Faithful Paradox

I grew up singing many of the old hymns of the faith that proclaim the steadfast nature of God. I’m not sure I really paid attention to the lyrics at the time, but as traditional hymns have given way to modern worship music, I have found there are many times that the lyrics rub against my experience of God. I often hear lyrics in songs that declare how Jesus has never let me down, how Jesus always shows up at just the right time, how God will never disappoint me. As those words float upon beautiful melodies, they often hit my heart on a sour note. If I’m being completely honest, there have been many times in my life that I have felt as if God has let me down. There have been many times that I have felt as if Jesus did disappoint me. There have been many times that I had hopes and expectations of what I thought God was going to do and when he didn’t, I did not immediately assume that it was my hope and expectation that was wrong, but rather, I wrongly assumed it was God who disappointed me.

There were many times during Ezra’s sickness that we would see answers to prayer and people would exclaim, “God is so good! He is so faithful!” And it’s true, he is good. But not once, as we watched him lose his battle with cancer did anyone exclaim, “God is so good! He is so faithful!” Now, I am well aware that it could be terribly insensitive to make such a proclamation in the midst of deep suffering, yet at the same time, I often felt a tension rise in my heart when the only declarations of God’s goodness and faithfulness came when God did something we requested. It is in these times we must ask the question: What is the foundation of God’s goodness based on in my life? It is never wrong to declare the goodness and faithfulness of God, but do we only declare he is good because he has answered exactly how we wanted or expected; when we feel that he didn’t let us down because he did what we had hoped? What about the times, however, when we are deeply grieved or disappointed with God’s answer? Do we base our view of his goodness upon the fact that he sent Jesus to die in our place, making a way for us to the Father? Or is our view of God’s goodness tied primarily to his answers of “yes?”

God’s goodness did not change during the ups and downs of Ezra’s treatments. God’s goodness did not change when he gave us the final answer to our pleadings for healing. Even in the death of my son, God’s goodness remained the same. 

Every follower of Jesus will face a time in life when God’s answer is no. More often than not, we are then left wrestling with the confusion of God’s answer because often, in our limited understanding of things, it just doesn’t make sense. The truth of the matter, however, is that what God gives or does not give does not change who God is. He is good. He is kind. He is faithful. His gifts, whether they feel good or not, are always good gifts. So often, however, our hurt and confusion with his plans leave us feeling disappointed with God; or at the very least, disappointed with his plans.

More often than I care to admit, my hope is that God’s definition of good, kind and right is the same as my own definition. God’s definition of good and kind and right, however, always comes with his greater understanding than my limited view, which, at times, leaves confusion and sometimes hurt.

I have found that when my hopes and expectations collide with God’s plan, when I am confronted with unanswered prayers, or prayers in which God says “no” or God says, “not the way you want,” the first thing I am learning to do is take time to grieve that God’s answer was different than I had hoped. While I wish that my heart was always and immediately at the place that I could proclaim, “not my will, but yours be done,” the truth is that often, I can express that in words, but my heart is slow to follow in believing and in feeling this. So much of faith, however, is fighting to express and believe what is true, trusting that our hearts and emotions will eventually catch up to our proclamations. In the space between what our minds know is true in faith and what our hearts feel, we must give ourselves the freedom to grieve the “no’s” of God.

After we lost Ezra, we found that our prayer was often, “God, show us your kindness. Show us. This doesn’t feel kind. This doesn’t feel good. Show us your goodness and kindness despite our feelings.” There were also times that I would simply tell God, “I hate your plan. It hurts. I hate that you took my son.” The former was honoring to God, the latter was not. The former were groans given in faith, the latter were expressions of grief and confusion. God is able to carry our emotions and willing to hear from us, even when the things we are feeling and expressing are messy.

More times than we could count, as we wrestled with the “no” of God, we had to simply rest on knowing that Jesus would be enough to sustain us, to hold us, even in the midst of pain and confusion. We had to grieve that God’s answer to our pleadings for healing was no. We had to choose to be satisfied with not understanding. I confess, it didn’t feel like enough. It didn’t feel comforting. It didn’t feel good. Even now, at times, it still doesn’t. But I know it was enough because I see how God has sustained us. He has sustained our faith.

As I find myself in seasons of grieving God’s answer, I find it is often helpful for me to consider those in Scripture who may have felt similarly to what I feel; who experienced disappointment with God’s plan just as I have. And as I think about those who sat in confusion in Scripture, my mind goes quickly to the story of the death of Lazarus in John 11. As I sit in the tension of this narrative, I think we see a small glimpse of the heart of God; his heart for both those he loves and also for his own glory.

Lazarus was sick and his sister sent an urgent message to Jesus, “The one you love is sick.” When Jesus received news of the sickness of his friend, John says, “now Jesus loved Martha and her sister and Lazarus. So, when he heard that Lazarus was ill, he stayed two days longer in the place where he was” (John 11:6, emphasis mine). 

Jesus absolutely had both the power and ability to come at once when he heard Lazarus was ill. He could have dropped all he was doing to go immediately when he was called upon. But he chose to stay where he was. This brought confusion for everyone involved. Why didn’t he answer? Why didn’t he come right away? This was a man Jesus loved, and yet he didn’t meet the hopes and expectations. He delayed. Even the age old question of why God doesn’t heal when he is able to is brought to the table when the crowds ask, “Could not he who opened the eyes of the blind man also have kept this man from dying?” (John 11:37). I’ve asked that question more times than I can count. “God, why didn’t you heal? Wouldn’t it bring you more glory to have given us a miracle?” My feelings of confusion over a God who is able, but often seems unwilling have left me in seasons of darkness and hurt, questioning God’s plan, grieving God’s “no.” Maybe you have felt that as well.

I think it’s easy to assume that when God gives no response, or when God’s answer is “no,” to our pleadings that God is indifferent; that maybe he doesn’t care. I have felt that. But if we sit in the tension of this passage in John 11, we see that not only does Jesus care deeply, but there is intention in his delay. He tells the disciples that he delayed for the sake of belief (John 11:15, 42). The reality of the story is that Lazarus’ illness was not actually about the death of Lazarus, but rather it’s about the glory of God. God is always about his glory and the intentional delay of Jesus, the intentional “no” to healing immediately was about his glory. God’s great love let Lazarus die. His death allowed Mary, Martha and the other on-lookers to see and experience the glory of God in more full ways than they understood. In ways they didn’t even realize they needed to experience. While the sisters believed that what Lazarus needed most was physical healing, what they all truly needed was to see and experience the glory of God. Lazarus’ healing would have shown a piece of God’s power. His resurrection revealed the glory of God. They could not have seen or understood how death actually brought more life, more glory to God, until the resurrection. It is the same for us. 

We feel the deep pain of suffering. We feel abandoned. We feel the pain of loss. We ache with unanswered prayers. We feel the delay of God’s answers, just as it seemed Jesus delayed in answering the call to come to Lazarus. Just as Mary and Martha felt it, we feel it too, and it hurts. It’s confusing.

And yet in that painful waiting, what we can also experience is the compassion of a God who weeps with us, just as Jesus wept for Lazarus. What we can experience is the tension of understanding that the delay of God’s “yes” is not because he has forgotten or is uncaring, but rather it’s from a God who cares so deeply that he knows that what we need most is not actually the answer to our prayers, but rather we need him to reveal who he is, regardless of the outcome. We ask for something far too small that feels good; that we can understand. We ask for healing, we ask for comfort, we ask for provision, we ask for understanding. Instead, he gives us a far greater gift. His answer to our pleadings is to give us more of himself. He gives us himself and a greater view of his glory.

So as we wait to see the resurrection of our lost dreams, of the death of the hopes we had, we grieve. We grieve that God said no, we grieve because we are confused. We grieve as we wait and yet we wait with hope, knowing that God’s no is not intended to crush or harm us, but rather, it is intended to show us more of who he is. It may be that we will not understand God’s “no” until the resurrection, but when that resurrection day comes, we will see and understand that God’s “no” was worth the confusion. It was worth the pain. It was worth the present loss because what we will see and understand will be far better than what we do not understand right now. So as we wait, we do not grieve as those who have no hope, but rather, we grieve with hope, knowing that when God says no, it is not the end but only the beginning.