I love my parents. Through 30 years they have been consistent in their love, their provision, their guidance (discipline!) and security. I know that not everyone has this experience, and that really is tragic. Recently I’ve been reflecting on Sonship, so I thought I’d take a break from writing about coffee and write about being a son.

I love being a son because it means I have a place in this world. When my parents got married they decided to have children, as most married people do. My imagination is not terribly brave so I don’t know the details of how I came into their existence, or how well I was planned, but I know they wanted to share their love with children. They may not have planned a boy with blue eyes who would be born in June, but they did plan to have a family. That means my being here is no accident. It’s also no fluke; my body is a combination of their DNA. No matter how lost I feel in the world I know I’m here because they wanted me here.

I love being a son because it means I don’t have to do it alone. In fact everything I have ever achieved I owe to my parents. They taught me great values, fed me well, put me in good schools, taught me to study, encouraged me to participate, gave me books to read, read them to me, carried me everywhere in a van. I know I’m not self-made.

I love being a son because it means I’m loved. I’ve crashed their cars, harassed their other children, wasted their money, accidentally killed their pets and hid a lot of dirty mugs in my room. And still they love me. We’ve had some serious issues over the years, and yet somehow there was always enough of that really sticky type of love to hold us together.

I love being a son because it means I have an identity. My second name is ‘Henry’, after my dad’s name. I’m proud of the ‘van Lieshout’ surname, and the heritage that precedes it. I like my name, and all the roots it represents. It helps me realise that I am somebody, somebody bigger than the 80kg guy sitting at the table in the coffee shop.

Recently I discovered that the phrase ‘Son of’ was not just a conjunction in those endless family trees in the Old Testament. In ancient Hebrew culture your identity was made up of your name and your fathers name. Thus your identity would be the combination of the two, like Solomon Son of David. Which just sounds like a sentence but is in fact an identity. In Hebrew the word for ‘Son of’ is ‘ben’, so the name would read Solomon ben David. Which sounds a bit more like a name.

It’s all very interesting because in the New Testament we are all called Sons (and daughters!) of God. Rom 8:15, Gal 4:6, Gal 3:26, Rom 9:26 and 8:14 all affirm our adoption as sons and daughters through Jesus. Which I’ve now realised is a whole lot more meaningful than just having another father in another realm. Being Richard Son of God means I have an identity way bigger than the 82kg guy sitting at the coffee shop (that muffin was enormous).

It also means all those earthly things I love about being a son are actually shadows of the real thing. I have a place in an infinite universe. I have an infinitely powerful presence with me. I am loved infinitely. My identity stretches into eternity.

So it is with you, sons and daughters of God. Despite the earthly representation the heavenly reality is perfect. And the family is open…