This is a story of three brothers. It begins with the Miserere: “Miserere mei, Deus, secundum misericordiam tuam“(Ps. 51) – Have mercy on me, O God, according to thy steadfast love.
The Miserere brings us to “a profound meditation on guilt and grace.” Jewish tradition puts these words on the lips of David, after the prophet Nathan reproached him for his adultery with Bathsheba and the death of Uriah. David seeks refuge and healing in God, the only one who can put things right.
Sin can seem attractive because it promises freedom from God so that we can truly be ourselves. But this apparent liberation is a mirage that soon turns into a burden. The autonomous man, who tries to silence his conscience, evetually reaches a dead end. “He has had enough of the usual explanations. The lies of the false prophets no longer satisfy,” said St. Josemaria Escriva. This is the beginning of conversion.
Conversion is not always as quick as King David’s. The blindness that precedes and accompanies sin, and that grows with each sin, can be prolonged. We can deceive ourselves by justifying our actions; we tell ourselves “it’s not that important”. To recognize the sin would mean losing certain “freedoms.” We are all exposed to this risk. We see the ugliness of sin in others, but we do not condemn our own.
The darkness of sin and lukewarmness involves a deliberate blindness. This is what needs God’s forgiveness. Jesus sees sin like that when he said from the Cross: Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do. When we separate ourselves from God we both “know” and “do not know” what we are doing. Our Lord takes pity on both things, and also on the deep sadness produced in our soul.
“Christ’s mercy is not a grace that comes cheap, nor does it imply the trivialization of evil,” wrote Pope Benedict XVI. “Christ carries the full weight of evil and all its destructive force in his body and in his soul. He burns and transforms evil in suffering, in the fire of his suffering love.”
The first conversion, and what follow, come from realizing that in some sense we are homeless. And so we meet Son #1. The prodigal son “longs for the fresh baked bread that the servants in his house eat for breakfast. Homesickness is a powerful emotion. Like mercy, it expands the soul.

The prodigal son realizes he is away from his own home. And he comes to see that the place he thought was an obstacle for his full personal development is in fact the home he should never have abandoned.
But those living in the father’s house, too, may not have their hearts there. Thus we meet Son #2. The older brother never left home, but his heart was elsewhere. “This people … honor me with their lips while their hearts are far from me.”
Son #2 “never says ‘father,’ never says ‘brother,’ and thinks only about himself. He boasts of having always remained at his father’s side and of serving him; yet he never lived this with joy. And now he accuses the father of never having given him so much as a kid to feast on. The poor father! Son #1 went away, and Son #2 was never close to him! The suffering of the father is like the suffering of God when we distance ourselves from him, because we go far away or because we are nearby without being close.
In this Gospel scene, we see not only the tenderness of the father but also the hard-heartedness of Son #2. “Whenever our interior life becomes caught up in its own interests and concerns, there is no longer room for others … God’s voice is no longer heard, the quiet joy of his love is no longer felt, and the desire to do good fades,” wrote Pope Francis.
The father tries to soften the heart of his elder son. With the fortitude of a father and the tenderness of a mother, he chides him: My son, you should rejoice. What’s going on in your heart? The elder son needs mercy too.
“Tibi, tibi soli peccavi et malum coram te feci – Against thee, thee only, have I sinned, and done that which is evil in thy sight.” This nostalgia stems from a wounded relationship. We have distanced ourselves from God and left him alone, and we have left ourselves alone.
Then comes Son #3: Jesus, is the one who, though he was in the form of God, did not count equality with God a thing to be grasped, but emptied himself, taking the form of a servant. Jesus is the arms and heart of the Father: he welcomed the prodigal son and washed his dirty feet; he prepared the banquet for the feast of forgiveness.
“Cor mundum crea in me, Deus – Create in me a clean heart, O God.” Psalm 51 speaks again and again about cleansing our heart. The repentant sinner is ready to do anything to get his heart cured. “Redde mihi laetitiam salutaris tui – Restore to me the joy of your salvation.” When we look at things in this light, confession is not something a cold and routine, bureaucratic process.
A person who rejoices is thankful for being forgiven. And then penance is seen as something much more than just a dry process to restore justice. Penance is a demand of the heart that feels the need to back up its words “I have sinned, Lord, I have sinned,” with deeds. A broken and contrite heart realizes it must walk the path of returning to God, which does not always happen in a day. Since it is love that has to be restored in order to acquire new maturity, love itself is the cure. Penance, then, is the love that leads us to accept suffering – joyfully, without giving ourselves too much importance, “without doing strange things,” wrote St. Josemaria Escriva – in reparation for all that we have caused God and others to suffer.
(Q.C. 230226)



