Learning to Live Loved - Part 2

Receiving the Father's Love

“For you did not receive the spirit of slavery to fall back into fear. Instead, you received the Spirit of adoption, by whom we cry out, ‘Abba, Father!’”Romans 8:15

Near the end of our last article, Part 1 of Learning to Live Loved, I suggested that perhaps we have been asking the wrong question.

Many of us spend years asking, “Why do I keep reacting like this?” We become discouraged by our anxiety, our defensiveness, our impatience, our fear, or our tendency to withdraw. We pray for more self-control. We ask God to help us become more patient, more trusting, and more loving. Those are good prayers, and Scripture certainly calls us to grow in all of those ways.

But perhaps there is a deeper question beneath all of them.

Who is the Father I am reacting in front of?

That question is more significant than it may first appear because every relationship we have is shaped, in part, by who we believe the other person is.

Imagine working for a supervisor who rarely expresses appreciation and consistently notices only your mistakes. Perhaps every meeting feels like an evaluation. Every email leaves you wondering if you overlooked something. Even on the days when nothing is said, you find yourself anticipating disappointment because criticism has become more familiar than encouragement.

Now imagine a different leader.

This person still expects excellence. They offer correction when necessary, but their character has proven trustworthy over many years. You never question whether they are for you. Their confidence creates confidence within you. The work itself may be just as demanding, but the relationship changes everything.

Nothing about the job has changed.

Your understanding of the person has.

The same principle is true in every meaningful relationship.

A child who knows he is deeply loved approaches his father differently than a child who constantly fears rejection. A husband who trusts his wife’s character hears difficult conversations differently than one who expects criticism. A close friend interprets silence differently than someone who has learned to anticipate abandonment.

Our understanding of another person’s character shapes the way we experience the relationship itself.

Why should our relationship with God be any different?

Whether we realize it or not, every one of us is responding to the God we believe exists. The issue is not whether we believe in God. The issue is whether the picture we carry of Him has been shaped by His self-revelation or by our experiences, disappointments, assumptions, and fears.

It is entirely possible to affirm sound doctrine while quietly relating to God in ways that contradict everything Scripture says about Him.

Many sincere Christians would immediately agree that God is loving, gracious, patient, compassionate, and faithful. We know the verses. We believe the gospel. We affirm that salvation is by grace alone through faith alone in Christ alone.

Yet our daily lives sometimes tell another story.

When we fail, we instinctively withdraw from God rather than drawing near.

When we struggle with the same temptation again, we quietly assume His patience must be wearing thin.

When we experience prolonged suffering, unanswered prayer, or another disappointing diagnosis, we begin wondering whether His silence means He has become distant.

Some believers carry another burden entirely. They constantly question whether they truly belong to Christ. Every intrusive thought becomes another reason to doubt their salvation. Every temptation becomes evidence that perhaps their faith is not genuine after all. They repeatedly examine themselves, wondering whether they have believed enough, repented enough, or loved Christ enough.

Others spend their lives striving.

They faithfully serve in their churches, care for their families, lead organizations, and carry enormous responsibility. Their calendars remain full, their accomplishments continue to grow, and yet beneath all the activity is a quiet fear that if they stop producing, perhaps they will no longer have value.

The circumstances may be different.

The question underneath them is remarkably similar.

Can I really trust the Father’s heart toward me?

That is not a new question.

It has echoed through human history since the Garden of Eden.

The serpent’s first temptation was not simply to encourage disobedience.

He first invited Eve to question God’s character.

“Did God really say...?”

Beneath the question was an even deeper accusation.

Can God really be trusted?

Is He truly good?

Does He actually want what is best for you?

Every temptation since then has carried some echo of that original lie.

Will I trust the Father’s heart?

Or will I believe something else about Him?

Perhaps that is why A. W. Tozer famously wrote, “What comes into our minds when we think about God is the most important thing about us.”

Whether or not you have heard that quotation before, it expresses a profoundly biblical truth.

The God we believe exists is the God we respond to.

If I imagine a Father who is easily disappointed, I will hide whenever I fail.

If I imagine a Father whose affection depends upon my performance, I will spend my life trying to earn what Christ has already secured.

If I imagine a Father who welcomes everyone else more readily than He welcomes me, I will continue living as though I must prove I belong.

If I imagine a Father who has grown distant because my suffering has continued longer than I expected, I may begin interpreting His silence as abandonment rather than trusting that He is still faithfully present.

The tragedy is not simply that we misunderstand ourselves.

The greater tragedy is that many sincere believers spend years reacting to a version of God that Jesus never revealed.

That statement deserves careful consideration because one of the primary purposes of Jesus’ earthly ministry was not merely to teach people how to live.

He came to reveal the Father.

When Philip said to Him, “Lord, show us the Father, and we will be satisfied,” Jesus answered with words that should forever reshape our understanding of God.

“Anyone who has seen Me has seen the Father.” (John 14:9)

Pause there for a moment.

Jesus did not tell Philip to imagine the Father.

He did not point him toward abstract theological concepts.

He did not say that the Father’s character would remain largely mysterious until heaven.

Instead, He pointed Philip toward Himself.

If you want to know what the Father is like, look at Me.

Those words transform the way we read the entire Gospel.

Every encounter Jesus has with broken people becomes a revelation of the Father’s heart.

When Jesus welcomed children whom everyone else considered interruptions, we were seeing the Father’s delight.

When He stopped for the blind beggar that others tried to silence, we were seeing the Father’s compassion.

When He touched the leper who had lived without human touch for years, we were seeing the Father’s willingness to move toward those everyone else avoided.

When He restored Peter after his greatest failure, we were seeing the Father’s commitment to redemption rather than rejection.

These are not isolated moments of kindness scattered throughout the Gospels.

Jesus is revealing the Father exactly as He is.

The writer of Hebrews describes Jesus as “the radiance of God’s glory and the exact representation of His being.”

That language leaves little room for misunderstanding.

Jesus is not merely similar to the Father.

He is the perfect revelation of Him.

Every assumption we have about God’s character must ultimately submit to Jesus Christ.

If we imagine a Father unlike the One Jesus reveals, it is not Scripture that must change.

It is our understanding.

Perhaps nowhere do we see the Father’s heart more clearly than in the story Jesus told about a son who believed he had wandered too far to be welcomed home.

We often call it The Prodigal Son.

But perhaps we have been looking at the wrong person all along.

Because above all else...

it is a story about the Father.

The parable we commonly call The Prodigal Son may be one of the most familiar stories in all of Scripture. We have heard sermons about the younger son who squandered his inheritance, the older brother who resented grace, and the importance of repentance. Each of those themes is worthy of careful study. Yet if we are not careful, we can become so focused on the sons that we overlook the central figure in the story.

Jesus is revealing the Father.

Remember why Jesus tells this parable. Tax collectors and sinners had gathered around Him, eager to listen. Standing nearby were the Pharisees and teachers of the law, quietly criticizing Him for welcoming people they believed were beyond God’s favor.

“This man welcomes sinners and eats with them.”

Their complaint was not merely about Jesus’ behavior.

It was about God’s character.

Surely, if Jesus truly represented God, He would keep His distance from people like this.

Jesus responds by telling three stories.

A shepherd leaves ninety-nine sheep to search for one that is lost.

A woman carefully searches her house until she finds a lost coin.

Then He tells the longest story of all.

A father waiting for his son.

Each story builds upon the one before it until the focus is no longer merely on what has been lost, but on the heart of the One who longs to restore it.

The younger son demands his inheritance while his father is still alive.

To modern ears, this can sound like youthful impatience.

To Jesus’ listeners, it was shocking.

The son was essentially saying,

“I want everything that belongs to you, but I do not want you.”

He wanted the father’s possessions without the father’s presence.

It is difficult to imagine a more painful rejection.

Yet the father allows him to leave.

The son travels to a distant country, spends everything he has, and eventually finds himself feeding pigs, a picture of humiliation that would have been especially striking to a Jewish audience.

His money is gone.

His friends are gone.

His confidence is gone.

The life he imagined has completely fallen apart.

It is there, in the middle of his emptiness, that he begins thinking about home.

As he starts the long journey back, he carefully rehearses what he plans to say.

“Father, I have sinned against heaven and against you. I am no longer worthy to be called your son. Please take me on as a hired servant.” (Luke 15:18–19)

Those words reveal far more than repentance.

They reveal what he believes about his father.

He assumes that his identity has changed.

He believes his failure has rewritten the relationship.

He no longer thinks like a son.

He thinks like someone who must negotiate his way back into acceptance.

If we are honest, many of us quietly approach God the same way.

We know Christ died for our sins.

We know salvation is by grace.

Yet after we fail, something inside us begins bargaining.

“Father, if I pray more faithfully this week...”

“If I finally overcome this struggle...”

“If I become more disciplined...”

“If I prove that I really mean it this time...”

Then perhaps I will feel close to You again.

We would never say that Christ’s work was insufficient.

Yet our behavior sometimes reveals that we are still trying to contribute something to what Jesus has already finished.

The younger son expected exactly that.

He hoped his humility might persuade his father to lower him from sonship to servanthood.

He believed the best he could hope for was employment.

Jesus tells a very different story.

“While he was still a long way off, his father saw him coming. Filled with love and compassion, he ran to his son, embraced him, and kissed him.” (Luke 15:20)

Slow down for a moment and picture the scene.

How did the father see him while he was still a long way off?

Perhaps because he had been watching.

Perhaps every day he looked toward the horizon.

Perhaps every evening he wondered if today would be the day his son came home.

Jesus does not tell us how long the father waited.

He simply tells us that when the son finally appeared, the father recognized him immediately.

He had not forgotten him.

He had not replaced him.

He had not stopped longing for him.

The father was watching.

Before the son reached the house...

Before the apology...

Before the explanation...

Before restitution...

Before anyone in the village could publicly shame him...

The father ran.

That detail would have startled Jesus’ listeners.

In the ancient world, distinguished patriarchs did not run.

Running required gathering one’s robes and exposing one’s legs, something considered deeply undignified for an older man of honor.

Yet the father willingly accepted public embarrassment in order to reach his son first.

He was not protecting his reputation.

He was protecting his child.

The son begins his carefully rehearsed speech.

“Father, I have sinned against heaven and against you. I am no longer worthy to be called your son...”

But before he can finish asking to become a servant, the father interrupts him.

Not with correction.

Not with disappointment.

Not with probation.

With restoration.

“Quick! Bring the finest robe in the house and put it on him. Get a ring for his finger and sandals for his feet. And kill the calf we have been fattening. We must celebrate with a feast, for this son of mine was dead and has now returned to life. He was lost, but now he is found.” (Luke 15:22–24)

Notice what the father never says.

He never asks,

“How could you do this to me?”

He never says,

“You’ll have to earn my trust again.”

He never places his son on probation.

He never allows him to finish his speech about becoming a servant.

Instead, every action communicates one unmistakable truth.

You are still my son.

The robe restores his honor.

The ring restores his place in the family.

The sandals distinguish him from a servant.

The feast announces his restoration publicly.

Every gift proclaims belonging before the son has demonstrated any change.

This is one of the most beautiful pictures of the gospel in all of Scripture.

Grace comes before transformation.

Acceptance comes before obedience.

Belonging comes before restoration.

The father does not welcome his son because the son has become worthy.

He welcomes him because he is his son.

How different that is from the way many of us imagine God.

We assume He waits with crossed arms until we prove ourselves.

We expect disappointment before delight.

We prepare speeches of self-condemnation before we pray.

We believe our failures have changed His posture toward us.

Jesus says otherwise.

He tells us about a Father who runs, embraces and restores.

A Father whose love moves toward His children long before they have everything figured out.

The more I have reflected on this parable over the years, the more convinced I have become that Jesus is doing something profoundly personal.

He is inviting every one of us to ask a simple question.

When you imagine the Father waiting for you...what expression is on His face?

Do you picture frustration?

Disappointment?

Impatience?

Or do you see the Father Jesus revealed?

The Father who watches the road.

The Father who runs.

The Father who embraces.

The Father who restores.

Perhaps the greatest obstacle to receiving the Father’s love is not believing that He loves His children.

It is believing that He loves you with that kind of love.

That is exactly why the apostle Paul chose one remarkable word to describe what God has done for every believer in Christ.

He called it...

adoption.

The father in Jesus’ parable did far more than welcome his son home.

He restored him.

The robe, the ring, the sandals, and the feast were not random gifts. Every one of them proclaimed the same truth.

“You belong.”

The son believed he had forfeited his place in the family.

The father never acted as though he had.

As beautiful as this story is, Jesus was not revealing something entirely new about God’s heart. He was revealing what had always been true. The apostle Paul would later take that same truth and express it with one remarkable word, a word that his original readers would have understood immediately.

Adoption.

“For you did not receive the spirit of slavery to fall back into fear. Instead, you received the Spirit of adoption, by whom we cry out, ‘Abba, Father!’” (Romans 8:15)

Most of us read that verse through modern eyes.

When we hear the word adoption, we often picture a newborn infant welcomed into a loving family. That is a beautiful picture, and it certainly reflects God’s compassion.

But it is not the primary picture Paul’s Roman readers would have imagined.

In the Roman world, adoption was not primarily about caring for an orphaned child.

As mentioned in part 1, more often, it was about intentionally choosing an heir.

Many wealthy Roman families adopted adult sons. Sometimes they even passed over their biological children to do so. Adoption was a deliberate legal act by which a father publicly declared, “I choose this son to bear my name, receive my inheritance, and represent my family.”

This was not a temporary arrangement.

It was permanent.

Once the adoption was complete, the adopted son received a new legal identity. His previous standing no longer defined him. His former debts and obligations were considered settled. He entered a new household, carried a new family name, and became the rightful heir to everything that belonged to his father.

His future was no longer determined by his past.

It was secured by his father’s decision.

Think about how astonishing that would have sounded to the first believers in Rome.

Paul was not simply saying that God had forgiven their sins.

He was saying something far more breathtaking.

Through Christ, the Father had intentionally, permanently, and joyfully welcomed them into His own family.

He had given them a new name.

A new identity.

A new inheritance.

A new future.

He was no longer merely their Creator.

He was now their Father.

At this point, we need to pause for a moment because Paul is doing something far more profound than many of us realize.

When most Christians think about salvation, they immediately think about forgiveness. That is certainly central to the gospel. Through Christ, our sins have been completely forgiven. On the cross, Jesus satisfied the justice of God, and everyone who places their faith in Him is declared righteous before the Father.

The Bible calls this justification.

Justification answers one of humanity’s greatest questions:

“What has God done with my sin?”

The answer is glorious.

Because of Christ, our guilt has been removed. Our debt has been paid in full. We stand before God clothed, not in our own righteousness, but in the perfect righteousness of Christ.

That truth alone is enough to fill us with gratitude for all eternity.

But the gospel does not stop there.

If justification answers the question,

“What has God done with my sin?”

then adoption answers another question every human heart longs to know.

“Who am I now?”

The Father did not merely forgive us and leave us standing outside the courtroom.

He welcomed us into His home.

Think about that for a moment.

An earthly judge may declare a guilty person innocent because justice has been satisfied. That person is free to leave the courtroom.

But the judge does not usually step down from the bench, take that person home, give them his family name, invite them to his table, make them his heir, and call them his beloved child.

That is exactly what our heavenly Father has done through Christ.

The gospel is not merely about acquittal.

It is about adoption.

Not merely pardon.

Belonging.

Not merely forgiveness.

Family.

This is why Paul chose the word adoption.

He wanted us to understand that God’s saving work is far greater than canceling our debt.

He has welcomed us into His family.

He has given us His name.

He has secured our inheritance.

He has invited us to call Him,

“Abba, Father.”

That is why Paul immediately contrasts two entirely different ways of living.

“For you did not receive the spirit of slavery to fall back into fear...”

Slavery and sonship produce very different lives.

A servant constantly wonders whether he has done enough.

A son rests in the security of belonging.

A servant fears dismissal.

A son knows he has a place at the table.

A servant works to earn approval.

A son works because he already has it.

Do you hear the difference?

Many believers sincerely love Jesus while quietly living like servants.

They faithfully attend church.

They read Scripture.

They pray.

They serve.

Yet beneath all of that faithfulness is a subtle fear that if they fail badly enough, God may finally become disappointed with them.

Some spend years wondering whether they have truly been saved.

They repeatedly revisit the moment of their conversion, searching for certainty. Every intrusive thought becomes another reason to question their standing before God. Every temptation feels like evidence against them. Instead of looking to Christ’s finished work, they become trapped in an exhausting cycle of looking inward, wondering whether their faith is sincere enough, their repentance deep enough, or their love for Christ strong enough.

Others live beneath the crushing weight of performance.

They faithfully serve in ministry, lead businesses, care for aging parents, raise children, and shoulder responsibilities that few people ever see. Outwardly, they appear successful. Inwardly, they wonder whether they have ever done enough.

If they stop producing, will they still matter?

If they are no longer useful, will they still be loved?

Still others carry a different burden.

They are living with chronic illness, physical pain, or unanswered prayers that have stretched on for years. They know God is able to heal, yet healing has not come. Quietly, they begin asking questions they hardly dare speak aloud.

“Where are You?”

“Have You forgotten me?”

“Why does it seem as though You are silent?”

None of these struggles necessarily begin with a wrong view of salvation.

They often begin with a wounded understanding of the Father’s heart.

If we are not careful, we start interpreting God’s character through our circumstances instead of interpreting our circumstances through God’s character.

The cross forever reverses that order.

God has already demonstrated His love for us in Christ.

His love is not measured by the ease of our circumstances.

It is measured by the Son He willingly gave.

This is why Paul continues with one of the most intimate expressions found anywhere in Scripture.

“By whom we cry out, ‘Abba, Father!’”

Notice carefully what Paul does not say.

He does not say that we have learned to call God our Father through greater spiritual maturity.

He does not say that enough Bible study eventually teaches us to feel like sons and daughters.

He says we have received the Spirit of adoption.

That changes everything.

Receiving the Father’s love is not merely another spiritual discipline.

It is a supernatural work of grace.

The Holy Spirit continually reminds our hearts of what the Father has already declared to be true because of Christ. He gently persuades us to trust what Scripture says, even when our emotions, our past experiences, or our present circumstances seem to tell a different story.

He teaches us to cry,

“Abba, Father.”

Not merely with our lips.

But from the deepest places of our hearts.

This is one of the reasons spiritual growth often feels slower than we expect.

We are not simply learning new information.

We are learning to increasingly agree with the Father about who He is and, because of Christ, who He says we are.

Many believers have received adoption legally while continuing to live emotionally as though they are still orphans.

Spiritual orphans develop ways of surviving in a broken world.

Some become fiercely independent because depending on others has repeatedly led to disappointment.

Some become people-pleasers because they quietly believe acceptance must continually be earned.

Some become perfectionists because mistakes have always felt dangerous.

Some spend their lives achieving, producing, serving, or performing because significance has become intertwined with accomplishment.

Others withdraw emotionally because vulnerability has too often resulted in rejection.

These patterns are understandable.

Many of them developed as attempts to navigate painful experiences.

But they no longer reflect our deepest reality in Christ.

The Father is not asking His children to continue living from survival.

He is inviting them to increasingly live from sonship.

That does not happen overnight.

The Holy Spirit patiently renews our minds, heals our hearts, and teaches us to increasingly agree with what the Father has declared to be true all along.

Little by little, we begin exchanging the mindset of an orphan for the confidence of a beloved son or daughter.

They have been declared sons and daughters.

Yet they still think like servants.

They still strive like employees.

They still fear abandonment.

They still assume every failure threatens the relationship.

That does not change what the Father has declared.

But it profoundly affects what they experience.

Perhaps one of the greatest invitations of the Christian life is learning to bring our lived experience into agreement with our spiritual reality.

Not by pretending.

Not by denying our struggles.

Not by trying to convince ourselves of something that is untrue.

But by allowing the Holy Spirit to continually renew our minds with what has always been true because of Christ.

The Christian life is not learning how to convince yourself that God loves you.

The Christian life is the lifelong journey of increasingly living from what the Father has already declared to be true because of Christ.

It is practicing, day by day, to increasingly live from the love the Father has already lavished upon you through His Son.

That is why receiving the Father’s love is so much more than having an emotional experience.

It is learning and practicing to live as someone who truly belongs.

And that raises another important question.

If all of this is already true...

If we have been adopted, welcomed, forgiven, and declared sons and daughters of God...

How do we move from merely knowing these truths to actually living from them every day?

That is where we turn next.

If we have been adopted into God’s family...

If the Father has welcomed us through Christ...

If the Holy Spirit is continually reminding us that we belong...

Then an honest question remains.

Why is it still so difficult to experience His love?

Perhaps the answer is simpler than we imagine.

Most of us have spent our entire lives learning how to achieve.

Very few of us have learned how to receive.

From an early age we discover that good grades earn praise. Hard work earns promotions. Accomplishments earn recognition. Productivity earns admiration. Even within the church, we can quietly begin measuring our spiritual lives by how consistently we read the Bible, how often we serve, how much we know, or how faithfully we perform.

None of those things are wrong. They are often beautiful expressions of a growing relationship with Christ.

The danger comes when we begin looking to them to answer a question they were never designed to answer.

Am I loved?

The gospel answers that question before we ever accomplish anything.

One of the most beautiful moments in Jesus’ earthly ministry takes place before He has preached a sermon, performed a miracle, healed the sick, or called His disciples.

As Jesus comes up from the waters of baptism, the Father declares,

“This is my dearly loved Son, who brings me great joy.” (Matthew 3:17)

Notice the order.

The Father’s delight comes before Jesus’ public ministry.

Love precedes labor.

Belonging precedes assignment.

Identity precedes obedience.

The same pattern is true for everyone who belongs to Christ.

We do not spend our lives trying to earn the Father’s delight.

Because of Christ, we increasingly learn to live from it.

That changes everything.

We obey because we are loved.

We do not obey so that we might become lovable.

This may seem like a small distinction, but it changes the entire posture of the Christian life.

One life is built upon striving.

The other is built upon abiding.

Jesus’ invitation reflects that difference.

“As the Father has loved Me, so have I loved you. Now remain in My love.” (John 15:9)

Notice what Jesus does not say.

He does not tell us to create His love.

He does not tell us to earn it.

He does not tell us to increase it.

He invites us to remain in it.

The word remain is wonderfully ordinary.

It means to stay.

To dwell.

To continue.

To make your home there.

That is often much harder than it sounds.

Many of us visit the Father’s love.

We experience moments of gratitude during worship. We feel close to Him while reading Scripture or praying. Then the pressures of everyday life quickly pull us back into striving, fear, self-reliance, or discouragement.

Jesus is inviting us into something far deeper.

He is inviting us to make our home in the Father’s love.

So how do we begin?

Not by trying harder.

Not by manufacturing emotions.

Not by convincing ourselves of something that isn’t true.

We begin by learning to behold.

The apostle John writes, “See how very much our Father loves us, for He calls us His children, and that is what we are!” (1 John 3:1)

John does not simply tell us to believe.

He first tells us to see.

To stop.

To pay attention.

To linger.

We live in a world that trains us to consume information quickly. We read articles, listen to podcasts, scroll through headlines, and move from one task to the next with remarkable speed.

But love is rarely received in a hurry.

Relationships are not built through efficiency.

They are cultivated through presence.

Perhaps that is one reason Jesus so often withdrew to be alone with His Father.

Not because He needed information.

Because communion always precedes fruitful ministry.

If the Son of God made space to enjoy fellowship with His Father, how much more do we need to slow down long enough to receive His love?

One simple practice has become increasingly meaningful to me.

Instead of reading large portions of Scripture simply to complete a reading plan, choose one Gospel account and remain there for a while.

Watch Jesus carefully.

Notice who captures His attention.

Notice how He responds to people who are afraid.

Notice how He treats those who have failed.

Notice His patience with doubting disciples.

Notice His tenderness toward those the world has rejected.

Then ask one simple question.

What does this reveal about the Father?

Remember what Jesus said.

“Anyone who has seen Me has seen the Father.” (John 14:9)

Every time we watch Jesus, we are learning something about the Father’s heart.

Then pray those truths back to Him.

Not as a formula.

As a conversation.

“Father, today I watched Jesus welcome someone who believed they were beyond hope. Thank You that this is Your heart toward Your children. Help me believe that more deeply today.”

Or perhaps,

“Father, today I watched Jesus patiently restore Peter after his greatest failure. I confess that I often expect You to respond differently to me. Renew my mind. Help me increasingly receive what You have already declared to be true because of Christ.”

Prayer becomes less about persuading God to love us.

It becomes learning to agree with Him.

There is another practice that has become deeply important to me.

Pay attention to what interrupts your peace.

Not because every interruption is sinful.

But because interruptions often reveal where our hearts are still struggling to trust the Father’s goodness.

When anxiety suddenly rises...

When criticism feels unbearable...

When disappointment overwhelms us...

When fear begins telling us stories...

Rather than immediately trying to silence those emotions, ask gently,

“Father, what am I believing about You right now?”

That question has a way of exposing places where our understanding of God’s character still needs to be renewed.

Not to shame us.

To invite us deeper into His love.

Because every moment of fear becomes another opportunity to remember who the Father truly is.

Every moment of failure becomes another opportunity to return home.

Every moment of uncertainty becomes another opportunity to discover that His character has not changed.

Receiving the Father’s love is rarely a dramatic moment that happens once.

It is a lifelong rhythm of returning.

Returning to His Word.

Returning to prayer.

Returning to the cross.

Returning to the empty tomb.

Returning to the truth that because of Christ, we already belong.

The Holy Spirit patiently teaches us this rhythm throughout our lives.

Not through condemnation.

Through continual invitation.

Little by little, He teaches us to make our home where we have always belonged.

And perhaps nowhere do we see that invitation more beautifully than in one of the final conversations Jesus had with Peter.

It is there, on an ordinary morning beside the Sea of Galilee, that we once again discover what the Father is truly like.

After His resurrection, Jesus appeared to His disciples several times. One of those encounters has always captured my heart because it reveals the Father’s character in such a quiet and unexpected way.

Peter had experienced what many of us fear most.

He had failed publicly.

Only days earlier, he had confidently declared that he would never deny Jesus. Even if everyone else abandoned Him, Peter insisted that he never would.

Yet before sunrise the next morning, he had denied even knowing Christ.

Three times.

The final denial was followed by something I have often imagined but can never fully comprehend.

Luke tells us that after Peter denied Him the third time, “the Lord turned and looked straight at Peter.”

Can you imagine carrying that memory?

Peter could.

When Jesus was crucified, Peter’s last memory was not of his own courage.

It was of his own failure.

The shame must have been overwhelming.

Perhaps that is why, after hearing reports of the resurrection, Peter eventually returned to the one thing that had once defined his life.

He went fishing.

Some have wondered whether Peter was simply feeding his family.

Others have suggested he was returning to his former life because he believed his usefulness to Jesus had ended.

Scripture doesn’t tell us.

What it does tell us is even more important.

Jesus came looking for Peter.

Not because Peter had earned another opportunity.

Not because he had finally forgiven himself.

Not because he had spent enough time proving his sincerity.

Jesus simply came.

And when the disciples reached the shore, they discovered something surprising.

Jesus had prepared breakfast.

That detail is so ordinary that we can easily overlook it.

The risen Lord...

The Creator of the universe...

The One who had conquered sin and death...

Was standing beside a charcoal fire cooking breakfast for His friends.

Including the disciple who had denied Him.

There is something profoundly beautiful about that.

Jesus did not begin with Peter’s failure.

He began with fellowship.

Before restoration came breakfast.

Before correction came communion.

Before Jesus asked Peter a single question, He invited him to sit down and eat.

That is not how many of us imagine God.

We imagine Him waiting to discuss our failures before anything else.

We imagine lectures, distance and disappointment.

Instead, Jesus prepares a meal. After breakfast, Jesus turns toward Peter.

Three times He asks,

“Do you love Me?”

Three denials. Three affirmations.

Not to reopen Peter’s wound, but to heal it.

Each time Peter answers, Jesus responds with trust.

“Feed My lambs.”

“Take care of My sheep.”

“Feed My sheep.”

Jesus entrusted him with responsibility.

Peter expected rejection yet Jesus restored relationship.

Peter may have expected to lose his place. Jesus reaffirmed his calling.

This is not merely the story of a disciple being restored.

Jesus is revealing the Father.

If you have seen Jesus...

You have seen the Father.

The Father’s heart is not eager to discard His children.

His heart is eager to restore them.

That does not minimize sin.

Peter’s denial mattered.

Your sin matters.

Mine does too.

Grace never pretends that sin is insignificant.

It declares that Christ’s sacrifice is sufficient.

There is a profound difference.

Many of us still live as though every failure places us back at the beginning of our relationship with God.

The Father is not asking His children to rebuild a relationship that Christ has already secured.

He is inviting us to return to the relationship we already have.

That invitation becomes especially important during seasons when receiving God’s love feels difficult.

Some of you are carrying grief that words cannot adequately describe.

Others are living with chronic illness, wondering why healing has not yet come despite faithful prayer.

Some quietly wrestle with persistent doubts about their salvation, examining themselves endlessly because they fear they may somehow have deceived themselves.

Others have experienced fathers who were absent, unpredictable, abusive, or emotionally unavailable. Still others have been deeply wounded by people within the church. The very community that was meant to reflect God’s family instead became a place of disappointment or pain.

Those experiences are real.

They should never be minimized.

Nor should simplistic answers be offered to people carrying profound suffering.

Yet none of those experiences ultimately defines the Father’s character.

Our earthly experiences help explain why trusting God’s love may feel difficult.

They do not tell us what God is like.

Only Jesus does.

This is one reason we must continually return to the Gospels.

Not merely to learn doctrine.

But to keep allowing Jesus to correct every distorted picture we have carried of His Father.

The believer struggling with assurance needs to look again at Jesus.

The believer living with chronic illness needs to look again at Jesus.

The weary pastor.

The overwhelmed executive.

The exhausted caregiver.

The parent carrying deep regret.

The believer who feels forgotten.

Every one of us must continue returning to the same place.

Not because our circumstances are identical.

But because the Father’s heart toward us is.

The enemy has always sought to persuade God’s people that the Father is withholding something good.

Jesus continually reveals the opposite.

The Father is generous.

The Father is compassionate.

The Father is patient.

The Father moves toward His children.

The Father restores.

The Father delights in welcoming His sons and daughters home again and again.

The more clearly we see the Father through His Son, the less compelling every counterfeit picture becomes.

And perhaps that is the deepest invitation of the Christian life.

Not simply to know more about God.

But to become so familiar with the Father’s heart that, little by little, we begin living like sons and daughters who truly believe they are loved.

As I have reflected on these passages, I have become increasingly convinced that one of the greatest invitations of the Christian life is not simply learning more about God.

It is learning to increasingly agree with Him.

That may sound like a subtle distinction, but I believe it changes everything.

Many of us have spent years trying to convince ourselves that God loves us.

We rehearse verses.

We remind ourselves of biblical truths.

We work hard to silence the voices of shame, fear, or insecurity.

Those practices have value, but they are not the ultimate goal.

The goal is not to persuade ourselves that something is true.

The goal is to increasingly agree with what God has already declared because of Christ.

That is very different.

The Father is not waiting for you to become more lovable.

He has already demonstrated His love for you.

“But God showed His great love for us by sending Christ to die for us while we were still sinners.” (Romans 5:8)

Notice when God loved us.

Not after we had changed.

Not after we had matured.

Not after we had proven ourselves.

While we were still sinners.

The cross forever settles the question of whether the Father loves His children.

There are certainly questions we cannot answer this side of eternity.

We do not always understand suffering.

We cannot explain why some prayers seem to be answered quickly while others remain unanswered for years.

We grieve losses we never expected.

We watch people we love endure illness, heartbreak, injustice, and sorrow.

Scripture never asks us to pretend those realities do not exist.

The Psalms are filled with honest cries of lament.

The prophets asked difficult questions.

Even Jesus, in His humanity, cried out from the cross,

“My God, My God, why have You forsaken Me?”

The Christian life has never required us to deny our pain.

But neither does it ask us to interpret God’s character through our pain.

Instead, it continually directs our eyes back to Christ.

Whenever we begin wondering whether the Father is truly good...

Look at Jesus.

Whenever shame whispers that we have failed too many times...

Look at Jesus.

Whenever fear tells us that we no longer belong...

Look at Jesus.

Whenever suffering tempts us to believe God has become distant...

Look at Jesus.

Jesus is the Father’s answer.

He always has been.

This is why I believe one of the greatest habits we can cultivate is simply returning to Him again and again.

Not returning because we have wandered beyond His reach.

Returning because our hearts are forgetful.

We easily forget what is most important.

We remember criticism more quickly than encouragement.

We remember failure more readily than grace.

We remember our weaknesses more vividly than God’s faithfulness.

The Christian life is, in many ways, a continual remembering.

Remembering who God is.

Remembering what Christ has accomplished.

Remembering what the Father has declared.

Remembering that the Holy Spirit continues to bear witness that we belong to Him.

Little by little, those truths move from being merely ideas we understand to realities that increasingly shape the way we think, respond, worship, and live.

This is one reason I believe the Christian life is not primarily about trying harder.

It is about seeing more clearly.

Paul writes,

“So all of us who have had that veil removed can see and reflect the glory of the Lord. And the Lord—who is the Spirit—makes us more and more like Him as we are changed into His glorious image.” (2 Corinthians 3:18)

Notice who accomplishes the transformation.

The Spirit does.

Our responsibility is not to manufacture Christlikeness.

It is to behold Christ faithfully.

As we behold Him, the Spirit gradually transforms us.

Not overnight.

Not through striving.

Not through shame.

Through relationship.

Perhaps that is why Jesus’ invitation has always been so beautifully simple.

“Remain in My love.”

Remain.

Stay.

Make your home there.

Every day we are invited to choose where we will live.

We can live from fear or from faith.

From striving or from sonship.

From shame or from grace.

From performance or from belonging.

Those choices are rarely made once.

They are made over and over again as we continually return to the Father.

Perhaps that is what spiritual maturity really looks like.

Not that we never struggle.

Not that we never experience fear.

Not that we never wrestle with doubt.

But that we become increasingly quick to return home.

The mature believer is not the one who has learned how to hide weakness.

The mature believer is the one who increasingly knows where to take it.

Back to the Father.

Back to His Word.

Back to His promises.

Back to His Son.

Back to the quiet confidence that because of Christ, nothing has changed about the Father’s love.

Before we close, I want to invite you to do something very simple this week.

Open one of the Gospels.

Not to accomplish your Bible reading for the day.

Not to prepare for a Bible study.

Not to answer someone else’s questions.

Simply to spend time with Jesus.

Read slowly.

Watch Him.

Notice who captures His attention.

Notice how He responds to people who are weary.

To people who doubt.

To people who fail.

To people who are ashamed.

To people who are grieving.

To people who have spent years believing they no longer belong.

Then remember His words.

“Anyone who has seen Me has seen the Father.”

If you want to know what the Father is like...

Look at Jesus.

Stay there.

Linger there.

Return there tomorrow.

And the day after that.

Over time, almost without realizing it, you may discover something beautiful happening.

Your prayers become less about convincing God to love you and more about enjoying the love He has already lavished upon you through Christ.

Your obedience becomes less about earning acceptance and more about responding to it.

Your worship becomes less about proving your devotion and more about delighting in your Father.

Your identity becomes less dependent upon your circumstances, your accomplishments, or the opinions of others because it has become increasingly rooted in the unchanging character of God.

The circumstances of your life may not immediately change.

The suffering may not disappear overnight.

The unanswered questions may remain unanswered for a season.

But something else begins to change.

You begin to live, little by little, as someone who truly believes they belong.

Not because your emotions always cooperate.

Not because your performance has become flawless.

Not because every doubt has disappeared.

But because the Father has spoken.

Through Christ, He has called you His beloved son.

Through Christ, He has called you His beloved daughter.

And through the Holy Spirit, He patiently teaches your heart to believe what has been true all along.

The Christian life is not learning how to convince yourself that the Father loves you.

It is learning, day by day, to increasingly live from the love He has already given you through His Son.

That journey takes a lifetime.

And it is one the Father delights to walk with you.

The third and final article in this series, we’ll explore why living from this identity can feel so difficult.

If the Father has adopted us, Christ has secured our place in His family, and the Holy Spirit bears witness that we belong, why do we so often continue living like spiritual orphans? Together we’ll explore how our experiences, patterns of thinking, and the Spirit’s ongoing work of renewing our minds shape our ability to increasingly embody what has always been true because of Christ.

Together we are building a Christ-centered space for restoration and renewal.

“Let us think of ways to motivate one another to acts of love and good works.”Hebrews 10:24

With care,

Pamela

All for His glory.