Jesus replied, “Who is my mother and who are my brothers?” And pointing toward his disciples he said, “Here are my mother and my brothers! For whoever does the will of my Father in heaven is my brother and sister and mother.” (Matthew 12:48-50)
Two Zimbabwean grandmothers hoisted their venerable personages over my truck’s tailgate. I thought to myself, In my own country I’d never think of schlepping elderly women around in the truck bed.
The women had walked five miles to church, stayed after so I could baptize one of them, and were expecting to walk back home again. Even though it was countercultural, I coaxed them into the cab with my interpreter. With three natives and one Anglo crammed in the small truck, I was an ostrich among black swans.
At their village, the eldest matriarch pointed an arthritic finger and asked if she could sing for me. Sweet African lyrics poured from her eighty-seven-year-old face. Her voice was no longer smooth, but her joy was young and spry. The song translated, “This is not home. I’m only passing through. I have a place waiting in heaven.”
The old saint pushed a gift of joyful music past our wide differences and into my lap. I recognized the source of her offering and knew we had identical twins of our most prized possession—faith in Jesus.
The moment my adoption in Christ was sealed, while I still dripped baptismal water, I inherited an enormous family. I now have more in common with remote foreigners who love Jesus than I do with the siblings with whom I shared chicken pox and crazy uncles.
The color of my skin, the language I speak, and the food I eat don’t define me any more than a peel defines an apple. I don’t identify as much with those who are like me in the paper-thin externals, as I do with those who share the same juices, constitution, and core through the Spirit of Christ.
Prayer: Father, thank you for our exciting forever family.