“Our father is Abraham!” they declared.
“No,” Jesus replied, “for if you were really the children of Abraham, you would follow his example. Instead, you are trying to kill me because I told you the truth, which I heard from God. Abraham never did such a thing. No, you are imitating your real father.”
They replied, “We aren’t illegitimate children! God himself is our true Father.”
Jesus told them, “If God were your Father, you would love me, because I have come to you from God. I am not here on my own, but he sent me."
"Why can’t you understand what I am saying? It’s because you can’t even hear me!" (John 8:37-43 NLT)
Who is my Father?
To whom do I turn?
To whom do I look?
From whom do I receive strength?
What are the fruits of my thoughts?
Of my words?
Of my choices?
Who finds them acceptable and pleasing?
Who do I declare?
Whose work do I do?
Do I feel a constant connection with loving, gracious, forgiving Jesus?
Do my prayers feel like conversations, or monologues to a silent room?
Does that connection flow out to those around me?
Do the names of men more often come from my mouth than the name of Jesus?
Whose words most often come to my mind, and into my conversation?
Whom do I quote most often: God or men?
Whom do I praise most often: Jesus, or men?
Whom do I thank most often?
Returning from speaking with Aslan: “Emeth came walking forward into the open strip of grass between the bonfire and the Stable. His eyes were shining, his face was solemn, his hand was on his sword-hilt, and he carried his head high. Jill felt like crying when she looked at his face. And Jewel whispered in the King's ear, "By the Lion's Mane, I almost love this young warrior, Calormene though he be. He is worthy of a better god than Tash.”
Then Emeth said: "'Beloved', said the Glorious One, 'unless thy desire had been for me thou wouldst not have sought so long and so truly. For all find what they truly seek.' And since then, O Kings and Ladies, I have been wandering to find him and my happiness is so great that it even weakens me like a wound. And this is the marvel of marvels, that he called me Beloved, me who am but as a dog.” (The Last Battle, by C. S. Lewis)