I have been reflecting recently on my own upbringing and, in doing so, have come to an uncomfortable realization.

My parents were faithful Christians. We attended church regularly. We prayed before meals. We prayed before bedtime. I attended Sunday school and was confirmed. My parents sincerely believed in Jesus Christ and made certain that I received a Christian education.

Yet we almost never talked about God.

Faith belonged in church. Religious education belonged to the pastor, Sunday school teachers, and confirmation instructors. At home, we lived as Christians, but we rarely discussed why we believed what we believed or what God’s Word meant for our daily lives.

Looking back, I do not blame my parents. They simply reflected the culture in which they had been raised. They likely assumed the pastor was better equipped to teach the faith. Whatever the reason, faith became something practiced primarily on Sunday rather than intentionally woven into everyday family life.

The surprising part is that I repeated the same pattern with my own children. Only much later did I realize that I had unintentionally passed along the model I had inherited.

Then something unexpected happened.

My wife began reading the Bible faithfully. I was genuinely pleased that she had taken such an interest in God’s Word, yet I found myself strangely uncomfortable. Looking back, I cannot fully explain why. I believed the Bible was God’s inspired and authoritative Word. I attended church faithfully. Yet seeing someone intentionally engage Scripture every day somehow exposed how little I had done the same.

Eventually, I decided to listen to the entire Bible in one year. That simple decision changed my life.

The more I immersed myself in God’s Word, the more I wanted to understand it. One year of listening became years of study. Today, to my own amazement, I am pursuing a Master’s degree in Orthodox Lutheran Theology. Had someone predicted that twenty years ago, I would have laughed.

Looking back, I now understand something that Martin Luther understood nearly five hundred years ago.

Following the Reformation, Luther was deeply troubled by the widespread ignorance of Scripture among ordinary Christians. During the Saxon Visitations, he discovered that many people, including those expected to teach others, knew very little of the Christian faith. His response was not merely to educate pastors.

He wrote the Small Catechism for fathers and mothers.

Again and again, before each chief part, Luther repeats the simple instruction:

“As the head of the family should teach them in a simple way to his household.”

That sentence may be one of the most overlooked in Lutheranism. Even more striking are Luther’s opening words in the Preface to the Small Catechism:

“The deplorable, miserable condition which I recently observed when visiting the parishes has constrained and compelled me to prepare this Catechism.”

Luther was not lamenting the failures of society. He was lamenting that Christians no longer knew the basics of their own faith.

His solution was revolutionary in its simplicity. Return God’s Word to the home. This was never Luther’s idea alone. It is deeply biblical.

Through Moses, God commanded His people:

“These words that I command you today shall be on your heart. You shall teach them diligently to your children, and shall talk of them when you sit in your house, and when you walk by the way, and when you lie down, and when you rise.” (Deuteronomy 6:6-7)

Likewise, Psalm 78 declares that one generation is to tell the next “the glorious deeds of the Lord” so that “they should set their hope in God.”

The Apostle Paul instructs fathers:

“Bring them up in the discipline and instruction of the Lord.” (Ephesians 6:4)

And Paul reminds Timothy that from childhood he had known the Holy Scriptures, “which are able to make you wise for salvation through faith in Christ Jesus.” (2 Timothy 3:15)

Notice what all of these passages have in common. The primary responsibility for passing on the faith belongs in the home.

Pastors assist in that calling.

Congregations support it.

Christian schools strengthen it.

But none of them replace it.

Perhaps one of the greatest barriers today is not unbelief but discomfort.

Many Christians sincerely believe, yet feel awkward discussing God with their spouses, children, or grandchildren. They fear they do not know enough. They worry someone might ask a question they cannot answer. They assume religion is best left to the professionals.

I understand that feeling because I lived it.

Even after confirmation, intentionally talking about religion made me feel strangely uncomfortable. It almost felt as though I were becoming someone I was not. Looking back, I realize it was not because I lacked faith.

It was because I lacked practice.

No one had ever modeled ordinary conversations about God’s Word around the dinner table or during daily life.

The remarkable discovery was that the discomfort gradually disappeared as I spent more time immersed in Scripture.

Confidence does not come from knowing every answer. Confidence comes from becoming familiar with God’s Word.

Parents do not need theology degrees.

They simply need to be willing to open the Bible, read it together, pray together, and occasionally say, “I don’t know the answer, but let’s discover it together.”

Children learn as much from watching that humility as they do from hearing perfect explanations.

Our culture understands the importance of daily formation.

Every day, our children are being catechized by social media, entertainment, schools, advertising, politics, and popular culture. They are constantly being taught what to value, whom to trust, and how to understand the world.

If the Church offers God’s Word only for one hour each week, we should not be surprised when other voices become louder.

The Christian home must once again become a place where Christ is spoken of naturally.

Not through long theological lectures.

Not through guilt.

But through ordinary conversations rooted in God’s Word.

Read a few verses after dinner.

Ask one simple question: “What does this passage teach us about God?”

Pray together before bedtime.

Talk about Sunday’s sermon during lunch.

Small habits, practiced faithfully over many years, shape generations.

Yet we must remember that the future of the Church does not ultimately rest upon our efforts. Christ Himself has promised, “I will build My Church” (Matthew 16:18). He preserves His Church through the Holy Spirit working through the Means of Grace—His Word and Sacraments.

In His mercy, God also calls parents and grandparents into this sacred vocation. He entrusts them with the privilege of placing His Word before the next generation, trusting that the Holy Spirit will accomplish His saving work through that Word.

Luther understood this.

Scripture teaches it.

Perhaps it is time we recover it.

If we desire our children and grandchildren not merely to know about Jesus, but to know Him as their crucified and risen Lord and Savior, then the Christian faith must become more than something we attend on Sunday morning.

It must become something we joyfully read, discuss, pray, and live together every day.

Not because our conversations create faith, but because God has promised that His Word shall not return to Him empty, but shall accomplish the purpose for which He sends it (Isaiah 55:11). As Christian parents and grandparents faithfully place that life-giving Word into the hearts of their families, we may confidently trust the Holy Spirit to do what only He can do: create faith, strengthen faith, and preserve Christ’s Church from one generation to the next. May God grant us the confidence not only to believe His Word, but to speak it naturally, faithfully, and joyfully within our homes, for the blessing of our children, our grandchildren, and generations yet to come.

“What’s all this ‘Father’ stuff about in the Lord’s Prayer?  Why should we call God ‘Father,’ anyway?” she intoned petulantly, fixing me with a stare that clearly thought no reasonable answer was possible.  It was my first year in ministry.  I had converted to Christ but a year before and now found myself teaching Luther’s Small Catechism as part of my youth minister duties at a largish program-style Lutheran church.  From my undergraduate background in the arts and my wife’s current graduate school studies, I was utterly familiar with the post-structuralism that informed her question, but despite the self-consciously progressive, university-dominated atmosphere of the town I served, I was still shocked to hear the sentiment from the mouth of a seventh grader.

I would not be shocked today… not anywhere in the United States, let alone a college town.  “How do we know God is ‘Father?’” challenged the former PASTOR of one of my parishioners in an adult Sunday School forum.  Such pugnacious personalities litter the Christian landscape of the modern West, pseudo-intellectuals who, because they came across the concept of apophatic theology in seminary, now feel they can use it to undermine Scriptural authority and thence refashion the Christian faith in a manner more congenial to their modern WEIRD (Western, Educated, Industrialized, Rich, Democratic) presuppositions and biases. 

In my last article I made the case that a specific, seemingly innocuous use of inclusive language for human beings had unexpected but potentially devastating side effects in the realm of pastoral care and Christian self-understanding.  Tinkering with Christ’s chosen address of God may have similar side effects.  Progressives like Rosemary Radford Reuther and Sally McFague purport to give us reasons we need not address God as Father.  Conservatives like Dennis Prager give us reasons we must. Still, it may well be that the question “Why should we call God ‘Father?’” may be like Job addressing God on the question of suffering, to which God responds in a way that lets Job know that he has no possible idea of full import of what he is asking—that Job lacks the capacity for God to respond in a meaningful way to such a question.  “Stop clucking in such a self-important way. You cannot possibly understand what is at play here.  Consider yourself blessed to know Me at all,” might be an apt summary of God’s speech in Job 38-41.  To address God in any other way than that revealed by God may have ripples that redound to the harm or even damnation of others and should so be avoided.

Which is why I believe that the answer that I gave the young lady mentioned above in my theological naivete is still the correct one; we call God “Father” because we are disciples—followers—of Christ, not His instructors.  If we think of Jesus as someone who merely cracked open a door on God that we can now wedge open a little wider by our own enlightened efforts, we misunderstand Him utterly as “the Word become flesh” who “dwelt” (in the Greek, skenoō or “tabernacled”) among us, who in my favorite modern translation “is in the bosom of the Father” and hence alone has the capacity to “make Him known.”

As time went on, I discovered that this young woman had good reason for negative associations with the word “father;” her own dad was an addict who had been emotionally and often physically absent until two years before when he had cleaned up and was endeavoring to “make good” in his role in her life, an effort she perceived as “pushy” and presumptuous.  What a privilege it was to teach her—as I hope I have taught my own daughter—that she has a Father in heaven who we earthly fathers can only hope to palely imitate as providers, nurturers, and self-sacrificing protectors. (Ephesians 3:14)

Had I let her indubitably real pain colonize—exercise a controlling influence—over my theology, she could never have found what I would later hear theologian Marva Dawn refer to as “the true liberation of being a woman who can without reservation call God ‘Father.’”

Grappling with Scripture as the revealed Word of God and the Apostolic faith that has informed that encounter has preserved such liberation—true liberation—for us all.