At the Table

At the Sunday evening service, as we sang another chorus of "How Deep the Father's Love for Us," I started to recoil inside. The more I considered the depth of God's love, the more uncomfortable I felt. How could God love me this much? And if I believed that, wouldn't I need to love him just as much? I didn't know if I could do that.

My friends kept inviting me to hang out with them and Sam. They were patient and kind with him, whether he was depressed or acting out. Whenever we drove home from an evening together, we shared how hard it was to be his friends. I knew they were loving him the way Jesus would, but I couldn't do it. I stopped going over to see Sam.

I was talking with a friend who told me he keeps praying, "God, what do you want me to do with my life?" He said, "I'm still looking for God's answer." I wanted to give him something better than a bumper sticker answer.

I watched the worship band slowly develop the intensity of the opening song. With each repetition, they layered in drums, another guitar, or another vocalist. By the time we segued into the second song, hands were raised, and the congregation was caught up in worship. But I didn't feel anything. So I wondered, are we feeling the presence of God or the vibe of a concert? The Bible says God is near. Why does he sometimes feel so far away?

In seminary, I spent fifteen minutes a day memorizing Scripture. It seemed like the kind of thing a future pastor should do. I felt proud of my dedication to God, but I didn't become more humble, forgiving, or kind.