‘I’m a church leader and my son no longer goes to church’

For years, people congratulated me on my son’s faith. It never occurred to me that this was a strange thing to be congratulated for.

This summer we were kayaking on Derwentwater, in the Lake District, when he paddled over and asked me a question: “How do you feel that I don’t have the same faith as you?”

He’s 24. The question was more direct than I was comfortable with. I lead a church. Questions about faith are supposed to be my home ground. I usually have something ready, and the ready answer was right there this time too.

Jesus had more reason than any parent to grab the steering wheel

But instead, I paused. I wanted to know how I actually felt before I said anything. What came back first was the congratulations, and how little of it had been about him. When my son was baptised, people praised me. When he stood up in church to give his testimony, people would say to me: “You must be so proud of him.”

I was proud. I also liked being the one who was congratulated.

When he helped lead the kids’ groups and went on mission trips, it was the same. A church leader’s family is on show whether you like it or not. Mine looked like it was working. Each of those moments felt like a small endorsement. Evidence that I wasn’t just saying the right things from the front, but living them at home, too.

I enjoyed it more than I’d have admitted, even to myself.

Finding the real question

Out on the water, the question underneath his question came up: Did I want my son to have faith? Or did I want to be the father whose son has faith?

From the outside, those two wants look identical. They pray the same prayers. You only find out which one you’ve been carrying when your child’s faith goes somewhere you didn’t plan. Until then, both get to call themselves love.

I’d always called it concern for his soul. Some of it was. But some of it was wanting to decide how the story went, because the story had my name on it. Somewhere along the way, his faith had become part of the evidence for my ministry.

Trusting my son to God used to feel like giving up on him

When I looked inside, I found I was OK. My son believes in God. He prays. But he no longer goes to church. I could hold all three of those things on a lake, with him waiting for an answer, and feel steady.

A few years ago, I don’t think I could have. I’d have heard his question as a verdict on my parenting and tried to fix it, which is a polite way of saying ‘control it’.

So, I told him it was OK. I’d love him whatever he thought or believed. We’d keep talking things through, because swapping opinions is what we do.

There’s a detail in Mark 10 that’s easy to miss. A man runs up to Jesus and asks what he must do to inherit eternal life. Before Jesus tells him the hard thing, Mark adds a line: “Jesus looked at him and loved him” (v21).

Then that man walks away sad, and Jesus lets him go. He doesn’t chase him or offer a softer version.

Letting go and letting God

Jesus had more reason than any parent to grab the steering wheel. He knew exactly what the man was walking away from. He loved him - and left the outcome open anyway.

Avoiding pressure is easy. Loving my son with the outcome still open, with no one left to congratulate me, costs more.

Trusting my son to God used to feel like giving up on him. On Derwentwater, it felt more like taking my hands off something that was never mine to steer.

I didn’t expect that to feel like relief but, more and more, it does. Some of the weight I’d carried for years was never his faith. It was my reputation, strapped to it.

The old grip still comes back more often than I’d like. It happens when someone tells me how well their son is doing in his faith and how proud they are of him. I’m happy for them, and I mean it. Later, I catch myself doing the old sums again.

We kept paddling.