On a more human level, the heavenly voice assures Jesus that, when all his brothers desert him and when his mother has been entrusted into the care of John and when all hell is breaking loose upon him, nevertheless he is still a child. He is always a child, the child of his heavenly Father.

This is something that Jesus will hold on to even in the darkest hours. In Gethsemane, he will pray, “Abba, my Father.” And at the end, he will say, “Father, into your hands I commit my spirit." Jesus is forever the child of God.

In our Reformed tradition, we link our baptism to the baptism of Jesus. That’s why the Catechism says we share his anointing. But we also link our baptism to Abraham. Which means, for us, the story of Abraham is an emblematic story. For us, it’s the story of how God calls the baptized community, of how God calls the church.

Think of God’s call to Abraham. God says, “Get up and go the place I will show you.” That’s all. Abraham has no idea what’s ahead. He only knows he has been called. He only knows that God has promised to be faithful and to look after him and his household. And with that little bit to go on, he gets up and he goes (see Genesis 12:1-9). That’s what faith looks like.

Linda died three years ago. Since then I’ve been haunted by the memory of her long ordeal, haunted by gnawing questions, haunted by my own doubts. I haven’t known what to believe about God and nursing homes. I haven’t known what to believe about God’s presence with Linda, with Linda in that bed, on the ventilator.

But something happened a week or two ago. I was remembering Linda, rehearsing my familiar doubts, when I heard a voice, a voice in my own head. I won’t say it was the voice of God. But the voice spoke up for God. It said, “Trust me. I was with her, always. And now she is with me. I’ve told you, ‘Never will I leave you; never will I forsake you.’ Why would you not trust me?”