Come Home — Mercy Is Waiting

Reflections on the Fourth Sunday of Lent (Year C)

Dear friends,

The readings this Sunday [ Joshua 5:9a, 10–12 • Psalm 34:2–3, 4–5, 6–7 • 2 Corinthians 5:17–21 • Luke 15:1–3, 11–32], all sing in harmony. They offer no judgmental tone, no tally of failures — only one resounding message:
Come home. Mercy is waiting.

Lent, contrary to popular belief, is not a season of punishment or guilt trips. It is a sacred invitation to return — not just to church or religious routines, but to the Father’s house. To come back to who we truly are: beloved children.

In the Gospel, we hear the story we’ve known since childhood — the parable often called The Prodigal Son. But maybe we should rename it The Parable of the Merciful Father. Because this story is not just about the lost younger son; it’s also about the older brother. It’s about us — you and me.

Some of us have wandered far, emotionally or spiritually. Others may have never left the “house,” but our hearts feel distant — resentful, dry, unseen. We’ve played by the rules, but somehow joy slipped through the cracks.

And yet, this is the heart of the Gospel:
“While he was still a long way off, the father ran to him.”

God runs.

He doesn’t wait for perfect words or flawless repentance. He doesn’t need you to have it all figured out. One step toward Him — just one — and He runs to embrace you. Your struggle, your prayer, your flicker of hope is enough to move His heart. He sees you.

St. Paul speaks into this moment with power:
“Whoever is in Christ is a new creation.”
Not rebranded. Not “cleaned up.” New.

God is not interested in giving you a fresh coat of paint. He wants to remake you — starting from the inside. This is what Lent is for.

And Joshua’s words remind us what happens when we finally step into God’s promises:
“The manna ceased… they ate of the produce of the land.”
Yes, God sometimes stops feeding us in old familiar ways — not because He’s left us, but because He’s calling us to maturity. To plant. To live deeply in the land of grace.

So what does all this mean for our lives — right here, right now?

It means:

• If you’ve learned to judge quickly — He invites you to welcome before judging, because He Himself eats with sinners and embraces them first.
• If someone you love is just beginning to turn back — He rejoices over the smallest step, just as He ran to a son who hadn’t even reached the front door.
• If you’re waiting for an apology — He moves first. Mercy is never calculated; it is simply given.
• If shame still lingers over someone’s name — He calls them “My son,” “My daughter,” not by what they’ve done, but by who they are.
• If someone hasn’t yet come home — He keeps the porch light on, the road clear, and His eyes scanning the horizon.
• If resentment has crept into your soul — He steps out of the party to find you, not to scold, but to say: “Everything I have is yours.”
• If joy feels foreign or fake — He still invites you to the feast. Not because life is perfect, but because love has returned.
• If you’ve forgotten who you are — He whispers it again: You are not a servant earning love. You are an heir living in it.
• If silence and distance have settled in your family or community — He entrusts you with the ministry of reconciliation, because He has already reconciled you.
• And if your memory is full of regrets — He wants to rewrite it with mercy, so that you remember not just the leaving, but also the return.

And finally — listen closely — this is the Father’s invitation to you:
Let Me love through you.

So that the world may know, through your life, your words, your embrace, that no matter how far they’ve gone, they can still come home.
The music is still playing.
The light is still on.
And the table is still set.