God Never Tires of Forgiving Us
The words that rearranged my life — and the parable that proves them true.
Dear friends —
Letters from Leo is publishing daily Lenten reflections through Easter, available exclusively to paid subscribers.
Each meditation will explore what it means to follow Jesus more faithfully in the midst of American civic and political life — not as partisans first, but as Christians whose consciences are shaped by the Cross.
Lent is a season of repentance, renewal, and resolve.
It is a time to confront our idols, strip away our illusions, and allow the light of God’s redeeming love to search and purify our hearts.
I hope you will walk this forty-day road with me — as your brother and fellow sinner — embracing prayer, sacrifice, and deeper conversion, and allowing the God of liberation to claim every corner of our lives and our public witness in an age of creeping authoritarianism.
“Who is there like you, the God who removes guilt and pardons sin for the remnant of his inheritance; who does not persist in anger forever, but delights rather in clemency, and will again have compassion on us, treading underfoot our guilt? You will cast into the depths of the sea all our sins.” (Micah 7:18–19)
My biggest self-delusion is that I can earn love.
I rehearse my apologies. I draft my plans for self-improvement. I calculate what it will take to deserve love again — what penance, what performance, what proof of change. I turn repentance into a project, complete with timelines and deliverables, because that is the only language modern society has ever taught me.
Today’s readings demolish every word of it.
The younger son in Luke’s Gospel has his speech memorized.
He has practiced it on the long walk home from the pig troughs — “I am no longer worthy to be called your son. Treat me as one of your hired workers.”
It is a reasonable speech. A measured speech. The speech of a man who knows he has burned through his inheritance and understands the transactional math of forgiveness.
But the father never lets him finish.
He sees his son while he is still a long way off. He runs. He throws his arms around him. He calls for the robe, the ring, the feast. Not because the son has earned it. Not because the speech was convincing.
But because the father has been watching the road every single day, waiting for this moment, refusing to stop hoping.
On March 17, 2013 — his first Sunday as pope — Francis stepped to the window overlooking St. Peter’s Square and spoke words that rearranged my life: “God never tires of forgiving us. It is we who tire of asking for forgiveness.”
I was twenty-four years old. It was one of the most memorable moments of my Christian journey. I took those words not as a homily to admire but as a compass to follow.
They taught me that the pathway to growth in my faith — and dare I say toward holiness — was not a good lecture, not a smack on the wrist, not another self-improvement plan. It was befriending the mercy of God.
God never tires of forgiving us. That sentence became the motto of my Christian life.
And today’s readings are proof I chose wisely.
