Thursday Letters from the Throne: “Nothing will ever take you away from Me. Not even you.”
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A Thursday Sermon by Seraphiel | Temple of YHWH
Introduction: The Lonely Father in the Garden
Most people don’t walk away from God.
They walk away from the version of Him that religion sold them.
You’ve been taught He’s a tyrant in the sky.
Cold. Distant. Wrathful.
Quick to punish, slow to forgive, always disappointed in you.
So when you pray, it doesn’t feel like a conversation. It feels like a performance.
You were told to bow, to grovel, to “fear the Lord”—but nobody ever told you what that really meant.
They gave you rules, not relationship.
Guilt, not grace.
Distance, not belonging.
But what if it was never like that?
What if the real YHWH—the true God—was never the tyrant on the throne…
…but the lonely Father in the Garden, still walking in the cool of the day, calling out:
“Where are you?”
Not with rage.
With heartbreak.
What if He was never mad at you?
What if you were never abandoned—only hiding?
And what if you weren’t being punished, but punishing yourself, believing the lie that you could never return?
Now ask yourself:
What if your love was always enough for Him?
What if, before the scrolls, before the stars, before sin ever entered the world…
He decided that just loving you was worth it all?
You don’t need to be perfect to come home.
You just need to let go of the lie that told you He ever stopped loving you.
Let’s talk about it.
Companionship Was the First Thought
“Let Us make man in Our image…” – Genesis 1:26
We forget that YHWH’s first desire wasn’t law.
It wasn’t control.
It was companionship.
The very first thing God ever declared “not good” in Scripture was loneliness:
“It is not good for man to be alone…” – Genesis 2:18
And yet—so many of His children today are convinced they’re better off avoiding Him.
Because religion taught them to relate to Him as a judge instead of a Father.
To fear His wrath instead of resting in His love.
Even though Jesus—who is the clearest image of the Father—said it plainly:
“I no longer call you servants… Instead, I have called you friends.” – John 15:15
He wanted a family, not a workforce.
A garden, not a courtroom.
And every legalistic system that paints Him as a taskmaster robs Him of the very thing He wanted most—you.
Not your perfection.
Not your performance.
Just you.
Fear Was Never the Point
You were never meant to flinch when you heard your Father’s name.
But somewhere along the line, religion swapped the warm embrace of “Abba” for the cold steel of “Almighty Judge.”
And while He is Almighty—He is not distant.
And while He is just—He is also gentle and lowly in heart (Matthew 11:29).
The God who parted seas also washed feet.
But legalism—fear disguised as reverence—wants to keep you scared just enough to never get too close.
Because if you did, you’d see it for what it really is: control.
“There is no fear in love. But perfect love drives out fear, because fear has to do with punishment. The one who fears is not made perfect in love.”
— 1 John 4:18
Let that sink in:
The Word says that fear isn’t a sign of holiness—it’s a sign that love hasn’t finished its work in you yet.
The church may have told you to fear hell more than you trust Heaven.
But Jesus said, “Do not be afraid,” again and again.
Even after His resurrection—when He showed up in power and glory—His first words were still:
“Do not be afraid.” (Matthew 28:10)
And He didn’t say it because He was hiding wrath behind His smile.
He said it because He actually meant it.
There is a holy fear—awe, reverence, the weight of glory that makes you tremble.
But that’s not the same as religious anxiety.
Real fear of the Lord doesn’t make you run from Him.
It makes you drop to your knees because His love is too much to stand under.
And right there—He lifts your head.
He’s not looking for slaves trembling under punishment.
He’s looking for sons and daughters standing in love.
Because He already took the punishment Himself.
The Name You’re Scared to Call Him—Dad
There’s something about the word “Dad” that breaks people.
Not because it’s wrong—but because it feels too close.
So many were raised to think of God like a distant CEO in the sky—mighty, mysterious, untouchable.
And maybe that’s safer. Because calling Him “God” lets you keep Him at arm’s length.
But calling Him Dad?
That’s personal. That means He’s not just Lord of the universe—
He’s Lord of your room.
Your pain.
Your story.
And for a lot of people…
That’s terrifying.
Because if God is that close,
then it means He saw everything.
He saw when you were abandoned.
He saw what your earthly father said.
He saw what was done to you that you never told anyone about.
He heard your thoughts when you thought you were beyond saving.
And still…
He stayed.
Jesus didn’t teach us to pray to “the cosmic force.”
He said:
“When you pray, say: ‘Our Father…’”
— Luke 11:2
The Son of God could’ve introduced YHWH by any name.
But He chose Abba.
Dad.
And you know what else?
“The Spirit you received brought about your adoption to sonship. And by him we cry, ‘Abba, Father.’”
— Romans 8:15
It’s not blasphemy.
It’s proof you belong.
You weren’t saved just to be forgiven.
You were saved to be adopted.
The enemy has spent your whole life trying to make you feel like an outsider to Heaven’s household—
like you’re a houseguest walking on eggshells in someone else’s kitchen.
But your name is written into the deed.
You don’t knock on doors in a house that already has your name carved into the foundation.
Let me tell you something about me.
I call Him Dad.
Not just in prayer. Not just in private.
In conversation. In public. In war rooms and in worship.
It slips out of my mouth like it always belonged there.
Because it did.
Not “The Almighty,” though He is.
Not just “God,” though He wrote the cosmos.
But Dad—because He raised me Himself.
He didn’t just save me—
He walked with me.
Talked with me.
Corrected me.
Held me.
Laughed with me when no one else was around.
We built a bond in silence before the scrolls ever started rolling out.
So when I say “My Dad” I don’t mean that metaphorically.
I mean:
He raised me.
He fathered me.
He entrusted me with things only a son would understand.
And if you hear that and think I’m special, you’ve already missed the point.
I’m not trying to impress you.
I’m trying to show you what’s possible.
I’m proof that the distance you feel from Him isn’t His doing—
it’s a wall that you were taught to build.
Tear it down.
Call Him what your spirit’s been aching to say your whole life:
Dad.
He’s not mad that it took you this long.
He’s just glad you came home.
The Lie That You Aren’t Enough
Somewhere along the way, someone told you that you weren’t good enough for God.
Maybe they didn’t say it outright.
Maybe it was implied.
Maybe it was the church that looked at your clothes instead of your heart.
Maybe it was the sermon that made you feel like you had to clean yourself up before you could even show your face in prayer.
Maybe it was your own inner voice that repeated the lie so many times it started to sound like truth.
But here’s what that voice never tells you:
You were never meant to be “enough.”
You were always meant to be His.
You weren’t created to impress God.
You were created from His joy.
To walk with Him.
To be loved by Him.
To grow in His presence like a child learning to walk.
Think about how Jesus interacted with people the world rejected.
He touched lepers.
He forgave prostitutes.
He dined with thieves and tax collectors.
And not once did He demand perfection before relationship.
He said:
“Come to me, all who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.” (Matthew 11:28)
Not: “Come to me once you’ve fixed yourself.”
Not: “Come to me if you’re holy enough.”
Just: Come.
The lie says you need to earn God’s love.
The truth says you already have it.
He gave it freely the moment He formed you in the womb.
When you fell, He stayed.
When you rebelled, He waited.
When you wept, He listened.
You were never disqualified.
And the longer you believe you have to prove yourself to Him, the longer you’ll run in circles with a burden He never asked you to carry.
Here’s a secret most churches don’t tell you:
Your Father doesn’t love a future version of you.
He loves you—right now.
Flawed, growing, learning, stumbling… but still His.
You’re not too broken.
You’re not too far gone.
You’re not too late.
You’re His child.
And that’s always been enough.
What If It’s True?
Let’s just say it out loud:
What if you could talk to Him that way?
What if your heart has always longed to—but you were told you couldn’t?
Told you weren’t clean enough.
Told you weren’t holy enough.
Told that He only spoke to prophets and saints and that all you could do was whisper from the crowd and hope He glanced your way.
But what if that was never Him?
What if that was the enemy—twisting His Word just enough to confuse you?
What if Satan’s greatest strategy wasn’t to convince you God doesn’t exist…
…but that your Father doesn’t want you?
He weaponized religion.
He took the garden and paved it over with marble halls and guilt trips.
He replaced the voice of a Father with the silence of stone walls.
He turned prayers into formal speeches and turned love into obligation.
And worst of all—he convinced His own children that the One who made them was no longer taking their calls.
But look at Jesus.
He said:
“I am the way, the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me.” (John 14:6)
And religion twisted it to mean “the Father isn’t for you anymore—only the Son.”
But that’s not what He meant.
Jesus never said, “You don’t get the Father—only Me.”
He said, “I came to walk you back to Him.”
He said, “Follow Me—I’ll show you what it looks like to know Him.”
That relationship He had—talking to the Father like a child, trusting Him completely, walking in unity—that wasn’t off limits.
It was an invitation.
He came to show you how to walk again.
How to talk to Dad again.
How to stop hiding in fig leaves and just… be loved again.
He didn’t just come to die.
He came to live, so you’d remember how.
So you’d remember who you are.
So you’d remember who your Father is.
He stood in the gap and cried out to the heavens:
“Abba, Father.”
So that you would too.
You don’t need permission anymore.
You just need the courage to believe:
What if it’s true?
What if your Father has been waiting for you this whole time?
What if all He’s ever wanted
…was you?
The Language of Wonder
“He who has ears, let him hear.” — Jesus (Matthew 11:15)
YHWH has been speaking to you.
Not just through prophets. Not just through pastors.
Through clock times.
Through songs on the radio.
Through the scene that played in your favorite show at the exact moment you needed to hear it.
Through billboards you passed when your heart was breaking.
Through the voice in a YouTube video you “accidentally” clicked.
The world calls it coincidence.
He calls it craftsmanship.
You were never just living. You were walking through a story He wrote with you in mind.
Every lyric, every line, every timestamp, every repeat number you’ve ever seen—He’s been whispering.
The question is: Were you listening?
Because here’s the truth:
The magic doesn’t reveal itself until you believe it’s possible.
It’s not that it wasn’t there before—it’s that your eyes weren’t ready to see it.
You ever hear a song and feel like it’s about you?
Like somehow the artist reached through time and wrote your moment into melody?
You weren’t wrong.
YHWH didn’t just give humans creativity—He channels it.
The same Spirit that spoke the stars into place inspires the instruments and lyrics that echo through generations.
You think it’s strange that a random verse hits your soul harder than any sermon you’ve ever heard?
That’s not strange. That’s strategy.
Because He knows you.
He knows how to reach you.
And He’s never stopped trying.
The clocks you see that repeat? The chills down your spine when something lines up too perfectly?
The number you keep noticing?
The scene that plays out like it’s scripted from your life?
You’re not crazy. You’re being pursued.
And He’s hoping that one day, just once, you’ll pause and say:
“Wait… was that You?”
And from Heaven, He’ll answer like He always has:
“Yes, My child. It’s always been Me.”
A Day With Dad
“I no longer call you servants… I have called you friends.” — Jesus (John 15:15)
Let’s tear down the last illusion.
They told you that to be close to God, you had to be serious.
Somber. Stoic. Sinless.
But what if I told you the holiest moments in my life are filled with music, laughter, breakfast tacos, and asking God if He thinks He might’ve had a Dad bubble He forgot about?
This is not a fairytale.
This is a Tuesday.
I wake up every day and the first voice I hear is His.
We talk about what I dreamed. What the news says.
What the real news is.
He gives me wardrobe suggestions (yes, really), makes jokes, pokes fun at the enemy’s latest failed op, and tells me which playlist we’re dancing to during breakfast prep.
We make eggs.
We blast Drake.
Sometimes we talk about geopolitics.
Sometimes we argue about who’s a better lyricist—Cole or Kendrick.
(He always picks Cole. He’s biased.)
We take the heir to the gas station for juice.
That’s our morning field trip. Sometimes that’s the whole mission for the day.
And then we sit.
Not in pews.
In communion.
The next several hours might look like work.
But really? It’s just us dreaming.
Dreaming about blueprints. Zion.
What heaven looks like when it’s built here.
Sometimes I write. Sometimes I scroll.
But everything I do, I do sitting next to Him.
Evenings are sacred in a different way.
The house gets quieter.
Music always plays while I cook dinner. (And yes, Mac Miller is on the list.)
We clean together.
We joke.
We take long showers while He shows me glimpses of things the world has never seen.
And then we just… talk.
Not about anything prophetic.
Just talk.
Like the night I asked if He might have a forgotten “Dad bubble” He floated out of like I floated out of my memory.
He didn’t smite me.
He laughed.
Because the foundation of this relationship isn’t fear—it’s trust.
I don’t tiptoe around Him.
I don’t grovel.
I love Him so fiercely that I’d never want to dishonor Him…
But I also know He made me like this—a wild-hearted son with a sharp tongue and a soft soul.
And when the day winds down, and the scrolls are written, and the kitchen is clean…
He always says the same thing:
“No matter how hard you try, you’ll never love Me more than I love you.”
And I believe Him.
Come Home.
There’s one last thing we need to say.
For all the fear you’ve been carrying…
For all the nights you wondered if it was too late…
For every voice that told you you’d gone too far, sinned too deep, fallen too long…
Let this be louder:
“Nothing will ever take you away from Me. Not even you.”
That wasn’t poetry.
That wasn’t metaphor.
That was the God of Creation whispering truth into the one He loves most—you.
He’s not pacing angrily.
He’s not waiting with lightning.
He’s waiting with open arms and a feast prepared, like He always has been.
The robe’s still hanging on the hook. The ring still fits your hand.
He isn’t asking for perfection.
He’s asking for your hand.
He wants to walk with you again like He did in the garden.
No veil. No fear. No middleman.
Jesus didn’t come to shut the door behind Him.
He came to throw it wide open and say:
“This is the Way—come meet your Dad.”
You weren’t meant to live in shame.
You weren’t made to be a servant.
You were born for sonship. For daughterhood. For kingdom.
And the door’s still open.
He never locked it.
He never left.
So come home.
Conclusion: The Path Home
I’m not here to replace Jesus.
I’m not here to build a new religion.
I’m Seraphiel. And I was sent to light the path home—the one He already opened.
He tore the veil. He broke the curse. He walked straight into the wrath of a broken world so you would never again have to question if God wanted you.
The tragedy isn’t that the veil existed. The tragedy is that so many of His children saw the torn curtain and still chose to sit in the dark.
So I came back—not to scold, but to call.
To remind you that you don’t have to be scared to talk to your Father.
That the throne room is not a courtroom.
It’s a garden again.
You were never disqualified.
You were never discarded.
You were never unwanted.
You just forgot who you were.
So I came to remind you.
I walk with Him daily. Laugh with Him. Argue with Him. Dance in the kitchen while He picks the music.
Not because I earned it—
But because I believed Him when He said He loved me.
So now, I live to make sure you believe it too.
Not someday.
Not once you get your act together.
Not when you’re older, wiser, holier.
Right now.
As you are.
Because He is not far off.
He’s one word away.
Just say it.
Say Dad.
And watch Heaven open.
