We’re not Just Christians–We’re Children, too
In one of the more powerful illustrations during my time in seminary, Sinclair Ferguson held up his Bible by pinching together the few pages that made up Matthew 5–7. Motioning to all the Old Testament pages that led up to the Sermon on the Mount, he told us, “There is a greater expression of knowing God personally as your heavenly Father in these [few] pages than there is in the sum total of these [Old Testament] pages.” The Old Testament has plenty to say about fathers and sons, and it even covers Israel as a son, but until Christ came, the fullness of what it meant to be a child of God hadn’t been realized yet.
In the Christian life, to be treated like children is one of the highest privileges we have. At one point in Jesus’s ministry, parents brought their children to Jesus, so he could bless them. Probably concerned about wasted time, the disciples rebuked the crowds. Then Jesus corrected his disciples because this is why he came—he came for the little ones wrapped in his arms, and he also came for those who were like these children (Mark 10:14).
Jesus describes the kingdom of God in many ways, but here he defines it according to childlikeness. John later develops this idea when he writes, “See what kind of love the Father has given to us, that we should be called children of God; and so we are” (1 John 3:1). And so we are. It’s one thing that through salvation God calls us Christians, but it’s quite another thing that he calls us children—his children; yet this is the life we’re invited to enjoy!
As Christians, we often reference God as our Father in prayer, but it’s easy to forget that this isn’t just a title. Nestled under the miracle of justification, adoption as sons and daughters completely re-defines our identity and relationship with God.
Forgiven as a Child
A Bible teacher from my previous church once shared how she would share the gospel through the story of a judge and an accused murderer. My friend asked her listeners what they thought the judge should do—all of the evidence showed that the accused was guilty. “Put him in jail,” one suggested, while another called out, “Give him the death penalty!” She surprised her listeners with her answer: “The judge’s son offered to take the place of the murderer. The judge forgave the man and let him go.” After a moment of shocked expressions, she explained that because of Christ, this is what the gospel offers. God’s forgiveness is complete and covers even the most heinous sin imaginable. Justification offers this type of forgiveness in the sight of God as judge: the sacrifice of one Son secured salvation for another.
Adoption doesn’t stop here.
In the parable of the prodigal son, we find another picture of forgiveness. The stakes are high, the offense intensely personal. A son dehumanizes his father into a pile of things, leaves the home he was raised in, and squanders everything he has on unrighteous living. Eventually, he loses everything and comes crawling back, hoping to live as a servant in his father’s household, convinced he is no longer worthy to call his father, “Father.” When his father sees his son in the distance, his heart swells with compassion. He casts off all dignity and runs to his son, throwing his arms around him. It’s not just any compassion that bears the son into his father’s arms, it’s love—fatherly love. It’s not just forgiveness—it’s forgiveness only a father can give.
Spiritual adoption flows out of settled forgiveness and rests on our status as forgiven ones. Like the prodigal son, we’ve approached our Father’s house with sin-stained clothes and empty hands, having squandered the good gifts that he’s given us. It’s as if we’ve asked for simple forgiveness, even just a taste of God’s mercy, but instead, God throws open the doors of heaven, rushes out to greet us, and welcomes us in with open arms. He exchanges our empty hands for himself. He doesn’t just offer a taste of mercy but, through his kindness, all the benefits of our Father’s home are now ours: he pities, protects, provides for, chastens, keeps, and saves us (Westminster Confession of Faith, Ch. 12).
Spiritual adoption layers blessing upon blessing upon blessing.
Loved as a Child
Romans 8 reveals that our union with Christ and fellowship with the Holy Spirit make our adoption reality. If we’re united with Christ in his death and resurrection, Paul argues, then the Holy Spirit dwells within us (Rom. 8:9–11) What is more, because the Holy Spirit dwells within us, we have a completely new identity. We’re told that God’s Spirit within us assures us that we are indeed accepted as children by our Father alongside our co-heir, Christ (Rom. 8:15–16). If we trust Christ, we might look unchanged on the outside, but it’s as if God has placed a giant nametag on our hearts that reads, “This one’s mine!” Our status as God’s children is not an abstraction—it’s how we live every day in the presence of our heavenly Father.
When Jesus teaches his disciples how to pray, he warns them of unnecessary wordiness, encouraging them, “Your Father knows what you need before you ask him” (Matt. 6:8). The pile of words isn’t what encourages God’s attention. He’s inclined to hear our prayers because he’s our Father and we are his children.
In our home, Dad notices when kids are feeling out of sorts and grabs the thermometer to check temperatures. When they cry out in the middle of the night, Dad’s the first one up to tuck them back into bed. He knows what they need because his eyes are on them and they’re his kids. In the same way, God cares for us as our heavenly Father.
We don’t approach God like strangers whose words will compel him to act, but we approach God with a childlike heart posture, like little kids getting ready to talk with Dad.
Loved as Children
“He’s here!”
My oldest pressed her faced against the glass until she could see my husband’s car pull into the driveway. Her simple cry of “Dad’s home!” drew the other two away from their play so they could see too.
My children don’t know what it’s like to be an only child. Even my oldest is too young to remember what it was like when it was just her. Similarly, while we enjoy the benefits of sonship with our heavenly Father, we don’t enjoy it as only children—we’re invited into the family of God.
Hebrews gives us a beautiful picture of what the family of God looks like, reminding us that Christ is both our brother and leader in worship (Heb. 2:12–13). Sinclair Ferguson brings this concept to life for us: “[Here], he is pictured among the worshiping people of God, as the leader of their worship. He extends his hands toward his Father. He sings God’s praise and rejoices in the fellowship of his people, saying, ‘Here am I, and the children God has given me’” (Knowing Your Christian Life, 86). This picture reminds us that spiritually, we are not an only child. We enjoy sonship together, alongside fellow believers, and alongside Christ.
I don’t mean to over-spiritualize, but I wonder how the application of this truth might change our Sunday mornings? How might it change the way we prepare our family for an early morning worship service? How might it change the way we greet people in the crowded hallways, or sing that morning’s music, or listen to the sermon? All of these are experienced beside fellow brothers and sisters in the presence of our Father, through the work of the Son, by the power of the Spirit. All of this as family.
Blessing upon Blessing
I love the simplicity of the apostle John’s pronouncement concerning our adoption: And so we are. Our conversion brings about the blessing and certainty of adoption, we need only remember it.
Recalling my friend’s story of the forgiving judge, the judge canceled the guilty one’s debt, but then he simply let him go. The accused’s status had changed, but it’s not like the judge invited him home to live with him as his newest family member.
The parable of the prodigal son contrasts this. The father has every right to cast his son out of sight or force him to live as a servant in his home, but he doesn’t. He looks at his son and he loves him. The son’s relationship with his father isn’t just changed—it’s completely reconciled.
Blessing upon blessing upon blessing. This is the nature of the Christian life, to live not just as Christians, but to live as children.
And so we are.
Ashley Anthony is a pastor’s wife, mom of four, literature instructor, and seminary student. She’s a member of College Church in Wheaton, Illinois, and loves discovering how theological and scriptural truths converge with the daily lives of women. Find more of her writing on Instagram.