The homecoming

Long have I waited for your coming home,
and living deeply our new life.

Tonight my church (St Wilfrid's, Preston) held a special service of reconciliation to mark the beginning of Advent. There was singing; a reflection on the blessings brought by forgiveness, read by one of the priests; and silent prayer before Jesus, truly present for us on the altar in the humble guise of bread. Throughout the evening there was the chance to go to Confession.

Confession is practised by Christians in the Roman Catholic and Eastern Orthodox tradition. Sometimes it confuses Christians from other churches, who mistakenly think that Catholics are trusting in a priest to forgive their sins rather than God. In reality, God is the one granting the forgiveness. He is the author; the priest is just the pen. God understands human needs very well - that same desire for tangible reassurance, for His self given in nourishing bread, for His forgiveness spoken in a human voice, is answered in the Incarnation. But there are times when I don't want to face up to those needs, and tonight was one of them.

I've been doing something wrong over the past couple of months. Repeatedly. And I'd been trying - and almost succeeding - to persuade myself that it wasn't bad. It didn't feel like a sin, and I couldn't understand the rationale behind its prohibition. But secretly I knew very well that sins don't cause pain and difficulty immediately. If they didn't provide enjoyment at the time, who would bother with them? It's even easier to go against your conscience and your better nature when the sin's filthy core is fleshed out with fruit that looks ripe, rich, good. In spite of this deeper knowledge, I couldn't feel sorry. I went on trying to excuse myself.

But out of respect for my religious tradition and trust in my God, which I've never quite managed to suffocate, I prayed to want to repent. Sometimes that's as close as I can get to actual contrition. I asked Jesus to take this prayer and to do what He could with it. As a result, I found myself walking into the side-chapel this evening and making my confession.

The quiet and gentle old priest said nothing about the content of my confession, even though it's a custom to give advice. For my penance, he asked me to pray for all the people who were attending the Advent service. And that was when the feeling of liberation and sheer joy hit me like a lightning bolt, transfixing me, rooting me to the floor. Repentence, I saw, means returning to your rightful place in a community - your family, your college, your workplace, your church, the Kingdom of Heaven itself. Only it's impossible to savour the joy of homecoming when you're still standing outside the gate. The youngest son in Jesus' parable, returning home to his father's farm after squandering all the money, had a dreary and fearful expectation: he would be fed, lodged, and put to work as a servant. Instead, the father ran out to welcome him when he was still a long way off, ordered a banquet to be served, and celebrated the return of his son with feasting and dancing. This is what God is to us. We take one step towards Him, and He runs to us.

But sometimes it feels so much easier and less nerve-wracking to remain on the outside looking in - even though in our heart of hearts we want to push open the gate and be able to say, "I'm home."

The priest giving the sermon tonight said, "Forgiveness is peace. Forgiveness is gratitude. Forgiveness is generosity. Forgiveness is love." This characterises the nature of the homecoming. Peace is God's first gift, and it inspires gratitude in us. This gives birth to the kind of generosity that wants to reach out to everyone and include them all in our new life, which is perfect love.

Long have I waited for your coming home,
and living deeply our new life.