Abba’s Daughter

I just finished reading a book called The Chosen by Chaim Potok. The oddest thing happened to me over and over again while I read this book. Each time the Jewish boy Reuven, the main character in the book, spoke to his father, I choked up and fought back tears. Why did this happen to me? It happened because each time Reuven had a conversation with his dad, he called him "Abba." No, I'm wrong. He called his father "abba." There was no capital letter. For Reuven, "abba" wasn't a special title; it was a common word for a special relationship.

For years, I have struggled to understand what it meant that Jesus called God "Abba" in the following verse: "Abba, Father, all things are possible for You. Take this cup away from Me; nevertheless, not what I will, but what You will."

My own dad was in and out of my life. A distance exists between him and myself that time cannot close, because the time to build that relationship has passed. Even if we were to become very close in the future, the relationship will still be an adult one. I have never had to depend on him for my well-being and, while we have a very good relationship, it will never be what it might have been.

I learned years ago that "Abba" means something like "Daddy." But I've never felt what it feels like to call someone Daddy. My own father was always "Dad" to me. As far back as I can remember, I maintained a slight distance between him and myself and chose to refer to him by the more formal name, "Dad," out of a lack of trust. Since I have become a mother, I look to my own children to observe what it might be like. My firstborn son sometimes gives me a glimpse into that feeling. When he wants to discuss something meaningful with me, my oldest will address me as "Mommy." His voice even gets softer and he makes it evident that he's looking to me as an authority. It is a sweet moment when he calls me "Mommy." I treasure these moments. But I don't really know what it feels like myself.

So, I was reading The Chosen, which is a book about two Jewish boys and their different families. The first time Reuven called his father "abba," I was shocked. I didn't know that the word was still in common use (the book was set during World War II and the creation of the state of Israel). He said it during a common conversation and it came out of his mouth casually. As the book went on, Reuven used the word over and over again: in conversation after conversation. Reuven called his father "abba" casually and easily. And each time, he said it, I understood more clearly what it meant for him, and what it meant for Jesus, and what it means for me.

For Reuven, calling his father "abba" was natural and right. It wasn't a word to be used only at a special time or at a time of deep distress, as Jesus was in the garden of Gethsemane. No, "abba" was for anytime, any place and any conversation: during peace and during stress. This must have been the case for Jesus, as well. How many times on how many mountains on how many solitary occasions did Jesus talk to his father in conversations calling him, "abba"? We don't know how Jesus addressed his father when he went off by himself all those times. Those prayers, those conversations, were not recorded. And yet, he must have said it then and many times. Reuven sat down at the table to discuss spiritual matters with his father on a regular basis, and called him "abba" at that very table. Can't we safely assume that Jesus, as he sat down to discuss spiritual matters with His Father, also called Him "Abba?"

But why did I cry? What difference does it make to me what name Jesus called God? It matters to me because I am an adopted child of God. I care because Paul tells me in the book of Romans, chapter 8, verse 15 that I "received the spirit of adoption by whom we cry out , 'Abba, Father.'" I have been given the right to call God, "Abba." I am allowed to call him, "Daddy." He wants me to; and I haven't been able to understand what that means. I haven't known that kind of relationship before. I cried because the Jewish boy Reuven, Chaim Potok's creation, was teaching me what it means to be the daughter of a Father: my own "Abba's" daughter.

How Deceitful is the Human Heart

How do we teach our kids to overcome when we feel so defeated ourselves? My son has talents that he has developed through hard work, but his current situation makes him feel like a failure. I know the truth. I understand that he is interpreting the situation wrong. He cannot see the truth through what he feels. And this hurts me in a particular way because I see parallels between him and myself.

I also have been caught in a situation which makes me feel like a failure. Relief has not come and may not for a while. Consequently, like my son, I am convinced that I am less than what I ought to be. It saddens me to see that he has inherited this trait from me. Like myself, he is driven to succeed; and equally like myself, he is overly hard on himself. I suppose they go hand in hand.

And yet, I work hard to convince him that he is wrong. I do it because he is wrong, and because his negative thoughts prevent him from being better. He believes he cannot do well, and so he drags his feet. He doesn't try because he doesn't see the point. He does what he has to when he has to, but he doesn't take joy in it. If he had confidence in his abilities, he would perform like a champ because he is fully capable of doing so. But now, he just goes through the motions because his heart tells him otherwise.

I could be describing myself. I have been around long enough to know where my talents and abilities lie, and yet I feel heartsick. I don't start what I know I should be doing because I feel like I'll fail before I even begin.

Like my son, what great things could I be doing if I could only see more clearly? No, not simply see, but believe more clearly. We tell him what we see, but he doesn't believe us, and continues in his disappointment. I tell myself what I know, but I don't believe it, and I continue in my disappointment.

And yet, I know, for both of us this is only temporary. It just hurts a little more to see my reflection in him. I hurt for him and for myself. And I realize just how much we both need to believe more Truth.

"The heart is deceitful above all things…"

And I wonder… how long will we believe our own illusions? …And what could we both be accomplishing if we would both cast our feelings aside?