Wrestling With God
And what to do with all these unanswered questions...
It’s Good Friday and that’s pretty significant. Or, it should be.
In the last year I've found it difficult to write publicly about my faith, because I'll be honest: it's been a little rocky.
Not that I've stopped believing in God—I've seen far too much to doubt that He's real—but perhaps I stopped, for a time, believing in His goodness.
The questions about who He is and what that means to me and how to live my life in light of that grew to a crescendo last year.
How can I go about my rather-pleasant life knowing how privileged I am to never face the choice between my beliefs and my life itself?
How does anything I do matter in light of eternity?
And how can I believe the Bible when it says that God cares for all His children equally, yet allows some to suffer more than others?
The notes app on my phone is filled with half-finished thoughts and musings; pieces I started writing to share with you but couldn't get past the first draft. Even my journal reads like a half-hearted attempt to stitch together all the thoughts swirling around my head into something legible.
I found the post I'd written to share with you last Easter but never did, because I was painfully aware of how little I knew. What good is it to share the questions before you have the answers?
What good is an unfinished story?
A while ago I was on a run, and over the thump of my heartbeat and the fast-paced trap music blaring in my ears, I heard—or rather, felt—His voice, inviting me to talk. But I was angry with Him, and frustrated by all the questions I was dragging around, like a toddler toppling under the weight of an oversized backpack.
"I can't talk to You," I fired back at Him, picking up my pace. "I'm wrestling with You."
Before I'd even rounded the corner, I heard Him again, so clearly that I was sure my Garmin would pick up the spike in my heartrate.
"You're not wrestling," His voice said.
That just made me mad. "But I AM—"
"No, you're not." I thought it was rude of Him to interrupt me, but I waited.
"To wrestle," He continued, "you have to engage."
I waited for more, but that was it. The music in my ears intensified as I ran the final stretch home.
I didn't have to think about what He meant, because the moment I'd felt those words, I knew He was right. I pictured an MMA ring with two fighters circling, each out of reach. The ref had called "fight!" but every time one fighter moved forward, the other retreated, refusing to engage.
It wasn't much of a fight.
And neither, I realised, was what I'd been doing. I'd spent months feeling angry at God for not giving me answers, but I hadn't made any sincere attempt to come to Him with my questions. I'd kept Him at an arm's distance; it's less painful to keep circling the ring than to engage and risk getting hurt, right?
So as I sit here months later, in a little wooden cabin in Tasmania, still wrestling with questions bigger than I can carry alone, it occurs to me that maybe that's exactly what I need to share today.
I think there might be people reading this who are angry with God. Who, like me, are stumbling under the weight of unanswered questions and who feel frustrated with the lack of answers.
You know you're supposed to feel grateful for Jesus' sacrifice at Easter, but maybe it doesn't carry the same weight for you that it used to. Maybe it's hard to admit that faith—the true, believing-without-seeing faith—doesn't always come easily.
So today, on Good Friday, the day we're meant to reflect on how Jesus gave up His life for you and I, a truth which, if you believe it, should change everything... I hope you'll engage. Look up. Stop circling.
The wrestling can't start until we choose to step closer.
What do you want to ask God?