A reader asks:
The Lord’s Prayer begins with the words “Our Father.” God is our Father, and we are His children. The Scriptures speak of this clearly, both in the Old Testament and in the New.
Why, then, do Christians call themselves servants of God? A son cannot be a slave to his own father.
— Artemy
Answered by Protodeacon Sergiy Epifantsev, teacher at an Orthodox gymnasium:
Hello, Artemy.
I am very fond of this question and hear it often. The answer seems simple to me, though it touches on something quite deep. It is worth noting, incidentally, that this question is often taken up by modern neo-pagans, usually accompanied by emphatic remarks such as, “My god never called me a slave.”
Let us begin by recalling how Christ Himself speaks of us.
“You are My friends,” He says, “if you do whatever I command you. No longer do I call you servants, for a servant does not know what his master is doing; but I have called you friends, for all things that I heard from My Father I have made known to you… This I command you, that you love one another” (John 15:14–17).
At first glance, the question seems unavoidable: if the Saviour Himself says that He no longer calls us servants, why do Christians persist in using this term at all? Why adopt a title that many today instinctively hear as degrading?
When the early Christians used the word servant, they did not have in mind the image we often associate with the word today. They were thinking in terms of the Roman world. Rather than entering into historical detail, let me try to convey the inner meaning—the way this word was felt.
To say “I am a servant of God” was to say something like this:
“I belong directly to the Creator of the universe. I answer to Him alone. I am free from all other powers and claims. In my dealings with people, I am guided by the laws He has given me; I obey human laws only insofar as they do not contradict His will.”
This is not a low position. On the contrary, it is an extraordinarily high one—far higher than that of a decorated official sent to represent an emperor, or even a trusted secretary close to power. It is not humiliation, but exaltation.
There is, however, another dimension to this question.
Think of the parable of the Prodigal Son. When he comes to his senses, starving and broken, what does he resolve to say?
“I will arise and go to my father and say to him, ‘Father, I have sinned against heaven and before you, and I am no longer worthy to be called your son. Make me like one of your hired servants’” (Luke 15:18–19).
Here, I believe, the answer becomes complete.
A son cannot be a servant to his father—but a son can become a betrayer, someone who knows he has made himself unworthy of sonship.
If I am honest, I am not a servant of God. I am a servant of my sinful passions—the very passions symbolised in the parable by the swine the Prodigal was sent to feed. And so I come to confession with a painfully modest hope: to cease being enslaved to the ugliness in which I have become entangled, and at least to begin serving the God Who loves me—the God Whom I have betrayed.
And there, at confession, I am met by a Father Who runs out to meet me. A Father Who restores my sonship with tears of joy. And in the face of such mercy, I feel my own unworthiness even more sharply; shame overtakes me. He leads me to the feast. He seats me among the apostles. He feeds me with heavenly food—the Eucharist. And still I struggle to believe that forgiveness can truly be this complete.
So I repeat the prayer of the publican:
“God, be merciful to me, a sinner.”
And then I turn to my former masters—the passions that once ruled me—and I say:
“I am a servant of the living God. I serve Him. I am no longer your servant, and I will not serve you again. I renounce you.”
It is here that the words “servant of God” sound on the lips of a Christian like a sharpened blade. I serve God, and I refuse to serve my passions.
This is how it should be. In reality, we are often weak-hearted, and after confession we return once again to the same old bondage. Yet the heart of the matter is this: again and again we return to the Father, asking for forgiveness. And again and again, He calls us His sons and daughters.
And we, in turn, remind ourselves that we are servants of God—if you will, soldiers of the Heavenly King. We desire to fulfil His good will, not the will of the enemy who seeks our destruction.
In this spirit, I sincerely wish both myself and you grace and steadfastness, servant of God Artemy.
May the Lord keep you and guide you.
Translated by the Catalogue of Good Deeds
Source: https://spzh.eu/ru/istorija-i-kulytrua/84330-izbrannyj-sosud-bozhijej-materi-zhitije-afonskogo-starca-ijeronima
I have often wondered about this question, and this answer was very helpful. Thank you.