The One Who Brings Orphans Home
From The Question That Drives Us All series – Part 2 of 2
by Royce
Yesterday, we sat with an uncomfortable truth. Steve Jobs spent his entire life building products that made people feel chosen and valuable, revolutionized multiple industries, and achieved influence few humans ever reach. Yet he died with the same question he’d asked as a seven-year-old boy: “Am I worth keeping?”
We recognized his story as our story. We’re all spiritual orphans—but not because God abandoned us or put us up for adoption. We became orphans because we rebelled. Like the prodigal son, we left home thinking we could find our worth if we could just do things our own way. We thought life would be better, more fulfilling, more meaningful if we were in control. And we acknowledged the sobering reality: this strategy doesn’t work. The hunger is infinite but the satisfaction is always temporary. So where does that leave us? Today, we discover the answer—and it’s more beautiful than anything Steve Jobs ever created.
Jesus told a story about a son who thought he knew what would make him happy. He demanded his inheritance early—essentially telling his father, “I wish you were dead so I could have what’s mine.” Then he left home and headed to a far country, where he spent everything trying to find life.
This is where Steve Jobs lived his entire adult life. The far country.
He wasn’t wasting his inheritance on wine and prostitutes. He was building empires, creating revolutionary products, curating the perfect image. But it was the same search—trying to construct a life that would finally make him feel valuable, chosen, worthy of being kept. He was spending everything he had on the question: “Maybe I can find a better life purpose outside my father’s home?”
And here’s the thing: we’re all in the far country.
We’ve taken our talents, our time, our energy—the inheritance God gave us—and we’ve spent it trying to answer that same question through our achievements. Some of us are building companies. Others are building careers, or families, or reputations, or Instagram profiles. The currency is different, but the transaction is the same: we’re trying to purchase significance through what we build.
The prodigal son “came to himself” when he was feeding pigs and realized even his father’s servants had it better than this. Jobs came to himself, in a way, when he said near the end: “I reached the pinnacle of success in the business world. In others’ eyes, my life is an epitome of success. However, aside from work, I have little joy.”
But here’s what the prodigal son understood that Jobs never quite grasped: the problem wasn’t that he needed to build something better in the far country. The problem was that he needed to go home.
In Jesus’ story, when the prodigal son finally turns toward home, something stunning happens. His father sees him “while he was still a long way off” and does something that would have shocked Jesus’ original audience: he runs.
In that culture, wealthy patriarchs didn’t run. It was undignified, humiliating. They walked slowly, with gravitas, expecting others to come to them. But this father hitches up his robes and sprints down the road like an undignified fool, driven by one thing: love for his son.
This is the gospel. This is what God does for prodigals.
We imagine that coming home means crawling back on our knees, proving we’ve changed enough to deserve another chance, working our way back into good standing. We prepare our speeches: “Make me like one of your hired servants.” We think redemption is something we have to earn.
But the Father doesn’t wait for our speeches. He runs toward us while we’re still covered in pig shit from the far country. Before we’ve cleaned ourselves up. Before we’ve proven we’ve changed. Before we’ve earned our way back.
Romans 5:8 captures this: “God shows his love for us in that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us.” Not after we got better. Not once we became worthy. While we were still wasting our inheritance in the far country, God was already running toward us.
But here’s where Jesus’ story gets even more profound—and where it intersects with the cross in a way that should take our breath away.
On the cross, Jesus experienced what the prodigal son deserved but never received: complete rejection.
Think about what Jesus cried out: “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” The faithful son, who had lived in perfect communion with the Father from all eternity, experienced the exile of the far country. He who never wasted his inheritance, who never rebelled, who never demanded his own way—he took the full weight of every prodigal’s shame.
The prodigal son came home expecting to become a servant, saying, “I am no longer worthy to be called your son.” But the father wouldn’t hear it. Instead, he called for the best robe—a symbol of honor and identity. The ring—a sign of authority and belonging. Sandals—marking him as a son, not a slave.
But here’s what we often miss: the prodigal had already spent his share of the inheritance. It was gone. So when the father threw this lavish party, killed the fattened calf, gave the robe and ring—where did it all come from? It came from the older brother’s inheritance. The father was restoring the prodigal at the older brother’s expense.
This is why the older brother in the parable was so angry. He understood the economics of grace: “You never gave me a young goat to celebrate with my friends, but when this son of yours came back after wasting your property, you killed the fattened calf for him!” The older brother was right—his inheritance was being spent on the prodigal’s restoration.
And this is where the parable points us directly to the cross.
Jesus, our true older brother, gave up his robe of righteousness so we could be clothed in it. He surrendered his ring of authority—became powerless, mocked, stripped naked—so we could receive full rights as children of God. He was treated as worthless so we could be given infinite worth.
The stunning reversal: Steve Jobs tried to earn his way to being chosen by creating perfect products. Jesus, who was already the perfectly chosen Son, gave up that position to purchase ours. Jobs tried to build his way to significance. Jesus, who possessed ultimate significance, became insignificant—”despised and rejected,” Isaiah calls him—to give us his significance.
The inheritance the prodigal wasted, Jesus restored. The sonship the prodigal forfeited, Jesus secured. The home the prodigal abandoned, Jesus reopened—at the cost of his own blood.
First John says: “See what kind of love the Father has given to us, that we should be called children of God; and so we are.” The wonder isn’t that we crawled back and worked our way into servant status. The wonder is that despite everything—despite our rebellion, our waste, our life in the far country—the Father calls us his children, and that declaration makes it reality.
Can you believe this? Can you receive it?
Can you stop trying to build your way back into God’s favor and simply turn toward home, knowing the Father is already running toward you?
So what does this mean for today?
It means you can stop building monuments in the far country. You don’t have to construct a perfect life, a flawless image, an impressive achievement list to earn your way back to God. Your Father is already running toward you. Come home empty-handed. It’s enough.
It means the inheritance you’ve wasted doesn’t disqualify you. Maybe you’ve spent years chasing the wrong things—building the wrong kingdoms, serving the wrong masters, wasting your gifts on projects that never satisfied. Jesus didn’t come for people who managed their inheritance perfectly. He came for prodigals. Your waste is precisely what qualifies you for grace.
It means you can finally rest from striving. You’re not a servant trying to work your way back into the household. You’re a son, a daughter, clothed in the righteousness of Jesus himself. The Father isn’t tolerating you or giving you probation. He’s throwing a party, and you’re the guest of honor—not because of anything you built, but because of everything Jesus gave up.
It means you can be honest about where you’ve been. You don’t have to pretend you’ve got it all together. The gospel is for prodigals who smell like pig pens and far countries. Jesus didn’t die for people who had their lives figured out. He died for those of us who wasted everything and came back empty.
In Jesus’ parable, the father tells his servants: “Bring the fattened calf and kill it, and let us eat and celebrate. For this my son was dead, and is alive again; he was lost, and is found.”
The feast is ready. The celebration is waiting. Your place at the table has been secured by Jesus, the true older brother who gave up everything so you could come home.
You don’t have to build anything else. You don’t have to prove anything else. You don’t have to waste another day in the far country.
Your Father is running toward you right now. Come home.
Prayer:
Father, I’ve been in the far country so long I almost forgot what home felt like. I’ve wasted the inheritance you gave me—my time, my gifts, my life—trying to build something that would make me feel worthy. I’m tired. I’m empty. And I’m ready to come home. Thank you that you don’t wait for me to clean myself up or prove I’ve changed. Thank you that you run toward me while I’m still far off. Thank you for Jesus, my true older brother, who gave up his inheritance so I could have mine, who experienced your rejection so I could know your acceptance, who became lost so I could be found. Help me stop building in the far country and teach me what it means to live as someone who’s already home—already clothed in the robe Jesus provided, already wearing the ring he purchased, already welcomed at the feast he made possible. Let this truth move from my head to my heart and change how I live today as someone who is no longer an exile, no longer a servant, but a beloved child at home with you. In the name of Jesus, the faithful son who brought this prodigal home. Amen.