He Came to Himself: The Profound Beginning of Repentance
A Reflection on the Sunday of the Prodigal Son
Sunday of the Prodigal Son- (I Corinthians §135 (6:12-20) / Saint Luke §79 (15:11-32))
Beloved in Christ,
In the timeless parable of the Prodigal Son, a single, quiet phrase often goes unnoticed, yet it is the very pivot upon which the entire narrative turns. It’s not the devastating famine, nor the son’s heartfelt confession, nor even the father’s overwhelming embrace, though each of these moments is glorious and deeply moving. Instead, Saint Luke offers us this profound insight:
“And returning to himself, he said…” or, as some translations beautifully render it, “He came to himself.”
This, the Church teaches us, is where true repentance truly begins. It doesn’t start with a grand spectacle, nor with crushing self-hatred, nor even, initially, with a direct appeal to God. It begins with a person rediscovering their authentic self.
Consider a stark contrast from a previous Sunday’s Gospel: the Pharisee, who “prayed with himself.” Standing in the holy Temple, his words may have been addressed to God, but his prayer never escaped the confines of his own ego. He was physically present in a sacred space, yet utterly absent from truth. He had, in a profound sense, lost himself, even as he congratulated himself on his piety.
Today, the situation is dramatically reversed. The prodigal son is far from the Temple, far from the comforts of home, stripped of dignity, and seemingly miles from holiness. And yet, there, amidst the squalor of the pigsty, in the depths of hunger and humiliation, he “comes to himself.”
Sin as Forgetfulness
This parable unveils one of the Church’s most searching revelations: sin is not merely lawlessness; it is, at its core, forgetfulness. The prodigal son doesn’t just break rules; he forgets who he is. He forgets his loving father, the security of his home, and the true meaning of freedom. He forgets that an inheritance is not something to be seized, but a gift to be received and stewarded.
His journey “into a far country” is more than a geographical relocation; it’s a descent into a state of being where desire reigns supreme and memory fades. It’s a life where everything seems permissible, yet nothing truly satisfies. The tragedy of the prodigal is not his desire for freedom, but his tragic confusion of freedom with unchecked appetite. And appetite, left untamed, inevitably leads to famine, to a spiritual starvation that leaves one empty and degraded.
The Clarity of Remembrance
Notice what doesn’t happen when the prodigal “comes to himself.” He doesn’t instantly become virtuous, holy, or brave. Instead, he becomes clear. He remembers.
“How many hired servants in my father’s house abound with bread…”
This isn’t yet theology. It’s the stirring of memory. It’s the return of truth, a quiet realization that shatters illusion: “This is not who I am meant to be.” Repentance, in this light, begins not with self-condemnation, but with profound honesty.
This is precisely why the Church places this Gospel before us on the threshold of Great Lent. The Fast is not given to make us miserable; it is given to help us, too, “come to ourselves.” It is an invitation to clarity, to remembrance, to rediscover our true identity.
The Father’s Refusal of Despair
The son meticulously prepares his confession. It is sincere, yet tragically incomplete: “I am no longer worthy to be called thy son; make me as one of thy hired servants.” He rightly confesses his sin, but he draws a flawed conclusion. He believes repentance must culminate in reduction, in a diminished status.
But the Father will not allow it. Before the son can even finish his plea, the Father interrupts, not with argument, but with overwhelming action. A robe, a ring, shoes, a feast. God accepts repentance, but He utterly refuses despair. He forgives more fully, more lavishly, than we could ever dare to ask.
Here, the echo of the Publican from last Sunday returns: he was justified not because he despised himself, but because he spoke the truth. The Pharisee was condemned not for his obedience, but for his refusal to truly see himself and his need for grace.
The Body That Returns
Saint Paul deepens this mystery: “The body is for the Lord, and the Lord for the body.” The prodigal’s fall was bodily: his hunger, his degradation. And his return is equally bodily. He rises, he walks, he comes home. The Father doesn’t save him from his body; He restores him to it. Grace does not erase our embodiment; it redeems it.
This is why fasting holds such significance. It is not punishment or payment, but remembrance. Through the discipline of the body, we teach it again what the soul has forgotten, bringing our whole being back into alignment with our true identity.
For Us, Here, Now
Beloved, the Church is merciful, and therefore honest. She doesn’t first ask if our sins are great or small. She asks something simpler, yet far more challenging:
Have you come to yourself? Do you remember who you are? Do you remember whose you are? Do you remember where home is?
The true tragedy is not that we fall, but that we remain lost in distraction, resentment, or self-justification. The Father is already watching the road, yearning for our return. The only question that remains is whether we will rise and walk towards Him.
Conclusion
Great Lent does not begin with a list of rules; it begins with remembrance. The Fast does not teach us how to earn mercy; it teaches us how to live after being remembered by God. Today, the Church does not command us, “Go and be better.” Instead, she tenderly calls, “Come home.”
May we, like the prodigal, come to ourselves. And may we find, before we even reach the door, that the Father is already running toward us.
8 February 2026