The Kind of God I Want

Tomorrow is my birthday, and for some reason I’ve found myself thinking about faith.

As a child, I was exposed to church early. I loved God in the innocent way children often do, before theology becomes debate and religion becomes performance. But as I grew older and began forming my own worldview, I started noticing what I believed were inconsistencies in the Bible and in religion generally. Eventually, I reached a point where I declared I would never get baptized.

Still, somewhere in the back of my mind lingered a fear that had been planted early: unbelievers burn in hell. So even as my beliefs shifted, I never fully let go. Fear has a way of keeping a small room inside you permanently occupied.

Then, in 2006, a pastor named Dan Smith visited our university during a week of spiritual emphasis. To this day, he gave some of the most beautiful sermons I have ever heard.

Up until then, religion had mostly felt heavy to me. The message was usually some variation of: “repent, for all have sinned” (^{Romans 3:23}). Jesus is coming soon. You do not want to burn in hell.

But this pastor preached differently.

He took stories I had known since childhood and illuminated them from a completely different angle. One sermon was about the prodigal son (^{Luke 15:11-32}). Most people focus on the rebellious son and how badly life humbled him. But Pastor Smith focused on the father.

The father who waited.

The father who saw his son while he was still far away and ran toward him. The father who embraced him before explanations were offered. The father who clothed him in the best robe and slaughtered the fattened calf so they could celebrate.

“So you’re back?”

“No apology first?”

“I told you so.”

Just joy that his son had returned home.

And I remember thinking: that’s the kind of father I want.

I have been blessed with an amazing earthly father, so it never made sense to me that our heavenly Father would somehow be colder, harsher, more vindictive, and less approachable than the best versions of human love we experience here on earth.

That sermon stayed with me.

Another one I remember vividly was about how many of us grew up hearing phrases like “carry your cross” (^{Luke 9:23}) and “this world is not our home” (^{Hebrews 13:14}). Somewhere along the way, faith started sounding like a contract with misery. As though suffering itself were proof of holiness.

But Pastor Smith spoke about how Jesus said He had come that we may have life, and have it more abundantly (^{John 10:10}). He spoke about how Christ said His yoke is easy and His burden is light (^{Matthew 11:28-30}).

And then he said something I have carried with me ever since:

If your religion feels heavy, something is wrong with it.

That sentence lifted a weight from my shoulders.

But Pastor Smith did not hand me a finished worldview. He simply opened a door. The next part, I had to wrestle with myself.

It led me to a realization about faith itself.

We often talk about faith as the ability to move mountains (^{Matthew 17:20}), perform miracles, or somehow force outcomes into existence through sheer belief. But I have come to think that losing faith is not primarily about doubting miracles.

It is about believing the biggest lie of all: that God does not love you.

Once you believe that, everything else changes. Every hardship begins to feel like punishment. Every unanswered prayer feels like rejection. God becomes less of a father and more of a scorekeeper keeping tally of your failures.

Life presents countless opportunities to believe that lie.

Society reinforces it. Sometimes religion reinforces it. Even certain passages in the Bible can leave you wrestling with it.

When I was a child, I had a pencil case with the words “God is good” written on it.

Is He?

Most of us measure God’s goodness by whether life is currently going our way. If we are healthy, successful, financially stable, or emotionally fulfilled, then God is good. But when things fall apart, we immediately begin searching for explanations.

• Maybe I didn’t tithe.
• Maybe I was lusting.
• Maybe I failed to help someone.
• Maybe God is punishing me.

And while these explanations can temporarily make suffering feel more manageable, they often paint God as transactional, vindictive, and perpetually angry.

But Jesus said that whoever had seen Him had seen the Father (^{John 14:9}).

This is the same Jesus who saved an adulterous woman from being stoned to death (^{John 8:1-11}). The same Jesus who forgave the thief on the cross without interrogation (^{Luke 23:39-43}). The same Jesus who, while being crucified, asked forgiveness for the very people demanding His death (^{Luke 23:34}).

That, to me, is the nature of the Father.

Understanding the depth of that love changes things.

It does not mean life suddenly becomes easy. Troubles still come. Loss still comes. Grief still comes. But suffering begins to lose its ability to convince you that you are abandoned.

You stop interpreting every hardship as divine vengeance.

You stop seeing God as an angry accountant balancing moral spreadsheets in the sky.

And perhaps that is what faith truly is: not believing life will always go well, but believing that even when it does not, you are still loved.

Maybe that old pencil case had it right after all.

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Scripture References

• Romans 3:23 — “For all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God.”
• Luke 15:11-32 — The Parable of the Prodigal Son.
• Luke 9:23 — “Whoever wants to be my disciple must deny themselves and take up their cross daily and follow me.”
• Hebrews 13:14 — “For here we do not have an enduring city, but we are looking for the city that is to come.”
• John 10:10 — “I have come that they may have life, and have it more abundantly.”
• Matthew 11:28-30 — “My yoke is easy and my burden is light.”
• Matthew 17:20 — Faith that can move mountains.
• John 14:9 — “Anyone who has seen me has seen the Father.”
• John 8:1-11 — Jesus and the adulterous woman.
• Luke 23:39-43 — Jesus forgives the thief on the cross.
• Luke 23:34 — “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.”