I don't (really) trust God.

But I want to.

Photo by Samuel Ferrara on Unsplash

Sometimes it’s hard to see the forest for the trees. I’m in one of those seasons right now. Exhausted beyond belief. Heartsick for the grief in my personal life, and the world at large. Longing for redemption. Wondering if I’ll actually get to see it.

This is going on my paid Substack because it’s especially vulnerable, but even still I’m afraid to type some of these words. I’m afraid of being judged. I’m afraid you won’t understand. But then again, maybe you are sitting in a darkness that looks similar to mine, and you need to hear these words spoken aloud—just so that you know you aren’t alone.

I’ve been angry at God again lately. Like, silent treatment, shaking my fist at the sky angry. Some people I love are suffering, and it’s not the story I would have written for them—and I’m fairly powerless to do anything to help *besides pray.* And I’m not sure my prayers are very helpful right now either, when I pray at all.

I’ve been wrestling with a God I believe in, but don’t understand. I’ve seen him redeem terrible pain in the past in my own life, but when it’s in the lives of those I love I find it even harder to accept. It’s that protective side of me. The Mama bear. The caretaker. And God made me this way, so I’ve reasoned with him that it’s his fault I’m angry at him.

If I just didn’t care quite so much… If I could just compartmentalize worth a damn… If I didn’t have so much first hand experience of a situation that I know how badly (or at least can imagine how badly) the ones I love are hurting…

My deeply held belief in redemption does nothing to staunch the rage at the pain my loved ones are experiencing. I want to change it for them. And I’m powerless to do so. That’s probably the part I hate the most.

For those of you who have been here for any length of time, I’m sure you’ll recognize this thread of thought. Same song. Different verse. But it’s the struggle of my life and writing is how I come to terms with the things I can’t reconcile in my head, so here it is.

I’m a writer and a reader, and I know that the middle of the story is always a hot mess. And yet, I am struggling to trust the author of this story for the messy middle we find ourselves in. I’m lost in the moment—the heartbreak, the trauma, the agony. The things that should have been but now, will never be. The pain is crushing, and I’m tired of feeling crushed. I’m tired of persevering. I’m tired of trusting God for things that he doesn’t give. I want him to let me drive. I think my ideas are better than his. I’m pretty sure I’d do his job better than him on days like this. I wear myself out running in circles, trying to do and be something I was never meant to me, and I get angry when that realization crashes down on me.

In my ego, it’s impossible for me to remember the gift of my finitude. It’s impossible for me to remember that rest is on the other side of surrender. I’ve forgotten that it’s even safe to.

This is an exhaustion of my own making. And if I burnt out now, I know I’ll have no one to blame but myself.

Photo by Kier in Sight Archives on Unsplash

It’s hard to remember gratitude in the moments when your body is trapped in fight or flight. I learned in therapy that the activated nervous system literally causes our eyes to narrow our focus to the (perceived or real) threat right in front of us. It’s hard to see the good on the edges of it all, when your body feels like you are fighting for life itself. Emotional and physcial pain often get the same response in the human body.

In my head, I know that God is right here with me, pointing me to reminders of his goodness and his presence in every corner of my periphery. But all I can see is that he’s not doing what I think he should with the situation(s) right in front of me. And I know he could. Somehow that feels worse than believing in his impotence.

It might sound like a complete and total crisis of faith—but I think what it really is, is brutal, unflinching honesty. Willy and I have been talking often these past few weeks, and for the first time in our lives together, we have dared to say aloud the scary things that we have secretly believed. At church, we’ve been reading this amazing book called Having the Mind of Christ by Ben Sternke and Matt Tebbe, and in the final chapter they write about how what we functionally believe is what is automatic in our bodily, lived in experience. (What’s programmed in our nervous systems by our lived experience.) Even though I know *in my head* (cognitively) that God is good, that he loves me, and that he loves the ones I love even more than I do—my lived in experience has made me feel otherwise. That head knowledge to heart knowledge gap is one most Christians struggle with in some way or form, and I think often times when things are going “well enough” the gap between these two beliefs may be easier to ignore.

But when the rubber meets the road, and something terrible happens (again)—the fact that I immediately try and snatch back control from this God I have professed to trust, reveals that I do not really trust him for very much at all.

But I want to. I really do.

Photo by Dave Hoefler on Unsplash

We recently watched the episode of the Chosen where Jesus is walking on the water. (Highly recommend this show—it’s a beautifully creative portrayal of the life of Jesus and his followers.) And I don’t want to spoil it for you, so I’ll just say this—the way Peter felt prior to getting out of the boat is exactly how I have been feeling.

I’ve been struggling hard core between the gap of what I know God is capable of, and the fact that he doesn’t always use his power the way I want him to. He could change the story—and yet he doesn’t. He is not writing it the way I want him to, and I’m pissed. My body is in fight or flight and I cannot see anything past the pain of what I, and those I love, are experiencing. I don’t want to be stuck here, but I am.

Two of the axioms in the book Having the Mind of Christ (lenses through which Tebbe and Sternke aim to help readers create a new paradigm in order to see the world the way Jesus did), is “God is always present and at work” and “God transforms us through embodied participation.” I’ve had a hard time believing these ones lately. Or maybe it’s just that it didn’t feel like enough. But this past week at church, Willy said something really insightful about the scene of Jesus and Peter walking on the water. He said that in that moment, Peter was being invited to be apart of what Jesus was doing: walking on the water. We don’t have any context for Peter walking on the water any other time because he believed he could. His faith to walk on the water, or not was not the only factor in that situation. Nor was God’s power the only factor. It was a specific moment in time, and a very specific invitation in that moment.

And a lightbulb went on for me—the puzzle piece that I’ve been missing. God is inviting me to come alongside him in what he is doing. And it might not be what I’ve seen him do in the past. Or what I think he should be doing in the present. Or what I know he will do in the future at the redemption of all things where I know he will make all things right. (Anyone else super bad at being patient for that one?)

It is probably obvious to you, but it is not for me to superimpose my own agenda on a situation (no matter how good my ideas are ;), but the bear witness to the ways he is moving in the midst of each and every broken situation. It’s not up to me to make him act. He is already acting. And if I humble myself for two and a half seconds—perhaps I’ll even get to see it, just as I’ve been longing to. Perhaps I’ll say to my soul, “be still,” and the rest that comes with surrender will finally be mine.

And so, once again, I will repent of my pride. Repent of my belief that I know better, love better, or see things more clearly than he does. Repent of my belief that I could write a better story than he is—and instead, wait on him. This isn’t the end of the story, and struggle as I might to see how the ending could be beautiful—I know deep down, it will be.

I’ve seen him do it before. I’ll see him do it again. And so I’ll pray today, and every day once more—

Lord,
I believe—
help
my 
      un-
          belief. 

Photo by Vincentiu Solomon on Unsplash

Make your ways known to me LORD;

teach me your paths.

Guide me in your truth and teach me,

for you are the God of my salvation;

I wait for you all day long.

Remember, LORD, your compassion

and your faithful love,

for they have existed from antiquity.

Do not remember the sins of my youth

or my acts of rebellion;

in keeping with your faithful love,

remember me

because of your goodness LORD.

—Psalm 25:4-7 CSB