March 15, 2026 Reflection

There is something about the word home that goes straight to the heart.

For some of us, home is a place, maybe a house tucked under the watchful presence of Mount Seymour, where the mountains hold us like a protective embrace. For others, home is a memory, a kitchen table, a shoreline walk along Burrard Inlet, the sound of rain on cedar.

And for some… “home” is complicated.

Home can carry warmth and comfort, but it can also carry grief. Some homes hold stories of belonging. Others hold memories of conflict, distance, or absence. Sometimes home is not where we started, but where we slowly learn to rest again.

In our Lenten series, The Way, we have been walking as pilgrims. Pilgrimage is not tourism. It is not a scenic hike with good snacks and a selfie at the summit. Though it can be that as well.

Pilgrimage is a journey that changes you. It takes you somewhere inward.

It asks questions like: Where am I headed? What have I lost along the way? And what might it mean to come home again?

Today we come to The Way Home.

Psalm 25 is the prayer of a pilgrim: “Make me to know your ways, O Lord; teach me your paths.”

It is not the prayer of someone who has everything figured out. It is the prayer of someone who has gotten lost before. It is the prayer of someone who has had moments in life when the road suddenly forks and they are not quite sure which path to take. Moments when the map they thought they were following no longer seems to match the terrain.

Someone who has taken a few wrong turns and now has the humility to say, “Show me the way.”

And then Jesus tells us a story about someone who did more than get lost, he deliberately walked away.

We know this parable well, the so-called Prodigal Son. Though perhaps it should be called The Extravagant Father. Or maybe even The Elder Brother Who Needs Therapy.

The younger son takes his inheritance early. In first-century culture, that’s essentially saying to his father, “I wish you were dead.” He cashes out, heads off, and lives wildly, until the money runs out and the famine begins. He ends up feeding pigs.

For Jesus’ listeners, that detail would have landed hard. It’s not just financial ruin. It’s spiritual, cultural, relational collapse.

And then comes the turning point: “He came to himself.”

I love that phrase. He didn’t just come home. He came to himself.

Pilgrimage sometimes takes us far from home so that we can remember who we actually are.

Sometimes the journey away reveals what truly matters. Sometimes distance clarifies things we couldn’t see when we were standing right in the middle of them. Sometimes we wander into places that feel empty before we recognize the deeper hunger underneath, the hunger for belonging, for forgiveness, for love that does not disappear when we mess up.

A friend once told me a story about their teenage son who had stormed out of the house after a big argument. Words were said that couldn’t easily be unsaid. The door slammed, and he disappeared for hours. His parents tried to give him space, but as evening fell they began quietly checking the street, looking down the block every few minutes.

Finally, late that night, they saw him walking slowly back toward the house. Not storming now. Just… tired.

The father didn’t stand in the doorway waiting for an apology. He walked out to the sidewalk and simply said, “Hey… you must be hungry.”

And that was enough.

Sometimes the way home doesn’t begin with perfect words. Sometimes it begins with someone who is still watching the road.

—

Now, before we get too smug about the younger son, let’s remember the elder brother. He never left geographically. He stayed home. He followed the rules. He did the work.

But his heart? His heart was just as far away. Home is not only about location. It’s about relationship.

We can live in North Vancouver, under the most breathtaking mountain views in the world, walk the trails, sip our ethically sourced coffee… and still feel spiritually homeless.

We can attend church faithfully and still feel like we are on the outside of grace.

We can even serve others, volunteer, advocate, march for justice, and still secretly believe that love has to be earned.

The elder brother’s struggle is not rebellion. It’s resentment. It’s the quiet voice that says, “I’ve done everything right. Why does someone else get grace so easily?” And if we are honest, most of us recognize that voice at least a little.

And the father goes out to him too.

That’s the part we often forget.

The father runs to the rebellious son.

And he walks out to the resentful one.

The Way Home is wide enough for both.

We are living in a time when “home” feels fragile in many places. In Ukraine, families still long for homes free from bombardment. In Gaza and Israel, generations ache for safety and belonging. In Sudan, millions have been displaced. And in Iran, where war and uncertainty have spread across the region, ordinary families long for peace and the chance to live without fear. The longing for home is not abstract. It is urgent. It is embodied.

Even here, in a region as beautiful and prosperous as ours, housing insecurity rises. Young adults wonder if they will ever afford to live near where they grew up. Parents wonder if their children will have to move far away just to build a life. Families juggle impossible rents and mortgages. And many people quietly carry the ache of displacement, not because of war, but because of economics, rising costs, and the slow reshaping of our communities.

Climate anxiety shadows our stunning coastline and forests.

And we gather on lands that have been home for thousands of years to the Tsleil-Waututh Nation. For many Indigenous communities, “home” includes both deep belonging and deep wounds, displacement, broken promises, and ongoing injustice.

When we talk about The Way Home, we must remember that home is both gift and responsibility.

The most shocking part of Jesus’ story is not that the son comes home. It’s that the father runs.

In that culture, dignified patriarchs did not run. They certainly did not hike up their robes and sprint down the road.

But love makes a fool of dignity.

The father sees the son “while he was still far off.” Which suggests he had been watching.

Waiting.

Hoping.

Perhaps standing at the edge of the property day after day, scanning the horizon, wondering if today might be the day.

The son rehearses his speech: “I am no longer worthy…” And the father interrupts him with embrace.

Not probation.

Not a repayment plan.

Not a guilt trip.

Not “let’s review your life choices.”

Just robe.        Ring.            Sandals.           Feast.

This is the spiritual home we are invited into. Not a home where our past is erased. But a home where our past is held within steadfast love. Psalm 25 says, “Do not remember the sins of my youth… according to your steadfast love remember me.” That is what the father does. He remembers the son according to love.

So what does this mean for us?

As pilgrims in Lent, perhaps the question is not: “Have we wandered?” Of course we have.

The deeper question is: “Do we trust the welcome?”

Some of us struggle to believe that God’s grace is really that extravagant. We suspect there must be fine print. But Jesus tells this story to people who believed grace had conditions. And he says: the Way Home is mercy. I sometimes imagine the elder brother muttering, “Honestly, Dad, we can’t just throw a party every time someone has a midlife crisis.” And maybe some of us sympathize. Because fairness matters to many of us. But grace is not fair. Grace is generous. Grace is the father embarrassing himself in public because love matters more than reputation. Which is both deeply comforting and mildly unsettling. Because if grace is that generous for others… it must also be that generous for us. Even when we would prefer to earn it.

What might it look like for Mount Seymour United Church to live as people who trust the welcome? It might mean being the kind of community where someone can say, “I’m not sure I believe anymore,” and we don’t panic. It might mean walking alongside our Indigenous neighbours as they seek healing and protection for the waters of Burrard Inlet, not as saviours, but as guests and partners. It might mean holding space for those who feel spiritually far away, politically weary, climate-anxious, grief-soaked, or simply tired.

It might also mean remembering that church is one of the rare places where people from very different walks of life still gather in the same room. Different generations. Different politics. Different experiences of faith. And learning to sit at the same table anyway. Because that is what the feast in Jesus’ story looks like, a table wide enough for the wandering and the rule-following, the joyful and the skeptical, the hopeful and the tired.

And it might also mean noticing the smaller ways people come home every week. When someone walks through our doors after years away from church. When someone dares to share a grief they’ve been carrying quietly. When someone who felt invisible suddenly feels seen. Those are holy homecomings too.

And perhaps this week the invitation is personal. Where in your life might God be whispering, “Come home”? Maybe it means returning to a conversation that needs healing. Maybe it means letting go of the voice inside that says you have to prove your worth. Maybe it means remembering that you are already beloved. Maybe it means extending grace to someone else who is stumbling their way back.

The way home is not a straight line. Pilgrimage rarely is. Sometimes The Way Home includes detours. Sometimes it includes hard truth, “coming to ourselves.” Sometimes it includes swallowing pride.

But always… always, it begins with a God who sees us while we are still far off.

This Lent, perhaps the invitation is simple: Come home. Not to a building. Not to nostalgia. Not to an idealized version of who you used to be.

Come home to the Loving Parent whose mercy is older than your mistakes. Come home to the One who does not remember you according to your worst chapter. Come home to the feast.

And when we do, when we dare to trust that kind of welcome, we become people who throw open doors for others. Pilgrims who know the way. People who can say to a hurting world: “There is a home for you here. And you don’t have to earn your seat at the table.”

Thanks be to God. Amen.