Napkin 5: To Myself

37,000 feet. 5:33 AM.

Dawn is coming, but I'm fading. The pain has become a continuous prayer that I don't know if anyone hears.

Dear twenty-year-old Jonathan,

I'm writing to you from the last row of a plane taking me toward what I hope is a miracle, but is probably just the final act of a life you ruined with the best intentions.

Do you remember that day when you decided to become a pastor? You had just read Romans for the first time, and your heart burned with love for Christ. You wanted to save the world with the force of truth. You wanted to be the defender of faith in an age of compromise.

How foolish you were.

And how much you resemble me.

For fifty years, you fought battles that God never asked you to fight. You defended a truth that didn't need your defenses. You wielded the Bible as if it were your property instead of letting it wield you.

You convinced yourself that you were indispensable to God's plan. As if the Almighty needed your arguments to stay on the throne. As if the Gospel could be defeated without your vigilance.

What pride masked as zeal.

You missed all the moments when God wanted to embrace you because you were too busy explaining Him to others. You missed the wonder of mystery because you were obsessed with the need to understand everything.

You missed the sweetness of doubt that would have made you human and built yourself a fortress of certainties that made you stone.

Remember that evening when you were thirty-five and Matthew was little? He asked you why God made mosquitoes and you, instead of laughing and saying "I don't know, son," gave him a forty-minute lecture on ecosystems and divine sovereignty.

Matthew fell asleep after ten minutes. And you kept talking to a dreaming child, convinced you were being the model Christian father.

That child didn't want theology lessons. He wanted his father to be human enough to say "great question" and wise enough to leave room for mystery.

But you were too scared of "I don't know." Too convinced that a pastor who admits ignorance betrays the calling.

So you betrayed something much more important: you betrayed yourself.

You buried the man you were under the minister you thought you had to be. You suffocated every genuine doubt with prepackaged answers. You extinguished every spontaneous wonder with systematic explanations.

You transformed from worshiper to professor. From son to functionary. From pilgrim to tour guide of a Country you had never really visited.

And the most tragic thing? God loved you even when you pretended to have all the answers. He loved you even when you used His word to win arguments instead of lose pride.

He loved you especially in those moments when you woke up at three AM, terrified by silence, and whispered, "Are you there? Really there?" Those were the moments when you were most real. And closest to Him.

But you always hid them. You always considered them moments of weakness instead of grace. Occasions of shame instead of communion.

Jonathan, if I could go back to that twenty-year-old who wanted to change the world, I would tell him this:

God doesn't need you to understand Him. He needs you to love Him. He doesn't need you to defend Him. He needs you to surrender to Him.

He doesn't need your perfect theology. He needs your broken heart. He doesn't need your brilliant answers. He needs your honest questions.

I would tell him not to be afraid of saying "I don't know" to those who ask questions about God. Because that's often the truest answer a human being can give about the Infinite.

I would tell him that being a pastor doesn't mean being a vending machine of prepackaged answers. It means being a traveling companion who shares the bread he's found along the way.

I would tell him that doubt is not faith's enemy. It's the companion that keeps it awake. It's the friend that prevents it from falling asleep in pride.

But tonight, on this plane taking me toward what I hope is a miracle, I discovered something that will change everything if I have the grace to come home:

Jonathan, you were young and scared.

Like everyone who wants to serve God but fears not being enough. You built fortresses of certainties because you were terrified that if you admitted not knowing everything, God would fire you.

But you know what I understood while this napkin soaks with my tears?

God never asked me to be a vending machine of prepackaged answers. He called me to be a traveling companion who shares the bread he's found along the way.

And the best bread I ever found wasn't my explanations about God. It was the moments when I felt God explaining Himself to me through Sarah's tenderness, little Matthew's innocence, the forgiveness of those I'd hurt.

Those moments when I woke up at three AM, terrified by silence and whispered, "Are you there?" weren't moments of weakness. They were moments of maximum closeness to God's heart. Because there I was finally myself.

If I could go back to that twenty-year-old who wanted to change the world, I would tell him this:

God loves you exactly as you are now: confused, scared, full of questions. He doesn't need you to understand everything. He needs you to trust. He doesn't want your performances. He wants your heart even when - especially when - it's full of doubts.

And that fear of saying "I don't know"? It's the greatest gift you can give to those who ask you questions about God. Because "I don't know" followed by "but let's search together" is often the truest answer the Infinite can receive from a finite being.

Jonathan, if I come home from this journey, I'll live differently. I won't pretend anymore to have answers I don't have. I'll confess to having a Father who is the Answer to all the questions I don't even know how to formulate.

I won't be the pastor who knows everything anymore. I'll be the son who's learning to receive everything.

Your future, who learned that not knowing can be the purest form of worship

The napkin is completely ruined. Like my life. Like my pride. But maybe that's okay.