One of the things Jesus reveals through his teaching and ministry—the gospel in its clearest form—is this: nothing shapes our lives more than the God we imagine. That vision sits at the helm. It sets the direction. It quietly calls every shot. I meet so many people—Christians and non-Christians alike—who carry around a toxic picture of God. A God who is more burden than beauty, more threat than hope.
The New Testament scholar Tom Wright tells a story from his years as a chaplain at Oxford and Cambridge. He would sit down with first-year students, welcoming them into college life. Though most were eager to meet him, some would say, a bit awkwardly, “You won’t be seeing much of me. I don’t believe in God.”
Wright would gently respond, “Oh, that’s interesting. Which god do you not believe in?”
Caught off guard, the student would scramble: “Well… an old man in the sky, ready to smite people at a moment’s notice, sending good people to heaven and bad people to hell.”
And Wright would smile and say, “Oh good. I don’t believe in that god either.”
That moment opens a door: it’s not just whether we believe in God—it’s which God we believe in. And this matters because Jesus also understood that the god we imagine shapes the life we live.
The image of God we carry becomes the architecture of our inner world. If God is harsh, we can grow hard. If God is distant, we can become unavailable. If God is anxious, controlling, or easily angered, we often mirror that same posture in our relationships. We judge quickly. We forgive slowly. We live with the quiet ache that we are never quite enough.
A judge in the Boston Marathon bombing case once quoted from Verdi’s Otello: “I believe in a cruel God.” That belief doesn’t stay theoretical. It leaks into everything.
But if God is gracious—shockingly gracious—something in us begins to thaw. If God is patient, we learn to breathe more slowly with others. If God is merciful, we become softer people. If God delights in us—not because of what we’ve done, but because of who we are—then we begin to extend that same delight outward.
So the question is this: Who is God, really? And perhaps more honestly: Who have we been told God is?
Because many of us are still held hostage by a version of God we no longer even believe in—but can’t seem to escape. Teresa of Ávila encourages us this way: “All concepts of God are like a jar we break.”
A God who keeps score. A God who withholds love. A God who demands perfection before offering acceptance. These are jars Jesus came to shatter. Or, perhaps I should say it more provocatively,
That’s exactly the dilemma Jesus confronts in Luke 15. There’s a single line in Luke 15 that begins to expose everything: “This man welcomes sinners and eats with them.” That’s the complaint. That’s the scandal. The problem isn’t that Jesus’ God is too righteous—but that God is too kind. Too open. Too generous.
And Jesus responds—not with an argument—but with images. A shepherd searching for a sheep. A woman searching for a coin. A father with two sons. Each story pulses with the same rhythm: something lost and sought, until they find it.
But underneath the stories, something deeper is happening. Jesus is dismantling a false God. A transactional God. A scorekeeping God. A God obsessed with rule-keeping over relationship. A God of retribution instead of restoration. All jars that must be broken.
And in its place, Jesus reveals a God who seeks persistently. A shepherd who goes after the lost sheep—until he finds it. A woman who searches for the coin—until she finds it. Relentless. Focused. Unyielding.
The God of Jesus is not indifferent to loss or lostness. God is not waiting passively to be discovered. God is already moving, already searching, already pursuing—and heaven erupts when the lost are found.
Then comes the third story. A father. Two sons. The younger son leaves, burns through everything, collapses into ruin, and finally decides to return home—not as a son, but as a servant. And when he returns he is met by the father with embrace rather than anger, with a party rather than punishment.
But there’s a question that lingers and something to notice. In the first two stories, the seeker goes out until the lost thing is found. So why doesn’t the father leave the house to search for his son? Why does he stay? Where is the “seeking”?
There are reasonable answers. The father allows his younger son the dignity of choosing to return. Sure. He runs to him “while he is still a long way off.” Of course. He declares, “This son of mine was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found.” Amen.
All true. But still—it feels different. The searching seems less obvious. Unless, Jesus is telling a slightly different story. Because I finally noticed the father does leave the house to seek and save the lost. Did you catch it?
“When the older brother became angry and refused to go in, the father went out and pleaded with him.”
Yes, the younger son was lost in rebellion and returns home. But if what is lost is identified by the persistent seeking – the sheep, the coin, and the son – who does the father actually go out to seek and save in the third parable?
We often assume the story is about the reckless son—the obvious sinner, the one who ran away. But Jesus is telling this story to the Pharisees. To church folk. To those who are offended by unfettered grace. And he wants to save them from their puny, transactional, uptight, stiff-shirt, God. Jesus’ God wants to save the religious.
That’s the shift.
Yes, the younger son is lost in rebellion. But more importantly, the older son is lost in resentment. The younger says, “Give me what is mine.” The older says, “I’ve earned what is mine.” Different language. Same posture. Both are living lost but one tragically does so in the Father’s house.
And listen closely: the older brother says, “I’ve been slaving for you all these years.”
Slaving!?
He doesn’t see himself as the son of a good father. He sees himself as a servant. And here’s the quiet tragedy: Both sons were outside the house. One left physically. The other never truly came in. Both have reduced themselves to spiritual slavery. And yet, the father moves toward both.
This is the deeper issue: Both sons have misunderstood the father. The younger thinks, “I am not worthy.” The older thinks, “I have earned my place.” Both are wrong.
If God is transactional, we become transactional. If God keeps score, we keep score. If God excludes, we exclude. And before long, we find ourselves standing outside the party—explaining why others shouldn’t be inside.
And the story ends unresolved. Two sons remain. But only one has entered. We don’t know what the older brother chooses—because the story is holding up a mirror, especially for church folk – those who secretly think themselves somehow slaving in the Father’s house.
Will we go in?
Will we open doors and celebrate grace given to people we don’t think deserve it, including ourselves?
Will we let go of our small, brittle images of God—and discover the God of Jesus who comes to us until he finds us? Or will we stay outside—angry, justified, and alone—shaped by the image of the false god we’ve believed in?
If you remember anything, remember this:
We don’t measure up to this God; we simply show up.
We let this Tender One embrace us. We let him break our jars and then throw open our doors. And when we meet people who don’t like a toxic God—who fear that God, or fight that God—we can smile and say: “Good. I don’t believe in that God either.”
And then we lovingly announce the good news of God, according to Jesus: a God who is unrestricted, openhearted, and relentlessly faithful— a God who seeks, who runs, until he finds us. Until he finds us. Until he finds us. Amen.
And so, as we lean into this gracious God, I invite you to come forward—not because you have everything figured out, not because you have earned your place, but simply because you are loved. Come and remember your baptism. Remember the water that named you, claimed you, and held you long before you could hold onto anything yourself. As we sing—I Was There to Hear Your Borning Cry—let it carry you gently back to that truth: that God has always been the One who comes toward you, who seeks you, who delights in you. Come as you are—whether you feel close or distant, certain or unsure—and touch the water as a sign of the God who never stops reaching for you. Come and remember: you don’t have to measure up. You can simply show up.
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