Clean and Home

We’ve just got back from a few days away in Yorkshire — a rare and much-needed break. It was lovely… mostly. There were two small moments at the end of the trip, though, that made me think more deeply than I expected.

The first was a simple frustration. My daughter Magdalena and I had a final swim in the hotel pool on the morning we were due to leave. All good, until we got back to the room and discovered that every shower in the hotel had stopped working. So we checked out and spent the whole day travelling home smelling like chlorine — that slightly sour, sticky kind of “clean” that still leaves you feeling grimy.

The second was the journey itself. We had to pick up our pets from the kennels by 6:30pm — the absolute latest they’d allow — and it was going to be tight. The satnav kept shifting its prediction: one minute we were five minutes early, the next we were 15 minutes late. That rolling uncertainty swung between hope and despair for the whole drive.

Now, I’m not pretending that a few hours in a car and a lack of shower gel is anything like the experience of exile. But as I sat at my desk the next day — clean at last, drinking coffee from my own mug, our black lab River rolling with delight in the garden — I was struck by just how powerful the feeling of being home is.

And it made me see Ezekiel 36 with fresh eyes.

A Promise to the Exiled

Ezekiel was a prophet to people who were living through something truly devastating. In the early 6th century BC, Jerusalem had fallen. The temple had been destroyed. The people of God had been dragged into exile in Babylon. Everything that gave them a sense of identity — their land, their worship, their calling — had crumbled.

Into that devastation, God speaks through Ezekiel with a word of hope. Not a glib “cheer up, it’ll be fine,” but a deep and breathtaking promise:

“I will sprinkle clean water on you, and you will be clean… I will give you a new heart and put a new spirit in you… You will be my people, and I will be your God.” (Ezekiel 36:25–28)

They’d been cast out, disoriented, spiritually broken — but here was the voice of their faithful God saying, “I haven’t given up on you.”

And not just “I’ll bring you home.” No — “I’ll make you new.”

More Than Mud and Music

But let’s be honest — the people of Israel weren’t innocent victims. Ezekiel has already spent 35 chapters detailing how they’d turned away from God time and time again. Their exile wasn’t random. It was the consequence of their own rebellion.

Think of it like someone going to Glastonbury, then moaning about how muddy it is. Well — yes. That’s kind of the deal.

And yet — God doesn’t leave them there. He doesn’t say “You made your bed, now lie in it.” He says, “I’m going to wash you clean. I’m going to bring you home. I’m going to give you a new heart.”

From Exile to Baptism

It’s hard not to see the echoes of baptism here. Especially in churches like mine, where we baptise infants — often before they’ve even learned to say our names. It’s a living picture of exactly what Ezekiel is describing.

That sprinkling of water. That claiming of identity. That new start, given before we can earn it.

Because the truth is, baptism isn’t about how much we understand. It’s about how much God promises. It’s not about how hard we strive — it’s about the sheer, undeserved mercy of the One who says, “You are mine.”

What About Now?

Most of us have been baptised. Some of us remember it, many of us don’t. But Ezekiel’s words remind us that God’s cleansing and claiming aren’t one-time events. They’re an invitation to live every day knowing we belong. To come home, again and again.

So let me ask:

• Are there words you wish you could unsay? God says, “You are clean.”

• Are there people you’ve let down? God says, “You are still mine.”

• Are there regrets that cling like chlorine to your skin? God says, “You are washed. You are loved. You are home.”

We don’t always feel it. We don’t always believe it. But grace doesn’t depend on us getting it right.

It depends on God getting us — and choosing to hold us fast.

Rolling in Joy

When we got home from Yorkshire, River ran straight into the garden and rolled around on the lawn in sheer joy. He wasn’t analysing anything. He was just home — and delighted to be there.

Maybe that’s a better picture of grace than any theologian could write: not a lecture, not a checklist, but a black lab rolling in the grass, full of joy.

Because when you know you’re clean… when you know you’re safe… when you know you belong…

Sometimes, all you can do is roll around in gratitude.