December 10, 2024
Rev. Dr. Garrett J. Andrew

This Sunday, as part of our Advent celebration at my church, we’ll be reflecting on the theme of exile and return—the journey of being far from home and finding our way back. It’s a story as old as Scripture. The Israelites knew exile, driven from Jerusalem into Babylon. They sang songs of sorrow by foreign rivers, wondering if they’d ever sing songs of joy again. But exile isn’t just a place on a map. It’s a place in the heart. Exile is more than being far from home—it’s being far from peace, from belonging, from the person you thought you’d be.

I know exile. Maybe you do too. It doesn’t always look like being driven out of a city or a country. Sometimes, it’s the slow drift away from yourself. Sometimes, it’s the slow drift into a bottle. I’m a recovering alcoholic. I don’t say that lightly, and I don’t say it to sound profound. I say it because I know what it’s like to exile myself from my own life. I know what it’s like to sit in the middle of everything I once called “home” and feel like a stranger. I know what it’s like to be so ashamed that you think you can never come back.

I also know what it’s like to return. Not suddenly, not all at once, but one day, one step, one act of courage at a time. I know what it’s like to face the rubble of my own mistakes and think, “This doesn’t look like home.” I know what it’s like to try and rebuild something I didn’t think could be rebuilt. When I think about the Israelites returning to Jerusalem after years in Babylon, I imagine what it felt like to see the walls of the city lying in pieces. To walk into the ruins and think, “This is it? This is where we’re supposed to start again?” But they did. They started again. That’s how return works. It’s never as simple as walking through the door. It’s walking into the ruins and deciding to stay and rebuild.

I think of the Prodigal Son too. He left home with so much confidence, only to find himself in a far-off country feeding pigs, starving for something real. He came back rehearsing a speech about how unworthy he was. He was ready to earn his place as a servant, not a son. But when his father saw him, he didn’t wait. He didn’t stand on the porch, arms crossed, waiting for an explanation. No, he ran. Imagine that for a second—a grown man running, sandals slapping against the dirt, arms outstretched, his breath coming in short bursts from the sheer effort. He ran. And when he reached his son, he didn’t ask him to explain himself. He just said, “Put a robe on him. Get him shoes. Get the ring. My son is home.”

That’s how God receives us. Not with shame, but with joy. Not with judgment, but with restoration. But here’s something that’s often missed: the Prodigal Son had to decide to come home. No one dragged him there. He had to rise from the dust and take that first step toward home. His father ran toward him, yes, but only because the son started walking.

This is what I know about return: It always starts before you’re ready. It always feels too early, too messy, too uncertain. But you start anyway. You start even if you’re still ashamed. You start even if you’re still afraid. Because exile will make you think it’s safer to stay put, but return tells you to come as you are. The only thing you need to bring with you is yourself.

This is Advent, isn’t it? The world is still in ruins. Our hearts still ache. The path home is still uncertain. But Advent isn’t just about waiting for something outside us to change—it’s about waiting for something inside us to come home. It’s about walking toward the one who’s already walking toward us. It’s about turning back from exile, knowing full well that the journey home will not be easy, but it will be worth it.

And here’s the joy of it all: We don’t return alone. The God who seeks the lost sheep is the same God who runs down the road to meet the Prodigal Son and the same God who walks with the exiles on their way back to Jerusalem. This is the God who calls us, not to a perfect homecoming, but to a joyful one. A God who sees the rubble and says, “This will be rebuilt.” A God who sees the elder brother’s bitterness and says, “Come inside.” A God who meets us wherever we are, even if we’re still on the road—even if that road is only within ourselves.

This is the heart of joy. Joy doesn’t mean everything is fixed. It doesn’t mean the city is perfect, the homecoming seamless, or that the sheep never wanders again. It means joy is possible even in the ruins. Even before the work is finished. Even before we feel fully at home. Joy is the song that rings out when we realize we’re not walking alone.

So maybe today, wherever you are, trust that the exile you’re in isn’t the end of the story. Maybe today, take the first trembling step toward home. You don’t have to know exactly where it’s going. You don’t have to feel ready. Just move. Maybe the ruins aren’t a sign that things have failed. Maybe they’re the first stones of something new.

Joy doesn’t always wait for everything to be right. It sings in the middle of it all. It sings for you. And the song, if you listen closely, sounds like “welcome home.”

With joy,
Garrett