Just before her 15-year-old son was shot and killed not far from the Obama’s ‘Tony’ home in Chicago, Timika Ruteledge-German prayed for her youngest child.

According to the Chicago Tribune, the prayer went like this: “‘Cornbread’ [her son’s nickname] is stressing me out. I’m going to ‘Let go and let God.’” According to Rutledge-German, God said, “Ok, I got you.”

And I got this.

Although I’m sure most readers met her assertion that she heard from God with rolled eyes and shaking heads, I’ve had too many words from God (Who’s got this? God asks. You do, I answer, when stress arrives) to dismiss this. Nor can I dismiss what came next.

When Ruteledge-German was asked how she felt about God letting her son die despite his words, she said: “I’m questioning my faith.”

And I got this, too.

This is the awful thing about prayer. About faith. Even about God, if I may be so bold. I believe God hears us when we pray. I believe he turns his ear toward us and listens to whatever we bring him, to our worries, our fears, our frustrations, our petitions, our thanksgiving. And I believe with all my heart, mind and soul that God puts his mouth to our ears and whispers words that comfort and assure, words that sooth and embolden, words that wipe away fears and words that make us believe he indeed has “got us.”

But then, sometimes, he lets us go. Or, lets our kids go. Or, our spouses, parents, friends, neighbors. Or so it seems. Sometimes he assures us a miracle is coming and then no miracle arrives. Disaster strikes.

Two weeks ago, God was hearing three sets of prayers from me after dropping my kids at school. The first he heard was the prayer I always pray: the Lord’s Prayer. This is my daily go-to morning prayer. But when needs are great — or thanksgiving overflowing — I add more. On this day, I added a prayer for a man in my community whose cancer came back. His family believed a miracle was coming — and they asked for bold prayer for healing. So I joined them in this.

And on this same day, one of my kids fretted about a fitness test in P.E. This child happens to also be having a hard time with God, with believing in prayer. So I prayed another bold prayer: that my child would pass this test and pass it well so that my child know God cared.

That day I believe God heard each prayer. I heard him ask, Who’s got this? And I replied, You, God. You’ve got this, as I pulled into my driveway.

That day my child passed the fitness test. With flying colors. The next day, the man in my community died. Of a complication barely related to cancer.

And even as I rejoiced with my child and shared how I had prayed and how God answered, and was real and true and faithful and good, I wondered. The juxtaposition of “answered” prayer next to “unanswered” was a bit much. Even as my child’s faith was emboldened, mine was shaken.

I’ve reached no resolution — even though I know all the different answers. I’ve been a Christian nearly my whole life and have heard all the explanations. I still believe God hears, and I still believe God speaks, and I still believe God’s at work in this world, but prayer, I imagine, will always be one of those things that shakes my faith. That stirs it up. That keeps it alive and interesting, perhaps.

My childhood was spent designing spaceships with legos or impersonating NBA greats on a mini hoop in my basement or refining my radio voice on my boom box.

Somewhere there are videos. My dad was a relentless, and, at times, stealth recorder. I can recall moments I was sprawled out my bedroom floor, surrounded on all sides by legos, completely absorbed in arranging pieces and scenarios, and then I would look up and find him standing there, a smirk hidden behind an old Sony VHS recorder. Once discovered, he turned into Walter Cronkite. He would ask questions or narrate events. It could be well beyond my bedtime, but he would let the red light keep blinking.

When I look back now, this was one of my dad’s greatest gifts. He let the relationship trump the rules. He often had every right to ask me to clean up or come to dinner or go to bed. But he engaged me. He got down to my level and even played along, especially when Brad (gotta have a good radio name) needed a celebrity guest for his show. His engagement gave me the permission to be myself.

Last week on Facebook, I watched a video from a friend of her 2-year-old son saying his ABCs. The whole time he’s holding a stuffed animal upside down against his face. There was no questioning her delight in her little boy even though she made it clear in the caption that she had no idea why he had the bunny. She connected with him because he was being himself, much like my dad found enjoyment in me enjoying play in my own personal way.

So why is it in Christian circles, when we use the phrase “relationship with God” we default to clapping and cheering for people who have hour-long quiet times or day-long fasts? Why is the primary barometer for indicating healthy connection with God our output. It’s no wonder shame is so prevalent when we go a couple days, a couple weeks or a couple months without reading the bible or attending church. We put the onus, the burden of the relationship on ourselves. And often, over time, when we don’t see much reciprocation, we grow weary and wonder, “What is the point?”

We make for a small relationship and a small God when we base our connection only on what we do for God. Our reading. Our praying. Our serving.

When I think about the times I felt most connected to my dad, most loved by him, it was in those moments when he found me in my element and pointed his heart (and camera) at me, as if to say, “This is my son, with him I am we’ll pleased.”

A relationship with God needs to be taken out of the hands of the Pharisees. I think God is less concerned about my performance and more about my personhood. God longs to come alongside of me in those moments and places where I am my silly little self. He wants to make my delight his delight, my play his play.

No relationship gains when we impose our way on another. I felt so alienated from my grandpa (not the one I lived with for a summer) the day he came in from the fields, smelling of diesel fuel, and sat down across the table from me and said, “You need to get a real job.” He could have cared less about my passion for my work and why it brought me joy. He shut me down, kept me from blossoming more into my own skin.

Our thinking needs to shift. Instead of worrying about our output, scripture seems to indicate that we have every right to think about what God has opened. We were designed to walk into the fullness of life. Our experience of this fullness, of becoming our full ourselves, is something that is as delightful to our Creator as earthly parents swept up in the emotion of watching a child perform at a piano recital or cheering them on at a baseball game.

I felt this distinctly about a month ago when I spent four days watching eight documentaries as part of the True/False Film Festival. I skipped church that weekend. I didn’t read my bible. Instead I braved frigid temps and got callouses on my feet because I come alive, and am more myself, when I get caught up in great storytelling. And what I loved, probably more than any of the brilliant art I experienced, is the blessing and smile of God that seemed to follow me all weekend. There was nothing intense or distinctly spiritual about it. It was a connection forged not during some office hours but a life lived with authenticity.

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Image credit: scandigital.com/ and instagram.com/courtsidehoops

Recently, as I began the nightly ritual of putting children to bed, I knelt by my seven-year-old son’s bed and had an unexpected conversation.

“Something happened today, but I don’t really want to tell you,” he started from beneath his Tonka truck sheets.

Since I’ve learned that this is how he prefers to let me know that something is bothering him and that he would greatly appreciate it if I came at the matter sideways instead of head-on, I started the normal tucking in, smoothing of hair, and general bedside routine, and casually asked some questions, about his day at school, the lunch I packed, his recess time…

And it started coming out.

“You know Danny,” he said. “Well, Danny said some not good things.”

“That’s too bad,” I answered. “Did he hurt your feelings, or another friend’s feelings?”

“No, no, that’s not it. He said some not good things about God. He said it was stupid to believe in God.”

“Did you say anything to him?” I asked.

As he shook his head, I thought about how to proceed, only to hear my son share more.

“He also said God doesn’t help children, and then he said something else that I really don’t want to tell you.”

“Well, let’s talk about what you’ve already told me, OK? Did you know it’s always OK to tell someone what you believe as long as you’re nice about it?”

His brows furrowed. “I didn’t want to hurt his feelings, so I just didn’t answer him.”

“It’s so great that you don’t want to hurt a friend’s feelings. I’m really proud of you for thinking about your friend. But, on the other side, it’s not wrong to let him know that you do believe in God. You don’t have to beat him up about it or try to make him feel stupid because he hasn’t been taught about God yet, or anything like that. Just know it’s not wrong to share what you believe — especially when you’re sort of asked — but a lot depends on how you say it. Letting him know you do believe in God and that you’re still respecting his feelings are both great things.”

He considered this perspective.

Now. This is the kid who’s more at home riding his KTM dirtbike on our homemade tracks in the back fields than having a long conversation about events and feelings — conversations so challenging to his personality type that they generally leave him rolling around on the floor and moaning over the steep effort. (You know. Conversations that start with, “Hey, what did you do to your sister when you were playing the Wii?”) Frankly, this conversation floored me. It continued.

“Mom, he said something else, too. Danny said God is stupid.”

“You know, Danny doesn’t know God. If his parents haven’t taught him anything about who God is, then he really doesn’t know for himself. But you know, God loves Danny just as much as he loves you, even if Danny’s not sure about God yet.”

We talked further about handling ticklish spiritual conversations with friends who believe differently from us, and then I prayed with him, kissed him good night, and left him to sleep.

The next night, in the middle of supper, our son piped up and said he had talked with Danny at school.

“Wow, really?” I said.

He had gone up to Danny and asked to talk to him. Now I don’t want to hurt your feelings, Danny, he’d said, but I do want you to know I believe in God.

“Wow!” I said.

Yes, he had told Danny that the bible is a book about God and it says that Jesus loves kids because Jesus said let the little children come to me. And he told him that the bible says that God’s not stupid, God loves us. In fact, it says we can love him because he first loved us.

“WOW!” I said. “You told him all this? What did Danny say?”

Oh, not much. He just said it’s OK.

My husband and I boggled at him as he plied away at his carrots and chicken.

I have a huge amount of gratitude about how my son handled himself throughout this interaction with his school friend, in both conversations. By choosing to value his friend’s feelings and sense of worth over pounding out what he himself has been taught, he maintained friendship with a classmate who is struggling with his picture of God, and by sharing what he does believe, he openly maintained his integrity and core belief in a loving God.

I mean, wow!

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Image credits: education.com and skillsprout.com

Recently we bought a house. It felt like nothing short of a miracle.

We had searched and searched for several years, and after lots of dead-ends and lots of prayer, finally gave up. We told God that we were happy where we were, didn’t have to move, and saw the whole thing as an opportunity to trust him.

And then, the next day, we found the right house.

The circumstances – from stumbling upon the ad in the paper to the timing of the sale – felt orchestrated and good, like a blessing from God.

Later I told the story to a friend, excited to share.

But I suddenly found myself qualifying it. Maybe it wasn’t really the right house for us. Maybe it was all going to fall apart.

I’m good at considering worst-case scenarios, at attempting to prepare for the difficulties that likely are around the next bend.

Even when life is going well, the part that’s about to fall apart feels so close I can touch it. The diagnosis or accident or job loss or death.

I know a woman who predicted a major housing downturn for 20 years. Home prices increased, and she was the naysayer standing on the street corner, ringing the bell and saying not to buy. People made millions, but still she said the crash was coming.

When the US housing bubble burst, she said, “See – I told you this would happen.”

That’s how it is with disaster: if you predict something terrible for long enough, you have a good shot at being right. Even Jesus told us, “In this world, you will have trouble.”

I read those words and wondered if I was right to expect disaster.

But the thing is, Jesus didn’t only tell us that troubles are guaranteed. Right after that, he says: “But take heart! I have overcome the world!”

I’m left wondering. What should I expect in this world where troubles are guaranteed? And, what should I expect in this world where a good God has overcome?

I can expect the trials, wait for them, count the days until they happen and then shrug and say, “I knew that was coming.” Or maybe I can learn to expect the one who’s bigger than any trial or trouble.

Maybe I can expect God.

One way I’m trying to expect God is through prayer. I pray for what I’m worried about, and then – a new part for me – I thank God in advance for everything he has already set in motion to answer my prayers. Even if the answer isn’t one I would choose, I know he’s in it.

We haven’t moved into our new house yet. But as we wait, I will try not to expect the worst.

Instead, I will expect God. I know I won’t be disappointed.

And that’s a good expectation to have.

For my 30th birthday, my wife and I took a trip to Cabo San Lucas with some friends. Cabo is a world of recreational activities. Jet ski’s, ATV’s, lobster dinners, snorkeling adventures, all for free. All you have to do is sit through a short timeshare presentation. And by timeshare presentation, I mean having your willpower strained to its absolute breaking point while being guilted into thinking that you are a horrible person for taking advantage of such an offer by not making the purchase of a lifetime on behalf of your family…don’t you care about your family?!

Before we went in, my wife and I huddled up and planned our attack. We weren’t going to be bowled over by the pressured sales pitch. We would remain strong. We weren’t going to buy anything we didn’t actually want.

Sales people scare me, especially the good ones. Resisting all the lures, the emotional hooks, and the atmosphere of urgency has this way of sucking out every last bit of emotional energy my insufficient batteries hold. I leave exhausted, if not completely depressed.

We made it out of there, this time, with surprising ease, but not because of our intense willpower as much as our empty bank account. Some of our other friends weren’t so lucky. Not that a timeshare in Cabo is a bad thing. But the pressure to commit to something we wouldn’t choose if left to ourselves is enormous.

As a pastor, on Easter Sunday, I look up at many new faces, many staring at me with looks of determination not to succumb to the hard sell. All they have to do is make it through the service that they’ve obligingly agreed to attend for the sake of their parents, their spouse, their neighbor, even their conscience. On the other side of it all is Easter brunch, colored eggs, lots of candy, and family. They just have to endure the pitch.

I know that many regulars in my congregation might be hoping that I will “close the deal.” I get that. And yet spirituality is so much more complex and fragile than that. Hearts open so tenderly. Inside are many wounds and disappointments, legitimate questions and doubts. To reduce this down to a sales pitch, feels to me, the worst sort of violation.

We’ve turned belief into commitment, and those aren’t the same thing at all. You can commit to something you don’t believe in. I once heard Dallas Willard say, “Believers are self starters, but those who have committed to what they don’t believe will have to come back again and again to be re-convinced.” Sometimes I think we have whole churches stuck in this pattern of continual recommiting.

But belief goes much deeper. It goes down to our very will, our heart. I’m reminded of Pascal’s famous line that, “there are reasons of the heart that reason knows not of.” And these matters go down so deep! Like Solomon says in Proverbs 20:5, “The purpose in a man’s heart is like deep water, but a man of understanding will draw it out.”

As I stand behind the pulpit on Easter morning, I am reminded that only He can heal the brokenhearted and bind up their wounds. What freedom this brings! Jesus doesn’t ask us to commit to something we don’t believe. Instead, He presses into our hearts, patiently and persistently disarming our guardedness and chasing us as we withdraw. But never to the extent that man’s will is overridden. Peter asks us to share our hope with gentleness and respect. Our Father does the same, protecting the fragile will and breathing new life into it. But only if we will open up to receive.

This is why He tells us to seek, and that if we do, we are certain to find him. To first ask, and then it will be given. By inviting us into the process he is not only restoring our hearts, but preparing us for the life we were meant to live. To bring us into relationship and intimacy with God himself.

And what we find is that even a little bit of belief will do. I love the prayer of the man in Mark asking Jesus to cure his demon possessed child. He asks, “Can you?” and Jesus responds, “‘If you can!’ All things are possible for one who believes.” Immediately the father of the child cried out and said, “I believe; help my unbelief!”

And Jesus’ response? Essentially, “That’ll do.” Rather than an all or nothing pitch, Jesus takes the faith that is there and uses it to transform, to bring healing and renewal, and to restore life. And this is the offer we have, extended to us all, each day. We are invited to press in further. To be believers.

And this is why the sales pitch fails so miserably. Pressure and guilt never reaches the heart. Only the reality of his steadfast love and its actualization on the cross can truly mend the brokenhearted.

As a pastor, I’m aware that this process is continuing in my own heart. I feel God leading me further and further into my unbelief, and helping me unpack my own self-protective behaviors and learn to love others more fully. To trust in his goodness in the midst of the storms of life. And to trust that he is doing the same work in those around me. It frees me to keep my focus where it belongs, in abiding and allowing him to bear the fruit.

And so I ask my congregation the same question that God is daily asking me. “Do you want to believe?” I do. Help my unbelief.

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Image credits: concord.bbb.org and practicaltacticaltraining.com