Because all it really is, is coming home.

Because that prodigal-son thing, I’ve done it a thousand times. Maybe more.

I’m tired. His way, always uphill, seems hard. I just don’t want it today. Sure, I still want His stuff. His blessings. His provision. All the goodies. So I demand all that, tight-fisted, but stomp off out of the house, in my heart.

I do my own thing. 

I’m not off with prostitutes, but I’m certainly giving my affections to another. I’m not drunk with alcohol, but I turn to earthly comforts, pleasures …

fillers.

Fillers are those things–it doesn’t matter what–that we stick in spaces or meals or schedules, to fill out the emptiness. They have no real substance, we just need to fill some space so they’ll do.

That’s all the prodigal did — go seek fillers instead of The Filler.

And I do that too. I get tired of the Father’s House, under His eye, living bowed, submitted, surrendered. My own way just seems so much easier.

But the truth is, it’s hard.

Sure, it’s hard to live in the Father’s House. Carrying crosses and giving away life and embracing the upside down craziness of His upside down Kingdom.

But life outside the Father’s House is much, much harder.

So we must choose our hard. The hard way of the cross, or easier way of the world that’s infinitely harder in the end.

And so, like the prodigal, I come to my senses. He in a pigpen, tempted by the slop. I in my own pigsty, tempted by pale pleasures of self-pity, ego, indulgence.

His words become mine: “What am I doing?!”

He shakes his head, rises from the mud … 

… returns home.

Because that’s all that repentance really is. 

It’s just coming home.

And as he shuffles home, reciting his “I blew it” speech, the Father sees Him from afar …

… and runs.

And I wonder when the prodigal stopped shuffling and started running. Because if my father is running to me, then why not run to Him? If He shows no hesitation in His embrace then why should I in mine?

Repentance has a bad rap. We picture self-flagellation. We picture the wagging finger. We picture shame. But the real picture should be:

Coming home.

That’s all. That’s all it is. When we repent for the first time and for the thousand times after. Because that prodigal-son thing, I’ve done it a thousand times. Maybe more. And that tweaked, messed-up view of repentance keeps me in the pigsty. 

It keeps me from coming home.

So, from now on, the picture is firmly fixed in my mind. A thousand times I fail. His mercy remains. And when repentance is in order, I will refuse the self-flagellation, the wagging finger, and the shame. And I’ll just get up from the mud …

… and come home.

He runs to meet me.

{From one prodigal to another, as we pray all the other prodigals too. Thanks for reading.}

*Originally published Aug. 2013