In July of 2007, Joel and I decided that we wanted to adopt a child.  That child did not come home until January of 2009.  It was an excruciating wait, as it is for most adoptive parents, the days and months and even years pass, and you wait for your child.

            We went through the process, like so many others, of getting fingerprinted, gathering documents, collecting references, home visits, interviews, informational meetings and educational sessions.  And throughout this process, we had to be honest about our strengths and weaknesses, our families of origin, our hopes and dreams for a child.  We had to decide what level of special need we were willing to take on in a child, and we had to talk honestly about race and racism, as we prepared to adopt a child of color.  It was no easy path; it was full of tears, full of anxiety, full of questions.  But it was also exciting – full of joy and possibility and eager anticipation, as we awaited the child who would complete our family.

            But there was nothing like that day, June 24th of 2008, when I first saw the photo of the little boy who would become my son.  I opened my e-mail that morning, and there it was, a picture of Johnny, with his wide brown eyes and his long beautiful eyelashes, and I knew that I would love him forever.

            As the months passed, I waited with desperation to bring him home.  I checked my e-mail every minute of every day, waiting for new photos, new messages, new stories about Johnny.  And when a volunteer would send me a photo or an e-mail, I would read it over and over again, I would print out the photos and take them with me everywhere, I clung to the photos and the stories of my son, as I waited to bring him home.

            I loved him before I knew him.  I loved him before I met him.  I loved him before I held his hand.  This is what adoption is to me.  This choice to wait, to work, to want a child so badly that you give your everything to bring him home.  To love someone so much that all of the waiting, all of the work, all of the investment – is totally worth it. 

            And that is why this piece of scripture is so beautiful and meaningful to me.  Paul writes that we, too, have been adopted.  That God loves us like a father, like a mother, who longs for a child, who clings to her photo, who waits and watches and loves with a boundless, uncontrollable passion.  That God declares that all of the waiting, all of the work, all of the investment is totally worth it.  We are totally worth it.  We are adopted by God, we are loved always and forever, no matter what.

            Paul writes that we have a spirit of adoption, and he does mean this in an intimate, familial way.  The word he uses for God, “Abba,” is the same word that Jesus uses to address God, the Aramaic word for father.  This is a very personal word that first-century Jewish children used to address their dads, in the familiarity of their own homes.  When Jesus dared to address God in this manner, eyebrows were raised.  Who did this guy think he was to dare to talk to God like this?  Did he really think God was his dad?  Did he really think he was God’s child?  That is exactly what Jesus was saying and that is exactly what Paul is saying, too.  This privileged status that Jesus proclaimed is now our status, as well.  Jesus is God’s son, and so are we, adopted into the family, joint heirs with Jesus himself.   

            This is a radical way to approach faith for Paul.  In the Roman Empire, Augustus declared himself a god, and later his son Julius claimed to be son of god.  For ordinary people to see themselves as “children of God” alongside the “son of god” was audacious and preposterous, yet this is precisely what Paul proposes.  Ordinary people, people like you and me, are just as valuable as Augustus, just as valuable as Julius Caesar, just as valuable as Paul.  We are joint heirs with Christ, adopted into God’s family, with Jesus as our brother, with all of us, beloved children.

            Now this way of approaching faith is not without its challenges.  Because if we are all so beloved, if we are all so cherished and anticipated, and valuable, then that means all of us.  If we are all adopted by God, then that means we are all brothers and sisters.  All of us.  And when we turn to our Gospel reading for today, we realize that sometimes it is hard to see the beloved in one another.

            The parable of the weeds and wheat rings oh so true in any community of faith, in any family, in any workplace, in any town, in any country.  We look out at a field, we know that the farmer sowed good seeds, and it should be full of wheat.  Full of that precious wheat, valuable and good.  For aren’t we all valuable and good – isn’t that what we just learned from Paul?  But when we look closer at the field, we see that someone has planted weeds.  And not just any weeds – tare weeds – the ones that suck up precious nutrients and water, its roots surrounding the roots of good plants, making it impossible to pull out without damaging the good crop.  Above the ground, the tare looks very similar to wheat, but the seeds it bears are poisonous.

            The workers look out at this field that should overflow with abundant wheat, and see the weeds among the wheat.  And so they are ready to go right in and rip out all of the tare weeds.  But the owner says no – don’t do it.  If you rip out the tares, you will also destroy the wheat.  Leave it there, and at harvest time, it will all be sorted out.

   

           Now, the book of Matthew, where this parable is found, was written within the church community of Antioch toward the end of the first century.  What had begun as a church of Jewish Christians was expanding due to population shifts and all of a sudden, there were weeds in the midst of the wheat.  Or, at least, the church leaders were beginning to see some of the members of the Antioch congregation as weeds.  And so this parable addresses those who would exclude some from the abundant field – even if you think they are weeds, leave them alone.  Some weeds look like wheat, and some wheat looks like weeds – so why don’t you just let God sort it out in the end?  


          One of the challenges of reading this text rests in an anthropological assumption common in the ancient world: people are either of one type or another.  A person is either a weed or wheat.  But in modern times, we don’t often divide people like that.  We see that there are mixed motivations in all of us, that each of us is some mixture of holy and unholy, that there is some wheat and some weed in all of us.  But even in the midst of that reality, this parable still rings true.  We allow ourselves to be ourselves, weeds and all, knowing that God will help sort us out in the end, that God will help get rid of that which is evil and harmful and hurtful and unhealthy.  God will gather us up in the end.

            When we see these two scriptures side by side, we hear a powerful message about who we are as God’s children.  First and foremost, we are beloved, cherished, children of God, joint heirs with Jesus.  Secondly, we are a mixture of good and bad, and God knows this, and God loves us anyway.  Third, these scriptures apply to the people in the pews next to us, and to all the people we know.  They are beloved, cherished children of God, they are a mixture of good and bad, and God know this, and God loves them anyway. 

These two scriptures speak to how we relate with God and how we relate to one another.  God loves me, honors me, cherishes me.  God love you, honors you, cherishes you.  And so we are brothers and sisters, adopted together by God.  Full of weeds, full of wheat, together we are imperfect family, loved by a perfect God.

            Adoption is an imperfect system, and it always comes from loss.  The child loses his or her biological parents, and in many cases, the child loses country, culture, language, and friends.  In our situation, we had to wait and wait and wait for Johnny, while he had to wait at an orphanage, facing disruption after disruption in his young life.  I went to visit him in October of 2008, and leaving him was one of the hardest things I have ever done in my life.  After spending a week holding him, laughing with him, watching him take a few first steps, I had to say good-bye and fly half-way around the world, not knowing when I would see my child again.  This is an imperfect situation, a situation full of loss, challenge, and change.

            Our faith life is like that.  Our adoption by God is imperfect, because we are imperfect.  There are times when we feel God’s love flooding us, when we know that we are cherished and sacred and whole.  But sometimes, we feel alone.  Sometimes, we feel like God got on a plane and flew half-way around the world and we don’t know when we will see God again. 

            Our faith life is hard.  We may lose culture, family, and comfort, when we follow God and walk in the ways of Jesus.  When we are adopted by God, joint heirs with Christ, we might have to face loss in order to fully join the family.  It is not always easy.

            Our faith life is challenging.  We get adopted into a family with all these brothers and sisters that we did not choose.  Like a child trying to come to terms with a new sibling, we have to learn to love people we did not choose.  Being adopted by God means that all of a sudden, we have a bunch of brothers and sisters, and we are called to love them all.  We are not allowed to pull up those we see as weeds and toss them to the side.

            Adoption involves identity issues.  Some day, Johnny may wonder why his biological parents could not raise him.  He may wonder if he was wanted, if he was abandoned, if he is less worthy than other kids.  And I will tell him how much I wanted him, how much I waited for him, how much I clung to every photo, every story, every little bit of news I could get about him.  I will tell him that I wanted him more than I have ever wanted anything in my life.  He is not less worthy than other children, he is of infinite, unimaginable value.  He is my heart.

            I know there are days when we may ask similar questions.  We see the weeds inside ourselves, and we begin to believe that we are weeds, that we are less worthy; we may begin to feel abandoned and alone.  But God is telling us how much God wants us, how much God waits for us, how God clings to our hearts, to our lives, to our souls.  God is telling us that God wants us more than anything else in the world.  God is telling us that we are not less worthy than any other child; we are of infinite, unimaginable value.  We are God’s heart.

            So don’t ever let yourself believe that you are a weed.  Because you are a beloved child of God – adopted by a God who loves you even more than I love Johnny.  Adopted into a family of brothers and sisters – where we are all cherished, we are all valued, we are all worthy.  Because even though we may have a few weeds in our soul, God sees the wheat, even when we can’t see it…and God loves us always and forever.  No matter what.

            Amen.