So, this summer we have been making our way through Saint Paul’s letter to the church in Rome. This powerful epistle is foundational to our confession of faith and gives shape to our understanding of how the Gospel plays out in our daily life. Last Sunday, we engaged with Paul’s heartfelt confession that he does not even understand his own actions: The good things he wants to do he does not do, and the evil things he knows he should not do are the very things he keeps on doing. We see, in Paul, our own reality, our own struggle to live as the children of God. How often have you felt shame or been riddled with regret because of your thoughts, words, and deeds? How many times have you resolved to be better, to rededicate yourself so this time you will not slide back into old habits, only to find yourself mired in them once again?
When we struggle, when we try and fail over and again to be what we want to be, we can find ourselves at a point where we do not really understand who we are. Since you usually do not tell anyone else about your trials, you suffer alone. Locked in the worries of your life, you search for escape or something that might give it purpose and meaning. You see it in the faces of fathers who fear for their children and the future of their household. They bury themselves in their work, in a constant march forward, just hoping they are doing the right thing, unsure of their purpose. You experience it in the endless doom scroll of social media, or you turn to video games or pornography as a way to find some temporary relief from life’s uncertainty. As we look within for our purpose and identity, we often get lost and consumed in our own confusing actions. What do you really want? What are your hopes and dreams? Do you even know?
Into this reality, Paul introduces us to the language of adoption. It is a way to understand ourselves in the struggle of life, a way to comprehend our place before the Creator of Heaven and Earth. I have always been impressed by those who choose to adopt. It is such a powerful act of love and compassion. It is a willing choice to include someone in your family. It is a beautiful combination of the legal system and familial love. The orphan finds a home, and the family embraces them as one of their own. The love is real and life changing.
When I was younger, I can recall several times when I was hanging out with some friends, and one of them mentioned they were adopted, and the rest of us were shocked. Not that they were adopted, but that there did not seem to be any difference between their relationship with their parents and ours. I still get choked up when I hear about a stepdad going through the work to adopt their stepchild. It does not change the love, of course, but it does something profound, nonetheless.
To be adopted is to have a place of belonging. So, Paul says, “For all who are led by the Spirit of God are sons of God. For you did not receive the spirit of slavery to fall back into fear, but you have received the Spirit of adoption as sons, by whom we cry, ‘Abba! Father!’” This means you are no longer spiritual orphans working your way through this life. You belong to God. You are part of His family. This is your identity. It is the foundation of your purpose and gives shape to the meaning of your life. You are not alone. You are not abandoned to your own thoughts, words, and deeds. No, you belong to your God. You are loved by Him, forgiven by Him, and included in His family.
The struggle we all face is found in trusting this promise, trusting that you are adopted. And this struggle is no small thing. For as you engage in the hardships of life, as you fight the battle within yourself, as you confess with Saint Paul that, at times, you do not even understand your own actions, you begin to forget the family to whom you belong.
A few years back, I remember meeting with a lady who was really struggling with her faith. She was stuck in an inward, downward spiral, rethinking and reimagining her life choices and actions. She was struggling, racked by anxiety and fear. She was wondering if, perhaps, by confessing some things that weighed heavily on her heart, she might find some peace and contentment. Of course, we did just that. She received our Lord’s absolution, and then we sat and talked for a bit. And in the course of the conversation, it became clear that the heart of her troubles was not her regret over past sins but her hesitation to trust Christ’s promises. She had convinced herself that her adoption was not sure, that she needed to do something to earn it, to be worthy of it. To use Paul’s language, she is falling back into fear, into a spirit of slavery.
The remedy for this is not found by an inward search or by your own effort. The solution is found within the family of God. It is the place where you belong, where you are fed and nourished, where you are washed and named as the children of God. Here, over and again, your adoption is proclaimed in the waters of holy baptism, in the receiving of our Lord’s body and blood for the forgiveness of your sins, in the singing of His praises, and in the confession of our faith. Here, it is declared that you are children of God, and if children, then heirs, heirs of God and fellow heirs with Christ.
I have learned something about this place over the years. This building holds powerful memories, memories of good times and bad, of immense joy and tearful sorrow. Often, when we have a funeral here, I have noticed a fairly typical pattern that develops. The church pews fill with loved ones and friends of the recently departed. There is, of course, a somberness and reverence to the whole event. But there are usually moments of laughter and joy as well when we thank God for His gifts and long for the fulfillment of His promises. Then, everyone leaves, usually over to the fellowship hall to share some stories and find strength in our common grief. But often, when I come back into the sanctuary to change out of my robes, I find one person sitting quietly in a pew away from everyone else. It is usually a son or daughter. Sometimes, I will sit and talk with them. Sometimes, I will just put my hand on them to let them know they are not alone. But what they are always doing, in hushed tones, is praying.
It is, I think, what Paul summarizes by simply saying that we cry, “Abba! Father!” It is the battle cry of our faith. In the midst of grief, uncertainty, and longing for meaning and purpose, we call upon our Father. Sometimes it is shouted from the rooftops, sometimes it is screamed into our pillows at night, and sometimes it is spoken quietly in a church pew. You have a Father who has given you His Spirit, so you might call upon Him. And you are not alone. For in the battle cry, you are reminded that you are part of a family, part of this family.
