Come Home

To you who are stuck in self-loathing, regret, guilt, and shame, the message is simple. It’s the same as it has always been:

Come home.

It’s going to be hard. The muck sticks to you, and you stick to it. You’re likely to fall back into it even as you try to climb out of it. Don’t quit. Keep crawling. Get back to the path. Crawl some more. Find some solid ground. Stumble your way home.

Again, the message is simple and the same:

Come home; come to Me.

It’s still going to be hard. There are going to be temptations, although most likely not of the pleasurable kind. All the so-called friends have deserted you. The temptation is going to be that creepy-crawly whisper in your ear:

How can you even think about going home after what you’ve done? He can’t possibly love you after all that. You should stay here. Sit down and die. You’re no good to him. Anyone else, for that matter. The conditions might not be ideal, but at least you know where you are. Forget about that repentance and forgiveness stuff. You’ve got to get clean before you can go back. You can’t show up looking like that. And the smell—whooowee. You stink to high heaven. You think God’s going to welcome you back smelling like that? Looking like some rotted, half-dead thing? Come on. Get real. He’s got better things to do than deal with you.

Yes. Get real. Remember God’s promises: if we confess our sins, he is faithful and righteous to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness (1 John 1:9, NASB). Think of that when the whisper comes.

Fight it off with more Scripture: 2 Chronicles 7:12-22. Exodus 34:5-10. The words of David:

Against You, You only, I have sinned
And done what is evil in Your sight,
So that You are justified when You speak
And blameless when You judge…

Do not cast me away from Your presence
And do not take Your Holy Spirit from me.
Restore to me the joy of my salvation
And sustain me with a willing spirit.
Then I will teach transgressors Your ways,
And sinners will be converted to You…

O Lord, open my lips,
That my mouth may declare Your praise.
For You do not delight in sacrifice, otherwise I would give it;
You are not pleased with burnt offering.
The sacrifices of God are a broken spirit;
A broken and contrite heart, O God, You will not despise. (Psalm 51, NASB)

Get real: pray for a broken heart (a rash prayer as all prayers are, says Annie Dillard in Holy the Firm, and one she can’t but recommend) when you’re in the muck and keep praying for it. Pray for a broken heart as you crawl out. Pray for it as you walk the long way home

because here’s the thing:

God isn’t waiting at home, sitting behind his desk, tallying marks and awarding gold stars to the best and brightest. He isn’t like that. He’s perfect and holy and righteous, yes, but he’s good and gracious and loving and kind, too. He’s on the porch, hand over his eyes, scanning the horizon. He’s looking for that dot—you—to appear on the horizon. He’s waiting for that familiar gait and when he sees it…

When he sees it, he takes off, jacket flapping behind him. He doesn’t wait for you to come home. His arms aren’t folded across his chest, his face a permanent glower. Oh, no, no, no. He’s already halfway across the yard, through the gate, and running down the road. His boots are untied and some part of you, when you happen to look away from your feet and up to the person rapidly approaching, wonders how he doesn’t trip and fall on his face. The thought never has time to fully form because he’s there, he’s folding you into his arms, he’s hugging you so tight that a rib or two cracks and your feet lift off the ground.

He doesn’t leave you there, either. This isn’t a grab-and-dash embrace. No. He keeps looking at you, delighting over you with singing, marveling at this person he created in his own image and who he saved from sin and death so that you could do what you were always meant and designed to do: serve and worship and enjoy him in the here and now and forever. He keeps an arm around your shoulders, walks you home, and tells you of his plans:

first, a grand party. All of your past “friends” are invited. He wants everyone to know that you’ve come home and have found life, glorious, abundant, and free life. Then, who knows? You’ve come home, and life with God is an adventure. The beautiful, overwhelming truth is that he’s invited you and me to take part in it.

So please, please come home. He’s waiting and watching for you.

Image: Anne Worner (Creative Commons)