There were plenty of things I expected to be different when I moved from a large public high school to Lighthouse Christian.
One adjustment I hadn’t given much thought to was prayer.
Part Four of “A Different World,” a series about what a tiny Christian school taught an old public-school coach.
We Prayed Before Everything
We prayed before practice.
We prayed after practice.
We prayed before games.
We prayed after games.
That obviously wasn’t something I’d experienced coaching in public school, and over time I came to appreciate it.
There was something pretty special about a group of players gathering together before competition and taking a moment to pray.
But eventually I noticed something.
Before games, one of the players would lead our prayer and invariably ask our Heavenly Father to give us the strength to play hard on defense.
The first few times, I didn’t think anything of it.
Then I started watching our defense.
Apparently, the message wasn’t getting through.
An Express Route to the Basket
Game after game I’d hear some version of:
“Heavenly Father, please give us the strength to play hard on defense…”
Then we’d go out and stand straight up, reach instead of moving our feet, forget to help, and occasionally allow someone to drive through the lane like we’d opened an express route to the basket.
Finally, after one game, I decided I needed to address it.
There was only one problem.
I was the public-school guy at a Christian school about to critique the team’s prayer.
What could possibly go wrong?
I Had One Request
I respected the faith component of what we were doing. I certainly didn’t want the kids thinking I was making fun of prayer.
So I gathered them together.
“Guys, I want you to understand something. Prayer is personal. It’s important. And I think it’s a great habit for you to get into.”
So far, so good.
“But I do have one request.”
They looked at me.
“Please quit asking God to help you get your butts down and your hands out on defense.”
There was a pause.
“You guys can do that yourselves. You just have to work harder.”
Nobody reported me.
At least not that I know of.
And the more I’ve thought about that conversation, the more I believe what I told them.
Prayer mattered.
But prayer wasn’t supposed to become a substitute for personal responsibility.
You can ask for strength.
You can ask for wisdom.
You can ask for courage.
You can ask for guidance.
But eventually, you’ve still got to do something with what you’ve been given.
For us, that meant getting our butts down, moving our feet and guarding somebody.
Faith and Accountability
That was another adjustment Lighthouse forced me to make.
For most of my career, faith and coaching had occupied different spaces.
At Lighthouse, they were suddenly in the same gym.
I had to figure out what that meant.
And what I eventually discovered was that I didn’t have to choose between faith and accountability.
They belonged together.
Faith wasn’t an excuse to expect less.
If anything, it was another reason to expect more — from the players and from myself.
I’m still glad we prayed before games.
I’m still glad we prayed afterward.
I hope those kids continue praying long after basketball is finished.
But if there’s one small piece of theological advice Coach Harr can offer after 37 years on the sideline, it’s this:
Go ahead and ask God for strength.
But when the ball gets tipped…
bend your knees and play some defense.
Next week in “A Different World”: I haven’t decided which Lighthouse story comes next. There are plenty. Some are funny. Some aren’t. Some are about basketball. Some are about teaching. And quite a few are about an old coach discovering that 35-plus years of experience doesn’t mean you have everything figured out. I’m just trying to decide which ones I can tell without getting fired. Stay tuned.
Start the series with “Coach, You Said Never Give Up an Easy Layup”, “I’ll Be Back Monday, Coach” and “The Night I Started Four Players”, or read more about what those Lighthouse years taught me in “I Thought They Didn’t Work Hard. I Was Wrong.”.
This story first appeared on Matt’s Substack. Subscribe to the newsletter for short stories and practical lessons like this one every week.
