I cannot imagine not knowing the embrace of God in such a way as one who knows Him as 'Daddy" can know His embrace.
I do not at all mean it is appropriate in the least to be flippant with Him. He is G-O- D. Creator. Judge, as well as redeemer and savior. I remember an event that occurred in 1973, shortly after I committed my life to Him. I was walking beside a warehouse on the Yokosuka Naval Base in Japan, chatting with God. I don't remember our conversation, but I do remember looking toward heaven and telling Him, "Lord, do Your thing."
The last syllable hardly left my lips when an enormous and ominous weight fell over me. His Presence was so heavy I leaned against the side of the warehouse to prevent myself from falling.
And a 'voice' filled my thoughts. 'Filled' is not quite the correct word. Overwhelmed? Overpowered? Took control? He said to me in the clearest of 'voiced': "I'm not your friend."
I knew what He meant. My mother used to say the same words to me when I got a bit too sassy for my own good.
God taught me very early in my Christian life He is not one to 'mess' with. He is not one with whom we can 'pal around' and horseplay. He is God. Holy. Holy. And holy once again.
But that does not mean He is not our Daddy. Nor does it mean He objects to our calling Him that when we call Him that out of love and intimacy.
I published this (below) about a year ago to my Contemplative blog. After recently reading comments stating it is wrong to call the Father, Daddy, I thought I would publish it to my Encouragement of Scripture blog because, well, I hope you will be encouraged by Scripture.
If you know Jesus as your savior through His atoning sacrificial blood, if you know Him as your God, King, and Lord, be assured, Scripture encourages you to draw close to your Father in heaven -- and if you wish, to call Him, Daddy.
Because you are sons, God has sent forth the Spirit of His Son into our hearts, crying, “Abba! [Aramaic word for Daddy] Father! (Galatians 4:6)
In prayer last week, that intimacy stirred thoughts once again of my earthly father. Those who’ve followed my blogs for a while know Albert left me and my sister in 1954. I was four, Andrea was not yet two. He wouldn’t keep out of other women’s beds, so Mom finally told him to pack his valise.
Andrea and I rarely saw him afterward. Three, maybe four times over the next decade and a half. Then, in 1968, when I was eighteen, I asked Mom to set a meeting with him at my paternal grandparents’ apartment. I wanted to know his side of the story. I wanted to know why he left me and Andrea.
My mind’s eye still sees him as he sat in the wing-backed chair in front of the living room window. I sat cross-legged on the carpet a few feet from him. Andrea and Mom sat on the sofa to my left, my grandmother on the flowered upholstered chair to the right of the couch. My grandfather softly drummed his fingers on the dining room table to my right.
“Why did you leave?”
Albert hardly hesitated. He looked me in the eyes and said,
“Because I wanted to.”
That was 45 years ago. His words remain as chilling as if he spoke them last month.
I don’t know why that memory recently resurfaced while I was in prayer. I forgave Albert in November 2011 for what he’d done to me. The Lord had interrupted my prayer time and asked if I would forgive Albert. His question caught me by surprise, and I wasn’t quite sure how to respond. Would I forgive Al for casting me aside like a piece of trash? More to the point, could I forgive him?
“I’d like to,” I finally answered.
What happened next still warms me to think of it. The memory of Albert saying what he did remained – and yet remains – chiseled in my mind, but the memory then took a sudden and extraordinary turn. I was no longer sitting on the carpet. Instead, my heavenly Daddy was sitting on the carpet and I was sitting in His lap. His arms encircled me and I snuggled deep into His embrace. His warmth surrounded me. I could hear His heart beat, feel His breath on my hair. A great sense of quiet washed over me. I knew I was at home, at home in His arms.
Home. Oh, the security, serenity, the love and hope that word arouses within me.
Albert’s words, “Because I wanted to” no longer stung as they had in 1968 because now, in 2011, I could snuggle deeper into Daddy’s embrace. Albert’s cruelty dissipated like a mist burned away by the sun as my Daddy held me yet closer – because He understood how those words ripped a hole in me. I remember as I write this how – as this scene unfolded in my memory – I broke into a grin, looked him in the eyes and said without hesitation: “I forgive you.”
Why shouldn’t I forgive the man? How could I not forgive the man? I was sitting in my real Daddy’s lap. Albert was never my father. He only impregnated my mother. He was no more my father than if he had raped her and she conceived. But my Daddy in heaven – oh, my Daddy has never left me, no matter how many reasons I gave Him in my life to do so. And even when I didn’t know it He was there, all the time, His arm around my shoulder, whispering encouragement to a young boy, who became a teenager, and then became a young man who would one day become the man at 64 who joyfully lifts his hands in worship of his Daddy in heaven.
Sitting in my heavenly Father’s arms, how could Albert’s cavalier rejection hurt me? I could feel only sympathy for the man who missed a lifetime of opportunities to be my earthly daddy.
Is it any wonder why I am so in love with my Daddy who art in heaven?