The Worth Of Knowing

I told myself I’d give him a chance. People I love seemed to respect him. I wouldn’t make hasty judgements. I wouldn’t look for faults. I’d remain open to learn from him.

But then he stood behind the pulpit and spoke. I groaned inwardly. Not 30 seconds had gone by and he reminded me of someone I used to know – someone I didn’t trust. I tried to push aside the thought that I knew what the rest of his message would be like. I tried to tell myself “it will be different.”

But the phrases he said, the way he paused, and even the Scripture he used continued to remind me of this other person.

The tightness went from my throat to my stomach as I tried to reason with myself: “these aren’t bad similarities” and “just listen to the message – listen to the Scripture.”

But my whole body was clenched and I had to remind myself to breath.

I knew this feeling. I tried to quiet it. For a moment I sat there gaslighting myself and my own body, “This isn’t going to lead to a panic attack. You’re overreacting. You’re fine. Drop it.”

But I couldn’t drop it.

I knew logic couldn’t bring me back anymore.

Somehow I had to let the feeling of being unsafe and repulsed and angry happen. Fighting it would be like banging my head on a wall.

I was unable to focus and I got nothing out of the sermon, but I made it through.

Later, I told someone who knows me fairly well about my experience and she said, “That totally makes sense that you reacted that way.”

It felt like breathing in relief and safety.

I had been expecting to hear a list of reasons why I should trust him. Or a story about the impact he’s had on her life. Or something about how I didn’t have a real reason to distrust him.

Instead, what I heard was validation. Not validation that my feelings were an accurate reading on his character, but because my feeling were an appropriate response to being reminded of someone else I did not trust.

Some stories did come later and they were helpful, but only because I knew my loud feelings were not being pushed aside. Only when my feelings were noticed and told they were safe to exist and they would not be shamed was I open to her next suggestion.

“You’ll just need to get to know him and form a relationship,” she said casually, with optimism that I had yet to share. There was no rush. No pressure. Just the option presented.

Isn’t it often the same with our relationship with God?

There was a month or two a couple years ago where I couldn’t listen to worship music. If I tried (and trust me I tried) my skin would crawl, my stomach twist, and I’d want to yell in anger. I read Scripture not for comfort or guidance, but for proof that God couldn’t be trusted.

Eventually I realized that logic and answers weren’t going to quiet my doubts.

I think those feelings and those doubts just needed to happen. They were not a detour but an integral part of the process that led to my trust and relationship with God deepening.

Sometimes we need to go through some rough patches in a relationship to see what it can withstand.

I found comfort during that season from people who more or less said “it makes sense that you’re feeling this way toward God.”

They said it with their words and also their demeanor. They said it calmly – even with a bit of quiet, sturdy of optimism. They said it as if this was part of the journey. As if there was time to let the doubts and feelings happen.

They weren’t agreeing with my perception of God. They were reminding me that it is okay that I’m a human with baggage. That maybe I’d find that God is bigger than all I carry.

It was also a comfort for me to realize that my doubt was not a threat to God’s goodness (if indeed He was good). I couldn’t change God with my doubt and anger. It would change me and my perception of God, but not God Himself.

This was a strange comfort and I began to tell myself, “If God is good, then He will keep me and my little faith in the palm of His hand. I can doubt and question, and He will not let me go. But if He is not good, well, then I haven’t lost much.”

It gave me a bit of relief. A bit of space.

It respected my human need for time to process and unlearn and rebuild over and over, little by little.

God, the one who exists outside of time, gave me time. He was not rushed. He knows I am human. My feeling and doubt and anger were not a threat to Him.

They could just happen.