Spirit-Born: Living as Children of God

There’s something sacred about a courtroom when the stakes are high. Not the kind with drawn-out legal battles and cold procedural exchanges—but one filled with hope. A courtroom where a child, weary from years of instability, stands before a judge. They’ve lived in the shadows of uncertainty: bounced between homes, forgotten by systems, surrounded by questions. "Where do I belong? Am I wanted? Will anyone ever say, ‘You’re mine’ and mean it forever?"

Then beside that child stands a couple, eyes glistening with the kind of love that only comes from perseverance. They’ve waited. Prayed. Labored through red tape. Their hearts already made room for this child long before the courtroom date was set. And then the judge speaks the words that change everything: “From this day forward, you are no longer in temporary care. You are now their child—fully, legally, forever.”

The gavel strikes. The child’s name is changed. Their story redefined. Their identity sealed.

This, friends, is the heartbeat of Pentecost.

We often picture Pentecost as wind and fire, rushing sounds and supernatural languages. And yes, those elements are part of the story. But if we stop there, we miss the deeper reality. Pentecost is God’s courtroom scene. It’s the day when the Holy Spirit was poured out not simply to empower mission, but to finalize adoption.

You are no longer a spiritual orphan. You're not on probation in God’s house. You are adopted. Chosen. Named. Loved.

When Paul writes in Romans 8 that those who are led by the Spirit are children of God, he’s not offering a metaphor. He’s describing a new reality. He says plainly: we did not receive a spirit of slavery that drives us back into fear. We received the Spirit of adoption. The same Spirit who hovered over the waters in creation now hovers over your heart—and declares you belong.

Think about the disciples before the Spirit came. They were locked in a room, afraid of what might come next, unsure if the story had really ended at the cross. But when the Spirit fell in Acts 2, everything changed. Fear gave way to boldness. Silence gave way to proclamation. These once-terrified followers stepped out into the streets and began declaring the wonders of God in every language imaginable.

What happened? Belonging happened.

The Spirit didn’t just light their heads on fire with symbolic flame. He lit their hearts with the conviction that they were no longer lost. No longer waiting. No longer wondering. They were His. And so they spoke—not out of performance, but out of identity.

We need to hear this again, maybe more than ever. So many of us live like we’re still on trial with God. Like we’re waiting for the final verdict. If we behave, if we do enough spiritual things, if we stay clean, maybe—just maybe—we’ll get to stay in the house.

But Pentecost says the paperwork is already filed. The gavel has already fallen. Your name is on the family tree.

The adoption Paul speaks of was not symbolic. In Roman society, adoption carried full legal weight. An adopted child had equal rights—inheritance, protection, a name. In fact, in many cases, Roman adoption was seen as more secure than birthright, because it involved intentional choice.

That’s the kind of adoption God gives.

When Paul says the Spirit enables us to cry “Abba, Father,” he’s not giving us a theological term—he’s giving us a family one. “Abba” is the word a child says when they know their voice is welcome. It’s the name you whisper when you don’t need to prove anything, when you’ve fallen and you know who’ll help you up. It’s the opposite of “Sir.” My children have always known the difference. They can call someone else “Mr.” or “Sir,” but I’ll always be “Dad.”
And so it is with God.

Of course, being adopted doesn’t mean life is easy. Paul is quick to add that if we are children, then we are also co-heirs with Christ—which means we share not only in His glory, but also in His suffering. That’s the mark of a real family, isn’t it? We hurt together. We heal together. We hold each other up.

Peter, the same man who denied Jesus just weeks earlier, stands up in the power of the Spirit and proclaims the Gospel with courage. He quotes the prophet Joel, declaring that the Spirit is for all people—sons, daughters, the old, the young, even those on the social margins. The Holy Spirit, it turns out, doesn’t discriminate. God’s family is bigger than we thought. And the inheritance? It’s for everyone.

That’s the wild grace of Pentecost. Not only does God bring us into His family, He then says, “Let’s go invite more people in.”

You are not only adopted. You are empowered.

And that empowerment isn’t about hype or spiritual theatrics. It’s about language—real, heart-level, life-shaping language.

At Pentecost, the miracle of tongues wasn’t random. It wasn’t a spectacle. It was strategic. Every person in Jerusalem heard the message of God’s love in their native language. And that tells us something critical about the Spirit’s work. He doesn’t erase your story—He redeems it. He doesn’t flatten your culture—He honors it. He equips you to speak the Gospel not by pretending to be someone else, but by letting your life become a translation of His love.
You might not speak Mandarin or French or Arabic, but you speak parent. You speak coach. You speak social worker or small business owner or student or artist. You speak quiet encouragement or contagious laughter. You speak casserole delivered at just the right time or childcare offered when someone’s at their wits’ end.

The Spirit of God fills you to speak His message—in the language of your everyday life.
And here’s the beautiful part: the more you walk in the Spirit, the more fluent you become in the language of heaven. You begin to speak love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control—not as forced behaviors, but as fluent responses. That’s what happens in a family. You start to sound like your Father.

The Spirit’s work is not confined to Sunday. He fills every part of your life with purpose. He makes all of us leaders. He invites all of us to the table. He sends all of us into the world, not to strive for approval, but to live out of adoption.

And He doesn’t wait for us to feel “spiritual” before He moves. The Holy Spirit isn’t a good-luck charm. He is the Father's signature on your birth certificate—the seal that you belong.
So what does this mean for you, today, right now?

First, it means you can breathe. You don’t have to hustle for belonging anymore. You’re not trying to earn a spot. You have it.

Second, it means you can live boldly. You’re not just a believer. You’re a witness. Someone who carries the language of the Gospel into the spaces only you can reach.
And finally, it means you can hope. Because you’re not alone. Even in suffering, even in silence, even in uncertainty—the Spirit within you cries out to the Father. And your Father hears. Every time.

So here are a few questions to sit with this week:

1. Are you living like someone who’s still waiting to be adopted—or like a beloved child who knows they’re home?
2. What voices of fear or insecurity need to be replaced with the Spirit’s whisper of truth?
3. How might God be calling you to speak the language of His Kingdom—in your work, your family, your neighborhood—this week?

I’ll end where we began: back in the courtroom.
The gavel has fallen. The adoption is complete. Your name is changed. Your story is rewritten. You are no longer lost. You are no longer “trying out” for God’s family.

You are Spirit-born.
You are adopted.
You are home.

So walk like it.
Speak like it.
Live like it.

Because you are the proof that Pentecost wasn’t just wind and fire. It was family being born.