A very Christian post

Yesterday morning in church we looked afresh at the parable of the sower, and, instead of just assuming we were the fertile soil, we were asked to think about the other seeds and what stops them growing, and whether there were any similar obstacles in our lives.

I straightaway thought about a couple of lines from the song we'd sung earlier.

In my Father's house
There's a place for me.

As a result of Husband's interest in genealogy I knew my father, whom I'd never met, lived in the town in which I was doing a part-time Masters degree back in about 2000. I'd drive past his house and think, "What if I knocked on the door? What if I introduced myself? What if . . .?"

I never did of course. Although I did sit in the car opposite the house once or twice, just waiting to see if anyone emerged.

So in my father's house there was no place for me. And that should have been that, but I cannot deny that I still struggle with God as Father. I've been prayed for numerous times, even had therapy, for goodness sake. I should be able to move on. 

But yesterday I wondered again if that difficulty, the idea of God as father, is still a stumbling block in my Christian life. Would I be a better Christian if I would move forward? Would I feel more like others seem to feel, experience more of the joy they seem to experience?

Many years ago I wrote a piece for a Father's Day service in my old church. This is an extract from it:

I can call him Lord, God, faithful one, saviour, creator, anything, except Father. I can’t call him that.

I never knew my father. He disappeared before I was born. I can only assume he didn’t think I’d be good enough to make hanging around worthwhile. 

When you’ve never known a father, it’s hard to accept a father’s love. When all you have is an empty space how can you relate to one others call father?

All the parables, all the stories in the world, don’t make it real, can’t fill a void, make known the unknown. You can say, ‘Our father, who art in heaven,’ without feeling a word of it.

. . . . .

I still can’t call God Father but one day, when we meet, it’ll be the only word I’ll need.