We have reached another milestone of the pandemic, having existed in this new reality for a year, living with continued watchfulness, trying to assess the risks, plan for the future, and stay safe. In actuality, we can scarcely attempt any of these. The risks are yet unknown and ever changing. The future, dependent on the risks, remains uncertain and resists planning. “Staying safe” looks different depending on the day, the crowd, the location, the health of each individual. It changes constantly.

From an eternal omniscient perspective, we’ve simply been relieved of our false sense of control. The future and our plans were never promised to us. God’s presence and enduring, unconditional love is the promise. I’m still startled to think that in my constant anxiety, that doesn’t feel like enough, when it is more than any of us could ever ask for.

This week in Lent focuses on the Prodigal Son, one of the more famous parables in the Gospels, though it appears only in Luke. Retold and shared, the enduring appeal of the story has not been lost through the centuries. The father in the story welcomes his wayward son that squandered his inheritance and has returned to beg for work as a servant in his former home. The father’s love and embrace is completely unexpected and incredulous, so much so that his older, dutiful son refuses to rejoice in his younger brother’s return. The story ends with the father pleading for embittered older son to come and celebrate with his family, leaving us to speculate whether he decides to let go of his anger and join them.

Thousands of sermons have been preached about this story, and there are many nuances to the plot. Here in March of 2021, as we return to the beginnings of the pandemic and take stock of what has been gained and lost, one theme struck me as particularly critical: the radical, unconditional love of the father.

Over the past twelve months, bereft and angry people stood in judgement of one another, oftentimes with good reason. Issues of inequity, economic instability, housing and homelessness, and racial injustice all sharpened in the midst of our ongoing health crisis, and the constant jeopardy we face has affected different populations and communities disproportionately. Adults called each other names, got into physical fights and in some instances people were killed for trying to enforce mask ordinances in place to help stem the spread of a deadly virus.

The love that should define the Christian faith was absent in narratives we read in articles and saw in clips. Unconditional love that is willing to forgive any transgression is a unique element of Christianity. It offended many of the faithful scholars and rabbis in Christ’s time, and because it was and is so contrary to human nature, Jesus made God’s unfailing, unyielding, ever present love the focus of many of his parables. It reads as a refrain throughout the Gospels, and then echoes throughout the rest of the New Testament.

But most days, we don’t love one another. We certainly don’t want to show love to the people who make us angry, who work against us, who cause us or other people pain. Who hurt the people we love. Who are careless with life and don’t show consideration for the vulnerable. They don’t deserve our love. And yet, God the Father says they do.

We are asked not just to love God, and to accept that he loves all people, without reservation. We are asked to love each other as God loves us, to demonstrate that love to each and every person that we come across in our days, from the person checking out our groceries at the store to the neighbors that pound signs into their lawns that we disagree with.

The moment in the parable that changes everything, that is so shocking, is the overwhelming embrace of the father welcoming the son home. He doesn’t shame or ask questions or chastise; he loves with abandon. So many people expect to find disappointment, judgement and derision from the people they meet, especially from Christians. This has been exacerbated in the pandemic, where many of us are struggling in ways we have not before. To extend kindness, understanding, and this radical, unanticipated love changes not only others, but us as well.

Despite our exhaustion, God still asks us to give and show love in abundance. To squander love on even those we least care for and have no time for. To write back to emails and texts, to smile and offer kind words to strangers in stores and on the street, never knowing if it will be the only love they receive that day or that week. We may never know whether our small acts of love buoy someone in desperate need, or, as has been described in narratives before, even save their life.

To be asked to give so much love, so graciously, seems impossible when we are tired and overwhelmed. Overall, I wake up with a feeling of dread and lack, when God assures us again and again that he will provide for us abundantly. But this is where Christ meets us. He promises us that he will sustain us, and give us strength, that we will walk and not grow faint.

This is where we rise up and find our renewal, a transformation from the heavy burdens of grief and anxiousness to peace and even joy as we embrace what we were created for: to love, and to be loved.