When my daughter approached us about switching cheer gyms, it was tough in the way that trying something new is always tough. She’d been at the old gym two years and I really loved the moms there. But the counter to that was the Sunday practices. As a lake family with a cabin two hours away, leaving the lake at 9:00 AM on Sundays for her to make a three-hour practice was brutal.
Ultimately, she really wanted to win — and we weren’t winning at the old gym. My daughter made the argument that she was spending five hours a week and not winning. For her personal growth, she wanted to try out at the gym that had two teams win Summit — the Super Bowl of cheer competitions — last year. How could I argue with her? How could I make my comfort more important than her growth?
We didn’t expect her to make the two-time winning team going for a three-peat this season. And due to a rule change, routine difficulty will be huge on the score sheets. Expectations are high. It is intense. When she made the team, we were thrilled.
I was really interested to see how this championship coach managed thirty hormonal teenagers. I wrote about one of her lessons in Accept the Correction and Move On.
As expected, even girls on last year’s winning team are feeling the pressure. At the last practice, the coach wasn’t happy about the effort shown by the team. She was frustrated — she and the other coaches dedicate a huge amount of time to this team. She reminded them that every one of them wanted to be on this team. They were the lucky ones who made it.
Then she gave them an assignment: write down why you wanted to be on this team and why you do cheer. Turn it in at the next practice.
She wasn’t punishing them. She was asking them to recommit. To remind themselves why they were doing this in the first place.
And sitting there watching, I thought — that’s a faith question too.
Why is “why” so hard to answer?
A few years ago, my son did robotics. We went to the competition and the judge asked his team, “So, where did you get the idea for your robot?” My son answered, “We got the idea from our heads.” Everyone laughed. True — and hard to argue with.
I’ve watched many a politician struggle with the question: “Why do you want to be mayor, representative, senator, president?” Whatever the blank is, it isn’t as easy as you’d think. Most of them stumble through it. They give the rehearsed answer, and you can hear that it’s rehearsed. The real answer is somewhere underneath — but getting to it takes more honesty than most people are ready for in front of a camera.
The reason “why” is so hard is because the real answer is usually personal. It’s messy. It doesn’t fit on a bumper sticker. And sometimes you’ve been doing the thing so long that the why has gotten buried under the routine of just showing up.
In Dear 40-Year-Old Me, I wrote about getting in the God car. But if someone asked me why — why do you believe? — I’d have to stop and think. Not because I don’t believe. Because the answer has layers. It’s not a one-sentence response. It’s a lifetime of moments stacked on top of each other. Some of those moments were beautiful. Some of them were when I was suffering and I know God carried me. I believe in that Footprints poem. Some of them were watching someone I love suffer and having nothing to offer except prayer — and not being sure that was enough.
That’s not the answer that makes the brochure. But that’s the real one.
There’s a moment in John 21 that wrecks me every time I read it. Peter had denied Jesus three times. Three times someone asked, “Aren’t you one of His?” and three times Peter said no. The worst moment of his life.
After the resurrection, Jesus finds Peter fishing. And He asks him a question — three times:
“Do you love me?”
— John 21:15-17
Three denials. Three questions. Jesus wasn’t asking because He didn’t know the answer. He was giving Peter the chance to recommit — once for every time he’d walked away.
Peter didn’t give a theological answer. He didn’t quote scripture. He said:
“Lord, you know all things; you know that I love you.”
— John 21:17
That’s Peter saying, “I can’t explain it the way you deserve. But you know.” That’s the realest answer to “why” I’ve ever read.
Think about that for a second. Peter walked with Jesus. He saw the miracles firsthand. He was in the boat when the storm stopped. He was at the table for the last supper. He had more first-hand experience with Jesus than almost anyone who ever lived — and he still struggled. He still denied Him three times. If Peter can struggle after all of that, then struggling with your faith doesn’t make you a bad Christian. It makes you human.
In Revelation, Jesus sends a message to the church at Ephesus. These were people doing everything right — the work, the endurance, the doctrine. But He says:
“Yet I hold this against you: You have forsaken the love you had at first. Consider how far you have fallen! Repent and do the things you did at first.”
— Revelation 2:4-5
They hadn’t quit. They hadn’t stopped showing up. They’d just forgotten why they started. The routine replaced the reason. The work replaced the love.
That’s what the cheer coach saw in her team. They were still showing up. Still doing the routines. But the fire that made them try out in the first place — the reason they wanted to be on that team — was getting buried under the pressure.
Joshua said it more directly than anyone:
“Choose for yourselves this day whom you will serve.”
— Joshua 24:15
That’s not a one-time question. That’s a daily one. Choose this day. Not the day you first believed. Not the day you were baptized. Today. Right now. Are you still choosing this?
The recommit isn’t about doubting your faith. It’s about refreshing it. It’s about pulling the why back up to the surface before the routine buries it completely.
One of the surprises that has come from writing these sermons is hearing from really strong Christians who have reached out and said, “Thank you. I’ve been struggling with my faith and this sermon helped.”
When I accepted my God gift, I didn’t expect that. I often ask myself — surely there is someone stronger in their faith than me to be writing these? And maybe, as I am writing this sermon, I am figuring out why me. God didn’t pick the most qualified disciple to build the church. He had twelve to choose from. He could have picked John — the one who never left, who stood at the foot of the cross when everyone else ran. He could have picked Matthew, who gave up everything the moment Jesus called. But He picked Peter. The one who denied Him three times and went back to fishing like none of it ever happened. I didn’t have any idea what God had in mind. If you’ve read The Itchy Sweater, you know accepting it was very uncomfortable. But what I really didn’t expect was learning that struggling with faith is universal. It has nothing to do with how good you are as a Christian. We all struggle. The people sitting in the front row on Sunday morning struggle. The ones leading the Bible study struggle. The ones you think have it all figured out — they struggle too.
My daughter has thirty girls on that team who want to win so badly, and they’re struggling. Every one of them made the team. Every one of them is talented. And every one of them is feeling the pressure. The coach doesn’t want them to quit. She wants them to get back to their why. Recommit to the purpose.
That’s what this is. Not a question about whether you believe. A question about whether you remember why.
My daughter’s coach didn’t ask those girls to write down their “why” because she doubted them. She asked because she knew the pressure was real, and she knew that when things get hard, you forget why you started. Writing it down forces you to say it out loud — even if it’s just to a piece of paper.
My son had it right at that robotics competition. Where did the idea come from? “From our heads.” Sometimes the why doesn’t need to be eloquent. It just needs to be honest.
So here’s the assignment — and yes, I’m giving you the same one the coach gave her team: Write down or just really think about why you believe. Not for anyone else. For you. Not the church answer. Not the bumper sticker. The real one. The messy, layered, hard-to-explain one.
And if you can’t put it into words yet, that’s okay. Peter couldn’t either. He just said, “Lord, you know.”
That’s enough.
My Prayer
God, I’m recommitting today. Not because I left — but because I forgot to say why I stayed. Help me remember the moments that built my faith, especially the ones that hurt. Give me the honesty to answer “why” without rehearsing it. And when the routine starts to replace the reason, remind me to pull the why back up before it gets buried. I choose You this day. Again. Amen.
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