It was 85 years ago today that a woman I never met gave birth to a boy I’ve never not known. The day I met that boy, who by then had become a man, the woman who had given birth to him died. That day was my birthday. Not the anniversary of the day I was born, but the actual day I was born. The woman was my grandmother, the man I’ve never not known was my father.
He never much spoke about it but I’ve often wondered how he handled that day. I know that my grandmother’s two deepest wishes were that the family name would be carried on and that her son, my father, would become an ordained minister of the gospel. The day I was born, the first-born son of her only son, my grandmother received in the mail the dress she had ordered to wear to my father’s ordination. The excitement proved to be too much and that night she passed in her sleep. Life, death, and calling all called that day.
I’ve said it a hundred times before, but the fascination and affection felt toward my father by the millions he was able to serve as a teacher, pastor, writer and theologian is perfectly understandable, but not in the same zip code as my own experience of the man. Before, during and after all those callings and giftings, he was my father. Do I miss being able to access his knowledge when I am stumped by a biblical text? Of course I do. What I miss more was his crystal clear communication of his love for me, and my dear wife Lisa.
When I consider how my heavenly Father rejoices when we come to Him in prayer, I think of how my earthly father rejoiced to talk over any challenges I was facing. When I consider how my heavenly Father’s love for me is often expressed through painful discipline, I think of how my earthly father did the same, speaking hard truths in tenderness. When I consider my heavenly Father’s loyal love, His hesed, I remember how my earthly father not only never abandoned me, but never took a single step away.
I don’t blame people for, especially in light of various controversies within the evangelical church, express how they miss his steady hand, careful thought and courage in battle. I do get a bit annoyed when people brazenly and boldly declare to the world that they know what he would have said, did or thought when in fact they’re merely projecting.
I, however, miss him in the same way, but also in a more visceral way. I miss my dad. Even there, however, I do so in peace. Because my father was, even more than a faithful theologian, a faithful father, he taught me about Jesus. The Jesus who rescued him. The Jesus who rescued me. The Jesus we will one day worship face to face, together. Because of our Elder Brother, I will again be with my father. Because of my father, I have Jesus as my Elder Brother.
