~Mark 9.36-37
The Greek word for "receive" here is dechomai, which has the following meanings:
1) to take with the hand
a) to take hold of, take up
2) to take up, receive
a) used of a place receiving one
b) to receive or grant access to, a visitor, not to refuse intercourse or friendship
1) to receive hospitality
2) to receive into one's family to bring up or educate
c) of the thing offered in speaking, teaching, instructing
1) to receive favourably, give ear to, embrace, make one's own, approve, not to reject
d) to receive. i.e. to take upon one's self, sustain, bear, endure
3) to receive, get
a) to learn
My dad stood silhouetted in the doorway, saying something. Fifteen years of cranial dust has accumulated over most of my mental pictures from childhood, but not this one. Lights flicked off, quiet dark.
What did he say? Something about Heaven and Hell, something about forgiveness. Oh, and I needed forgiveness. Scarce over half a decade in the world and my heart was angry and selfish and so dirty.
One might note my developmental inability to comprehend the complexities of soteriology, the consequences of a covenant, the magnificent scope of redemption. You could argue I hadn't a clue what I was getting into.
Except Jesus wasn't asking a theology expert to come articulate how He works. He wasn't surprised when I later wanted out. He didn't desire an international leader to make the world new.
He wanted me. And I knew I could be wanted, loved, dechomai-ed, because I had watched His children receive me and one another over and over. Watched them wrap their arms around a family that had to put their baby in a box. Watched them dole out coloring sheets and stickers and genuine smiles. Watched them forgive and listen and laugh and love.
So on my knees before the blue cargo couch, I asked forgiveness. I received Jesus. And somewhere beyond the living room couch and before the stairs, I knew.
Yes, I had received Him, but far, far greater, Jesus had dechomai-ed me. He took hold of my hand, received me into His friendship and family, embraced me, made me His own.
And, far more than I knew, He took me upon Himself. He sustained me, bore me up, endured me.
Fifteen years of story later, I'm still not a theology expert. I still don't know how much following Jesus will cost. I will never be involved in the full extent of what God is up to in the world. But Jesus loves me. This I know.
So I'm journeying to a dot on the map in the middle of the mountains to join a community of Jesus-lovers who take children whose own families cannot keep them and receive them in Jesus' name. Because when my flesh for a moment quits roaring for all it's worth, I cannot help but hear the heart of God beat to dechomai all His lost children, to bring them in, to lead them home.
