NOV 30 | Keep the Porch Light On: The Advent Message Hidden in the Prodigal Son Story
Do you leave a light on when someone you love is coming home late?
It's such a simple act—flipping a switch, leaving the porch illuminated against the darkness. But in that small gesture lies something profound: expectation. Hope. The quiet declaration that someone is worth waiting for.
The father in Jesus' famous prodigal son parable didn't just leave a light on. He left everything on. And understanding what that means might completely change how you experience this Advent season.
The Detail Everyone Misses in Luke 15:20
Most of us know the prodigal son story by heart. Rebellious younger son demands his inheritance (essentially wishing his father dead), squanders everything on wild living, ends up feeding pigs, and finally comes crawling home. It's the classic tale of repentance and forgiveness.
But here's what most of us miss entirely.
Luke 15:20 says: "But while he was still a long way off, his father saw him and was filled with compassion for him; he ran to his son, threw his arms around him and kissed him."
Did you catch it? "While he was still a long way off, his father saw him."
Which means the father was looking.
Not just that day. Not just that hour. The father had been watching the road. Day after day after day, that old man positioned himself where he could see the horizon. He was scanning every distant figure, squinting against the sun, hoping that today—maybe today—that silhouette would be his boy.
The porch light wasn't just on. The father was standing in the doorway.
Why the Father's Running Changes Everything
In first-century Jewish culture, wealthy patriarchs didn't run. Ever.
This wasn't about physical ability or age. It was about dignity. Running required hiking up your robes and exposing your legs—completely beneath a man of status. A respected elder walked. Slowly. Deliberately. He let people come to him.
But the Greek word Luke uses here is dramōn—he ran. Not walked quickly. Not strolled out to meet his son. This dignified old man sprinted down a dusty road, robes flying, legs exposed, completely abandoning every social expectation placed upon him.
Why?
Because his son was coming home. And nothing—not propriety, not dignity, not what the neighbors might think—was going to slow him down.
This Is Actually an Advent Story
I know what you're thinking. The prodigal son during Advent? We're supposed to be reading about angels and shepherds and a baby in a manger.
But stay with me here.
Advent means "coming." The entire season centers on waiting. Watching. Anticipating someone's arrival. For four weeks, Christians around the world light candles that represent hope, peace, joy, and love—each one marking time until Christmas morning.
That's exactly what the father was doing. Not passively hoping his son might return someday. Actively waiting. Eyes on the horizon. Heart positioned toward homecoming.
And that's precisely what God does in the Christmas story.
When God Came Running
Think about what Christmas actually claims. God didn't sit back in heaven, arms crossed, waiting for humanity to get its act together and climb up to Him. God didn't demand that we clean ourselves up first, prove we were worthy, pass some cosmic entrance exam.
No.
God saw us—a long way off, covered in pig slop and bad decisions—and came running. Put on flesh. Entered the mess. Became small and vulnerable and human.
Emmanuel. God with us.
The incarnation is the ultimate undignified act. The Creator of the universe, squeezed into a peasant woman's womb, born in an animal shelter, laid in a feeding trough. There's nothing proper about it. Nothing dignified by first-century standards or twenty-first-century standards.
But that's what love does. Love runs. Love doesn't wait for the perfect moment or the clean-up job. Love sees us from a long way off and sprints toward us anyway.
The Part of the Story That Confronts Us
Here's where this parable gets uncomfortable.
Jesus didn't tell this story to notorious sinners. He told it to religious people. Pharisees. Scribes. People who had their theology straight and their behavior in order. People who knew exactly who deserved God's welcome and who didn't.
And He was essentially saying: "You want to know what the Father is like? He's the guy scanning the horizon for the kid who blew it. He's the one leaving the light on. He's the one willing to look foolish because someone He loves might be coming home."
The parable has a second son, remember? The older brother who stayed home, worked hard, followed all the rules. And when his wayward sibling returns, this dutiful son refuses to join the celebration. He's angry. Resentful. He's been keeping score, and this party doesn't match his math.
"All these years I've been slaving for you," he tells his father. "Yet you never gave me even a young goat to celebrate with my friends."
The older brother has the theology right. He has the behavior right. But he has the heart completely wrong.
Do We Have the Porch Light On?
I think the church has gotten pretty good at the theological part of Christmas. We know the virgin birth. We can explain the hypostatic union. We've got our doctrine lined up in neat rows.
But do we have the porch light on?
Are we positioned toward homecoming? Are we watching the road for the people who've wandered off—the ones who left the church, who left the faith, who made choices we wouldn't have made?
Are we ready to run?
Or are we more like the older brother? Standing inside with our arms crossed, keeping track of who deserves a party and who doesn't?
The hope of Advent isn't just that Jesus came. It's that He came to people who were "still a long way off." And He invites us—no, He commands us—to do the same.
What "Prodigal-Ready Hospitality" Actually Looks Like
The word "prodigal" actually means "recklessly extravagant." We typically apply it to the son's wasteful spending. But really, the most prodigal character in the story is the father. His love is recklessly extravagant. His welcome is completely over-the-top.
Prodigal-ready hospitality means becoming that kind of person.
It means keeping your heart soft toward people who've hurt you. It means refusing to write anyone off as "too far gone." It means being willing to look foolish—to run when walking would be more dignified—because someone might be ready to come home.
This isn't about being naive or ignoring boundaries. The father in the story let his son leave. He didn't chase him down or manipulate him into staying. He honored his son's choices, even the terrible ones.
But he never stopped watching the road.
A Challenge for This Advent Season
So here's my question for you this Advent: Who are you watching the road for?
Maybe it's a family member who's walked away from faith. Maybe it's a friend who's been burned by church and wants nothing to do with Christianity. Maybe it's that coworker everyone else has written off. Maybe it's the neighbor you've been avoiding because conversations with them get complicated.
Or maybe—just maybe—you're the one who wandered off. And you need to know that someone is watching the road for you.
Here's what I want to challenge you to do this week. Keep your porch light on.
Not literally (although, you know, that's nice too if you're expecting visitors). But spiritually. Position your heart toward welcome. Reach out to someone who might think nobody's waiting for them anymore.
Send a text that says "I've been thinking about you."
Extend an invitation to Christmas dinner, even if they'll probably say no.
Pray for someone by name—someone specific, someone who seems far from God—every day between now and Christmas.
Because that's what the Father does. That's what Jesus did when He came at Christmas. And that's what Advent invites us to become: people who keep the light on. People who watch the road. People who are ready to run.
The Hope That Changes Everything
Advent is a season of hope. But hope isn't passive. Hope doesn't just sit around wishing things were different.
Biblical hope watches the road. It positions itself toward the future it believes is coming. It lights the candles one by one—hope, peace, joy, love—not because everything is already okay, but because Someone is on His way.
Two thousand years ago, a handful of faithful people watched and waited. Simeon and Anna in the temple. The Magi following a star. Shepherds keeping watch over their flocks by night. They were porch-light people. Road-watchers. Ready-runners.
And when the moment finally came—when God showed up in the most unexpected, undignified way possible—they didn't miss it. They were paying attention.
This Advent, the invitation is the same.
Keep the porch light on, friend.
Someone's coming home.
Reflection Questions for Further Study
Who in your life has "wandered off"? How might God be inviting you to keep the porch light on for them?
Have you ever felt like the prodigal son—far from home, wondering if you're still welcome? What does it mean to you that the Father was watching the road?
In what ways might you be acting more like the older brother than the father? What would need to change?
How does seeing the incarnation as God "running toward us" change your understanding of Christmas?
What's one practical step you can take this week to position your heart toward welcome?
An Invitation to go Deeper….
If today’s message spoke to you, join the FaithLabz 30-Day Prayer Challenge and strengthen your connection with God’s unshakable love. You are never alone—let’s grow together!
