Ezekiel 18:25–28; Psalm 25:4–9; Philippians 2:1–11; Matthew 21:28–32

A man in prison once told me that one of the first things you learn in here is how many meanings the words “I’m good” can have. Somebody asks, “How you doing?” “I’m good.” Your family calls: “Are you okay?” “I’m good.” Meanwhile, you slept two hours, you miss your kids, your lawyer has not called, somebody got on your last nerve before breakfast, and you have absolutely no idea what your future looks like. But apparently the official answer is still: “I’m good.” Sometimes we wear those words like armor because we do not want everybody knowing what hurts.

Jesus tells us about two sons today. Their father asks them to go work in the vineyard. The first basically says, “No. Not happening.” Not exactly Son of the Year. The second says, “Yes, sir. Absolutely.” Now there is the answer every parent wants to hear. There is only one problem: he never goes. The first son thinks about it, changes his mind, gets up, and goes. And hidden inside that simple story is one of the most hopeful things Jesus ever tells us: you can start badly and not stay where you started.

Some of you know something about starting badly. Maybe one decision changed everything. Maybe it was a hundred decisions. Maybe there are things you wish you could undo, people you wish you had never hurt, years you wish you could get back. In here, it is easy to become identified by the worst thing you have done. There is a charge, a case number, a sentence, a record. Other people may look at that and decide they know who you are. The real danger begins when you decide they are right.

God does not look at you that way. Ezekiel says that if someone turns away from wrongdoing and begins doing what is right, he shall live. God is not pretending yesterday did not happen. Neither should we. People may have been hurt. Trust may have been broken. Some consequences cannot simply disappear. But here is the difference between God and despair: despair says your past has already decided your future. God says, “Get up. We are not finished yet.”

Then Paul tells us what that new direction looks like. Look at Jesus. He does not spend His life proving how important He is. He empties Himself. He serves. He obeys. He loves. That kind of humility is not weakness. In fact, sometimes it takes more strength to say, “I was wrong,” than to win another argument. More strength to apologize without adding “but.” More strength to walk away than to prove you could have won the fight. More strength to forgive than to carry hatred for another ten years. Sometimes the strongest man in the room is the one who no longer needs everyone else to know he is strong.

And this is where that little phrase “I’m good” matters. You do not owe everybody your story. You do not have to tell everyone what hurts. But please do not pretend with God. Tell Him the truth. “I miss my children.” “I am angry.” “I am ashamed.” “I am scared about what happens next.” “I do not know whether my family will trust me again.” “I do not even know whether I trust myself.” God is not frightened by any of that. He would rather meet the real you in a prison cell than a fake version of you anywhere else.

So remember the first son. He started in the wrong direction. Then something changed inside him, and eventually his feet followed. Maybe you cannot change the road that brought you here. None of us gets to walk backward into yesterday. But you are not chained to the direction you were traveling. Today your feet can point somewhere different. Today you can tell the truth. Today you can forgive somebody. Today you can call your child and say what you should have said years ago. Today you can pray again. Today you can take one step toward the man God always knew you could become.

And the next time somebody asks, “How you doing?” maybe you will still say, “I’m good.” That is okay. But I hope somewhere inside you will hear something deeper: I am not where I want to be yet. I cannot undo where I have been. But God is still walking with me, and today my feet are pointed toward home.

PRAYER
Lord Jesus, you know every road that brought these men here, every regret they carry, every person they miss, every fear they rarely speak aloud, and every hope they are almost afraid to have.
Do not let any man here believe that his worst day is his whole story.
Give strength to the one who is tired, hope to the one who cannot see beyond these walls, peace to the one waiting for news, healing to families carrying wounds of their own, and courage to anyone who needs to begin again.
Teach us that repentance is not living forever with our eyes on yesterday. It is turning our feet toward You today.
And when we cannot see very far ahead, Lord, walk with us anyway. One day at a time. One honest prayer at a time.One better decision at a time. One step at a time.
Until, by Your grace, our feet finally lead us home.
Amen.