A few years ago, when I was about halfway through seminary, my friend Omar took me out to lunch for my birthday.  Omar was always making generous sacrifices for people, so his invitation came as no surprise.  I was a caught off guard, however, when after our meal the entire Chili’s work crew came processing toward our table behind a candle-laden chocolate lava cake.  Apparently Omar had worked behind the scenes to arrange one of those embarrasing, slide down in your chair and pretend you dropped something under the table birthday songs.  It was particularly awkward because it was just me and Omar sitting at the table for lunch.  There was no large table of family and friends to diffuse the attention.  The stares of all restaurant patrons were affixed firmly on me, with Omar smugly smiling on the other side of the table. 

After the busy staff returned to scurrying about, after I had annihilated the mountain of fudge and ice cream, and after Omar had given me a birthday card with an additional gift certificate to another restaurant (with an exhortation that ”I” treat my wife to a nice dinner sometime soon), I glared at my friend (chocolate probably still smeared on my chin and cheeks) and said, “Omar, you’ve treated my like a king today.”  And that’s when he firmly said the words I’ll never forget, “Well, David, YOU ARE a SON of the KING.” 

I’ve thought a lot about identity lately, and sometimes when I get really discouraged and doubtful about who I am in relation to God Omar’s words descend on me like a rainstorm in the desert.  The truth is that a Christian’s spiritual adoption into God’s family brings life, celebration, and security where there was once fear and separation.  However, the difficulty with living in a fallen world is that while the believer’s adoption is firmly grounded in eternity, life is not always birthday celebrations and hot fudge sundays.  There’s plenty of pain, struggle and feelings of abandonment to go around–we suffer because of our own sinfulness, the work of evil in the world, and the brokenness of other people.  But our lasting hope is that at the end of our lives, no matter how orphaned we have felt at different seasons and situations, we sit at the king’s table, and as he lavishes us with his approving stare, he calls for his angelic procession to bring his sons and daughters the mother of all chocolate lava cakes.

Sadly for me and all who knew Omar, my friend is now enjoying that type of divine embrace. Omar’s battle with ALS ended last week, and he’s presently fellowshipping with Jesus (the Son of the King who makes it possible for us to be sons of the King)  in heaven.  There’s part of me, that fearful, cynical part, who wants to avoid thinking about Omar’s death.  My own flesh and evil sneer, ”look at where your God and your hope get you.”  In a sense, daring to hope in the things I’m writing about, risking believing that God could make me or Omar or anyone else a son takes a certain measure of faith. 

Thankfully, there are moments when over and against my internal struggles the Holy Spirit moves me to trust, to grieve, to long for restoration, to cry out to God, to tell people about Omar, to write about his many encouraging words to me.  And in the memories of Omar’s words, in his looks, in his smile, in his graciousness and generosity, the love of the Suffering Servant Jesus lives on in my own heart and in this imperfect world.  I wonder if Jesus might be saying to you today, “Take heart, my child, you’re a son of the King.”        

 

Living and learning in a community which is gospel-centered enables individuals to experience the love and mercy of Christ.  Maybe at times that type of radical living looks like personal counseling, maybe it’s a small group, maybe it’s regular worship attendance.  Likely it’s all of the above in different proportions throughout your life.  As you consider coming out of hiding and more deeply embracing your identity as a Son of the King, we invite you to tell us who you are by emailing david@firstpresopelika.org. 

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