Perhaps when they prayed “forgive us our sins,” they remembered the story of the Prodigal Son, stumbling stinking up the road with his fistful of mixed motives and that flimsy apology tucked in his back pocket: “Father, I have sinned . . .” But before he could deliver it, he was hugged by the father, handed the credit card, welcomed home. It wasn’t the speech. It was never the speech. It was only ever that he had come.[5]
