If someone ever asks you what it means to be a Christian, you can tell them that it means nothing less than having been adopted into God’s family.  And, as part of his family, privileged to call the God of all creation, “Abba!  Father,” your “Dear Father.”  If you don’t have a father you can call on, who do you call on when you need a father?  Do we ever get so old that we don’t need a dad? 

Some years ago, on Father’s Day, I was sitting in the same coffee house I did very early nearly every Sunday morning.  Back then, when I got something out of living a little closer to the edge, I wrote my sermons on Sunday mornings; a little caffeine didn’t hurt.  A waitress who often waited on me came to my table and, as she started pouring my coffee, asked me if I’d talked to my father yet that day and wished him a happy Father’s Day.  Over time, my heart had gone out to this young woman.  There was some sadness not far beneath the surface; her face had aged far beyond her years.  In some way or another, life had been particularly difficult for her.  I told her that I had, in fact, called my dad that morning and asked her if she’d done the same.  Her face grew instantly sullen as she said, “I haven’t talked to my father in years.”  She finished pouring my coffee and walked away.  If I were ever asked to draw a picture of what “lost” looks like, I’d draw her face.

Father’s Day for some is a glorious day.  But, just like Mother’s Day can be a painful day for those who lost their moms along the way, for some, Father’s Day can be a day full of pain and sadness, too.  Sometimes that’s because they’ve already lost their dads.  Sometimes, that because, even though they had a biological father, they never had anyone to call “dad.”  If your father broke your heart, there’s a good chance it’s never been more broken.  Some of my dearest friends have that kind of broken heart.  And, even though they’ve gone on to be very successful in one way or another, when the subject changes to dad, they look a little lost.  How lost are you if you don’t have a father?  What does that feel like?

Jesus encouraged us to pray to “‘Our Father in heaven (Matthew 6:9).’”  When he was facing the greatest challenge of his life, he began his prayer with these words, “‘My Father (Matthew 26:39).’”  But, if your image of fatherhood was painfully distorted because of the experience you had with your earthly family experience, how must it feel to think of praying to your father in heaven?  And, when you pray, who do you pray to?

I write my sermons to music.  All kinds.  I’m a little bit country, a little bit rock and roll.  Sometimes a little bit classic, especially baroque, sometimes old time gospel or stained glass busting contemporary.  Sometimes a little Blue Grass, especially Iris Dement, whatever it takes to stir the sludge at the bottom of my soul, where, oddly enough, when I dip my quill to write, I do some of my more honest work.  I even enjoy a little 80’s rock now and then.  It’s surprising, the spiritual bent even in songs sung by secular artists.  Like the 80’s band, Styx.  I doubt that Styx intended to further the cause of God’s kingdom with their music.  But, listen anyway to these words from their, Show Me The Way. 

Every night I say a prayer
in the hope’s that there’s a heaven. 
But, every day I’m more confused
as the saints turn into sinners. 
All the heroes and legends I knew as a child
have fallen to idols of clay. 
And I feel this empty place inside
so afraid that I’ve lost my faith. 

Show me the way!  Show me the way! 
Take me tonight to the river
and wash my illusions away. 
Please, show me the way! 

And as I slowly drift to sleep
for a moment dreams are sacred. 
I close my eyes and know there’s peace

in a world so filled with hatred. 
Then I wake up each morning
and turn on the news
and find we’ve so far to go. 
And, I keep on hoping for a sign
so afraid I just won’t know. 

Show me the way!  Show me the way! 
Bring me tonight to the mountain
and take my confusion away. 
And, show me the way. 

And, if I see your light,
should I believe? 
Tell me, how will I know? 
Show me the way!  Show me the way! 

Take me tonight to the river
and wash my illusions away. 
Show me the way!  Show me the way! 
Give me the strength and the courage
to believe that I’ll get there someday. 

And, please show me the way! 
Every night I say a prayer
in the hope that there’s a heaven.

Sounds like a prayer, doesn’t it?  Who’s he praying to?  If that were your prayer, who would you be praying to?  If all the heroes and legends in your life have fallen to idols of clay, who do you pray to?  When you feel lost, when you’re afraid you’re losing your faith, losing your way, who do you pray to?  Who do you talk to about your confusion and fear?

Christians may not have answers to all of life’s mysteries.  We don’t get a pass on pain and suffering, intellectual confusion, emotional depression or spiritual dryness.  But, we do have the unique privilege of knowing the God of all creation as our father, someone close enough to call on, to cry to, any time, any day, anywhere.  And, with that, the assurance that we are fear’s slaves no more.

Every Christian I’ve ever known well enough to talk with about anything of significance has talked about the unique experience of having some kind of on-going conversation with God, knowing that wherever they were or what was happening, their heavenly father, was very close they could talk to about anything.  Little children first coming to faith have spoken of it.  Like Hannah Parham telling of having a conversation with God one day on the trampoline when he told her that it was time to trust him and get baptized.  And, people in crisis.  Like the other day when my car hydroplaned on Interstate 20.  While I did that thirty second 360 degree two-step across four lanes of traffic, you better believe I had a conversation with someone I couldn’t see but who I know was in the front seat with me.  And, all the way across the spectrum of life’s time to those oldest among us.  Maybe lying in the hospital bed and knowing that, when everyone has left for the night, there’s still someone in the room with them.  “Abba!  Father!”  And, they are fear’s slaves no more.

Slaves no more, for one thing, to the fear of our weaker side.  “Debtors, not to the flesh, to live according to the flesh.”  That part of us that keeps dragging us down, calling us to dark, fearful places that we know are filled with death.  We don't owe that part of ourselves anything.  We don’t have to go there anymore, ever again.  We can live on that “higher ground” the old gospel hymn celebrates.  We don’t have to stay where we know we’re going to die, we can choose to lean toward life and hope. 

Like Aron Ralston, the 27-year-old mountain climber who was stranded alone in the Utah Rockies when an 800-pound boulder shifted and pinned his arm.  He tried everything to get loose.  By day three he was out of water and by day five he knew he was going to die if he didn’t get free.  So, he took out his dull pocket knife and severed his arm beneath the elbow, rappelled sixty feet and then walked five miles before being rescued.  Is there anything pinning you down, killing you, keeping you from living?  What would you be willing to do to get loose?  Would you at least be willing to cry, “Abba!  Father!” if you knew someone was listening?

For those who cry to him, God will be that someone.  “Abba!  Father!”  Show me the way.  That is one prayer God will absolutely answer.  All the other prayers of your life may seem to have fallen into something like a bottomless pit at Carlsbad Caverns.  But, this is the promise of God.  “When you search for me, you will find me; if you seek me with all your heart, I will let you find me (Jeremiah 29:13-14a).”  Someway, somehow, somewhere, someday, he will show you the way. 

Without doubt, that is the most significant gift my earthly father gave me, the gift of faith in God’s eternal plan, the ability to see life from an eternal perspective.  (Note:  Earlier, I had publicly thanked my father, who was present, for two things:  for teaching me, as a man of science himself, that how the world was created was not as significant as who created it and also for not letting me put the bumper sticker on his car that read, “In case of rapture, this car will be abandoned.”)  For two years in high school my father helped me throw my paper route every morning at 4:30 and then led me in a time of Bible study and prayer before school.  Mom taught me how to feel, very deeply, in that place where music touches me.  Dad, in those early morning quiet times, taught me more about how to think, especially about God, than any other teacher I ever had.  Where I’d be today without that gift I don’t care to imagine. 

Most of the world has lived for generations with what Americans are just now learning, that the greatest weapon terrorists have in their arsenal is fear.  What must it feel like if you’re job is in downtown Tel Aviv and the only way to work is on a public bus?  Terrorists don’t have to actually set off a bomb, just keep alive the fear that they might.  From a purely human perspective, we have reason to be afraid.  Nuclear weapons are made of plutonium.  Though it’s only existed on the planet for some 50 years, there are now some 500 metric tons of plutonium in the world.  It only takes eight kilograms of plutonium, a grapefruit-sized ball, to make a nuclear weapon (Martin Schram, Avoiding Armageddon, Basic Books, 2003, p. 34).  Eventually, some terrorist is going to finally get his grapefruit together.  We have logical reason to be afraid.  Yet, on faith’s other hand, if the God of all creation is our Father and he has promised us his eternal inheritance, do we have to be slaves of fear, trapped by it, pinned down to die?

Those whose Father is the God of all creation know that, when the will is finally read, whatever Jesus the son of God gets, we get in equal portion.  We are slaves no more to the fear of what might ultimately happen to us.  We are God’s “children . . . heirs of God and joint heirs with Christ.”  Nothing in all of creation will separate us from God’s ultimate purpose for us in Christ (Romans 8).  The last line of this world’s history will not be written by some terrorist who pulls a nuclear trigger.  The God who breathed all of creation into existence will nurture it to his redemptive conclusion.  Knowing that, believing that, we are fear’s slaves no more. 

Of all the things I’ve learned in my recent life, what I have learned about not having to be afraid represents by far the single greatest measure of growth I’ve ever experienced in my life.  I have a father who has made me a promise.  The same God who makes the sun rise in the morning, who keeps the moon just exactly the right distance from the earth so that the tides rise and fall, who brings the rain and the changes of season from fall to winter and then spring again, over and over and, most of all, the same God who one day shoved back the stone that had Jesus’ pinned in the grave and awoke him from the sleep of death to live forever, that same God, well, he’s my dad.  He has adopted me into his family.  He chose me, gave me a name and a place at his table.  The God of all eternity, of all that ever has been or ever will be, he’s my dad. 

Is he yours?