There's something deeply comforting about the image of an immovable rock. In a world that feels increasingly unstable, where circumstances shift like sand beneath our feet, we long for something solid, something that won't change when everything else does.

The ancient people of Israel knew this longing intimately. From their earliest days as a nation, God revealed himself to them as exactly this kind of foundation. He wasn't just another deity in a pantheon of temperamental gods who needed appeasing. He was the Creator of the sun and moon, not merely a sun god or moon god. He was the one who spoke the universe into existence and then declared, "I am the first and I am the last."

The psalmists captured this reality beautifully: "The Lord is my rock and my fortress, my deliverer, my God, my rock in whom I take refuge, my shield, the horn of my salvation, my stronghold." Another psalm declares that "those who trust in the Lord are like Mount Zion, which cannot be moved, but abides forever."

This is the God we serve: an immovable rock, a mighty fortress, a sure foundation in an uncertain world. He can be trusted. He will not fail. He cannot be shaken.

The Uncomfortable Question

But this raises an uncomfortable question: If God is this unchanging, immovable foundation, why do we so often find ourselves adrift at sea, with no land in sight? How do we end up on such uneven, unreliable ground when this is the God who exists?

The answer is both simple and difficult to accept: God hasn't moved. We have.

We humans have a tendency to wander. Sometimes we drift away through willful rebellion, knowing exactly what we should do but choosing otherwise. Sometimes we're led astray by bad leadership or simply by never having been taught how to live well. Jesus looked at the crowds following him and saw them as "harassed and helpless, like sheep without a shepherd."

Great loss can derail us. Disappointment can color our entire worldview. Abuse can leave wounds that lead us down paths we never intended to walk. We chase after things that promise to fill us up (the next relationship, the next achievement, the next purchase, the next experience) only to find ourselves emptier than before.

The entire sad history of the human race is humanity trying to be happy apart from God. We keep taking lefts and rights, making decisions based on what looks good to us in the moment, deciding for ourselves what's right and wrong. And then one day we wake up and wonder, "How did I get here?"

Isaiah 53:6 captures this universal human condition: "All we like sheep have gone astray; we have turned—everyone—to his own way."

The Heart of God

So, what is God's response when we find ourselves lost?

Jesus told three interconnected stories in Luke 15 that reveal the heart of God toward the lost. A shepherd has a hundred sheep, but when one wanders off, he leaves the ninety-nine and searches until he finds it. When he does, he doesn't scold it or make it walk home on its own wounded legs. He "lays it on his shoulders, rejoicing."

A woman loses one of her ten silver coins and sweeps her entire house until she finds it, then calls her friends and neighbors to celebrate.

But what about those that have really screwed up? I mean really screwed up. Or those who have been really hurt? Keep reading and Luke 15 and there's the story of the prodigal son.

A young man demands his inheritance early (essentially wishing his father dead), squanders it in reckless living, and ends up feeding pigs, in the Jewish mind that’s about as low as a person could fall. One day, he has an idea. He knows that the servants he grew up with are far better off than he is. He knows he isn’t a son anymore, but maybe, just maybe, his dad would hire him on. He rehearses his speech on the long trip back: "Father, I have sinned against heaven and before you. I am no longer worthy to be called your son. Treat me as one of your hired servants."

"But while he was still a long way off, his father saw him and felt compassion, and ran and embraced him and kissed him."

The father doesn't wait for the son to arrive. He doesn't make him complete his speech of repentance. He doesn't put him on probation. He runs—the immovable God runs—and wraps his arms around his broken, filthy, wayward child. Then he throws a party.

What God Is Really Like

This is what God is like. The great I Am, the immovable rock, the mighty fortress—his heart moves for the broken ones who return. He is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit.

When Jesus encountered people who were wounded and lost, he didn't stand at a distance and shout instructions. In John 11, we read that when Jesus saw Mary and Martha weeping over their brother Lazarus's death, "Jesus wept." The God of the universe weeps when he sees us struggling and hurting.

The promise of Scripture is full restoration for those who return. The prodigal son didn't become a servant, he was crowned with the best robe, given a ring for his finger, and celebrated as a son. Not because he earned it, but because of who the Father is.

The Question of Timing

There's one challenge we often face with God's promises: we love them, but we don't always love his timing.

Before Jesus raised Lazarus from the dead, he received word that his friend was sick. The text tells us, "Now Jesus loved Martha and her sister and Lazarus. So, when he heard that Lazarus was ill, he stayed two days longer in the place where he was."

Wait…what? He loved them, so he stayed away?

Jesus waited because what he was going to do was so miraculous it would change lives for centuries. His love for them didn't mean they wouldn't suffer; it meant that death would not have the final say. The tears and pain weren't punishment, they were part of a process that would result in something far more glorious than anyone could have imagined.

Coming Home

If you're feeling lost today, here's the invitation: return and listen. Take your hurts, your wounds, your confusion to God. Trust his timing even when you don't understand it. Weep in his direction rather than running from him.

The most important thing about you isn't the worst thing you've ever done. It's not the worst thing that's ever been done to you. The most important thing about you is what God says about you, that you are his child, and when you turn toward him, he runs to meet you.

Stand on the firm foundation of who God is. He is with you. He has plenty of time to bring healing. And he promises that what he has begun, he will finish. Even the darkest moments of your life can be transformed into something that, when viewed from eternity, you'll see as gifts of God somehow.

There's a day coming when every tear will be wiped away, when everything will be made new. Until then, we have this rock to stand on, this Father who runs toward his children, this God who carries wounded sheep home on his shoulders.

You're not too far gone. You're not too broken. The Father is watching, and he's ready to run.