Tears streamed down my face as I looked up at the stars. Pale blue was flowing over the horizon and beginning to lighten the dark morning sky. It was a fairly cool morning (as far as Hawaiian weather goes), and though I was only in my sandals, shorts, and t-shirt, I hardly noticed. It’s amazing how lies can sound so true. It’s amazing how truth can sound so foreign. I’ve heard it a thousand times, why was it now so hard to swallow?

The night before was one to be documented. Jonathan David Helser and Melissa Helser had led us in the worship experience of a lifetime. Even after the music had ended we just stayed there, under no compulsion to leave. I sat in the Ohana Court surrounded by the voices of many different conversation. A few words could be made out here and there, but it was mostly background noise. It was 9:30, now half an hour after quiet hours had begun. The night had been electric. Some people had fallen over under the weight of God’s presence, others laughed uncontrollably. The environment wasn’t completely foreign to me, but in that moment I certainly didn’t feel resident. I wasn’t skeptical. I fully believed the encounters with God that people were having around me. How could I not? I had seen people who had never experienced God become completely overwhelmed by his presence. But, despite my best efforts to stir up emotions, I felt distant. So what was holding me back? Why did I feel like I was missing out? Earlier that night there was a lyric that Melissa had sung that stuck out to me like it never had before. “you split the sea so I can walk right through it.” It didn’t feel this way for me. I felt as if I was watching people walk through, but I was spending all my energy swimming and trying to stay afloat, hoping to catch a glimpse of God.

The lecture this week was on identity. It took about 30 minutes for me to see that God was about to deal with some deep issues in my heart. It’s almost embarrassing to say the stuff that I’m learning, because it’s something I was probably taught in Sunday School. This week it was hearing that I’m a son of God. Not an orphan: distant from the father and unsure of his intentions, alone, deprived of love and acceptance, afraid of being abandoned. Not a slave: working hard to catch a glimpse of the Father, using achievements and skills to feel worthy, tired, bitter towards the children who haven’t done enough to earn love. But a son: part of the family, fully seen and fully loved by a Father, secure in an identity that cannot be shaken by failure, grateful and able to receive the good gifts the Father wants to lavish, stable, at rest, giving love away freely, reminding others of their sonship and inviting them into the freedom, concerned only with the thoughts, feelings, and doings of the Father.

I knew I was a son. I could have told you that. I could have taught you that. But then why, in so many areas of my life, did I live like a slave? Maybe it was the years of schooling that convinced me my life was graded. Maybe it was the conditional love of others that told me I had to earn my identity. Whatever it was, it had sunken deep into my heart, and as I looked up into the fading stars, I was forced to face the fact that I could not earn my position as a son.

Looking back on it, I find that most of my profound encounters with God were the ones where I came, not to trade my good works for his attention, but humbled and hungry, ready to receive his affection. “Walk in the house, all that I have is yours” is the invitation. But how often do we, like the older brother in the field (Luke 15), sit outside, working and striving for something that is already ours. I am a son. My relationship with God is sealed. My identity is unshaken. My path is cleared. The veil is torn. The sea is split, and all I have to do is walk through it.