There was a man who had two sons…” These two sons also had a mother. If it were Mother’s Day, I would preach on the motherhood of God — reflected in that remarkable image of Jesus weeping over Jerusalem, longing to gather her children like a hen gathers her chicks under her wings. (Luke 13:34) But since it’s Father’s Day, I want to focus on the Compassionate Father in the parable of the Prodigal Son.
One note as we begin. Martin Luther — who gave us the Reformation — famously struggled to pray the words Our Father who art in heaven. His own father was demanding and severe, and Luther carried that wound for years, seeing God more as judge and accuser than as father. Many people share that experience. If your father was harsh, absent, or frightening, the phrase Our Father can feel like a closed door. I want you to know: the father in this parable is not that father. And the God of Psalm 103, which we read together this morning, is not that God.
The compassionate father depicted in the Psalm and in the Parable has been captured in one of the greatest paintings ever made. Take a look at the screen.
I. Rembrandt’s Painting
The Return of the Prodigal Son was painted in the 17th century, in the final years of Rembrandt’s life. (He died at 63). It hangs on a full wall of the Hermitage Museum in St. Petersburg, Russia — nearly life-sized, so you feel you are stepping into the scene rather than viewing it from a distance. You can see it here on the screen and printed in your bulletin.
The canvas holds five figures. Which one do you most identify with? The younger son who went off to the far country? The older son who stayed home? The witness sitting nearby? The shadowed figures in the background? Or the compassionate father himself?
The spotlight is on a humbled, kneeling son with broken shoes and a shaved head. He’s been through a lot in the far country— he no longer feels like he belongs. And yet he is still wearing his sword — the last sign of who he truly is. He is still his father’s son.
And bending over him: the old man, the father. Eyes nearly blind from years of scanning the horizon, waiting. His massive red cloak spread around his son like the wing of a bird. Hands resting on his shoulders. Welcome home.
To understand the painting, you need to understand the painter. As a young man, Rembrandt was wild and reckless — arrogant, extravagant, nearly impossible to live with. Over 63 years, he had squandered his wealth and lost his family: the beloved wife of his youth, three young sons, two daughters, a second partner… Lost…
The masterpiece of his old age is a self-portrait — Rembrandt painted his own weathered face onto the compassionate father. It is the face of a man who has reached the end of his own pride, and who now understands something about grace he could not have understood in his youth. Finally, he has become the compassionate father.
II. The Compassionate Father of Pslam 103
Psalm 103 presents a portrait of the Compassionate Father in three phrases: Our God is slow to anger, eager to forgive, deeply compassionate.
Slow to anger — “The Lord is merciful and gracious, slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love.” That Hebrew word for steadfast love is hesed — lovingkindness, mercy that doesn’t quit. When you stumble, when you fail, when you disappear, the first movement in the heart of God is not fury and judgment. It is Love and Mercy.
Eager to forgive — “As far as the east is from the west, so far he removes our transgressions from us.” “Buried in the deepest sea, yes that’s good enough for me…” — as some of us learned to sing in Sunday School. Too good to believe. But it is the gospel.
Deeply compassionate — “As a father has compassion for his children, so the Lord has compassion for those who fear him. For he knows how we were made; he remembers that we are dust.” He knows our frame. He knows our limitations, our wounds, our need. His authority is always expressed by tenderness and love.
And in the parable we watch all three qualities move through the story:
The wayward son has come to his senses. He rehearsed his speech — 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.
But the father has been watching and waiting.
And when he sees his son on the road— still far off— he doesn’t wait for the speech. He is filled with splanchnizomai — gut-level, visceral compassion, the kind that moves through your whole body before your mind catches up. And he runs out to meet him.
He throws his arms around his child. He kisses him. And before the speech is given, he is calling out: the best robe, a ring on his finger, sandals on his feet, the fatted calf. Music. Dancing. Feasting. What was lost is found. What was dead has come back to life.
No probation. No conditions. Rather, radical grace; and unconditional love, acceptance and forgiveness. Like the song we sometimes sing to God in worship? “You’re a good, good father. It's who You are, it's who You are, it's who You are. And I'm loved by You...”
III. Two Hands
Now look again at the painting —look closely at the father’s hands. They are not the same.
The right hand is broad, strong, thick — you can see the pressure, the weight of it on the son’s shoulder.
The left hand is smaller, softer, lighter — more tender.
What I learned from my teacher, Fr. Henri Nouwen, is that the great Rembrandt, who knew grief and failure, dissapation and redemption, painted his masterpiece as a father with two kinds of touch.
One hand is firm. It says: I believe in you. You can do this. You got this! The proverbial thumb in the back.
The other hand is tender — lighter, open. It says: I’ve got you. You don’t have to earn this. Rest.
A compassionate parent needs both. A marriage needs both. A family needs both. What I’m describing is a love that holds us in two ways at once: with enough strength to give us confidence, and enough tenderness to give us peace.
When only one hand is raised, something essential goes missing.
Illustration I — One Hand: Jack Lewis
Last week I was in northern France, near the WWI battlegrounds where C. S. Lewis, author of The Chronicles of Narnia, fought on the front lines. I presented a paper at a Lewis conference there and shared a story about his father.
A certain man in Ireland had two sons: Warnie and Jack (Clive Staples Lewis). Their mother died of cancer when Jack was nine years old — shattering their world. Their father Albert, an attorney in Belfast, raised his boys alone, with the help of a nanny and notoriously hard English boarding schools and regular visits home. Albert loved his sons, for sure. But he was emotionally limited — a man with one hand of blessing. He could provide. He could advocate. He could get things done. But the warmer hand — the hand of empathy, of emotional presence, of simply showing up — that hand was rarely raised.
Both sons grew up and went to war in France. During the Battle of Arras on April 15, 1918, an artillery shell exploded beside Jack. Shrapnel tore into his chest, his leg, his wrist — one fragment piercing his lung. The sergeant standing next to him, a man [named Ayres,] who had become something of a father figure to Jack in the trenches, was killed instantly.
At nineteen years of age, Jack believed he was dying too. He later wrote about that NDE experience with an eerie calm: “Just after I had been hit, I found — or thought I found — that I was not breathing and concluded that this was death. I felt no fear and certainly no courage. It did not seem to be an occasion for either.” No panic. No prayer. Just a young man observing himself from somewhere strangely outside the moment, taking note of the facts.
Jack survived. Stretcher-bearers carried him off the field — not far from where I stood last week. He was eventually transferred to a hospital in Bristol, England to recover. And from that hospital bed he wrote his father a tender letter: I’m alive. I’m being cared for. I miss you. “I know that you will come and see me,” he wrote. “I was never before so eager to cling to every bit of our old home life and see you… Come and see me.”
Albert wrote back promptly. He was relieved his son was alive. He assured Jack he was doing everything in his power to keep him from being sent back to the front — and as an attorney, he made good on that promise. He worked the system, he got things done.
But he did not come. He did not come to visit.
Weeks passed. Then months. After four months of requests, Jack wrote: “It is four months now since I returned from France, and my friends laughingly say that ‘my father in Ireland’ is a mythical creation.”
I feel sad and sorry for young Jack. I wish his father had found a way to visit him.
One hand. A strong hand, a caring hand. But one hand is not enough.
Jack found the second hand he needed in a mother figure. One of his army buddies, (his name was Paddy Moore), had a mother who was warm, present, and emotionally attentive.
The two young soldiers made a pact: if either of them died in battle, the survivor would care for the other’s parent. Paddy was killed in action. Jack kept his word, moved in with Mrs. Jane Moore and her daughter, Maureen, and they became the family he needed. The lighter touch. The second hand.
Illustration II — Two Hands: Bill Presnell
A more recent example — two hands of blessing, fully used.
My friend and colleague Bill Presenll died last week at 91, after a long, good, and fruitful life as a minister, therapist, and family man. He was the best to work with — a mentor, and in many ways a father figure to me.
His daughter posted a beautiful tribute this week:
“Dad was a quietly intelligent, thoughtful, steady, calm and loving force in the lives of all who knew him. He was a beloved husband, father, stepfather, brother, Grandpa, great-grandpa, uncle, minister, mentor, and counselor who touched so many lives… And now we will all strive to walk forward in his way in love, just as he taught us.”
And she named the quality at the center of all his relationships: He had an indelible gift for truly ‘seeing’ people and responding from the heart. Rest in sweet peace, Pop. We just love you to pieces.”
Both hands. The steady, firm presence of a man who showed up — and the tender gift of someone who truly saw you and responded from the heart.
Albert Lewis had one hand. Bill Presnell had two. And their children needed both.
Conclusion: Two Hands are Better than One
Listen. Most fathers fall short (including myself).
Most of us have given more of one hand than the other
— and most sons and daughters have needed more than their parents could give.
Father’s Day is complicated. Not everyone here has easy memories, and not everyone had a father who showed up.
That is real, and it belongs in this room.
But what the parable and the painting together tell us is this:
There is a Heart of Compassion at the center of the universe. A good, good Father;
- who is slow to anger, eager to forgive, and deeply compassionate
- who waits and watches the road, sees you coming from afar, and runs to meet you on the road.
- who looks into your eyes, hold your face in his hands, listens deeply, and sees you for who you truly are.
His invitation is simply to come home. To kneel and receive the blessing of both hands.
And to hear, in the silence of that embrace, the inner Voice of Love: "You are my son, you are my daughter.
With you I am well pleased."
May we hear that inner voice today, and learn to say with Henri Nouwen:
“Here, I can kneel before my Father, put my ear against his chest and listen,
without interruption, to the heartbeat of God.”—Henri Nouwen
