Coming Home
But when the time arrived that was set by
God the Father, God sent his Son, born among us of a woman, born under the
conditions of the law so that he might redeem those of us who have been
kidnapped by the law. Thus we have been set free to experience our rightful
heritage. You can tell for sure that you are now fully adopted as his own
children because God sent the Spirit of his Son into our lives crying out,
“Papa! Father!” Doesn’t that privilege of intimate conversation with God make
it plain that you are not a slave, but a child? And if you are a child, you’re
also an heir, with complete access to the inheritance. (Gal. 4:4-7)
Search the faces
of the local Haitian children’s home for a little girl named Angelique. Study
the fifty-seven dark-skinned, bright-eyed, curly-haired, Creole-speaking,
fun-loving children for a unique seven-year-old girl. At first glance, she doesn’t
look much different than the others – she eats the same rice and beans; plays
on the same grassless playground. She sleeps beneath a tin roof, like all the
other girls, and hears the nearly nightly pounding of the tropical rain. However,
although she may appear to be the same, don't be fooled. She lives in a
different world – a world called, “Coming Home.”
See the slender
girl wearing the pink shirt? The girl with the prominent cheekbones, bushy hair
and a handful of photos? Ask to see the pictures, and Angelique will let you.
Fail to ask her, however, and she’ll show you the snapshots anyway. The photos
bear the images of her future family. She's been adopted, and the pictures remind
her of her coming home. Within a month, maybe two at the most, she'll be there.
She knows the day is coming, and every opening of the gate jump-starts her
heart. Any day now her father will appear. He promised he'd be back. He came
once to claim her, and he'll come again to carry her home. Until then she lives
with a heart waiting for her homecoming. Shouldn't we all?
Our Father paid
us a visit, too. Haven’t we been claimed? Adopted? "So you should not be
like cowering, fearful slaves. You should behave instead like God's very own
children, adopted into his family – calling him 'Father, dear Father.'"
(Rom. 8:15) God searched you out. Before you knew you were orphaned by sin,
he'd already filed the paperwork and selected the wallpaper for your room.
"For God knew his people in advance, and he chose them to become like his
Son, so that his Son would be the firstborn, with many brothers and sisters."
(Rom. 8:29) Abandon you to a fatherless world? No way. Not a chance. Those
privy to God's family Bible can read your name because he wrote it there.
What's more, he covered the adoption fees. Neither you nor Angelique can pay
your way out of the orphanage, so “God sent his Son, born
among us of a woman, born under the conditions of the law so that he might
redeem those of us who have been kidnapped by the law. Thus we have been set
free to experience our rightful heritage.”
(Gal. 4:5) In other words, we don't finance our adoption. But we do have
to accept it.
Granted, Angelique
could tell her prospective parents to get lost. But she hasn't. And in the same
way, you could tell God to get lost, too. But you wouldn't, would you? The
moment we accept his offer we go from orphans to heirs – “Heirs of God and joint
heirs with Christ." (Rom. 8:17) Heirs. Heaven knows no stepchildren or
grandchildren. Just children. You and Christ share the same Will. What he
inherits, you inherit. You’re headed home. But sometimes we forget that fact.
We grow a little
too accustomed to the hard bunks and tin plates of the orphanage. Seldom do we
peer over the fence into the world to come. And how long has it been since you
showed someone your pictures? Is Peter talking to you when he urges,
"Friends, this world is not your home, so don't make yourselves cozy in
it"? (1 Pet. 2:11) We’ve been adopted, we just haven’t been transported
yet. We have a new family, but not our heavenly house. We know our Father's
name, but we haven't seen his face. He’s claimed us, but has not yet to come
for us.
So here we are.
Caught between what is and what will be. No longer orphans, but not home yet,
either. So, what do we do in the meantime? And, frankly, sometimes it’s just
that – a mean time. Time made mean
with chemotherapy, drivers driving with more beer than brains in their bodies,
and backstabbers who make life on earth feel like a time-share in Afghanistan. So,
how do we live in the meantime? How
do we keep our hearts headed home? Paul weighs in with this suggestion: “And
even we Christians, although we have the Holy Spirit within us as a foretaste
of future glory, also groan to be released from pain and suffering. We, too,
wait anxiously for that day when God will give us our full rights as his
children, including the new bodies he has promised us. Now that we are saved,
we eagerly look forward to this freedom. For if you already have something, you
don't need to hope for it. But if we look forward to something we don't have
yet, we must wait patiently and confidently.” (Rom. 8:23-25)
Interesting that
Paul calls the Holy Spirit a “foretaste” – “We have the Holy Spirit . . . as a foretaste of future glory." (v. 23)
No person with a healthy appetite needs a definition for that word. I’ve had a
few foretastes, haven’t you? For instance, not long ago, I was in the kitchen
sniffing around the dinner trimmings – just like my big, yellow Labrador, True,
sniffs around the kitchen island for a treat. And then when my wife wasn’t looking,
I snatched a foretaste – a morsel of meatloaf, or a corner of the cornbread. Pre-dinner
snacks stir our appetites for the table, right? Well, samplings from heaven's
kitchen do the same.
There are
moments, perhaps too few, when time evaporates and heaven hands you an hors d'oeuvre. For instance, your
newborn has just passed from restlessness to rest. Beneath the amber light of a
midnight moon, you trace a soft finger across tiny, sleeping eyes and wonder, “God
gave you to me?” A pre-libation from heaven's winery. Or, you're lost in the
work you love to do; were just made to do. And as you step back from the moist
canvas, or hoed garden, or rebuilt V-eight engine, satisfaction flows within you
like a long drink of cool water, and the angel asks, "Another
aperitif?" Or maybe the lyrics to the hymn say what you couldn't but
wanted to. And for a moment, a splendid moment, there are no wars, no wounds,
or tax returns. Just you, God, and a silent assurance that everything is right
with the world. Rather than dismiss or disregard such moments as good luck, or
coincidence, relish them instead. They can attune you to heaven. The tough ones
can, too.
"[We] also
groan to be released from pain and suffering. We, too, wait anxiously for that
day when God will give us our full rights as his children, including the new
bodies he has promised us." (v. 23) Do you think Angelique groans? Orphans tend to do that because they
live lonely lives. Seeing a child with a mother and father, they groan. They
see a house and think of their bunk. They groan. When they wonder what happened
to their biological parents, wouldn't they groan? Of course they would.
But Angelique's
groans are numbered. Every cafeteria meal brings her closer to home cooking,
and each dormitory night carries her closer to a room of her own. And every
time she longs to call someone mama, she remembers that she soon will. Her
struggles stir longings for home. So, let your bursitis-plagued body remind you
of your eternal one; let acid-inducing days prompt thoughts of unending peace.
Are you falsely accused? Acquainted with abuse? Mudslinging is a part of this
life, but not the next. And rather than begrudging life's troubles, listen to
them. Certain moments are so hideous, nothing else will do.
In 1992, a Time magazine essay entitled Corridors of Agony escorted readers into
the ugly world of abused children. There, we met Antwan, age ten,
puppet-stringed to neighborhood bullies and drug peddlers. They demanded his
presence; he feared their punishment. When police appeared, the troublemakers
stashed their drugs in his socks, thinking the boy wouldn't be searched. Tragically,
Antwan knew the police better than he knew his teachers. What hope does a boy
like Antwan have?
The writer then took
us to his sparse apartment. His mother, Syrita, owned one light bulb. When she
left the kitchen, she carried the lone bulb to the living room. As she screwed
it into the lamp, the dim glow illuminated a poster on a far wall of a young
black boy crying. The caption above read, "He will wipe away all tears
from their eyes, and there shall be no more death, nor sorrow, nor crying, nor
pain. All of that has gone forever." (Rev. 21:4)
Write checks of
hope on that promise. Do not bemoan time passing; applaud it. The more you
drink from God's well, the more you urge the clock to tick. Every bump of the
second hand brings you closer to a completed adoption. As Paul writes,
"We, too, wait anxiously for that day when God will give us our full
rights as his children." (Rom. 8:23)
There was a time,
long ago, when my kids celebrated my arrival home. They’d hear the car and
scamper to the window, pressing noses and hands against the windowpane next to the
front door. And as I pulled into the drive, I could see them jumping inside the
house. You'd think someone had switched their M&M's for coffee beans. No
returning Caesar ever felt more welcomed. And as I opened the door, they
tackled my knees and flooded the entryway with a tsunami-sized joy. Their dad was
home.
It's been too
long since I searched for God that way. Too seldom do I hear the thunder and
think, “Is that God?” I've let days pass without even so much as a glance to
the eastern sky. Let's do better. "Let heaven fill your thoughts. Do not
think only about things down here on earth." (Col. 3:2) How about regular
ladle dips into the well of God's return? Don't you know Angelique's coming
home dominates her thoughts? The pictures – can she see them and not think of
it? Blessings and burdens. Both can alarm-clock us out of a slumber. Gifts stir
homeward longings. So do struggles. Every homeless day carries us closer to the
day our Father will come to take us home.
Coming home.
What a homecoming that will be.
Grace,
Randy
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