Leadership Journal

"How can we believe in God when a good man can be so cruelly snatched away?" a young man asked after a memorial service. "How can we have faith in a world like this?"

Prior to my appointment as U.S. Senate Chaplain, I served 27 years as a military chaplain. Too often I had to tell family members of the death of a soldier. At those moments, we must avoid glib, omniscient platitudes regarding complex issues of theology. Grieving people aren't looking for comprehensive answers; they want a connection. They want someone who understands the pain, if not the reasons for it.

At a recent service commemorating the one-year anniversary of a senator's death, I lingered afterwards. Hurting people often wait until after a service to approach, looking for the right moment to seek guidance. It was then the young man asked me his question about faith in a world like this.

"I don't know," I answered. That response often diffuses the tension a deeply wounded person feels. Then, remembering 2 Corinthians 1:3-5, I sought to connect with the man's sorrow. "I felt the same things when my mother was killed in 1987. I was ready to abandon the faith. But then I took all my angry conversations right to God."

It was better to try to guide him from opposing God to exploring God, rather than trying to convince him, in a single stroke, to believe.

"That's the most helpful thing I've heard in a long time," he said.

Our church uses retreats, rock climbs, and other group experiences to build discipling friendships. But some transformations are long in duration and require more one-on-one interaction.

Over the past 10 years, I have invited a few men to grow in their relationship with Christ by living in my home, sometimes for six months, sometimes for a year. It's easy to feel awkward teaching someone how to grow spiritually, and this prolonged exposure allows us to develop natural rapport. When we're together do life, teachable moments happen.

One man moved in after he was treated at a hospital for drug addiction. His family was in pain, and he wasn't ready to go home. I invited him to see my home as a sort of half-way house.

Once, when we were playing one-on-one basketball, as we often did, he suddenly quit. He could have beaten me, but he quit. I challenged him not to give in and to learn to finish well. It proved a pivotal moment.

Three years later, he's one of our pastors and heads "Mercy Walk," a program for helping others with troubled pasts.

Roger and I kicked in the door at Glen's house. Glen was suicidal after discovering his wife's infidelity. But Roger, Glen, and I were in a small group together, where we had made a commitment to brace one another through hardship.

Four weeks later, it was Roger's wife who was found unfaithful. His masculinity ripped to shreds, Roger shut himself in his house, wept, and-like Glen-wouldn't open the door for anyone.

So I let myself in. Though Roger was embarrassed that I saw ...