The Fourth Sunday of Lent has just smiled at us.
There was rejoicing. Perhaps rose-coloured vestments. A prodigal son welcomed home. A father running with what can only be described as undignified enthusiasm. Music. Mercy. A feast.
And then comes Monday.
The balloons — metaphorically speaking — have drifted toward the ceiling. The cake has been eaten. The liturgical joy lingers faintly in the air like incense that refuses to leave politely.
But Monday has arrived with its emails.
This, I suspect, is one of the most honest days in the Lenten calendar.
Because while Sunday proclaimed that grace throws a party, Monday reminds us that grace also washes the dishes.
The story of the prodigal son is breathtaking in its generosity. The father runs. The robe is placed. The ring is given. The feast is declared without requiring a probationary period or a brief seminar on “Responsible Sonship.”
It is magnificent.
But the younger son still wakes up the next morning.
And one cannot help but wonder what that felt like.
Did he wake early, slightly disoriented, unsure whether the celebration had been real? Did he quietly step outside to see whether the robe was still his? Did he half-expect someone to clear their throat and mention repayment terms?
Grace on Sunday is glorious.
Grace on Monday is steadier.
Monday after the Fourth Sunday of Lent asks a quieter question: Do you believe the mercy proclaimed yesterday still holds today?
We are strangely comfortable with momentary grace. We struggle with sustained grace.
We understand the emotional swell of forgiveness. We are less certain how to inhabit it long term. We tend to assume that at some point, God will become more measured, more cautious, more… administrative.
But the father in the parable does not hold a follow-up meeting.
The robe remains. The ring remains. The relationship remains.
Lent has been teaching us repentance, patience, forgiveness, thirst, and endurance. The Fourth Sunday reminded us that all of it rests on mercy.
Monday asks whether we trust that mercy in ordinary light.
There is something profoundly comforting in this: grace is not seasonal. It does not expire with the liturgical colour change. It does not evaporate when the music fades.
It stands.
Perhaps this Monday is less about striving and more about receiving. Less about proving and more about dwelling. Less about dramatic return and more about learning to live as someone already welcomed home.
Which, if we are honest, may require more humility than the repentance did.
Because repentance feels active.
Being loved feels exposed.
And so, on this quiet Monday, the invitation is simple: stay.
Stay in the house. Stay at the table. Stay in the mercy you did not earn.
The feast may not be visible today.
But the Father is no less glad you are here.
Companion Prayer
Gracious Father,
When the music fades
and the ordinary day returns,
help us trust that your mercy remains.
Keep us from slipping back
into fear or self-doubt.
Teach us to live as those
already welcomed home.
Let your grace steady us
in the light of Monday,
and remind us
that your love does not expire.
Amen.