In the ancient world, baby girls were in effect disposable. Women were necessary to produce the next generation, but they could not inherit, fight in wars, or carry the family name, so girls were not generally seen as worthy of much investment. In parts of ancient Greece and Rome, the father was expected to acknowledge the birth of a baby, either to claim the child as his own or deny it a place in the family. While rejected babies were often left to the elements, a few ancient stories tell of astonishing reversals of fortune for those rare rejects—usually born in privilege and always male—who were adopted and raised in households of a lower social status. The ancient Near East’s Sargon, Rome’s Romulus and Remus, and Greece’s Oedipus were all raised in humble homes before returning to claim their natal fortune.

This is the background against which Paul writes to the Galatians that God sent his own Son to be raised by another family—again, one of humble estate—before claiming the kingdom that was rightly his. The Roman Catholic Church calls Joseph the “foster father” of Jesus, but this anachronism only serves to give us a shorthand, a way of relating the story to our experience. Joseph is an earthly father who raises Jesus as his own, though his estate is one of fallen humanity, not the glorious realms to which the child belongs.

In Philippians, Paul gives us another facet of the story, one in which Jesus is not merely a passive player, a baby with no agency of his own. Instead, Jesus voluntarily empties himself of the glories of heaven—his birthright from the foundations of the world—in order to be born into this broken human estate, to be “found in the likeness of humankind.” (Phil 2:7) By divine plan, the Son has emptied himself of his rightful inheritance to be taken in by a foster family of humble origins. Suddenly, stories like that of Oedipus pale in comparison. What worldly prince would choose to become a common man?

If babies could choose their parents, no doubt we all would have chosen supermodels, royalty, scholars, and creative geniuses. We would want parents who could fill us with the good things we want for ourselves. When we stop to think about it, as much as we love our parents, many of us would not choose the parents we had. Yet Jesus seems to have knowingly emptied himself of the perfect paternity to take on a human father and inherit our sin and brokenness.

Paul’s letter to the Galatians, in which we read of a child born into slavery, tells us the other side of the story. In the Greco-Roman world, the children of slaves, being themselves slaves, had neither inheritance nor a place in the civil discourse. Paul describes us all as children born into slavery, but now, in an incredible plot twist, we become sons of a father of much higher standing. This is the reverse of the ancient stories. No longer is the royal son raised in the wild only to inherit his honors after tremendous trials. Now the royal son, Jesus, gives up his crown, so that the sons of slaves can become heirs of the king. We are adopted.

Yet there is still one more amazing plot twist! It is important to ask: Who is “we” in this story? In the ancient world, after all, these adopted and restored heroes were males, heirs whose parents had tried to cheat the fates by rejecting them, but who eventually return in victory. There is a reason all these heroes are males. Females could not inherit, and adoption was all about inheritance. Girls were raised and then sent to become the property of their husband’s family. Girls were intended to produce male heirs who would bear the lineage of another household. Girls were simply a blip on the genealogical radar. Why would anyone want to adopt a rejected girl, invest in raising her, and then send her out to another family?

Before Paul says that we have received adoption (Galatians 4:4), he says something very serious about who “we” are. In Galatians 3:28, Paul, very famously, insists: We are neither Jews, who could inherit the promises of the God of Abraham, nor Greeks, who could not. We are neither slaves, who could not inherit under Roman law, nor free men, who could. We are neither male heirs nor females who were denied inheritance, but “all of you are one in Christ Jesus.” In a world where it was a hopeless lot to be born either slave or female, the birthright of the God of Abraham is now poured out on all manner and condition of people (as the 1928 Book of Common Prayer would say).

God does not need to adopt us. He has a begotten Son who bears the family lineage into eternity. Yet in a divine retelling and reordering of the narrative of reversal of fortune, redemption, and inheritance—the begotten Son lets himself become the child of the poor and hopeless, the unredeemed and unredeemable. The begotten Son will indeed receive the inheritance, but in becoming one of us, he pours out that inheritance on all of his new brothers and sisters by adoption. The Son becomes one of us, so that we might all become sons and daughters—and heirs.

This is the Good News of Jesus’ Incarnation, and of our incorporation into the household of God.  We are not just brought in as hapless foundlings. There is no hopeless person. No one who is not worth the investment. No one who cannot be raised up in Christ to bear the family name and inherit the Kingdom. God adopts us all.