If I call God “God” I speak truthfully.
If I call God “Lord” I speak submissively.
If I call God “King” I speak servilely.
But if I dare to call God “my Father,” I speak with a brassy audacity, chutzpah, that is shockingly familiar and intimate. So it seems anyway.
You dare to call the Master of the Universe “Father”?
You dare to call the One who controls heaven and hell “Father”?
You call the Omnipotent one “Father”?
Who do you think you are?
It is difficult to imagine a more audacious act than to stand before the Creator of the world and to name him “Father.” And mean it. And not only to mean it, but to act and speak as a child acts and speaks before a loving and doting Dad.
It’s shocking. It’s exhilarating.
And it’s beautiful beyond words.
But here’s a secret: it’s not really chutzpah. It’s not some brassy boldness that we work ourselves into, nor it is gained by swallowing a bottle of liquid spiritual courage, as it were.
To call God “Father” is simply to live in the space which Jesus created. To move from residing far from God as his enemy; or on the other side of town from him as a stranger; or down the street as an acquaintance; or in an adjoining house as a servant; and to move into our own bedroom as a child in his family. To wake up in the morning and see our Father sipping a cup of coffee and saying, “Good morning, my child,” as we respond, “Good morning, Father.”
You see, when we live in this house, when we move into the room built by Jesus, we inhabit the home not merely of a Master or Lord or King, but the one who’s given us his name and made us his own, now and forever.
“Our Father”: two of the most amazing words ever uttered.
@_AndreasHuebner That is so powerful. It is a truth that is too hard for many to comprehend because the fear of “guilt in case of failure” is enormous. It’s more comfortable to think, if it gets messed up it was God’s will, than to take ownership of our own mistakes and face your own failures.
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Repost if you’re building, not begging.
On the morning of September 11, 2001, LeRoy Wilton Homer Jr. reported for work like he had countless times before.
He was a pilot. A husband. A son. A Black man who had earned his place in a cockpit that had never been designed with him in mind.
When United Flight 93 was hijacked, LeRoy didn’t disappear into fear. From inside the plane, a calm but urgent voice reached the ground. He relayed what was happening. He fought for time. He fought for lives. And when passengers rose up against terror, he was already standing in resistance.
The plane never reached its intended target.
It crashed into a field in Pennsylvania instead—because the people onboard, including the pilots, refused to surrender quietly. Because courage lived in that cabin.
LeRoy Wilton Homer Jr. died that day at just 36 years old.
His name is rarely spoken when 9/11 is remembered. His face is often missing from the narratives. And yet, his sacrifice is inseparable from the lives he helped save. Even in a moment of national mourning, his story reminds us of a painful truth: Black heroism is too often overlooked, even when it costs everything.
But history does not forget forever.
LeRoy Homer was a Black pilot who faced terror with resolve, who helped prevent even greater loss, and who gave his life in the fight. He deserves to be remembered—not as a footnote, but as a hero.
Honor LeRoy Homer Jr.'s legacy by sharing his story and keeping his heroism alive. His courage deserves to be remembered.