"How Come My Children Don't Believe After All I've Done for Them?" Is the Wrong Question

Parenting is humbling. Life is humbling. Both will teach us that we have far less control than we think--but that's a good thing, when it moves us to find solace in the power and sovereignty of God.

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I have no conscious remembrance of any stage of life when God was not the central factor in my thinking. I was baptized at eight years old, but God was factoring into my thoughts as early as I can remember.

Though I have many times failed at seeking first the Kingdom of God and have more than my share of sins for Christ to atone for, I have, for my entire life, at least aspired to seek first God’s Kingdom and to live a God-honoring life. Part of the reason I feel poorly about myself at times is that I know I have less excuse than most to not be further along on the road to sanctification.

One early morning in prayer, I sensed God leading me to ask what my dad did to lead me in this direction. I had never thought about it. I spend so much time as a pastor trying to help parents lead their children to Christ, to lead the young ones in our congregation to want to seek first God’s Kingdom and to want to obey Christ’s commands, so what did my dad do for me? Why wouldn’t I even reflect on that?

So I did.

My dad was a wonderful, even heroic husband. He was a great moral example of how to live a decent, hardworking life.

But when it comes to spiritual training, I don’t remember a single time that my dad prayed with me or for me.

I don’t remember a single conversation with my dad about how to love Jesus, or pray, or share my faith.

I don’t remember a single time that he quoted a Bible verse to instruct me or encourage me. He didn’t give me a single Christian book, though he did buy me a new Bible that I requested for Christmas one year.

I remember living in great angst in high school because my relationship with my girlfriend was getting too physical, but I found it difficult to stop. The stress at one point literally put me in the hospital (neither my mind nor body does well in unrepentant sin). I told my dad about it and I confessed, “It’s so hard.” He replied, “I know.” That was it. There was no follow-up. No words of instruction. No prayer. Just, “I know.”

But there was one thing he did do—I was in church every weekend, and he and my mother picked out a very good (though very small) church with a wonderful, godly pastor who preached fantastic exegetical sermons.