A POPULAR CONTEMPORARY chorus celebrates how God’s goodness “is running after, it’s running after me,” but, to be honest, I’m not so sure that sentiment is entirely accurate.

Don’t get me wrong; I’m not saying that God just lets us wander off without concern for our well-being. He so loves the world that He sent His only son that “whoever believes in him should not perish but have eternal life” (John 3:16). He “desires all people to be saved and to come to the knowledge of the truth” (1 Timothy 2:4).

But it seems to me that it’s important we understand the direction in which He moves. I’d suggest that God doesn’t run after us, He runs toward us. And there’s a huge difference between those two postures.

The idea that God chases after us is quite popular. People sometimes talk about the Holy Spirit as being “The Hound of Heaven,” borrowing the imagery of the relentless pursuer from Frances Thompson’s famous 19th century poem.

The notion that God is on our trail in such a way is comforting. And, yes, in the story of the lost sheep, the shepherd goes after the one that has wandered away, apparently unintentionally. But the danger is that we can be lulled into thinking that we can keep going our own way deliberately because He’s going to come after us whatever we do, as if our actions don’t matter. Well, yes and no.

Addressing the people of Athens, the apostle Paul tells them that God’s desire is that people “should seek the Lord, in the hope that they might grope for Him and find Him, though He is not far from each one of us” (Acts 17:27, NKJV). David writes in Psalm 23:6 that “surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life.” The suggestion is that it’s there and it’s available—if only we will stop, turn and acknowledge it.

However, precisely because He is love, God doesn’t force His love on anyone. In the wonderful parable of the prodigal son in Luke 15, the father doesn’t pursue his wayward child. He lets him go. He knows that the young man needs to come to the end of himself to really recognize what he is missing and what he needs.

The father waits for his son to turn around—to repent. Only then, when the son’s face is set toward him, does the father run toward him and embrace him (v. 20). This is not stand-offishness or stubbornness; it’s grace and mercy.

Discussing Thompson’s poem, the Jesuit scholar J.F.X. O’Conor (1852-1920) put it this way, “Divine grace follows after, unwearyingly follows ever after, till the soul feels its pressure forcing it to turn to Him alone in that never-ending pursuit.”

Which way are you facing?