Jesus: I Speak to You Again

Chapter 4

My Prayers

When I was a child, my family taught me to pray using specific, set prayers. This was how we connected with God, both in our home and at the synagogue school. But even as a boy, I struggled to understand this practice. I often asked my parents, “Why can’t I talk to God the same way I talk to you, Father? Why must I only speak to Him through these rigid prayers?”

I felt like these set prayers couldn’t fully express my thoughts, my love, or the things I wanted to ask for. My heart was bursting with petitions that the set words couldn’t convey. But when I shared these thoughts, my parents and religious teacher grew worried and upset. They couldn’t understand why I questioned this tradition, and it made them uncomfortable. They responded sharply: “We follow the laws of Moses. He was our prophet and communicated with God, receiving teachings that he passed down to us. We pray as the Scriptures instruct because they hold the truth. You are not wiser than Moses, and anyone who tries to challenge God’s ways will be punished. We pray as our ancestors did, and so should you.”

But this explanation didn’t make sense to me. Why wasn’t it okay to speak to God with love, as one would with their closest friend, father, or mother? I longed for a real, living connection with God—one that came from my heart. I couldn’t accept that we should only address God with words someone else had written long ago.

I remember asking my father, Joseph, “Father, would you be happy if all of your children said the exact same words to you every day? How would you really know us or understand what we want if we all spoke the same, unchanging words? And what if every family did the same thing? How could any parent know their children’s true hearts that way?”

Neither my father nor my mother could explain it to me. Instead, they grew irritated and told me to stop asking such troubling questions. They warned me not to talk about these things to others, saying I would get myself into trouble.

But as a child, I couldn’t help but question. If my parents couldn’t answer me, I sought answers from others. I talked with my friends and brought these questions to my teachers at the synagogue. But no one could ever explain why I couldn’t talk to God in my own way. Instead, I received the same uniform answers I heard at home.

People felt the sincerity of my questions, but it seemed to bother them that I wasn’t satisfied with their responses. It often made them irritated that I kept searching for more. But I couldn’t fit within the boundaries the Scriptures laid out for me. I was left to ponder these big questions alone: “Why must we pray only in set forms? If God is a loving Father, why would He punish people for their sins? Why do we suffer? Why is there so much evil in the world? Why aren’t we all good and reasonable? And why does God allow killing?”

As I continued to ask these questions, I noticed something: people became frustrated and defensive, not because I was being disrespectful, but because they simply didn’t know the answers. When my questions pushed beyond their comfort zone, they reacted with fear. And when people are scared, they often lash out at whoever made them feel that way. Instead of thinking through the questions, they would quickly shut me down, saying things like, “What nonsense are you talking about? Have you lost your mind?”

This reaction was common among those with less spiritual insight. Fear drove them to attack anything that threatened their worldview. Instead of reflecting on the deeper questions, they felt safer dismissing them outright.