Children of God - Not Idols

Most of us spend a surprising amount of our lives trying to answer a single question:
Who am I—and how do I know I’m okay?

We look for the answer everywhere. In achievement. In approval. In performance. In belonging. And when those things fail—as they inevitably do—we often assume the problem is us.

In 1 John 2:28–3:4, the apostle John interrupts that story. Writing to believers tempted to define themselves by what they do—or fail to do—he begins with a declaration of identity:

He starts by naming us children.

“See what kind of love the Father has given to us, that we should be called children of God. And so we are.”

Before we are anything else—successful, broken, faithful, distracted, impressive, disappointing—we are children.

And children do not get to choose their parents.

Whether we like it or not, our parents are the first and most powerful architects of our identity. The older I get the more I realize my deepest identity work happened when I was most vulnerable—least defended, least capable of discernment. Words spoken casually. Love given inconsistently. Safety offered—or withheld. All of it got absorbed into my psyche.

It is no wonder that we now spend millions of dollars and countless hours on psychologists’ couches trying to unwind what was handed to us by parents who were often doing their best… while themselves being painfully immature.

Seen from that angle, it is almost a miracle that the human race has survived at all.

And into that reality, God speaks first as our perfect Father.

John asserts that our truest identity does not begin with our earthly parents—good or bad—but with our Heavenly one. This is a message of freedom.

Whatever stains you carry from the failures, wounds, or limitations of your earthly parents are not the final word. They are not the deepest truth about you. In Christ, a new identity is imputed, not achieved. You are named before you ever perform.

So the first invitation of this passage is simple and profound:
Rest.

Rest in the love that named you.
Rest in the belonging you did not earn.
Rest as a child, not an employee.

But John’s words also carry a second, quieter warning.

Because while we may confess God as Father, we are remarkably quick to adopt ourselves out to other “parents”— idols that promise security but cannot love us.

Money.
Status.
Health.
Success.
Religion.
Approval.

Most of us imagine an idol as a carved figure or a religious shrine, but biblically, an idol is anything visible or measurable that we give our trust to for security and identity—yet offers no grace in return.

These are like parents who demand much, offer no grace, and never stop asking for more. They scrutinize. They compare. They shame. And when we fail them they withdraw affection without explanation.

Everything we know about healthy identity—psychologically and spiritually—points to the need for an environment rich with security, love, compassion, guidance, grace, and hope. Idols provide none of these.

And yet we sacrifice our God-given identity on the altar of whatever is right in front of us—whatever is loudest, most visible, or most urgent—convinced it will finally make us safe, secure, and happy.

It never does.

John’s warning is not abstract or moralistic. It is deeply relational.
Do not give your heart to parents who cannot love you.

Remain in Him.
Abide as His children.
Live from the identity He has given you, not the one you are desperately trying to earn.

Because the tragedy is not that we fail.
The tragedy is that we forget whose children we are.