The Faith of a Sesame Seed Bun


My oldest son Carl was born one week after a performance appraisal at work, so when we brought him home from the hospital I was in a goal-setting frame of mind. If setting objectives could help at work, I reasoned they should also help me be a better father. I hoped that someday God would rate my fatherly performance as “Exceeding Expectations.” Since He didn’t have quarterly profit margins to meet, I expected He would be more merciful than my supervisor at work. To help God make His evaluation, I needed to have some specific, measurable goals. I decided I would like to teach Carl to:

1. Believe in God
2. Be nice to other people
3. Root for the Rockies

My first challenge with goal #1 came when Carl was four. He almost lost his faith over a McDonald’s hamburger.

We brought home some dinner from McDonalds and Carl was too full to finish his hamburger. He asked us to save it for later. We wrapped it up, and put it in the refrigerator. By the time I noticed the hamburger a few days later, it was stale so I threw it in the garbage. Unfortunately Carl caught me in the act.

“Dad,” he cried, “why are you throwing my hamburger away?”

He was pretty angry, but I saw this as an opportunity to teach him something and have a good father-son talk. I had seen it work many times in fast food commercials.

“Carl, you wouldn’t even want to eat this because it is stale. See?” I held out the hamburger and invited him to touch it. “When food gets left out, the air makes it hard like a rock.”

“But dad, why does the air make hamburgers turn into a rock?”

I tried several explanations, but Carl always came back with “Why?” Finally, I said “Because that is how God made the world.” Carl began crying again.

“Now what’s the matter?” I asked.

“I’m mad at God because he turned my hamburger into a rock!”

Now I was in trouble. What had started as a science lesson had become a trial of faith.

I imagined going before St. Peter and being handed a piece of paper saying that my performance did not meet expectations. He would show me Carl telling his therapist, “All of my problems started when I was four. My dad tried to throw my hamburger away and blame it on God.”

Fortunately, little boys can be bribed. “Why don’t we go to McDonald’s and get a milkshake.” I offered. “Will that make you feel better?” He said it would. He stopped crying immediately and we got in the car.

Once in the car, I worked on his anger with God. “Carl?”

He looked at me.

“I want you to know that God gave me the money to buy this milkshake.” I paused to see if I needed to explain that God didn’t literally hand me the money, only that we owed Him thanks for everything in life. But Carl had already moved on to deciding which flavor milk shake he was going to get.

Carl is now an adult and believes in God, and is good to other people, though I am not sure how much credit I deserve for that outcome. But he doesn’t root for the Rockies. He doesn’t even like baseball. When I asked Carl why he wasn’t a Rockies fan, he said it was hard to root for the Rockies and still believe in God. It’s hard to argue with him.