Sitting in the Adoration Chapel recently, my eyes were continually drawn to a print of The Return of the Prodigal Son, by Rembrandt. There is much to contemplate within the scene, but on that particular day it was the prodigal himself I returned to again and again. Broken, dirty, battered, he’d been shamed and brought low. And yet there is yielding peace in his very bones as he accepts his father’s embrace. He has surrendered. He knows who he is and where he belongs. Every line of his body, the very profile of his face is eloquent with that acceptance. He makes no excuses for his tattered clothing, the hole in his shoe, his bare head. Rather, he is open, and receives his father’s healing touch, his father’s blessing. The beauty of this parable is that we see fragments of ourselves in each of the characters: the father who hopes, trusts, and forgives; the faithful son who questions the justice of the rebellious son’s welcome – and perhaps to some extent also questions his