From Bekkersdal to Abba: The Scandalous Grace of Divine Adoption in a Fractured Land
My name is Harold Mawela. I write to you from my study in Akasia, the purple blossoms of Pretoria’s jacarandas a fleeting canopy outside my window. Yet, the fragrant beauty of this so-called “Jacaranda City” is haunted this morning by a more pungent, metallic scent drifting from the south-west: the smell of blood and cordite from Bekkersdal. Nine more lives, extinguished. Ten more wounded. Another tavern, another township, another headline confirming our national agony: a person is killed here roughly every twenty minutes.
In the echoing silence after such news, the grand theological pronouncements can feel like beautiful, useless noise. What does “reconciliation with God” mean when the chasm between neighbour and neighbour yawns so wide, so violently? We speak of being brought from alienation into fellowship, but our land is a tapestry of alienation – from God, from each other, from our own shamed history. Is the gospel merely a spiritual balm for a temporal wound, a poetic metaphor while the world burns?
I submit to you that it is the very opposite. The violent rupture in Bekkersdal is not an argument against the Christian doctrine of reconciliation; it is the very landscape for which that doctrine was forged. It is here, in the rubble of our fractured peace, that the Bible’s most subversive, costly, and intellectually robust truth must be proclaimed: Through Christ, God is not merely forgiving sinners; He is adopting enemies. And this changes everything.
The Chasm and the Bridge: Defining Our True Crisis
Let us first define our terms with precision, for muddy thinking breeds impotent faith.
· Reconciliation (katallagÄ“ in Greek): This is not a gentle reunion of estranged friends. The biblical term comes from the world of Hellenistic diplomacy and conflict resolution, describing the formal peace-making between warring states. It presupposes a state of hostility. Paul is unequivocal: we were "enemies" of God (Romans 5:10). Our sin was an act of cosmic treason, creating what you aptly called an "insurmountable chasm." This is the foundational diagnosis.
· The Bridge (Christ’s Sacrifice): God, the offended party, took the initiative. In Christ, He did not send a neutral ambassador; He came Himself, as the divine Son, and absorbed the violence of the rebellion into His own body on the cross. As theologian Risto Saarinen notes, in Pauline theology, God is always the subject of reconciliation; humans are the object. We do not negotiate this peace. It is proclaimed to us.
· Adoption (huiothesia): Here is where the message deepens from mere peace treaty to family mystery. Adoption in the Roman world—the context Paul wrote into—was not primarily about caring for orphans. It was a legal act where an adult heir was deliberately chosen and transferred into a new family, receiving all the rights and inheritance of a natural-born son. This is God’s astounding end-goal: not just to pardon rebels, but to crown them as sons and daughters. "Predestined us for adoption to himself as sons through Jesus Christ," Paul writes, "according to the purpose of his will" (Ephesians 1:5).
The logical flow is thus inescapable:
1. Humanity exists in a state of active hostility toward God (enmity).
2. God, in Christ, unilaterally acts to remove the cause of hostility through atoning sacrifice (reconciliation).
3. The result of this reconciled state is a new, secure, and intimate legal-family status (adoption).
4. This new identity compels the adopted children to live as agents of the Father’s reconciling love in the world (ambassadorship).
A Common Objection Anticipated: "This is a nice spiritual story, but it’s an intellectual retreat. In the face of real, tangible suffering like in Bekkersdal, isn’t this just 'opium for the masses'—a metaphorical fantasy to avoid the hard work of justice?"
This objection fails on two grounds. First, it misunderstands metaphor. Biblical metaphor is not a decorative lie to make truth palatable; it is a conceptual gateway to a higher, more complex reality. To say "You are the salt of the earth" (Matthew 5:13) or "I am the vine" (John 15:5) is to pack a universe of relational, ethical, and spiritual truth into a tangible image. The metaphor of adoption is the most radical of all: it defines our ontology—our very being.
Second, and crucially, this objection commits the error of false dichotomy. It assumes that a spiritual truth must be disconnected from a material one. But true biblical faith always incarnates. A reconciliation with God that does not manifest as a hunger for reconciliation between people is suspect. An adoption that does not make us care for the orphaned and the broken is a fiction.
The Akasia Parable: When the Judge Takes You Home
Let me make this tangible. Picture our own High Court in Pretoria, a monument to law and consequence. Imagine a young man from Atteridgeville or Soshanguve—let’s call him Thabo—who, through a cascading series of desperate, poor choices, finds himself in the dock. His crimes are real, his guilt undeniable. The evidence is presented, and the wise, stern judge pronounces the sentence. The gavel falls. Thabo’s head bows under the weight of his failure.
Now, imagine the judge stepping down from the bench. He removes his robes. He walks to the dock, not with handcuffs, but with an open hand. He looks at Thabo and says, "The sentence is served. I served it for you. The law's demand is satisfied. Now, come with me. You’re not going to a cell. You’re coming to my home. I am not your judge anymore. From today, you will bear my name. You will sit at my table. You are my son."
This is the scandalous, incongruous grace of God that John Barclay describes—a gift that is utterly disproportionate, that shatters every economy of merit and worth. It is offensive! It is foolishness! The older brother in the Prodigal Son parable is right to be angry (Luke 15). It doesn’t make sense. And that is the point. God’s love operates on a logic that transcends our own.
This is the truth that dismantles the two great cultural errors of our age in South Africa:
1. The Error of Karma vs. Grace: Our world, and our own hearts, operate on a karma-like system: you get what you deserve. Our politics, our economics, even our personal relationships are often transactional. The gospel of adoption declares this a falsehood. God gives what we do not deserve: sonship. This breaks the cycle of revenge, of paying back, of earned status. It is the only foundation true enough to build a new South Africa upon.
2. The Error of Sentimental Spirituality vs. Intellectual Rigor: There is a false version of faith thriving today—a "cultural Christianity" that prizes aesthetic tradition and tribal identity over costly discipleship and thoughtful engagement. It is anti-intellectual, suspicious of science and reason, and often fuels the very conspiracies and fears that fracture society. This is a betrayal of our legacy! We stand on the shoulders of Augustine of Hippo, a North African theological giant for whom reason and faith were inseparable partners in the pursuit of God. To be adopted by the Logos—the rational, structuring Word of the universe (John 1:1)—is to be called to love God with all our mind.
The Call: Ambassadors from a Blood-Soaked Land
So, what does this mean for us, here, now, amid the sirens and the funerals?
It means the message of reconciliation that has reached us is now entrusted to us. We are, in Paul’s daring metaphor, "ambassadors for Christ" (2 Corinthians 5:20). An ambassador does not speak a message of his own making; he represents his sovereign’s heart and policy to a foreign land.
You, believer in Akasia, in Bekkersdal, in Durban or Cape Town, are an ambassador of the adopting King to a nation of the walking orphaned. Our land is orphaned by violence, by poverty, by corruption, by a history that severed families. The message we carry is not a weak spiritual alternative to political solutions. It is the very power that creates a new people capable of enacting those solutions with integrity and sacrificial love.
This adoption is both a present reality and a future hope. We have the Spirit who cries "Abba, Father" in our hearts now (Romans 8:15). But we, along with all creation, groan for the full "redemption of our bodies" (Romans 8:23)—for the day when the violence in Bekkersdal is not just mourned but finally, irrevocably overcome. We live in the tension between the "already" and the "not yet."
Therefore, let us live as who we are. Let the man who knows he is a beloved son of the High King go into his township and be a peacemaker, a reconciler, a father to the fatherless. Let the woman who knows she is a full heir of God’s empire go into her corporate office or her classroom and dismantle injustice with the fearless love of one whose identity cannot be shaken. Let us be a people who, knowing the cost God paid to adopt us, are willing to pay any cost to see His family grow.
The road from alienation to fellowship runs through the hill of Calvary, and it winds through the streets of Bekkersdal. We are called to walk it, not as fearful orphans, but as confident, commissioned children of God. The chasm is bridged. The papers are signed. You are home. Now, go and tell your broken, beautiful world.
https://podcasts.apple.com/za/podcast/from-enemy-to-heir/id1506692775?i=1000742549414
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