How Does Our Faith Grow Because Of Parenting—Not In Spite Of It?

I think the Bible answers that by showing us that parenting is one of God’s most consistent “training grounds” for spiritual maturity.

 

How our faith grows because of parenting (not in spite of it) 

1) Parenting forces our faith out of theory and into daily practice.

God doesn’t mainly tell us to teach our children in a classroom setting. He tells us to weave His truth into the normal rhythms of life, when we sit at home, when we walk, when we lie down, and when we rise up (Deut 6:6–7; Deut 11:18–19). That rhythm forces us to ask, “Do I actually believe what I’m saying?” Because kids don’t just hear our words, they watch our tone, our patience, and our repentance.

 

2) Parenting exposes what’s in our hearts, so God can shape us 

Scripture says our inner life matters because “out of it spring the issues of life” (Prov 4:23). Parenting presses on the heart sleep deprivation, stress, conflict, fear, and responsibility. And when pressure reveals what’s in us, we can either harden… or we can let God refine us. That is one reason parenting grows us: it shows us where we still need God. 

 

3) Parenting grows our faith because it humbles us into dependence. 

Most of us start parenting thinking we can “figure it out.” Then reality hits: we can’t control outcomes, we can’t guarantee a child’s choices, and we can’t fix everything. That drives us to prayer and dependence, especially when we remember children are not trophies; they are a stewardship and a heritage from the Lord (Ps 127:3–5). Parenting teaches us to trust God with souls we cannot ultimately control. 

 

4) Parenting matures our faith when we move from perfectionism to repentance. 

This follow-up question is honest: Why do so many fathers in Scripture fail—even the ones who knew better? Even Solomon? 

One major answer is this: knowing truth is not the same as walking in it. Proverbs is full of wisdom, yet Solomon still had divided desires. The Bible doesn’t hide that: Scripture is not selling us heroic parents; it’s showing us the human condition. 

And that’s where parenting can grow our faith: not by making us perfect, but by making us repentant. Our children often learn the gospel best when they see us confess, apologize, make it right, and keep walking with God. God calls us to train and admonish our children (Eph 6:4), but He also warns us not to provoke them or crush them (Eph 6:4; Col 3:21). When we fail, and we will, our next step is not denial. It’s humility. 

 

5) Parenting grows our faith because we become a “bridge” between generations. 

Psalm 78 says we tell the next generation what God has done so that our children “set their hope in God” (Ps 78:4–7). That means our parenting is bigger than behavior management. It’s about hope, memory, and worship, helping our children see God’s faithfulness across time. 

And sometimes the greatest growth comes when our children ask hard questions. A child’s “Why?” often becomes God’s tool to deepen our own convictions. That’s not a punishment. That’s discipleship, ours and theirs. 

 

6) Parenting grows our faith because love is practiced, not imagined. 

Biblical love is patient, kind, not self-seeking, not easily provoked, enduring (1 Cor 13:4–7). Parenting gives us thousands of small opportunities to practice that love when we don’t feel like it. In that sense, parenting is daily discipleship in the fruit of the Spirit, especially patience, gentleness, and self-control (Gal 5:22–23). 

 

7) Parenting grows our faith when we see that God is the ultimate Father. 

When I have struggled as a parent, when I felt inadequate, tired, or discouraged, I have done my best to remember that God pities His children like a father (Ps 103:13), heals the brokenhearted, and binds wounds (Ps 147:3). That doesn’t remove responsibility. It gives hope. God doesn’t only command us; He helps us. And if I am being totally honest, I have to force myself to remember that our God is our Father, He is perfect in His love for and toward us. So, when I have sought to discipline my children, I have had to keep in mind that God, my Father, my children’s true Father, is the one who should be the ultimate discipliner, which has helped me temper my temper when those trying times showed up. 

 

8) So why do biblical fathers fail, even with truth in hand? 

I think it comes down to this: sin is real, the flesh is real, and wisdom can be present while obedience is resisted.The Bible records those failures so we don’t pretend parenting is easy, or that spiritual maturity is automatic. God uses even those records as warnings and as invitations: learn, humble yourselves, return to the Lord, keep teaching, keep walking. 

And the encouraging part is this: God still works through imperfect parents. Timothy’s faith, for example, grew through a faithful mother and grandmother (2 Tim 1:5; 2 Tim 3:14–15). God can build a legacy through flawed people who keep turning back to Him.

 

A simple way I say it is: Parenting grows our faith because it makes us depend on God, forces us to live what we teach, exposes what needs healing, and trains us in repentance and love. We don’t grow because parenting is easy. We grow because parenting repeatedly drives us back to the Father. Moreover, parenting is learning new things about ourselves as we learn about our children. It is often the reality that children are raising children, and because we are children raising children, our lack of knowledge and understanding is more than cause enough to seek out the wisdom of our parents, but first seek the wisdom of our true Father in Heaven through His Word. 

How Does Someone Who Grew Up In A Transactional Relationship Break Free From That Mentality?

When we grow up in a transactional relationship, we learn a survival language: “If I do enough, I’ll be safe. If I perform well, I’ll be loved. If I fail, I’ll be punished or rejected.” Over time, we carry that scorekeeping mentality into everything, even into our relationship with God, our spouse, and the people we care about. We end up living like love is a contract and acceptance is a wage. 

Breaking free starts with naming the lie for what it is. The lie is that our worth is something we earn. Scripture confronts that lie head-on. We are saved “by grace… through faith,” and it is “not of works” (Eph 2:8–9). That means God does not relate to us on a payback system. He doesn’t love us because we are impressive. He loved us “while we were still sinners” (Rom 5:8). If grace is real, then the foundation of our relationship with God is not our performance; it is His mercy. And once we start trusting that, the transactional mindset begins to lose its authority over our hearts. 

This is where we have to let the gospel rewire us. Many of us treat God like a boss: “If I do my job, He’ll bless me. If I fail, He’ll fire me.” But Jesus says something completely different: “No longer do I call you servants… but I have called you friends” (John 15:15). That doesn’t erase obedience, but it changes the posture. We obey as sons and daughters, not as fearful employees trying to keep a job. Scripture even calls this out as a shift from bondage to adoption: we did not receive “the spirit of bondage again to fear,” but “the Spirit of adoption” (Rom 8:15–16; Gal 4:6–7). Transactional thinking is usually fear-based. Adoption is love-based. 

 

So what does it look like, practically, to break free? 

 

We start by refusing to keep score with God. If we grew up with conditions, we unconsciously assume God is keeping a spreadsheet, too. But Romans tells us there is “now no condemnation” for those who are in Christ Jesus (Rom 8:1–2). That doesn’t mean there are no consequences in life, and it doesn’t mean holiness doesn’t matter. It means our standing with God is settled by Christ, not negotiated by our anxiety. The score was not left open. The debt was paid. That is why Psalm 103 is so healing for people like us: God “has not dealt with us according to our sins,” and He removes our transgressions “as far as the east is from the west” (Ps 103:10–12). That is not transactional. That is mercy. 

We also have to renew the way we think. The transactional mind is trained, and it will not disappear just because we heard a sermon once. That’s why Scripture says we are “transformed by the renewing of our mind” (Rom 12:2). In real life, that means we learn to catch the old script when it rises up: “I failed, so God must be done with me.” Then we answer it with truth: “He who has begun a good work in us will complete it” (Phil 1:6). We learn to put off the old man and put on the new man (Eph 4:22–24; Col 3:9–10). This is slow work. But it is real work, healing work. 

Another key is learning to receive love without trying to pay for it. Transactional relationships teach us that gifts always come with strings. But the Bible says every good gift is from the Father (James 1:17), and that grace is something we “receive,” not something we earn (John 1:16). Even the story of the prodigal son is meant to crush the transaction: the son tries to negotiate his way back in, “make me like one of your hired servants” but the father interrupts him with restoration, affection, and celebration (Luke 15:20–24). That’s the gospel in a picture. Many of us want a contract. God offers a home. 

As we heal in God’s grace, our human relationships begin to change as well. Transactional love sounds like: “I’ll love you as long as you meet my needs.” But biblical love doesn’t behave that way. Love “does not seek its own,” and it “endures” (1 Cor 13:4–8). That doesn’t mean we tolerate abuse or ignore boundaries. It means we stop relating like accountants, always calculating who owes what. We start valuing people as people, not as emotional vending machines. We learn to give because we are loved, not to get loved. 

We also need to face the fear underneath the transaction. Transactional thinking is often a way to avoid vulnerability. If I can “do enough,” then I don’t have to risk being known, needing, or depending. But the gospel requires dependence. God doesn’t ask us to white-knuckle our way into holiness. He works in us “both to will and to do for His good pleasure” (Phil 2:13). We are not saved by works, but neither are we left alone; His Spirit produces a new kind of obedience that flows from love, not panic. 

And when we stumble, and we will, we practice coming back quickly. Transactional thinking says, “Hide until you’re better.” Grace says, “Come to the Father now.” We cast our cares on Him because He cares for us (1 Pet 5:7). We refuse to be entangled again with a yoke of bondage (Gal 5:1). We remember we are accepted in the Beloved (Eph 1:5–6). We remember sin does not have dominion over us because we are “not under law but under grace” (Rom 6:14). That’s how the cycle breaks, not by pretending we don’t struggle, but by refusing to interpret our struggle as disqualification. 

So if I had to say it plainly, here is the way out: we stop negotiating for love and start receiving it. We stop performing for worth and start living from our identity. We stop keeping score and start trusting the One who already settled the score through Christ. The transactional mindset was learned in the context of survival. Freedom is learned in grace. And the good news is that God is not asking us to heal ourselves alone; He is already at work in us, finishing what He started, one honest step at a time (Phil 1:6). 

Could You Forgive Someone Who Seeks to Cause You Unimaginable Pain, Even Your Death?

That question presses on us more deeply in an hour like this because when violence rises around public leaders, we are forced to look beyond headlines and ask what is happening in the human heart. We may want quick conclusions, quick blame, and quick certainty. But if I am going to think as a Christian, I have to begin at a deeper level. I have to begin with sin, hatred, fear, power, and the sobering reality that when a nation is deeply divided, those things do not stay hidden for long. 

What we are watching in our country, “again,” and in the world is not merely a political disagreement. It is a collision of visions, loyalties, and moral commitments. President Trump is not viewed as a neutral political figure. To many of his supporters, he represents an attempt to restore order, national identity, public restraint, religious liberty, and a more openly conservative moral framework. To many of his opponents, he represents a threat to the postwar progressive settlement in government, culture, education, and foreign policy. That makes him more than a politician in the public mind. It makes him symbolic. And symbolic leaders draw both intense devotion and intense hatred. 

That is why assassination attempts and violent threats should never be treated lightly or reduced to a passing spectacle. History shows that such acts often arise in moments when a leader is perceived as threatening entrenched interests, destabilizing accepted norms, or standing in the way of powerful ideological currents. In ancient Israel, violent changes in leadership were rarely about a single person. They reflected broader convulsions in the nation. The same pattern has appeared throughout world history. Sometimes personal instability plays a role. But many attempts on leaders emerge in times of political and spiritual fracture, where deeper tensions are already alive beneath the surface. 

That is also why I do not think we can understand what is happening in America apart from the wider world. Washington is not isolated from Tehran, Jerusalem, Hormuz, London, Moscow, or Beijing. The United States is already strained by political polarization, war in the Middle East, anxiety over global order, and fears of economic disruption. Israel and Iran remain at the center of a dangerous regional struggle. The Strait of Hormuz remains one of the world’s most sensitive energy chokepoints. Great powers are watching, calculating, and preparing. We are living in a time when domestic instability and international conflict can feed each other very quickly. 

That does not mean we should rush into sensationalism. It does mean we should be sober. Great upheavals rarely begin with one single event. They build through pressure, grievance, ideology, strategic interests, and repeated acts of brinkmanship. One attack does not cause a world war on its own. But it can reveal how unstable the atmosphere has become. 

As a Christian, though, I cannot stop with political analysis. I have to ask the harder question: what does God require of us when hatred becomes this open and this intense? Jesus said, “Love your enemies, bless those who curse you, do good to those who hate you, and pray for those who spitefully use you and persecute you” (Matthew 5:44, NKJV). That is not sentimental language. That is a different kind of warfare. It is Christ calling us to refuse the spirit of vengeance even when the world around us is feeding on it. 

That is where the question of forgiveness becomes central. Could I forgive someone who sought to cause me unimaginable pain, even my death? In my flesh, I know how hard that question is. But as a believer, I also know I cannot ignore it. Stephen prayed, “Lord, do not charge them with this sin” as he was being murdered (Acts 7:60, NKJV). Jesus prayed, “Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they do” from the cross (Luke 23:34, NKJV). Forgiveness does not mean evil is excused. It does not mean justice no longer matters. It means I refuse to let hatred become my master. 

That matters in public life too. When a leader accepts the risk of office in a divided and angry age, he is stepping into a place where hatred can become deadly. Whether one agrees with Trump on every matter or not, the willingness to remain in such a role under real threat helps explain why many of his supporters see his motives as more serious than mere ambition. But even there, our response as Christians must be governed by Scripture, not only by political loyalty. We are called to pray for kings and all who are in authority (1 Timothy 2:1–2, NKJV), not because every ruler is righteous, but because God cares about peace, order, and the conditions under which truth may still be spoken. 

So how close are we to global upheaval? Close enough to be vigilant, prayerful, and morally awake. Close enough to recognize that the world is under pressure on many fronts at once: political violence, religious hostility, war in the Middle East, economic strain, and growing civilizational conflict. But not close enough for any of us to speak with false certainty about the timetable of world war or the return of Christ. Scripture calls us to discern the times, but it also warns us against prideful certainty where God has not spoken plainly. 

I do believe many Christians understandably see in these events an end-times atmosphere. Israel, Iran, war, oil, global tension, and the moral unraveling of nations all press us in that direction. But the clearest biblical call in such an hour is not panic. It is readiness. It is repentance. It is courage. It is prayer. It refuses both naïveté and hysteria. 

So I come back to the opening question. Could I forgive someone who sought my pain or death? By nature, no. Not truly. But in Christ, I must be willing to move in that direction, because forgiveness is not weakness. It is a testimony that evil will not get the final word in me. At the same time, forgiveness does not cancel vigilance. We still tell the truth. We still oppose evil. We still pray for justice. We still ask God to restrain wickedness and protect those in authority. 

What is happening today matters because it reveals something deeper than politics. It reveals the human heart's condition and the volatility of a world under judgment, strain, and spiritual confusion. That should not drive us to despair. It should drive us to Christ. In a time of hatred, we need holy clarity. In a time of violence, we need moral courage. In a time of upheaval, we need to be found watchful, faithful, and ready. 

“Therefore, you also be ready, for the Son of Man is coming at an hour you do not expect” (Matthew 24:44, NKJV).