There is not a heart but has its moments
of longing, yearning for something better; nobler;
holier than it know now.

HENRY WARD BEECHER

The older you get, more it take to fill your heart
with wonder… and only God is big enough to do that.

RAVI ZACHARIAS

Sometimes friends ask questions that make me smile. Like “If it’s a TV set, why do you only get one of them?” But other questions stop me dead in my tracks; some even make me think. Like the one my friend Andy Andersen was honest enough to ask one muggy June night in Florida.

Back in 1993, Andy was enjoying life as a U.S. Navy commander, serving as executive officer of a naval aviation squadron out of Jacksonville, Florida. His Cary Grant smile and gentle strength endeared him to those he led. One day a sailor began asking for financial advice, and Andy responded with a few questions of his own—about the mans own philosophy of life and debt. Soon the two were lost in discussion, barely realizing that twenty others were eavesdropping on their conversation. Andy invited them to join in. “They were begging for more information,” he says. “Some had creditors beating down their doors, others were watching money problems ruin their marriages.”

Andy decided to put together a financial management seminar and soon found himself speaking to other squadrons in the Jacksonville area. News of the popular workshops spread as far as Washington DC, where he was asked to join the board of a billion-dollar corporation and launch the navy’s financial management program on C-SPAN live from the Pentagon.

By 1998 he was on top of the world, promoted to captain and serving as an executive assistant to the secretary of defense, Bill Cohen. But deep inside there was a nagging emptiness. “I was the first guy with a lampshade on my head at parties,” he recalls. “I went to church but had no relationship with Christ.” One April night he uttered a desperate prayer asking for some kind of sign. He drifted off, and the sign arrived in a vivid dream. “I awoke in a huge cave with a crack in the ceiling and beams of light shining down on an old rugged cross. I could see a man on the cross, his head covered in blood and sweat. I approached the cross and saw that it was Christ, that He had been crucified and was dead. Suddenly His eyes opened, His hand pulled away from the wood and stretched out to me. He said, ‘I am God. I love you. I did this for you.’”

Andy awoke knowing he would never be the same.

In October he noticed my book Making Life Rich Without Any Money in a Pentagon bookstore and read it on a flight to his twenty-five-year high school reunion. According to Andy, God used the book “to change my life forever.” He began writing me letters, asking honest and refreshing questions that young followers of Christ long to know. The first was this: “Will Jesus still love me if I buy a Mercedes convertible?”

I smiled at his question, then wrote him back. “Jesus will never leave you,” I told him. “He will love you even if you drive a Ford.” But I asked him to consider what he could do with the money he saved if he were to buy a used car. I reminded him of the message of the book: that money makes a lousy master but a great servant.

The day Andy received my letter, he was walking past a bulletin board when a picture caught his eye. A red Mustang convertible, good as new, but half the price. “I’d always wanted a Mustang,” he told me. “Besides, it was thirty thousand dollars less than the silver Mercedes.” So he bought it.

Andy began investing in others. And God began to bless him.

Soon he was selected to command the navy’s largest squadron—over twelve hundred sailors. “I knew I had a wonderful opportunity to impact all those lives,” he recalls. “I wanted to show them that happiness has nothing to do with the materialistic pursuits that kill the joy of so many.” He modified his financial seminar, basing it on my book. I sued him and made millions. Okay, not really. But as Andy warned listeners about the pitfalls of a stressful and selfish society, the seminar had a profound effect. “People were happier and more motivated. They felt a greater sense of worth. Within six months we had a complete reversal in squadron performance.” He even began selling my book afterward for a nominal fee, watching thousands of them go into the hands of navy personnel who wouldn’t dream of opening a church door. Today Andy’s platform continues to grow as he conducts his workshops all over the country.

One muggy June evening as we sampled seafood together in a restaurant near Jacksonville, Florida, Andy talked of those days. “I worked with a few ladies you may have heard of,” he grinned. “Monica Lewinsky and Linda Tripp. Most of what I heard I didn’t believe—until I read it in the newspaper.” While the world learned of the scandal brought on by selfishness, money, power, and lust, Andy felt inspired to up the stakes of his workshop, teaching the lasting benefits of integrity, faithfulness, and helping others. But as he encountered the stresses and strains of middle age, Captain Andersen admitted that he was having a crisis of faith.

Leaning toward me, he asked, “Why are you still a Christian?”

I was midway through a fistful of shrimp from the buffet, but I managed to ask, “What do you mean?”

“Well, since I gave my life to Christ, things have gotten worse. I’ve been beaten up and robbed. I’m being sued for no good reason. Things aren’t great on so many fronts. What about you? Why are you still a Christian?”

I’m usually silent in the face of such questions. Or I try to hide behind people who are brighter than I—and thankfully my high school buddy Kevin was along on this trip. Kevin spoke wisely of the resurrection of Christ, of the lack of viable alternatives. Andy’s wife, Cindy, was there too. She talked of the change in her own life. And then the three of them looked at me because I am wise and witty and would surely have an answer.

I ate more shrimp. I mentioned the fact that no other belief system had satisfied my craving for truth. I talked of people in my life who have no earthly reason to rejoice but whose lives are filled with joy. But what came next from my mouth was not what I intended.

“You know,” I said, toying with my fork, “I’ve traveled in limousines, stayed in the finest hotels, eaten the fattest shrimp. And I’ve had this strange feeling I can’t properly explain. I remember one night in particular, sitting on a powdery beach in Maui—an absolute paradise for a Canadian. My children were throwing the Frisbee nearby and actually getting along. I kid you not, this happened. I was holding the hand of the one person in all the world that I love the most.”

“Who was that?” interrupted Kevin.

“The girl I’ve been stark raving mad about since the age of fifteen,” I answered. “You know, the thought hit me as I held her hand: This is as good as it gets down here, but it’s not enough. There must be more than this.”

Surprisingly, Andy and his wife leaned forward. I told them of C. S. Lewis, the brilliant thinker who went from avowed atheist to follower of Christ. “Lewis wrote, ‘If I find in myself a desire which no experience in this world can satisfy, the most probable explanation is that I was made for another world.’“

“I’ve never heard it put that way,” said Andy. “That’s really what led me to Christ.”

The Middle Ages often usher in a time of doubt. What I want are answers, and sometimes I just get questions. But sometimes it’s the questions that keep me moving forward, stumbling heavenward.

Deep within each of us is a voice that we will hear if we just get quiet enough to listen. A voice telling us that nothing in this world will entirely keep its promise, that what we want most cannot be had down here. The best marriage, the sweetest salary, the flashiest car—nothing will ever entirely satisfy this longing.

On my bulletin board is the picture of the man with the Cary Grant smile, grinning up at me from his red Mustang convertible, his faithful Labrador retriever, Dusty, by his side. Andy’s picture reminds me never to stop asking questions. It reminds me of integrity and truth, of a longing for Home.