“How many of you have prayed, ‘God, help me to love you more?’” the pastor asked from the pulpit.
Me, I volunteered silently. For 20 years, I had prayed those words almost as ritualistically as the Lord’s Prayer. Those words were my desperate, white-knuckled grip on grace—because, like the Prodigal Son, I knew about loving something and someone other than God.
“If you’ve prayed, ‘God, help me to love you more,’” the pastor continued, “you’re praying the wrong thing. You should be praying, ‘God, help me to know you more.’”
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