What Brought Me Here?


 

 

You’ve probably heard the story in the Bible about the prodigal son, in Luke’s gospel (Chapter 15 if you want to read it). It tells the story of a young man who leaves home, gets involved in a pretty desperate lifestyle and, on the verge of despair, comes back home to his father’s house. It’s also the story of a father who longs for his child to come home.

 

It’s a parable, which basically means it’s a story about each and every one of us, and how we have drifted off from a loving father.

 

It happened to me.

 

Twice.

 

Before you start thinking only the desperate become Christians, I have to say that when I came to faith in Jesus, in the mid-eighties, I was on the crest of a wave. I’d just started university, living away from home, loving life, doing well in my studies. I was ticking along quite nicely, thank you very much.

 

I’d grown up with Christian parents, the odd church visit on special occasions, sometimes going to the youth club at the local church. Then one year, back home for the holidays, I went to a Christmas service. I don’t remember much about it, except for the most important bit. At the end of the service the minister asked anyone who wanted to make Jesus their saviour, to put their hand up.

 

At which point my heart started pounding. I started weeping. Something was warming me inside, and almost before I knew it, my hand was up.

 

But really, deep down, I knew exactly what I was doing. The whole thing suddenly made absolute, total sense to me.

 

It wasn’t a state of despair (although Jesus can and does speak words of love to others who are at that awful low). It wasn’t through manipulation. There was no heavenly music, promises of health and wealth, no threats.

 

I just knew it made absolute sense to say “yes, Jesus, forgive me, be Lord of my life”.

 

And God, the father who was longing for his child to come home, came running to meet me.

 

It was only a few years later, with typical ingratitude, that I wandered off again, living in Europe where I was teaching English. About 15 years later I returned to the UK, in a job I wanted to enjoy but couldn’t, for various reasons. A colleague invited me to visit her church one Sunday. I went along, more out of boredom than intent.

 

And what did I find?

 

The same God the Father, rushing toward me with open arms. I was forgiven. Again. I was welcomed. Again. I was embraced. Again. Twice I was received without a word of rebuke.

 

That sense of homecoming, that warm embrace, the knowledge that you are beloved of God – it can be yours right now.

 

Just head home.

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