Free Abba's Child: The Cry of the Heart for Intimate Belonging by Brennan Manning

“No one knows the Son except the Father, just as no one knows the Father except the Son and those to whom the Son chooses to reveal him” (Matthew 11:27). My dignity as Abba’s child is my most coherent sense of self. When I seek to fashion a self-image from the adulation of others and the inner voice whispers, You’ve arrived; you’re a player in the kingdom enterprise , there is no truth in that self-concept. When I sink into despondency and the inner voice whispers, You are no good, a fraud, a hypocrite, and a dilettante , there is no truth in any image shaped from that message. As Gerald May noted, “It is important to recognize these self-commentaries for the mind tricks they are. They have nothing to do with our real dignity. How we view ourselves at any given moment may have very little to do with who we really are.” [2]
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    During the course of a silent directed retreat, I journaled the following:
    Wernersville, Pennsylvania, January 2, 1977   —Outside, it’s dark and below zero. That pretty well describes where I’m at inside. The opening night of an eight-day retreat and I’m filled with a sense of uneasiness, restlessness, even dread. Bone weary and lonely. I can’t connect two thoughts about God. Have abandoned any attempt at prayer: It seems too artificial. The few words spoken to God are forced and ring hollow in my empty soul. There is no joy being in His presence. An oppressive but vague feeling of guilt stirs within me. Somehow or other I have failed Him. Maybe pride and vanity have blinded me; maybe insensitivity to pain has hardened my heart. Is my life a disappointment to you? Are You grieved by the shallowness of my soul? Whatever, I’ve lost You through my own fault, and I am powerless to undo it.
    So began my annual retreat. The physical fatigue soon passed, but the spiritual dryness remained. I groaned through two hours of desolate prayer each morning, another two in the afternoon, and two more at night. Always scatterbrained, disoriented, rowing with one oar in the water. I read Scripture. Dust. I paced the floor. Boredom. Tried a biblical commentary. Zilch.
    On the afternoon of the fifth day, I went to the chapel at four p.m. and settled into a straight-backed chair to begin “the great stare”   —meditation.
    For the next thirteen hours, I remained wide awake, motionless, utterly alert. At ten minutes after five the next morning, I left the chapelwith one phrase ringing in my head and pounding in my heart: Live in the wisdom of accepted tenderness .
    Tenderness awakens within the security of knowing we are thoroughly and sincerely liked by someone. The mere presence of that special someone in a crowded room brings an inward sigh of relief and a strong sense of feeling safe. The experience of a warm, caring, affective presence banishes our fears. The defense mechanisms of the impostor   —sarcasm, name-dropping, self-righteousness, the need to impress others   —fall away. We become more open, real, vulnerable, and affectionate. We grow tender.
    One of my favorite stories is about a priest from Detroit named Edward Farrell who went on his two-week summer vacation to Ireland. His one living uncle was about to celebrate his eightieth birthday. On the great day, the priest and his uncle got up before dawn and dressed in silence. They took a walk along the shores of Lake Killarney and stopped to watch the sunrise, standing side by side with not a word exchanged and staring straight at the rising sun. Suddenly the uncle turned and went skipping down the road. He was radiant, beaming, smiling from ear to ear.
    His nephew said, “Uncle Seamus, you really look happy.”
    “I am, lad.”
    “Want to tell me why?”
    His eighty-year-old uncle replied, “Yes, you see, my Abba is very fond of me.”
    How would you respond if I asked you this question: “Do you honestly believe God likes you, not just loves you because theologically God has to love you?” If you could answer with