Abba, Father

It’s a bit unsettling to see the state of the church these days. The faith has been turned into a corporate gospel. Ministers have tuned their churches to the beat of corporate America, standing as little-big-men CEOs of McMansion communication centers bustling with coffee shops, video cameras, surround-sound worship, digital giving, and a profundity of whatever-need-you-can-name pastors all armed with instant messaging and paraphrased scriptures. Corporate forms and corporate goals serve up neutered mission statements of family and self actualization purposed to span across multiple platforms. Emotions have no place in these forward-thinking churches. Believers are to go about their walk of faith like young business executives—completing classes, attending conferences, checking off prayer lists, texting scriptures, giving tithes—and sharing all this productivity to build out the brand.

When you get alone with the scriptures, you don’t see any semblance of that kind of walk. You see another mode of existence. You see a walk that doesn’t stem from a corporate mission statement, but from a depth of love and fidelity that passes natural understanding. And it involves the deepest of our emotions.

In Mark’s Gospel, Jesus was clear about his mission: “I aim to do the will of the one who sent me.” After Judas had betrayed him in the garden of Gethsemane with a kiss and Peter wielded his sword to attack, he told Peter to put his sword down. “Shall I not drink the cup which the Father has given me?” That cup was filled with utter terror.

And he takes Peter and James and John along with him, and he began to be overwhelmed and to suffer distress. And he says to them, “My soul is in anguish, to the point of death; remain here and keep watch.” —Mark 14:33–34 (Bentley)

And an angel from heaven appeared to him, strengthening him. And, being in anguish, he prayed more fervently—with cries and tears, he offered up both supplications and entreaties to the one who was able to save him from death. And his sweat became like drops of blood falling to the earth. —Luke 22:43–44; Hebrews 5:7 (Bentley mashup)

At this pivotal moment in all history, where the fate of mankind hung in the balance, Mark hints at something so remarkably beautiful your heart leaps into your throat when you hear it whispered in your mind.

And going a little ahead he fell on the ground and prayed that, if it is possible, that the hour might pass him by. And he said, “Abba,”—Father—“for you all things are possible; take this cup away from me; yet not what I will, but rather what you will.” —Mark 14:35-36 (Bentley)

Mark retained the Aramaic term of endearment, what little Jewish kiddos would giggle stomping through their houses to show off their latest feats of strength, their doll houses, their drawings, their new words. “Abba!” “Abba!” “Look! Look!”

So loving and intimate.

Facing the climax of the covenant—exile for three days and nights—Jesus looked to his Abba, trusting him to resurrect him out from the dead.

Our redemption isn’t a legal fiction as it is sometimes preached. The reality is that Jesus’ death, burial, and resurrection gave us that very same communion with the Father of spirits. He has sent the spirit of his Son into our hearts and we are now the very sons of God. We can call out to our Abba the same as Jesus did.

For all who are led by the Spirit of God are sons of God. For you did not receive the spirit of slavery to fall back into fear, but you have received the spirit of sonship. When we cry, “Abba! Father!” it is the Spirit himself bearing witness with our spirit that we are children of God. —Romans 8:14–15 (RSV)

And because you are sons, God has sent the Spirit of his Son into our hearts, crying, “Abba! Father!” —Galatians 4:6 (RSV)

Our faith is not about mission statements, sterile rules, endless classes and conferences. It’s about a God who didn’t spare his Son to save us. It’s about our Abba.