My two former students in this family were both adopted. The elder one, a daughter, goes to boarding school in New Hampshire, and the younger one, a son, is currently in the process of applying to high schools. He is a straight-A student and will most likely end up at either Sidwell Friends or St. Albans, the alma maters of Chelsea Clinton and Al Gore, respectively. I cannot help but wonder what their lives would be like today had they been reared by their respective birth parents. I am certain their lives would be radically different, to say the least.

By their adoption when they were infants, these two teenagers were given entrée into a world that they otherwise could only have imagined in their dreams. For over and above the financial security they enjoy, their parents have lavished upon them a love and affection that have nurtured characters of quiet confidence and easygoing generosity.

I have taught many children over the past few years who were adopted, and I know that in this congregation there are at least a few who can claim this privilege. In every instance, I have been impressed by these childrens' gifts, and grateful that God provided parents who are able to nurture those gifts with love and consistent discipline.

I have often felt green with envy of these adopted kids. At such times, I've wondered, why couldn't I have been adopted, too? But then I realize I have been adopted--adopted in two ways, in fact. First, my own parents adopted me as their own by choosing to bring me into the world and then by nurturing me, clothing me, feeding me, and instructing me in the faith. But second, I have been adopted, in the words of Galatians, as a child of God. It is this second sense of adoption that I'd like to reflect on a bit this morning.

In the epistle and gospel for this morning, both Paul and John try to articulate the meaning behind the mystery of Christmas. Each uses a specific vocabulary--Paul the language of Roman lawyers and John the language of Greek philosophers. Their approaches are different and yet they agree in one central point. Paul writes, "God sent his Son in order to redeem [us], so that we might receive adoption as children." Compare this to what John says: "But to all who received him, who believed in his name, he gave power to become children of God."

But what does it mean to become a "child of God?" And what exactly does Jesus have to do with this process of adoption? In Galatians, Paul emphasizes God's action: God sends, the Son redeems, we receive adoption. Our part in this process is primarily passive--faith comes to us, not we to faith. So too, God sends the Spirit of his Son into our hearts, crying "Abba! Father!" Notice that it is not we who cry out to God, but the Spirit of Christ in us. In the larger context of this passage we are slaves, with no rights, "imprisoned and guarded under the law until faith would be revealed" to us. But God is not satisfied with leaving us in the position of abject servitude, and so through God's Son, God decided to adopt us.

In John's gospel, a subtle emphasis is placed on our response to Jesus' birth. John draws a distinction between those who "received him" and those who didn't. "He was in the world, and the world came into being through him; yet the world did not know him. He came to what was his own, and his own people did not accept him. But to all who [did] receive him, who believed in his name, he gave power to become children of God." So we need to "know," to "accept," to "receive" Jesus in some way. And yet John is quick to point out that this response on our part is not enough in and of itself, for we become children of God "not of blood or of the will of the flesh or of the will of man, but of God." Again, it is God's action through Christ that brings us into a new relationship with God, a relationship of adoption.

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At that Christmas party in Chevy Chase I asked one of my former students what it was like to be adopted, and he said it was just a fact, that he doesn't remember being told, he just remembers knowing. Although, he said, he does remember playing a game he called "Little Orphan Boy," where he would go outside and ring the doorbell. His parents would answer the door and he would say "It's cold out here, and I'm all alone." And his parents would say "Oh, dear, come in, come in. May we keep you?" And he would say "Yes, please."

The Christmas story is a version of the "Little Orphan Boy" game. But in this version, the Father already has a Son, but the Son comes outside in the cold looking for little orphan boys and girls. He finds us, and cries "Abba! Father!" "Can we keep him? Can she come live with us?" And the Father says "Oh, dear, come in, come in. May we keep you?" And then we say "Yes, please."

This Christmastide, we have the opportunity to say to God "Yes, please," to affirm or reaffirm God's adoption of us as heirs of God's kingdom through Christ. We are also given the opportunity to reflect on what it means to be a child of God, on what feelings, if any, our adoption evokes. For how we respond to our adoption will determine how we spend our inheritance.

Have you ever considered seriously whether you believe you are a child of God? The phrase itself is used nowadays so loosely that it runs the risk of being cliché. "Child of God": does it inspire awe or call up images of "Precious Moments" coffee mugs? Too often, I hear that I am a "child of God" in a sentimental, metaphorical way, a way that saps the very power of the words.

For me, it is very scary to believe I truly am a child of God. The very thought of it brings a measure of fear; for if I am really a child of God, I suddenly feel the burden of great expectations. Imagine if I were the adopted son, for instance, of Cal Ripken; I would think I'd be a great disappointment to the man, what with my bookishness and all. The boys in the Youth Group have helpfully pointed out how poorly I throw a ball, and I can only shudder when I think of the shame I would feel at not being able to live up to dear old dad. It is a terrible thing to live in the shadow of a great parent. Imagine, then, how terrible it is to live in the shadow of Father God.

Luckily, my own father is a complete failure. Seriously, though, I have been fortunate in that my parents have never hidden their human frailty from me, and the great gifts and talents they do have were never used as a measuring stick of my own. But still, I have often felt painfully unworthy when I take seriously my adoption as a child of God.

Perhaps it is easier for you; if so, I hope you'll tell me why. As for my own experience, I think my feelings have a lot to do with my sense of vocation, not as an ordained person, but simply as a Christian who is trying to live some acceptable version of a faithful life.

At General Convention 2000, our Presiding Bishop preached such a powerful sermon on our vocation as Christians that it brought tears to my eyes. After the sermon, I happened to run into Frank and I asked him "Why is it that in me the deepest sense of call is always accompanied by the deepest sense of unworthiness?" He smiled, and I got the sense the feeling was not unfamiliar to him. "It's God's irony, my friend," he replied.

God's irony. It is amazing to realize that God has adopted us as God's children through Christ, not because we are worthy of it, not because in my case, for instance, I'm witty or can waltz well, but simply because it pleased God to adopt me. And in that adoption comes a call--a call to each of us, calls which differ just as we are different, but is common, I believe, in this one sense: that God calls us out of our weaknesses, not our strengths.

The simple, humbling fact is that none of us is worthy of being an heir to the riches of God's grace, but that God doesn't care whether we are "worthy" or not. God just plain loves us, warts and all. And if that doesn't inspire us with joy and wonder, I don't know what will. Perhaps another of God's ironies is that the simplest truths have to be relearned again and again. For I often forget the joy that comes with my adoption until I remember that God does not, in fact, have any heavy expectations. It isn't up to us; the burdens we must bear as children of God are in fact borne with us--God with us-- by grace. For when Jesus said "Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest," he meant it. "Take my yoke upon you, and learn of me; for I am meek and lowly in heart, and ye shall find rest unto your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light." These words, which always bring to my mind Handel's Messiah, are the words of the Son trying to teach his adopted brothers and sisters what it means to be a child of God. Maybe some day, I'll be able to live this truth without having to be reminded of it all the time. I hope such is already the case with you, and if not, that we can remind each other.