Loving The Stranger: Loving the Stranger We Know
For Your Heart Today
As we move toward the holiday season—when families, friendships, and expectations collide—Jesus invites us into a deeper, quieter work of the heart. He invites us to consider the “strangers we know”—the parents, siblings, partners, friends, and even church family who feel distant, wounded, or complicated.
The parable of the prodigal son is not just about the one who wandered far and returned. It’s also about the one who stayed close outwardly, but drifted inwardly. Today, we lean into the love of a Father who runs toward both sons, who meets us in our complicated family stories, and who invites us to take one step toward healing and renewed love—even when reconciliation feels out of reach.
3 Takeaways
Breath Prayer
Inhale: Where love is hard…
Exhale: …soften my heart.
Full manuscript estimated reading time: 14–16 minutes
As we move toward the holiday season—when families, friendships, and expectations collide—Jesus invites us into a deeper, quieter work of the heart. He invites us to consider the “strangers we know”—the parents, siblings, partners, friends, and even church family who feel distant, wounded, or complicated.
The parable of the prodigal son is not just about the one who wandered far and returned. It’s also about the one who stayed close outwardly, but drifted inwardly. Today, we lean into the love of a Father who runs toward both sons, who meets us in our complicated family stories, and who invites us to take one step toward healing and renewed love—even when reconciliation feels out of reach.
3 Takeaways
- There’s more beneath the surface.
- Forgiveness frees us first.
- Love begins with a new vision.
Breath Prayer
Inhale: Where love is hard…
Exhale: …soften my heart.
Full manuscript estimated reading time: 14–16 minutes
Introduction
Well, the holidays are upon us. It’s only mid-November, but the malls, stores, and airports are already decked out. Santas are not far behind, along with all that holiday music and Christmas lights glowing in the neighborhood. What’s more, holiday movies are streaming everywhere. And if there’s one thing holiday movies love to highlight, it’s the comedy—and chaos—of family.
Think about some of the classics: in Home Alone, a whole family is so distracted and disorganized as they prepare for vacation that they don’t even realize that they’ve left a child behind. In This Christmas, young adult and adult siblings gather under one roof with secrets, grudges, and unresolved stories primed to surface. And in The Preacher’s Wife, we are reminded that even faithful, church-going families can hit seasons of strain and distance.
These movies can exaggerate the drama for laughter, but the reason we laugh is that it feels familiar. We laugh because we recognize the misunderstandings, crossed wires, and awkward conversations. And sometimes I think we laugh because it’s easier than naming how complicated these relationships can be in real life.
Family breakdowns, or even just strained moments, are painful. They’re not what we expected or hoped for. And when I say “family,” I mean more than biological relatives. I’m including the people we do life with—family by choice, by friendship, and yes, even the family of God.
Prayer for family unity is one of the most frequent requests I hear. When someone tells me that parents and children aren’t speaking… or siblings haven’t gotten along for years… or friendships have grown cold… I know there’s a story. Something happened. Something unresolved created distance. And even though life moves forward, relationships don’t always heal with it.
And yet Jesus commands us to love our neighbor. He even asks, “How can you love God, whom you cannot see, if you do not love your brother or sister whom you can see?”
The truth is: this is hard. It is one of the most challenging places in our spiritual life.
Which brings us to today’s message as we continue our two-part series, Loving the Stranger. Today we’re looking at Loving the Stranger You Know: such as the sibling or parent you may avoid, the spouse who is basically a roommate, the friend you’ve let drift away, or the church member you find it difficult to be around.
What does it look like to love that person and follow Jesus in those spaces?
This morning, we’re turning to a familiar story about a family that speaks to this very issue.
Please open your Bibles to Luke 15, and we’ll jump right in at starting at verse 25.
“Meanwhile, the older son was in the fields working. When he returned home, he heard music and dancing in the house, and he asked one of the servants what was going on. ‘Your brother is back,’ he was told, ‘and your father has killed the fattened calf. We are celebrating because of his safe return.’
“The older brother was angry and wouldn’t go in. His father came out and begged him, but he replied, ‘All these years I’ve slaved for you and never once refused to do a single thing you told me to. And in all that time you never gave me even one young goat for a feast with my friends. Yet when this son of yours comes back after squandering your money on prostitutes, you celebrate by killing the fattened calf!’
“His father said to him, ‘Look, dear son, you have always stayed by me, and everything I have is yours. We had to celebrate this happy day. For your brother was dead and has come back to life! He was lost, but now he is found!’”
A Quick Recap of the Story
Now, before we look at today’s verses, it helps to step back and remember the larger story Jesus is telling. Many of us know this parable well, and it’s become common, retold for children, in movies. It’s a well-known story. However, Jesus’ original hearers would have felt the impact and weight of this story much differently than we do today.
It begins with a father and two sons. And the younger son comes with a request no parent in that culture would ever expect to hear: “Give me my share of the inheritance now.” In that world, inheritance came only after death. So his request carried the sting of wanting the father’s provision without the father’s presence—it was a deep dishonor that would have brought shame to the entire family. And yet, Jesus tells us, the Father grants it.
The younger son gathers everything, leaves home, and wastes it all in “wild living.” When the money is gone, he ends up in the lowest place a Jewish son could imagine—caring for pigs, hungry, alone, stripped of dignity. It is here that he “comes to his senses.” He remembers the goodness of his father—even the way his father cared for the servants—and decides to return home.
And this is important: he isn’t coming back entitled. He is humbled and prepared to accept the consequences. He is willing to return, not as a son, but as a servant, because he knows he is unworthy of anything more. He simply is returning to the only love he has ever known, and he’s hoping for mercy.
But the father has been watching. The Bible says that while the son is still far off, the father sees him, runs to him, and embraces him before he can even finish his apologetic confession. The father restores him fully as his son, with a robe, ring, sandals, and a celebration. The father doesn’t review the failures to make sure he learned his lesson—he rejoices over the return of his son, calling him “alive again.”
Now, often sermons and movies about this story stay right here. Often, we focus on the younger son and the extravagant grace of the father—and rightly so. But Jesus doesn’t stop here. Jesus began the story with a man had two sons. The older brother who never left home. He stayed. He worked. He did what was expected. He was faithful, dependable—the one everyone could count on. The “good son” in everyone’s eyes.
And Jesus turns the spotlight toward him because this parable isn’t only about those who wander far from God; it is also about those who appear close outwardly but have drifted inwardly.
And here’s an important point to note. When Jesus tells this story to the general crowd, he’s also speaking directly to the religious leaders—people who took pride in obedience, morality, and faithfulness, but whose hearts were distant from God.
In this story, Jesus is naming two kinds of lostness: the son who left the father externally, and the son who left the father internally, even while outwardly doing all the right things.
And the father—this father who runs, who restores, who goes out to both sons—is truly the prodigal one. Because prodigal literally means lavish, abundant, and unrestrained—what some have even called reckless. In the father, we see prodigal embodied in the most gracious and loving ways.
So Jesus could have ended the parable with the homecoming celebration, but he didn't. There was more to the story. Because in addition to a tale about two lost brothers, we have a story about a family united by blood and shared history, yet living worlds apart. Two brothers who have become strangers, and a father seeking to restore a relationship with each of them, as well as serve as a bridge between the two of them.
Which means this parable speaks into our story too—about the strangers we know, the people close to us and yet feel far away, the relationships that have grown complicated, strained, or quietly disconnected.
A Deeper Look at the Father and Older Son
As we take a closer look at the older brother, we see the myriad of layers that help us understand what is happening in this moment. When he comes in from the field and hears music and dancing, he is completely caught off guard. And when he learns that the celebration is for his brother’s return, Luke tells us plainly that “the older brother was angry and wouldn’t go in.” This is not a small reaction.
His response suggests that this moment touches something much deeper—a bitterness and resentment that has been brewing. He has stayed home. He has worked. He has carried responsibility. He has done everything “right.” And yet he feels unseen, unappreciated, and passed over.
Listen to what he says in verse 29: “All these years I’ve slaved for you and never once refused to do a single thing you told me to. And in all that time, you never gave me even one young goat for a feast with my friends.”
This is not the language of a joyful son. This is the language of someone who has lost the sense of love and belonging that should shape a family.
And you can’t miss the estrangement when he says, “Yet when this son of yours comes back…” It’s obvious there’s a divide. He didn’t say, “When my brother comes back…” That’s an intentional choice of words meant to hurt. “Son of yours.” In the older brother’s heart, his brother had become a stranger.
In fact, the older brother makes assumptions, accusing his brother of squandering money on prostitutes. Jesus never said anything about prostitutes in telling the younger brother’s story—maybe it’s implied in “wild living,” but it’s also possible Jesus is presenting an older brother who fills in the story without knowing the story. An older brother who interprets and misinterprets the story through his own anger, hurt, and jealousy.
And beneath all of this, his reaction points to fear. Fear that now that his brother has returned, something will be taken from him. Fear that the father’s attention, or even the older brother’s inheritance, might shift. In short, fear that the father’s joy at his brother’s return is a threat to his own place of security.
But look at the father’s response. Just as he ran out to meet the younger son, he now goes out to meet the older one. He leaves the celebration to beg him to come in. Just as he did with the younger son, he does not shame him, guilt him, or use his paternal authority to force him. He begins gently with the relationship. He says, “Look, dear son...” He reminds him of who he is. He reminds him that he is loved.
Then he offers the reassurance the older brother needs: “You have always stayed by me, and everything I have is yours.” In other words: You haven’t lost anything. You don’t have to be afraid. Nothing has been taken from you. You are my son, and you are secure in my love.
And then we see the father restore the relationship language that the older brother tried to sever, offering a renewed family perspective. He explains, “We had to celebrate… your brother was dead and has come back to life.” The father refuses to let the fracture define the family.
But as we reflect on this story, the entire exchange reveals so much about the older son: He is angry. He is holding unforgiveness. He’s made assumptions without knowing the full story. He feels overlooked, afraid, and threatened. And the people closest to him—his brother, even his father—have become strangers in his heart.
And I think we all get it. Because if we’re honest, we can relate to the older brother, too. Maybe not to this degree, but at least I can say for myself—I’ve been there.
So, as we think about the stranger we know, the issue becomes: How do we love as God calls us to love and heal where there’s been a divide?
I believe the story gives us three places to begin and three questions to hold before God.
Three Questions
First: Where is something rising under the surface?
Just like the older brother, many of us know what it is to feel emotion rising within us, feelings like the anger that kept the older brother from joining in the celebration. If you remember the Finding God in Our Feelings series we did a few years ago, you may recall that anger is only the tip of the iceberg. Under the surface—beneath what we show—are the deeper places: hurt, disappointment, grief, unmet expectations, a heavy sense of injustice, and fear. Anger rises to the top, but the real pain sits underneath.
That’s exactly what’s happening with the older brother. His anger reflects the deeper places in him: feelings of being overlooked, unappreciated, and unseen. We have felt that too.
We can get angry when we feel dismissed… when we’ve carried responsibility alone… when someone hurt us and never acknowledged it… when what we hoped for didn’t happen. Many times, we can shake off these little hurts, but when they happen repeatedly from the same person and we don’t address what’s beneath the surface, those feelings can create strangers because we’re wounded.
As I was working on this message, I was reminded of an old prayer that I learned recently. It simply says: “Lord Jesus, hide my wounds in Your wounds.”
That’s such a compelling and caring thought for me because it reminds us that Jesus’ wounds are a place of refuge—a sacred space because He meets us in the very places of pain where He Himself has been. The same hands that bear the scars of the cross are the hands that hold us. The Savior who has known pain is the same Savior who can carry ours.
So family, whatever rises in you when you think about or engage with the stranger you know—whatever is under your iceberg—bring that to Jesus. Hide your wounds in His wounds. Because when we bring all of our feelings to God, He meets us the same way the father met his sons—with tenderness, reassurance, and love.
Second: Where is forgiveness needed, but feels too hard?
Like the older brother, we can also find it challenging to let go of the pain. Even when we bring our wounds to Jesus, forgiveness can be hard, especially when trust has been broken and pain has lingered. Unforgiveness often hardens over time, in the places where we were hurt, disappointed, or let down. And it becomes its own kind of prison.
Sometimes the people we’re struggling to forgive don’t even know we’re angry or hurting.
Sometimes they don’t have the emotional capacity to acknowledge the harm. Sometimes they simply don’t believe they did anything wrong. But unforgiveness chains us more than it ever chains them. We rehearse the story, relive the injury, rethink what should have happened—all the while, the weight gets heavier and the prison walls close in.
I love this quote by Lewis Smedes, who wrote: “To forgive is to set a prisoner free and discover the prisoner was you.”
The father in the parable shows us another way. He isn’t blind to his sons’ failures, but he doesn’t define them by them, either.
Forgiveness is not: pretending nothing happened, excusing harmful behavior, or even reconciling before trust is rebuilt. Forgiveness is releasing the burden into hands far more capable than ours.
Friends, God’s invitation for us is simple, but not easy. He’s inviting us to release whatever unforgiveness burden you’ve been carrying into God’s hands. Let Him hold the justice, the weight, and the outcome—so you can finally step out of the prison and walk in freedom toward the stranger you know… because God’s got it and He’s got you.
Third: Where have we stopped seeing clearly?
Sometimes our vision of another person becomes cloudy—not in our eyes, but in our hearts. When relationships have been tense, strained, or painful, it’s easy for our inner vision to become distorted. And this is what’s happening with the older brother. He isn’t seeing his brother with compassion. He isn’t seeing the father’s joy. He’s seeing everything through the lens of his own hurt.
When that happens for us, familiar people feel like strangers. We stop seeing the person—and only see the wound, the memory, the old story. And it becomes not just what they did… but what we expect them to do.
Sometimes the old story vision becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy. We may open ourselves a little, hoping this time might be different. But then a tone, or a familiar phrase, and suddenly we’re back where we started. The walls go up, and the old story returns.
When that happens, we have to return to what we’ve already named: bring the wound to Jesus again. Forgive again. Ask Him for a renewed vision—again.
Because renewed vision isn’t a one-time shift—it’s a way of life.
A healed vision doesn’t erase the past, but it does reframe how we see the present. And when our vision shifts—even a little—to see the stranger we know through Jesus’ eyes, our hearts soften, compassion awakens, and the possibility of love enters the room again.
Now, when I say “love,” I don’t mean forced closeness or ignoring reality. Sometimes love simply means we aren’t carrying the weight anymore and accept what is. Sometimes love is blessing someone from a distance instead of holding on to bitterness. That’s love, too. And sometimes it’s reconciliation and a restored relationship.
It’s interesting that Jesus doesn’t complete the story. We never know what happened to either son over time. But we do see the vision the father had—a vision that moves toward both sons without denying the truth, a vision that sees with love rather than resentment, a vision shaped by grace. And this renewed vision helps us do the same.
Closing
So family, as we close, I’m not suggesting you fix a relationship this week. I’m asking you to take one step toward Jesus in the place where your heart feels stuck with the strangers you know.
To take the wound to Him. Release the weight into God’s hands. Ask Him to help you see differently. And trust that the Father who went out to both sons will come out to meet you, too—with the same tenderness, the same patience, and the same love.
So may this be a week of small steps: toward Jesus, toward healing, and by God’s grace, toward the stranger you know.
Amen.
Well, the holidays are upon us. It’s only mid-November, but the malls, stores, and airports are already decked out. Santas are not far behind, along with all that holiday music and Christmas lights glowing in the neighborhood. What’s more, holiday movies are streaming everywhere. And if there’s one thing holiday movies love to highlight, it’s the comedy—and chaos—of family.
Think about some of the classics: in Home Alone, a whole family is so distracted and disorganized as they prepare for vacation that they don’t even realize that they’ve left a child behind. In This Christmas, young adult and adult siblings gather under one roof with secrets, grudges, and unresolved stories primed to surface. And in The Preacher’s Wife, we are reminded that even faithful, church-going families can hit seasons of strain and distance.
These movies can exaggerate the drama for laughter, but the reason we laugh is that it feels familiar. We laugh because we recognize the misunderstandings, crossed wires, and awkward conversations. And sometimes I think we laugh because it’s easier than naming how complicated these relationships can be in real life.
Family breakdowns, or even just strained moments, are painful. They’re not what we expected or hoped for. And when I say “family,” I mean more than biological relatives. I’m including the people we do life with—family by choice, by friendship, and yes, even the family of God.
Prayer for family unity is one of the most frequent requests I hear. When someone tells me that parents and children aren’t speaking… or siblings haven’t gotten along for years… or friendships have grown cold… I know there’s a story. Something happened. Something unresolved created distance. And even though life moves forward, relationships don’t always heal with it.
And yet Jesus commands us to love our neighbor. He even asks, “How can you love God, whom you cannot see, if you do not love your brother or sister whom you can see?”
The truth is: this is hard. It is one of the most challenging places in our spiritual life.
Which brings us to today’s message as we continue our two-part series, Loving the Stranger. Today we’re looking at Loving the Stranger You Know: such as the sibling or parent you may avoid, the spouse who is basically a roommate, the friend you’ve let drift away, or the church member you find it difficult to be around.
What does it look like to love that person and follow Jesus in those spaces?
This morning, we’re turning to a familiar story about a family that speaks to this very issue.
Please open your Bibles to Luke 15, and we’ll jump right in at starting at verse 25.
“Meanwhile, the older son was in the fields working. When he returned home, he heard music and dancing in the house, and he asked one of the servants what was going on. ‘Your brother is back,’ he was told, ‘and your father has killed the fattened calf. We are celebrating because of his safe return.’
“The older brother was angry and wouldn’t go in. His father came out and begged him, but he replied, ‘All these years I’ve slaved for you and never once refused to do a single thing you told me to. And in all that time you never gave me even one young goat for a feast with my friends. Yet when this son of yours comes back after squandering your money on prostitutes, you celebrate by killing the fattened calf!’
“His father said to him, ‘Look, dear son, you have always stayed by me, and everything I have is yours. We had to celebrate this happy day. For your brother was dead and has come back to life! He was lost, but now he is found!’”
A Quick Recap of the Story
Now, before we look at today’s verses, it helps to step back and remember the larger story Jesus is telling. Many of us know this parable well, and it’s become common, retold for children, in movies. It’s a well-known story. However, Jesus’ original hearers would have felt the impact and weight of this story much differently than we do today.
It begins with a father and two sons. And the younger son comes with a request no parent in that culture would ever expect to hear: “Give me my share of the inheritance now.” In that world, inheritance came only after death. So his request carried the sting of wanting the father’s provision without the father’s presence—it was a deep dishonor that would have brought shame to the entire family. And yet, Jesus tells us, the Father grants it.
The younger son gathers everything, leaves home, and wastes it all in “wild living.” When the money is gone, he ends up in the lowest place a Jewish son could imagine—caring for pigs, hungry, alone, stripped of dignity. It is here that he “comes to his senses.” He remembers the goodness of his father—even the way his father cared for the servants—and decides to return home.
And this is important: he isn’t coming back entitled. He is humbled and prepared to accept the consequences. He is willing to return, not as a son, but as a servant, because he knows he is unworthy of anything more. He simply is returning to the only love he has ever known, and he’s hoping for mercy.
But the father has been watching. The Bible says that while the son is still far off, the father sees him, runs to him, and embraces him before he can even finish his apologetic confession. The father restores him fully as his son, with a robe, ring, sandals, and a celebration. The father doesn’t review the failures to make sure he learned his lesson—he rejoices over the return of his son, calling him “alive again.”
Now, often sermons and movies about this story stay right here. Often, we focus on the younger son and the extravagant grace of the father—and rightly so. But Jesus doesn’t stop here. Jesus began the story with a man had two sons. The older brother who never left home. He stayed. He worked. He did what was expected. He was faithful, dependable—the one everyone could count on. The “good son” in everyone’s eyes.
And Jesus turns the spotlight toward him because this parable isn’t only about those who wander far from God; it is also about those who appear close outwardly but have drifted inwardly.
And here’s an important point to note. When Jesus tells this story to the general crowd, he’s also speaking directly to the religious leaders—people who took pride in obedience, morality, and faithfulness, but whose hearts were distant from God.
In this story, Jesus is naming two kinds of lostness: the son who left the father externally, and the son who left the father internally, even while outwardly doing all the right things.
And the father—this father who runs, who restores, who goes out to both sons—is truly the prodigal one. Because prodigal literally means lavish, abundant, and unrestrained—what some have even called reckless. In the father, we see prodigal embodied in the most gracious and loving ways.
So Jesus could have ended the parable with the homecoming celebration, but he didn't. There was more to the story. Because in addition to a tale about two lost brothers, we have a story about a family united by blood and shared history, yet living worlds apart. Two brothers who have become strangers, and a father seeking to restore a relationship with each of them, as well as serve as a bridge between the two of them.
Which means this parable speaks into our story too—about the strangers we know, the people close to us and yet feel far away, the relationships that have grown complicated, strained, or quietly disconnected.
A Deeper Look at the Father and Older Son
As we take a closer look at the older brother, we see the myriad of layers that help us understand what is happening in this moment. When he comes in from the field and hears music and dancing, he is completely caught off guard. And when he learns that the celebration is for his brother’s return, Luke tells us plainly that “the older brother was angry and wouldn’t go in.” This is not a small reaction.
His response suggests that this moment touches something much deeper—a bitterness and resentment that has been brewing. He has stayed home. He has worked. He has carried responsibility. He has done everything “right.” And yet he feels unseen, unappreciated, and passed over.
Listen to what he says in verse 29: “All these years I’ve slaved for you and never once refused to do a single thing you told me to. And in all that time, you never gave me even one young goat for a feast with my friends.”
This is not the language of a joyful son. This is the language of someone who has lost the sense of love and belonging that should shape a family.
And you can’t miss the estrangement when he says, “Yet when this son of yours comes back…” It’s obvious there’s a divide. He didn’t say, “When my brother comes back…” That’s an intentional choice of words meant to hurt. “Son of yours.” In the older brother’s heart, his brother had become a stranger.
In fact, the older brother makes assumptions, accusing his brother of squandering money on prostitutes. Jesus never said anything about prostitutes in telling the younger brother’s story—maybe it’s implied in “wild living,” but it’s also possible Jesus is presenting an older brother who fills in the story without knowing the story. An older brother who interprets and misinterprets the story through his own anger, hurt, and jealousy.
And beneath all of this, his reaction points to fear. Fear that now that his brother has returned, something will be taken from him. Fear that the father’s attention, or even the older brother’s inheritance, might shift. In short, fear that the father’s joy at his brother’s return is a threat to his own place of security.
But look at the father’s response. Just as he ran out to meet the younger son, he now goes out to meet the older one. He leaves the celebration to beg him to come in. Just as he did with the younger son, he does not shame him, guilt him, or use his paternal authority to force him. He begins gently with the relationship. He says, “Look, dear son...” He reminds him of who he is. He reminds him that he is loved.
Then he offers the reassurance the older brother needs: “You have always stayed by me, and everything I have is yours.” In other words: You haven’t lost anything. You don’t have to be afraid. Nothing has been taken from you. You are my son, and you are secure in my love.
And then we see the father restore the relationship language that the older brother tried to sever, offering a renewed family perspective. He explains, “We had to celebrate… your brother was dead and has come back to life.” The father refuses to let the fracture define the family.
But as we reflect on this story, the entire exchange reveals so much about the older son: He is angry. He is holding unforgiveness. He’s made assumptions without knowing the full story. He feels overlooked, afraid, and threatened. And the people closest to him—his brother, even his father—have become strangers in his heart.
And I think we all get it. Because if we’re honest, we can relate to the older brother, too. Maybe not to this degree, but at least I can say for myself—I’ve been there.
So, as we think about the stranger we know, the issue becomes: How do we love as God calls us to love and heal where there’s been a divide?
I believe the story gives us three places to begin and three questions to hold before God.
Three Questions
First: Where is something rising under the surface?
Just like the older brother, many of us know what it is to feel emotion rising within us, feelings like the anger that kept the older brother from joining in the celebration. If you remember the Finding God in Our Feelings series we did a few years ago, you may recall that anger is only the tip of the iceberg. Under the surface—beneath what we show—are the deeper places: hurt, disappointment, grief, unmet expectations, a heavy sense of injustice, and fear. Anger rises to the top, but the real pain sits underneath.
That’s exactly what’s happening with the older brother. His anger reflects the deeper places in him: feelings of being overlooked, unappreciated, and unseen. We have felt that too.
We can get angry when we feel dismissed… when we’ve carried responsibility alone… when someone hurt us and never acknowledged it… when what we hoped for didn’t happen. Many times, we can shake off these little hurts, but when they happen repeatedly from the same person and we don’t address what’s beneath the surface, those feelings can create strangers because we’re wounded.
As I was working on this message, I was reminded of an old prayer that I learned recently. It simply says: “Lord Jesus, hide my wounds in Your wounds.”
That’s such a compelling and caring thought for me because it reminds us that Jesus’ wounds are a place of refuge—a sacred space because He meets us in the very places of pain where He Himself has been. The same hands that bear the scars of the cross are the hands that hold us. The Savior who has known pain is the same Savior who can carry ours.
So family, whatever rises in you when you think about or engage with the stranger you know—whatever is under your iceberg—bring that to Jesus. Hide your wounds in His wounds. Because when we bring all of our feelings to God, He meets us the same way the father met his sons—with tenderness, reassurance, and love.
Second: Where is forgiveness needed, but feels too hard?
Like the older brother, we can also find it challenging to let go of the pain. Even when we bring our wounds to Jesus, forgiveness can be hard, especially when trust has been broken and pain has lingered. Unforgiveness often hardens over time, in the places where we were hurt, disappointed, or let down. And it becomes its own kind of prison.
Sometimes the people we’re struggling to forgive don’t even know we’re angry or hurting.
Sometimes they don’t have the emotional capacity to acknowledge the harm. Sometimes they simply don’t believe they did anything wrong. But unforgiveness chains us more than it ever chains them. We rehearse the story, relive the injury, rethink what should have happened—all the while, the weight gets heavier and the prison walls close in.
I love this quote by Lewis Smedes, who wrote: “To forgive is to set a prisoner free and discover the prisoner was you.”
The father in the parable shows us another way. He isn’t blind to his sons’ failures, but he doesn’t define them by them, either.
Forgiveness is not: pretending nothing happened, excusing harmful behavior, or even reconciling before trust is rebuilt. Forgiveness is releasing the burden into hands far more capable than ours.
Friends, God’s invitation for us is simple, but not easy. He’s inviting us to release whatever unforgiveness burden you’ve been carrying into God’s hands. Let Him hold the justice, the weight, and the outcome—so you can finally step out of the prison and walk in freedom toward the stranger you know… because God’s got it and He’s got you.
Third: Where have we stopped seeing clearly?
Sometimes our vision of another person becomes cloudy—not in our eyes, but in our hearts. When relationships have been tense, strained, or painful, it’s easy for our inner vision to become distorted. And this is what’s happening with the older brother. He isn’t seeing his brother with compassion. He isn’t seeing the father’s joy. He’s seeing everything through the lens of his own hurt.
When that happens for us, familiar people feel like strangers. We stop seeing the person—and only see the wound, the memory, the old story. And it becomes not just what they did… but what we expect them to do.
Sometimes the old story vision becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy. We may open ourselves a little, hoping this time might be different. But then a tone, or a familiar phrase, and suddenly we’re back where we started. The walls go up, and the old story returns.
When that happens, we have to return to what we’ve already named: bring the wound to Jesus again. Forgive again. Ask Him for a renewed vision—again.
Because renewed vision isn’t a one-time shift—it’s a way of life.
A healed vision doesn’t erase the past, but it does reframe how we see the present. And when our vision shifts—even a little—to see the stranger we know through Jesus’ eyes, our hearts soften, compassion awakens, and the possibility of love enters the room again.
Now, when I say “love,” I don’t mean forced closeness or ignoring reality. Sometimes love simply means we aren’t carrying the weight anymore and accept what is. Sometimes love is blessing someone from a distance instead of holding on to bitterness. That’s love, too. And sometimes it’s reconciliation and a restored relationship.
It’s interesting that Jesus doesn’t complete the story. We never know what happened to either son over time. But we do see the vision the father had—a vision that moves toward both sons without denying the truth, a vision that sees with love rather than resentment, a vision shaped by grace. And this renewed vision helps us do the same.
Closing
So family, as we close, I’m not suggesting you fix a relationship this week. I’m asking you to take one step toward Jesus in the place where your heart feels stuck with the strangers you know.
To take the wound to Him. Release the weight into God’s hands. Ask Him to help you see differently. And trust that the Father who went out to both sons will come out to meet you, too—with the same tenderness, the same patience, and the same love.
So may this be a week of small steps: toward Jesus, toward healing, and by God’s grace, toward the stranger you know.
Amen.
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