Last Saturday I was blessed to go to the Men’s Lenten Event at St. Michael Catholic Church, with our former associate Father Nathan LaLiberte presenting. Father Nathan celebrated Mass before the event, and his homily left a mark on my heart for ministering to those in need.

The gospel was the familiar Parable of the Prodigal Son (or the Forgiving Father). He opened by noting that this powerful and thought-provoking story only appears in St. Luke’s gospel. Why did a Gentile include this story when the Jewish evangelists did not? Father suggested a Jewish audience, like many rules-based Christians today, would struggle to accept the superabundant mercy of the father in the story.

Father broke the parable down something like this:

• Jesus’ desire is always to show us the heart of the Father. He is the model of the Father’s heart, and He invites (and challenges!) us to be that heart in the world today.
• The parable plays on our expectations of justice and mercy, but with an underlying and often-overlooked theme of free will.
  • The son asks his father for his inheritance now—a serious injustice. The father does not respond in anger but simply gives it to him.
  • The son spends a few days at home before leaving. The father says nothing.
  • The son leaves and squanders everything the father gave him on his passions. When he comes to his senses and returns home, again, he hears no lecture from his father—instead, he is welcomed with open arms and celebrated.

The prodigal son is free to go, free to fall and fail, and free to return home. His brother, who dutifully does everything expected of him, is also free, but doesn’t feel it. He behaves out of obligation, not love. Because he feels bound, he cannot receive the gifts of the father (“Everything I have is yours!”) and is bitter about his brother’s repentance and his father’s mercy.

Father Nathan drew a powerful parallel between the sons and the father in the parable and our own relationships. Our heavenly Father created us in His own image with free will and He does not withdraw or violate that gift. He will permit us to turn away from Him or abandon Him altogether. He will even bankroll our rebellion, permitting us to use the gifts and blessings He provides to work against Him. He does not insist that we return or force us to obey.

Why? Because the beauty and goodness of what He offers us speaks for itself. Every desire of our heart waits for us in His heart. He knows this—and we know it, too, even if we forget it for a time. As St. Augustine wrote: You have made us for yourself, O Lord, and our heart is restless until it rests in you.

God willing, we turn back to Him. But, once we reclaim our roles as beloved sons and daughters, we can sometimes forget the times we’ve strayed. When we resume the duties of discipleship, we, too, can feel obligated, judgmental, and even bitter to those who are just now turning back.

When we meet a neighbor in need, there is often a temptation to judge or attempt to fix them. We look at their situation and choices and quickly conclude what they should be doing differently. Even when we mean to be encouraging, we begin to force their hand, reducing love of neighbor to pay for performance: If you act right, we’ll pay this bill. We move from “heart of the Father” to “social service,” and they move from “beloved son or daughter” to “client.”

This is not to say we should simply give every neighbor in need exactly what they ask for whenever they demand it, but rather, that we shouldn’t be alarmed, angry, or despairing when they falter or turn away. Free will is central to their dignity as persons made in God’s image. And, if we show them the heart of the Father—so good, so true, so beautiful—it will echo in the souls of those we serve, calling them back home.