People of my generation are like Michael Jordan.

I vividly recall watching one of Jordan's six NBA championships. During one championship run, Jordan and the Bulls won it all just three short years after the murder of Jordan's father, who'd been shot repeatedly as he sat in his car, chair reclined, napping at a humble rest stop in North Carolina. After the game's final shot, a buzzing herd of reporters followed the players into the locker room to interview the victors in the celebration. There, in the corner of the room, lay Michael Jordan—the greatest basketball player in history—weeping, facedown, overcome, inconsolable, holding an orange basketball in his arms. No one knew quite what to do. Do we talk to him? Do we leave him alone? I suspect everyone knew exactly what was happening though. It was Father's Day. So there lay a broken champion with everything the world had to offer but with no father to grab him by the shoulders and say, "Son, I'm so proud of you." In the interviews, reporter after reporter asked Jordan what it was like to win everything, have everything, and be loved by everyone. For Jordan, his success, fame, and money didn't seem to matter; one could see it in his eyes. Because when he gazed around the locker room that day, he found everything he could ever dream of, but he couldn't find his dad.

Living life without God is like having everything you've ever wanted, but having no father in the room to celebrate with.