Going Home

As a man aches for his evening meal when all day long his brace of wine-dark oxen have dragged the bolted plowshare down a fallow field–how welcome the setting sun to him, the going home to supper, yes, though his knees buckle, struggling home at last.

Odysseus longed for home. Do I? Or am I too comfortable here, having someone to run my plow for me over soft, well tilled ground? 

Odysseus’ long hard day was drawing to a close, and despite his weakness and tiredness and temptation to just rest where he was, he knew that home was better.

I am lured by the pleasures of this culture to be content and not long for home. Don’t I have all I need? What could home offer beyond what I have here?

And that is the lie: the lie that has been told from the beginning. The lie that what hangs before my eyes, within my grasp, affords me a better life than what God has promised. I am no different than Eve or Adam, believing that shortcuts are best. Odysseus knew, however, that he belonged at home.

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