Faithful Paradox

When I was in my early 20’s, anxiety became a very real and painful part of my story. I accumulated years of sleepless nights as panic attacks would haunt me in the dark. I cannot count the number of times I prayed Philippians 4:6-7, “Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything, by prayer and supplication, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.”

During these years of sleepless nights, I prayed and tried to thank God. “Thank you God that you are here (even if I cannot feel you). Thank you God that you are in control (even though I feel very out of control). Thank you God that I am safe (even though my mind tells me I am in danger). Thank you God… please help me. Please give me the peace that surpasses all understanding. Guard my heart and mind…”

As I prayed, the panic continued, the anxiety marched on, the promised peace did not arrive and the mind-guarding did not seem to come. My experience was so different than others I read about. There was story after story of people who prayed and experienced supernatural peace and comfort. Where was my peace and comfort? What was wrong with my faith? Did I even have true faith? To this day, when I come across this verse, my body still has a physical reaction to reading it. My mind quickly goes back to my 20 year old self.

God’s word told me that all I had to do was pray with thanksgiving and his peace would be mine. When it didn’t happen this way, I felt angry and confused. I felt abandoned. I longed for God’s care to come in the way of immediate peace. If I took thanking God and added prayer and supplication, that should equal a response from God, correct? God graciously revealed to me the wrong expectations that I held in this season: he will not be reduced to a formula. I wanted so badly for God to show up in a formulaic way and yet true faith has no formula.

The peace of God that I longed to have was actually simply problem removal. I wanted God to swoop down and lift my anxiety. I wanted my panic gone. I wanted the fear removed. I essentially said, “God, if you are loving, you will take this away from me.” God’s response to me was, “I am loving, even though…” I had to wrestle with this reality. God’s love was not dependent upon what he allowed or didn’t allow. His care for me did not come in problem removal. In fact, his love for me was revealed by his refusal to allow me to see him reduced to a formula. Ouch.

What I didn’t realize in this time was that for me, God had become a functional being who I expected to relieve my pain rather than an immeasurable Spirit who deserves all worship, glory, praise and submission. I expected God to serve me; not the other way around. I longed for peace that was short-sighted and temporary. I longed for immediate problem removal. God gave me peace with him through Christ. The peace he gave was far greater than the peace I longed to receive. It was through his refusal to lift the anxiety and panic that I began to learn that God’s peace is far greater than temporary comfort.

I am a creature of habit and still, these days, I find myself longing for the temporary peace I wanted in days past. I often find myself back in the place of trying to pray, with thanksgiving, once again hoping in some way that God will lift my sorrow. I awoke with a heavy heart yesterday. As I made breakfast, I tried to pray… “God, thank you that we have never gone without food. Thank you that my boys are healthy. Thank you that we have a warm house when it’s freezing out. God thank you…”

As I prayed, the sadness did not lift. In fact, the very discipline of fighting for gratitude seemed to only cause the sorrow to dig deeper roots. It did nothing to lift my sorrow and seemed to actually make it harder in many ways. Often, these disciplines of faith are hard and confusing.

I can see, however, that I am not the same child I was 30 years ago. Even though I longed for the peace of immediate comfort to come, when it did not, my heart no longer cries foul. Although I wish that practicing gratitude would always lift my countenance, I know that there is value in the recitation of faith, even when I see no immediate response. Although I wish that trusting in a future hope and promise would make walking today a little easier, I recognize that trusting God at his word loosens my grasp of this world today.

If I am honest, I still desire problem removal; a solution for my pain. I am tired of hurting. I just want Jesus to fix my broken heart. I want him to take away my grief. I want him to bring comfort and make this life a little less painful. When Jesus prayed, “your kingdom come, your will be done, on earth as it is in heaven,” I want God’s kingdom to come now, today. I don’t want to wait until one day in glory. I suppose I am an impatient child.

These practices of obedience, this fight for gratitude in the midst of sorrow, is a discipline. It’s a discipline of obedience in the moment that some how builds faith that helps us endure. As all disciplines go, however, there are times we simply grow weary and tired of being disciplined. Practicing does not necessarily lift the sorrow of the moment. It does not cause the pain to stop, the panic to cease or the suffering to lift.

I have learned, however, that disciplines are not necessarily intended to lift the pain, but rather, they are intended to redirect my gaze. These disciplines help me turn my eyes away from my “light and momentary affliction” towards Jesus, “who sits on the throne” in victory (2 Cor 4:17,Matthew 28:18). These disciplines remind me that this life is not all there is. There is hope in this; a one day and future hope. And while that one-day-future-hope does not necessarily bring comfort today, it is no less real.

These days, I remind myself that it’s not always going to be as hard as it is today and maybe that’s the hope to cling to? It’s not always going to hurt as much as it does today. It’s not always going to be as sad as it is today. It’s not always going to feel so painful as it does today. And maybe, just maybe, the practices of gratitude, of directing my heart towards the promises of God, remind me of this truth. Maybe it doesn’t make today any easier, any lighter, but what it does do is remind me that today is fleeting; it’t not all there is. It’s passing quickly and when tomorrow arrives, it will roll in with new mercy that I have not yet experienced. It will come with new hope that maybe, just maybe, it won’t be quite as hard as it was yesterday. It’s no formula. It’s no equation. It’s simply faithfulness.