I keep running into the same thought when I pray: Why should God listen to me?
I was born into a godly family, in a nation still blessed enough to let me worship freely. I’ve known about the Lord – known and loved Him – as far back as I can remember. My family has never been rich, but we’ve never been needy either. Whatever imperfection has touched my life, I can trace it back to my own sin and failure, never to anything God withheld. I genuinely cannot think of one thing He hasn’t given me to make my life as full as a life can be.
Which leads to the harder question: if He’s given me so much, and I’ve given Him so little, why would He listen when I pray? I’m doing almost nothing for Him. Why would He bother with a nobody like me?
He Said It, So He’s Stuck With Me
For years – decades actually – I’ve leaned on one verse to reassure myself: “All those the Father gives me will come to me, and whoever comes to me I will never drive away” (John 6:37). My comfort wasn’t warm and fuzzy. It was closer to a legal argument: God said it, and He isn’t allowed to lie. So whether or not I deserve it, He’s obligated to keep me. He’s stuck with me.
That got me through a lot of nights. But it wasn’t encouraging. Being tolerated isn’t the same as being wanted.
The Boy in Center Field
Here’s the picture that finally broke through for me. Imagine a little boy playing right field in a Little League game. Or is it center field where the ball never comes because none of the kids on either team can hit it that far? He’s out there kicking dandelions, feeling useless, wishing just once he could do something that mattered.
Now check out the bleachers. His father is sitting there, watching him, so full of pride he can hardly stand it. That man doesn’t care if his son never touches the ball all season. The boy is infinitely precious to him for one reason only: he’s his son.
That’s ownership. Not performance. Not usefulness. Belonging.
Scripture tells us the gate to life is narrow and few find it, while the crowds pour through the wide gate (Matthew 7:13-14). Since I’ve found the narrow way, I’m already one of the few. And I belong to Jesus. Maybe that’s the whole of it. Maybe that’s all that matters. Even out here in center field.
The Verse the Preacher Wouldn’t Let Go Of
The very next Sunday – I promise I’m not making this up – our preacher spoke on John 4:1-19 where Jesus meets a Samaritan woman at a well, and they discuss living water. The preacher said he believes verse 4 is the key to the entire chapter: Jesus “had to go through Samaria.”
That word “had” is doing a lot of work. Jesus was traveling from Judea to Galilee, and observant Jews of His day would go miles out of their way rather than set foot in Samaritan territory. Jesus didn’t have to go through Samaria geographically. He had to go through Samaria because a woman there – a woman, and a Samaritan, two strikes against her in the eyes of the religious establishment – mattered enough to Him that He arranged His route for her.
If Jesus routed His long, dusty hike through hostile territory just to meet her, I can believe I’m at least as important to Him as she was.
He Counts the Hairs on Your Head
The preacher went further. In Matthew 10:29-30, we learn that not one sparrow falls to the ground apart from the Father’s notice, and even the hairs on our heads are numbered. If God has the time, the attention, and the patience to number hairs, maybe I’m not as insignificant as I feel on the days my prayers seem too small, too selfish, or too repetitive to deserve His attention.
Ownership, Not Merit
I think this is the piece I kept missing. I kept treating prayer like a transaction, as if God’s willingness to listen should rise and fall with how much I’ve produced for Him lately. But John 6:37 was never a grudging legal loophole. It was a declaration of ownership. I come to Him not because I’ve earned a hearing, but because I’m His. The boy in center field doesn’t earn his father’s pride by hitting home runs. He already has it, because of whose son he is.
We’re living in days that feel more and more like the last pages of the story, the kind of days that should make us lean harder into prayer, not shrink back from it because we feel unqualified. If that’s you today, hear this: your value to God was never about your batting average. It was settled the moment He called you His.
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