Each season in the liturgical calendar brings with it a quiet summons – a call to reflect, to decide, and to grow. Lent, in a particular way, awakens what we might call a holy nostalgia. The word nostalgia comes from two Greek words: nostos, meaning “return home,” and algos, meaning “pain.” Nostalgia is the pain of wanting to go back home. Yet Lent is not a sentimental longing for the past; it is a longing to return to our true origin and identity. It is the ache of the heart that knows it belongs elsewhere.
Returning is never easy. It involves honesty, change, and sometimes discomfort. The clearest image of this return is the parable of the Prodigal Son (Lk 15). Pope Leo XIV reminded us in one of his first general audiences (21 May 2025) that this parable “throws before me a word that provokes me and prompts me to question myself.” The story is not merely about a young man long ago – it is about us. In De vera religione (39, 72), Augustine of Hippo writes: “Noli foras ire, in te ipsum redi” – do not go outside yourself; return within. For Augustine, the true drama of conversion is not geographical but interior. Truth dwells in the inner person. His own Confessions recount his long outward wandering – chasing success, pleasure, and recognition – until he discovered that the real journey was inward. The human heart searches widely, but it finds rest only when it returns.
The Prodigal Son: A Journey Back
In the Gospel story, a young man leaves his father’s house in search of freedom. He wants independence. He wants to live his own way. For a time, everything feels exciting. But the money runs out. A famine strikes. He finds himself alone, feeding pigs, hungry and ashamed. The outer famine reflects his inner famine. Then comes the turning point: “He came to himself.” The Douay-Rheims translation renders it beautifully “returning to himself.” The prodigal son had not only left his father; he had lost himself. Sin had scattered him. In leaving his father, he had stepped away from his own identity, because he is introduced simply as a son. He has no name apart from that relationship. When he breaks that bond, he becomes empty.
His conversion unfolds step by step, as Shane Owens writes in his article, “Back to the heart: Reading the parable of the prodigal son with St. Augustine”. First, reintegration – he gathers himself: “when he came to himself.” Then repentance – “I have sinned against heaven and before you.” Then an honest admission of need – “How many of my father’s hired hands have bread enough and to spare, but here I am dying of hunger!” He recognizes both his poverty and his dependence. St. Augustine describes this inward return with powerful words: “God is most intimately present to the human heart, yet the heart has strayed. Return to your heart…and hold fast to him who made you.” The return is not merely a change of direction; it is a return to the heart.
This return is not purely human effort. The prodigal remembers his father’s goodness. Memory awakens hope. Even in a distant land, he is drawn by love. Augustine insisted that the first step toward God is already touched by grace. The Father’s love calls before the son even begins his journey. Lent begins in that same moment – when we “come to our senses.” We notice the famine within. We recognize that success, pleasure, or recognition have not satisfied the heart. Lent invites us to gather ourselves and walk back toward the One who has never stopped calling.
Lessons from Achilles and Odysseus
The ancient world also understood this longing for home. In Homer’s Odyssey (Book 11), Achilles, once the great warrior of the Iliad, speaks from the world of the dead. Though he had chosen a short life filled with glory over a long and quiet one, he now says he would rather be alive as a poor servant than reign as king among the dead. The hero who once sought greatness now recognizes the surpassing value of simple life. That realization carries the ache of nostalgia – the painful awareness that what seemed ordinary was in fact precious.
Odysseus offers another image. After years of danger and wandering, his deepest desire is not glory but home. He longs for stability, for his household, for ordinary life restored. After storms and spectacle, the heart yearns for peace. A similar insight appears in Voltaire’s novel Candide (1759). After endless misadventures and upheavals, the story concludes with the simple resolution: “We must cultivate our garden.” Happiness is not found in chasing grandeur or endless excitement, but in tending what is near, nurturing daily responsibilities, and embracing ordinary faithfulness. Lent teaches the same wisdom: attend to what truly matters.
The Practical Road Home
From what, then, are we returning during Lent? We return from noise to silence. From distraction to attention. From pride to humility. From living on the surface to living with depth. Like the Prodigal Son, we admit that the path we chose did not lead where we expected. So how do we return? The steps of return are practical:
- Fasting clears space. When we give up something – food, alcohol, social media, comforts – we discover what controls us and what truly matters.
- Silence helps us listen. A few quiet minutes each day can awaken the heart.
- Simplicity teaches us to value ordinary moments -eating attentively, speaking kindly, being present.
- Reconciliation is central. The Prodigal Son expects rejection; instead, his father runs to meet him. Returning to God is not walking toward punishment but toward mercy.
- Charity marks the way home. Visiting the lonely, helping the needy, serving without seeking praise – these actions move us from self-centred isolation back into relationship.
Lent reminds us that life itself is precious. Often, we understand this only in moments of illness or loss. But we need not wait for tragedy. Simply being alive is a gift – breathing, seeing, loving, thinking. Achilles realized too late that simple life was greater than fame. The Prodigal Son discovered that home was greater than freedom without love. Lent asks us not to delay this realization. Do not ignore the beauty of ordinary days. Do not wait until everything collapses to return. The greatest joy is not glory. The greatest joy is to live and to return home while there is still time.
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Fr. M. Titus Mohan, a priest of the Diocese of Kuzhithurai in South India, has authored more than 50 books and is currently pursuing doctoral studies in Moral Theology in Milan.