter how far we’ve wandered, no matter how ashamed or broken we feel, there’s still that small voice that is God’s Spirit—whispering, “Come home.” It’s not a voice of condemnation or shame; it’s a voice of hope, reminding us of who we are and whose we are.

If you’re in that place today—feeling distant, lost, or too far gone—let me encourage you. “Coming to yourself” doesn’t mean you have to fix everything all at once or get it all together before you turn back to God. It’s simply recognizing that the life you’re living isn’t the life God intended for you. It’s realizing that you don’t have to stay in the far country so disconnected from his presence, that you don’t have to live out the consequences of your mistakes any longer.

The prodigal son came to himself when he stopped running from his place in his father’s home and started running toward the only One who could restore him back to it. He didn’t have all the answers; he didn’t have a guarantee of how his father would respond. But he had just enough faith to take the first step. That’s all God asks of us. Just take the first step. Come as you are, brokenness and all, and trust Him to heal your heart, restore your soul, and write a new chapter in your life filled with His grace and love.

Right now, if you feel stuck in a place you never thought you’d be—spiritually, emotionally, or even physically—know this: You don’t have to stay there. The same God who welcomed the prodigal son with open arms is waiting to welcome you too. He doesn’t see your failures; He sees His child. He doesn’t hold your past against you; He wants to write your future. Today could be your moment to “come to yourself,” to wake up to the truth that you are incredibly loved and forgiven and your place in the Father’s house is still there waiting for you to come home. Will you take that step?

The Father’s Welcome

Here’s where the story takes a beautiful turn. The son begins his journey back, rehearsing his apology. But before he can reach the house, the father sees him from a distance. Scripture says, “But while he was still a long way off, his father saw him and was filled with compassion;”

Picture the father standing on the edge of his property, his eyes fixed on the horizon. Day after day, he waits, his heart yearning for a glimpse of his son. The fields stretch out before him, empty and silent, but his hope remains steadfast. He scans the road in the distance, watching for a familiar silhouette, his mind replaying memories of laughter and joy that now feel like a lifetime ago. The world around him moves on—fields need planted, crops need harvested, neighbors pass by—but his heart is consumed with one thought: Will today be the day my dear son comes home?

He feels the ache of his son’s absence every moment, yet he doesn’t surrender to despair.  With every ounce of yearning in his heart, this father holds onto the belief that his son will one day return.  He imagines what he’ll say, how he’ll embrace his son when he comes home, and how he’ll teach what might be the last but most important lesson he’ll ever teach his son, that no mistake is so big that he can’t come home to his father’s house. And though the days turn into weeks and the weeks into months and months to years, the father never lets go of his hope. It’s as if his love has tied him to the road his son left on, compelling him to watch and wait, ready to run to his son at the first sign of his return.

Look at it, “he ran to his son, threw his arms around him, and kissed him” (Luke 15:20).

Let’s pause here. Let’s look at this beautiful picture.

The father stands at the edge of his property, just as he has done countless times before, his heart heavy with the hollow ache of loss of his beloved son. This is no ordinary waiting—this is the longing of a man whose very purpose was bound to the life of his son. Every hope he had nurtured, every sacrifice he had made, every dream he had envisioned for his boy seemed to vanish the day his son walked away. And yet, the father waits, scanning the horizon with eyes that refuse to give up, his heart bearing the ache of a love so deep it feels as though a part of his very soul, the core of his own life’s purpose, was torn away the day his son walked out the door.

The road ahead stretches into the distance, empty and silent as usual, until something catches his eye—a figure moving far off in the distance. He squints, leaning forward, straining to make sense of what he sees. There’s something about the way that figure walks, the slight stoop of the shoulders, the hesitant step. The old man’s heart leaps, then hesitates. “Am I imagining this? Is this real? Could it really be him?”

For a moment, the father doubts himself. His mind races, questioning if his longing heart is playing tricks on him again. How many times had he thought he saw his son approaching, only for his hope to crumble as he realized it was someone else?

But as the figure draws closer, doubt gives way to hope and from hope to anticipation and from anticipation to certainty. His chest tightened as a wave of emotion swept over him in a flood of gratitude and joy. “It is him. It’s my son!”

And then the father does something no one expects. He runs. A shocking, undignified display in his culture, where men of his age and stature were expected to carry themselves with composure and wait for others to approach them. But this father doesn’t care. He cannot wait. His love is too great, too overwhelming to stand still. 

He abandons every protocol and expectation as his feet hit the dusty road, clumsy and awkward, his robes flapping around him. His breath comes in gasps, his sandals slap the ground. Tears streak down his weathered face as he moves with a desperation that defies his years. The road that had felt so long and empty for countless days now carries his son upon it, and the father races with all his might to close the distance between them, driven by the overwhelming joy of seeing his long-awaited son returning home.

 And when he finally reaches his son, he doesn’t slow down. He throws his arms around him, pulling him close in an embrace that speaks louder than any words the son had ever heard. His body shakes with sobs of relief and joy. He doesn’t just hug him; he clings to him, as if to say, “You’re here, and I’m never letting you go.”

The son stammers, beginning the speech he has rehearsed, full of shame and apology. But the father interrupts him—not with rebuke, but with love. There is no hesitation, no lecture, no demand for explanations. Instead, the father’s embrace says everything the son needs to hear: “My son is home! Nothing else in this world matters.”

In this embrace is the full picture of a love that knows no boundaries, a love that overflows with compassion and grace. The father ignores the whispers of onlookers, the cultural expectations, and the voices of those who said his son would never return. None of that matters now. His son is here. What once was lost is now found, and the only thing left to do is to celebrate his son’s return.

The son again starts his prepared speech, but the father interrupts him. He doesn’t lecture or remind him of his failures. Instead, he calls for the best robe, a ring for his finger, and sandals for his feet—symbols of restored sonship. Then he orders a feast, declaring, “Let’s celebrate! For this son of mine was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found” (Luke 15:24).

The party was in progress before the son even had time to process what was happening. He saw servants roasting the fatted animal. Neighbors running to help put up tents for people to eat and celebrate under, musicians tuning their instruments for what would a celebration that would last throughout the night. Other family members scurrying about throwing up decorations.   You see, the moment his father saw him on the horizon, the wheels of celebration were already turning. Understand the preparations had been in motion long before that day? In his deep yearning for his son’s return, the father had quietly planned for this moment, holding onto hope with every passing day?

Imagine him walking to the pen where the fatted animal was kept every single day his son was gone, carefully selecting the best grain to feed it. With each handful, he whispered to himself, maybe today will be the day. Day after day, he nurtured that animal, making sure it would be ready—not for any ordinary occasion, but for the return of his beloved son. It was a declaration of faith, an expression of his hope.

Perhaps he had gathered his servants on more than one occasion, giving them detailed instructions: When my son returns, I want this house filled with joy. The feast must be magnificent. The best food, the finest linens, the choicest wine—spare no expense. I want the musicians ready to play, the dancers to fill the floor. Call in the servants from the field so no one misses this celebration. Invite the neighbors and tell them to prepare to rejoice with us. This will be the day I’ve waited for.

It’s possible the father had rehearsed this moment in his mind a hundred times. A thousand times. He knew where the tables would be set and how the lamps should light the night. He even had a robe, a ring, and sandals specially prepared, tucked away in a safe place, just waiting for the moment when his son would walk through the gates. Each detail was a testament to his belief that his son would return.

And so, the day his son finally appeared on the horizon, there was no hesitation, no scrambling to make arrangements. The father called to his servants, “Go! Bring the robe, the ring, and the sandals! Kill the fatted calf! Start the music and prepare the feast!” The house, once quiet with longing, erupted with activity. The aroma of roasting meat filled the air, the laughter of servants echoed through the halls, and the sound of musicians tuning their instruments set the stage for a celebration that had been long anticipated.

The son, weary from his journey, could hardly comprehend the scene unfolding before him. The father’s embrace still fresh in his mind, he was suddenly swept into the warmth of the house, where joy overflowed, and preparations hummed with energy. This was no ordinary feast, this was a declaration of love, grace, and restoration. The father’s faith and hope, nurtured in secret, had been rewarded, and the party was in full swing before the son even realized he was the guest of honor.

The celebration wasn’t just for the son’s return; it was a victory of the father’s unwavering love and faithfulness. Every detail, every piece of this extravagant party, whispered the same message: “You were lost, but now you’re found.” “You were dead, but now you’re alive.” 

It was more than a party—it was a moment of public restoration and a powerful declaration of the father’s unshakable love. This celebration wasn’t merely about food, music, and laughter; it was the father’s way of proclaiming to everyone in his household, his community, and especially to his son, “This is my son! He belongs here. He is not a servant, not an outcast—he is restored to his rightful place in my home, with all the honor and authority that entails.”

Look at it, the father didn’t just call for a feast; he first clothed his son with the finest robe in the house. The robe wasn’t just a garment—it was a symbol of dignity and belonging, a clear sign to everyone present that the son was still part of the family. Then the father placed a ring on his son’s finger, likely the family signet ring. This wasn’t just jewelry—it was a symbol of authority, giving the son the right to act in the family’s name. Finally, he had sandals brought for his feet. In those days, slaves and servants often went barefoot, but shoes were reserved for family members, signifying freedom and sonship.

The feast itself was more than a meal—it was a public declaration of the father’s joy and the son’s restoration. Picture the servants bustling about, serving the choicest food to guests who had come to witness the occasion. Imagine neighbors marveling as they watched the father honor his wayward son in such a lavish way. The music filled the air, the laughter rang out, and the entire household was drawn into the joy of the moment.

This wasn’t just about celebrating the son’s return; it was about cementing his place in the family. The father was sending a clear message to everyone: “This son of mine who was lost is now found, and he is fully restored. His past is forgiven, his status as my child is intact, and his future is secure.”

It’s a picture of how God celebrates us when we return to Him. He doesn’t just forgive our sins quietly or tolerate us back into His presence. He lavishes His grace upon us, restores our identity as His children, and places us in a position of authority and purpose in His kingdom. Just as the father in the parable lifted up his son for all to see, so too does God lift us up, declaring to the world, “This is my beloved child, in whom I am well pleased.”

This wasn’t just a party—it was a moment of redemption, reconciliation, and restoration, one that would echo through the hearts of all who witnessed it and would forever change the life of the son who had come home.

Heaven’s Celebration

Take a look at Luke 15:7 with me for a moment. “I say unto you, that likewise joy shall be in heaven over one sinner that repenteth, more than over ninety and nine just persons, which need no repentance.”  This scripture tells us that all of Heaven rejoices when one sinner repents. Let that sink in: every angel, every Heavenly being, every corner of Heaven erupts in joy when even one soul turns back to God. It’s not a quiet or reserved celebration—it’s a glorious, jubilant explosion of joy that reverberates throughout the vast expanse of God’s Heavenly Kingdom.

Just as the father’s household was filled with music, laughter, and the aroma of a feast, imagine the courts of Heaven at that very moment when one of His children come home to Him. Angelic trumpets blare a triumphant fanfare, their sound filling the heavens with an otherworldly melody. Choirs of angels, their voices rising in perfect harmony, sing songs of praise and worship. The throne room of God itself pulses with an overwhelming, radiant joy. The air is thick with celebration, brighter than the sun, more beautiful than anything we could ever imagine.

When one of God’s children comes home, it’s not just an earthly moment of celebration in a church; it’s a cosmic event of unimaginable magnitude. The same God who spoke the universe into existence, the One who calls each star by name, looks down with infinite love and declares, “My child has come home!” Heaven doesn’t offer polite applause or muted approval. Instead, it bursts into a celebration so magnificent, so vibrant, that it’s beyond anything our human minds can fully comprehend.

Now, consider the depth of that joy. God doesn’t just wait passively for us to return—He anticipates it, longs for it, and prepares for it. Imagine God’s heart swelling with love as His child inches closer to home. The angels don’t rejoice out of obligation; they share in God’s delight, thrilled to see another soul restored. This is the heart of God—a heart that rejoices like the father in the parable, filled with boundless love and grace for every person who chooses to come home.

But here’s the most beautiful part: Heaven’s joy isn’t reserved for the perfect, the righteous, or those who have it all together. It’s for the broken, the weary, the lost who find their way back. Just like the father in the story, God’s preparations for this celebration began long before the moment someone comes home to him.  He has been ready, waiting with open arms, eager to embrace you and celebrate your homecoming.

So, as you picture this heavenly celebration, ask yourself: What would it mean for me to come home? What would it look like to embrace my Heavenly Father’s love, to let go of whatever has kept me so far from Him, and to step into the celebration He has prepared just for me?

Heaven’s redemption celebration isn’t just for others—it’s for you, too. The angels are ready. The trumpets are tuned. The song is waiting to begin. God sees where you are at right now.  He sees you inching closer.  The Party Is In Progress, come, join the celebration.

About Pastor James Smith

Pastor James Smith, Valparaiso, Indiana – Founder of PreachIt.org, OpportunityHope.org, and PastoralHelps.com.

He equips pastors worldwide with sermons, leadership tools, and encouragement, while also caring for orphaned and at-risk children in West Bengal, India through OpportunityHope. Beyond the orphanage and school, OpportunityHope provides clean water wells, livestock, and other humanitarian helps to families and villages in need. Additional books, leadership training, and mentoring resources are available through PastoralHelps.com.