4-20-25 “God, My Father and Your Father”

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“God, My Father and Your Father”

I want to start with something funny. I heard a story about three Catholic ladies who were boasting about their sons: One said, “My son is a priest. When he walks into a room, people say, ‘Father.’” The second said, “My son is a bishop. When he enters, people say, ‘Your Grace.’”
The third said, “My son is a broadcaster, six foot three, incredibly good-looking, and always dressed to impress. When he walks into a room, all the ladies say, ‘Oh my God!’”

We all have something we like to boast about. Maybe it’s your children, your education, your home or accomplishments. But the Apostle Paul says in Galatians 6:14, “May I never boast except in the cross of our Lord Jesus Christ, through which the world has been crucified to me, and I to the world.” If we boast in anything, let it be in the Lord. I proudly boast that I can call God “my Father” because of Jesus Christ—who came into the world, died on the cross, rose again, and will come again for you and for me. Apart from this very truth, I don’t think we have anything else worth boasting about.

Today, I want to talk about how wonderful it is that we can call God Abba—my Father and your Father. Do you know why people were so upset with Jesus that they sent Him to be killed? It was because Jesus said, “God is my Father.” That alone was considered blasphemy. The Jewish leaders believed it was a sin even to speak God’s name, much less claim such intimacy.

But Jesus called God “my Father”—and for that, they condemned Him. They didn’t understand what we now know: “For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life.” (John 3:16) This is the truth we believe—but non-Christians do not. We can call God our Father because of Jesus. They cannot, because they do not believe. Later on, the Apostle Paul picks up this language in Romans 8:15 and Galatians 4:6, saying that through the Holy Spirit, we also can cry out, “Abba, Father” — meaning we’re not just followers or servants, but beloved children of God.  Therefore, we can boast in this: God—my Father and your Father—is the Creator of all things, the very Author of life and death.

It’s Easter morning, and I’m so grateful to see you at church today. Every morning, I thank God for the gift of a new day, a new beginning. In a way, we practice death and resurrection every day. Don’t you think? We sleep at night—like a little death—and rise again in the morning. And throughout our lives, we face moments that feel like death: when we lose someone we love; when we hear terrible news from a doctor; when we witness suffering in our world; and when life feels out of our control. But even in those moments, do not forget: There is God—my Father and your Father—and Jesus Christ, our Savior.

There was a woman once, controlled by seven evil spirits. She was an outcast—ignored, shamed, hopeless. But then, she met Jesus, and He healed her. He became her last hope. And then… He died. Her name was Mary Magdalene. Early in the morning, while it was still dark, she came to the tomb. Grief has a way of casting shadows over everything. The world outside was dark, but Mary’s heart was darker still. Her Teacher, her Healer, her Lord—was gone. Even the other disciples had gone home after finding the tomb empty. But Mary stayed. She stood outside the tomb, weeping. She couldn’t give up on finding Jesus. Then she turned and saw a man she thought was the gardener. But when He spoke her name—“Mary”—everything changed.

What a moment. The risen Jesus met her in a garden and simply said her name. It was intimate. Tender. Personal. This is our God. This is Jesus—who steps into our gardens of grief and confusion and calls us by name. And then He says something beautiful to Mary: “Go to my brothers and say to them, ‘I am ascending to my Father and your Father, to my God and your God.’”

Did you catch that? My Father and your Father. This is the first time in John’s Gospel Jesus speaks like this. Before the resurrection, He would say “the Father” or “my Father.” But now—because of Easter—He includes us. Because of the cross and the empty tomb, we are brought into the family of God. We are no longer outsiders or servants. We are sons and daughters.

We can call the Creator of the universe… “Father.” If you are suffering today—don’t give up. God may be working even now.

I want to share a bit of my own story. I had a difficult childhood. I grew up in a patriarchal Confucian household. I witnessed my mother suffer deeply. When she gave birth to me, a baby girl, my grandfather didn’t allow the room to be heated, even in the cold of winter. We endured that bitter cold. As I grew up, I was forbidden to sing or paint. When I reached high school age, they told me I couldn’t go—because I was a girl. There was tension, arguing, and brokenness in our home. My parents eventually left my grandparents’ house so their children could have a better life. We were poor—living in one small room, all seven of us. My father, once raised in wealth, struggled with poverty and became an alcoholic. We lived in shame—for our poverty, and for our drunken father. People in town called us “the drinker’s children.”

One day, a neighbor invited my mother to a prayer house on a mountaintop to seek healing and reconciliation. She fasted and prayed there for three days. In that time, she remembered that she had once been baptized as a child by an American missionary. She repented and promised to lead our family to God. She was healed, and we began attending church. But this upset my grandfather, and my father struggled even more—caught between his parents and his wife. The more we tried to bring him to church, the more he drank. But we kept praying. Every morning, we lifted him up to God. His drinking began to lessen. And finally, on Easter morning in 1993, my father was baptized. It was as if our whole family was born again. We wept with gratitude and joy. My father even convinced my grandfather to remove the Confucian temple and change our family’s traditional customs. Not long after, even my grandparents became Christians.

So I tell you: Hope is not far away. As long as you do not give up, God hears your prayers. He can transform what seems unchangeable.

What does Easter mean to you? It means… you have hope. You are not alone. You are not abandoned. You have a Father. A perfect Father. A faithful Father. A Father who runs to meet you—like in the story of the prodigal son. A Father who knows your name—just as Jesus knew Mary’s.

Maybe this Easter morning you’ve come to church with darkness still hanging over your life—grief, uncertainty, regret. But Jesus meets you in the garden. He calls you by name.

And He says: “My Father is your Father. My God is your God.”

So today, we rejoice—not just because the tomb is empty—but because our hearts are full.

Christ is risen! And because He lives, we live as beloved sons and daughters of the Father.

Thanks be to God. Amen.