In one 24 hour period, I had to field two of the hardest questions I’ve ever been asked. Forget the essay I wrote in 11th grade U.S. History breaking down the election of 1912. That whole segment in Calculus on imaginary numbers? Cake walk by comparison. 

The first question, Mom, what does it mean to be a Christian?, was asked by my almost-nine-year-old son. He didn’t even have the decency to wait until I finished my first cup of coffee before lobbing a theological question as he ate his french toast sticks.

“What do you mean?” I asked, the hallmark of parental qualifiers when faced with a complex question. Always find out how much they know, first. 

“Well, like, how do you become one? And what exactly is it?”

If you’ve never tried to explain salvation in a simple way at 6:45 a.m., you may find it hard to empathize, but I cannot overstate the panic and pressure I felt in this moment. If I get this wrong, he’ll never believe. This was my one shot.

So I did my best. I fumbled and mumbled and somehow worked in an analogy with The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe. Nathan’s brow furrowed a little and he asked a few questions while I’m pretty sure I actually started sweating at some point. Eventually he finished his breakfast, got ready for school, and left for the day, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that I’d messed this up.

Later that day I Voxed my friend Katie, borderline wailing about the terrible job I’d done. Katie is so intentional with the way she communicates her faith, and I pleaded for advice or guidance on how to do this better.

Her response though, wasn’t a list of resources or a collection of verses. Instead, she reassured me that God could work with my fumbling words and mixed up metaphors and plant a seed. She reminded me—gently and lovingly, but firmly— that I wasn’t the one saving Nathan, Jesus was. And while I knew she was right, I still kept replaying my weak efforts in my head and grimacing. My heart felt heavy; I was doing this all wrong.

That night, I took Nathan to shop for his little sister’s Christmas gift. We’d barely buckled our seatbelts when he waylaid me with his second heavy-hitting question of the day.

“Mom, do you believe that Santa is real?”

I hedged. “Well I believe the spirit of Santa—of generosity and kindness—is definitely real.”

He wasn’t buying.

“No, Mom. I mean do you believe that a jolly fat man slides down our chimney and leaves me presents next to the fireplace?”

It’s not like me to sidestep directness or hesitate to answer a question truthfully, but I felt trapped. It’s not even that we’re big Santa people—the kids get presents from him, but we intentionally keep them lowkey. We don’t have an Elf on a Shelf or write letters. It wasn’t so much the Santa part of the equation that was bothering me at all. But this morning I was trying to explain belief in an unseen being … then 12 hours later I was going to destroy his belief in an unseen being?

Santa’s not real but Jesus is. Is this what I want to tell him right now? Was he old enough to understand? To hold both those truths?

I sighed. My inability to be anything but honest won.

“No, bud.” I said. “I don’t believe that Santa is real.”

***

It was maybe 10 or 15 years ago, and I was having coffee with my very favorite pastor. Tom had been the associate pastor at my church when I was growing up and led my confirmation class; he was also the officiant at my wedding. He has an almost encyclopedic knowledge of Scripture but his self-confessed favorite word is shit and that combination makes him the recipient of all of my hard faith questions.

I had requested this meeting. A family member had recently declared himself an atheist, and something about his pivot from belief made me reexamine my own. There were holes in some of the stories I learned as a child. I couldn’t reconcile a literal seven day creation with what science had uncovered. If Adam and Eve were the first two humans, then who did their children marry? I wasn’t questioning Jesus but I was questioning a lot of Jesus-adjacent material. 

How much doubt was permissible? Did my unbelief outweigh my belief?

“What do you mean?” Tom said when I told him I had questions. 

“Well, like Noah. Do I have to believe that he literally herded two of every animal on earth onto a boat? That Jonah was swallowed by an actual whale? That the story of Adam and Eve is the verbatim story of how God created the earth?”

I felt like a heretic as I shifted my coffee cup between my hands. This was the first time I’d voiced any of my questions out loud, and, suddenly, saying them to someone with a degree from seminary struck me as an extraordinarily dumb idea. I was on the verge of saying “You know what; nevermind,” when Tom answered.

“Here’s the way I look at it,” he said. “What needs to be true for you to hold onto your belief?”

“Are you saying I get to pick?”

“Think of it as an exercise,” he said. I thought for a minute. 

“That God created us from love. That we rebelled against that love and He’s been pursuing us ever since. That He sent Jesus, who died for us. That accepting that gift of salvation is what restores our relationship with Him to the way it was meant to be.”

Tom smiled. 

“There are no gardens or boats or whales in what you just said.”

“No … there aren’t.”

Tom took a sip of coffee and then leaned forward and spread his hands on the table. 

“I think some people make faith too tricky, too untenable. It’s like a house of cards and if one slips, their entire belief system crashes.”

He paused, and I nodded to show I was tracking with him. He continued. 

“I like to boil it down to its essence. What are the unshakeable truths that you have to hold onto in order to believe? Feel those, find those, and hold like hell to them. The rest? I won’t say it doesn’t matter, but I will say to hold it loosely. Don’t let the truth become a trap.”

“I thought it was ‘and the truth shall set you free’?” I said with a wry grin, which Tom answered, and then he left me with the words that have saved my faith a thousand times over.

“Build your belief around the smallest kernel of truth that you can, and you won’t find it easily swayed.”

***

There’s a story in the gospels about a man who asks Jesus to heal his child. When he’s pleading with Jesus, the father couches his request. “If you can,” he says. “Will you heal my son?”

“If I can?”

Jesus’ incredulity is palpable. This is after the feeding of the 4,000, after multiple healings and exorcisms; it was the point of Jesus’ ministry when crowds would show up and beg Him personally for a touch, a blessing, a healing. This was not His first rodeo; he was a certified miracle worker. And to be fair, maybe the father didn’t mean he doubted whether Jesus was able to heal his son, but if He would. It wouldn’t be the first time capability and willingness have been confused.

But the father didn’t justify or explain in his response. Instead: an honest plea.

“I believe. Help my unbelief.”

I believe, but I have questions.
I believe, but do I dare to hope?
Here is my kernel of belief, Lord. Can you help me sort the rest?

Jesus heals the man’s son.

***

“Are you disappointed?” I asked Nathan, once I had explained the truth—that his dad and I were Santa; we were the ones who set out his gifts, and ate the cookies, and drank the milk. 

He thought for a minute.

“No, I’m not. I think maybe I actually like it better this way.”

“What do you mean, bud?”

“Well, I still have a Santa even if it’s not the Santa. And it makes me happy that the people I love most are my Santa.”

His words made me smile. 

“That’s a really good way of looking at it, bud; I like that. And I’m glad you don’t feel like the magic is gone from Christmas.”

“Mo-om. Christmas isn’t even about Santa anyway, remember? It’s about Jesus. That’s where the magic is.”

The Christmas lights we were driving past blurred a little as my eyes got teary and my heart felt lighter for the first time all day.

Katie could see it.
Tom could see it.
The father of the boy Jesus healed could see it.
Nathan could see it.

There are no perfect words. We don’t have to understand the whole story. There’s room for our unbelief.

All we need is to understand where the magic is.
All we need is a little bit of faith.