While I was growing up in Anchorage, Kentucky, my family attended the Anchorage Presbyterian Church a half mile away. I liked my Sunday school class, the youth group lock-ins, the hymns, and the Christmas Eve candles. I loved the nursery with its row of infant cribs—although I don’t recall seeing babies in them. And I certainly looked forward to the juice at coffee hour. But I wasn’t a huge fan of sitting through the worship service.
As I reached middle school and beyond, I’d barter with my father, who attended church regularly and enthusiastically. Some of my friends’ parents spent Sundays on the golf course. “I don’t need to be in church to pray,” I argued. “I could pray from the town pool.”
“Yes,” said Dad, “but would you?” This from the man who attended the same Sunday school class for 40 years.
When I read these verses, I realize that the promise of faith that
my father gently passed down was a form of my inheritance as much
as Mom’s good silver, Mamaw’s quilts, and Dad’s cast iron skillet.
This faith cannot be legislated; it comes through the inspiring promise of God.
If only Sunday worship services had celebrated Paul’s image of the angels mediating for God, no doubt with a lyre at a conference table that overflowed with fancy fruits like persimmon and guava, with all the coconut water and Fresca we could drink. If I’d been presented with that, literally or metaphorically, I might have spent my teenage years at church more willingly.
From whom did you inherit your willingness to search for faith?
God, show us how to pass down your promise of faith for those who believe. Amen.