Do You Trust Me?

Yesterday, I admitted that I was mad at God.

Not disappointed in Christianity. Not wrestling with some abstract theological concept. Mad. At. God.

I was frustrated with what He allowed, what He hadn’t changed, what I thought He should have done by now, and how exhausting it can feel to keep trusting Someone whose plans I cannot see.

Apparently, God decided we were not finished with that conversation.

Because today, instead of addressing everything I am angry about, He started addressing how I see Him.

Rude.

Necessary.

Still rude.

Luke 11:9–13 is a passage I have heard enough times that I could probably nod convincingly through a sermon about it while mentally making my grocery list.

“Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you.”

Beautiful.

Inspirational.

Put it on a mug.

Except Jesus wasn’t simply teaching His disciples how to get things from God. The entire conversation begins because they watched Jesus pray and asked Him, “Lord, teach us to pray.”

They had watched Jesus heal people. Cast out demons. Perform miracles. Speak with authority. Yet when they finally asked Him to teach them something, they asked about prayer.

They recognized that the power they witnessed publicly was connected to what Jesus practiced privately.

So Jesus teaches them how to pray.

“Our Father…”

And maybe that is where my problem begins.

Because I know how to ask.

Good Lord, do I know how to ask.

I have requests. Follow-ups. Supporting documentation. Exhibits A through Q. I have timelines, preferred outcomes and a brief explanation of why my proposed resolution would be mutually beneficial to all parties involved.

Sometimes I approach God less like a daughter approaching her Father and more like Aladdin rubbing the lamp.

“Okay, Genie. Here’s what we need.”

Fix this.

Open that.

Move them.

Change this.

Heal that.

Provide this.

Explain yourself.

Preferably before Friday.

Three wishes? Absolutely not. I have a running list.

Then when the smoke clears and God does not emerge singing “Friend Like Me” while rearranging the entire universe according to my specifications, something starts happening inside me.

I question His generosity.

I question His nearness.

Sometimes, if I am being painfully truthful, I question His goodness.

Not necessarily because I believe God has become bad, but because somewhere along the way I started measuring His character by His response to my requests.

That is dangerous.

Because the God I see becomes the God I experience.

I don’t determine who God is.

I do, however, determine who I allow Him to be to me.

If I perceive Him as distant, I approach cautiously.

If I perceive Him as disappointed, I approach apologetically.

If I perceive Him as withholding, I approach suspiciously.

If I perceive Him primarily as the One responsible for fixing everything, I approach transactionally.

Which means I can have the right theology about God and still have the wrong perception of Him.

Yesterday exposed some of mine.

My frustration wasn’t only revealing what I wanted God to change.

It was revealing what I expected God to be.

And that hurts to write.

Because apparently I have been reducing an infinite God to the size of my current disappointment.

If He opens the door, He is generous.

If He closes it, suddenly I need an explanation.

If He gives me what I prayed for, I testify about His faithfulness.

If He doesn’t, I start privately cross-examining His goodness.

Meanwhile Scripture says there are no conflicting character traits in God.

He doesn’t stop being generous when the answer is no.

He doesn’t stop being loving when the door stays closed.

He doesn’t stop being present because I cannot feel Him.

He doesn’t stop being good because what I am living through doesn’t feel good.

James 1:17 says, “Every good and perfect gift is from above.”

God’s goodness isn’t seasonal.

Which means maybe the closed door and the open door can come from the same good Father.

Maybe generosity does not always look like receiving.

Sometimes generosity looks like protection.

Sometimes it looks like preparation.

Sometimes it looks like correction.

Sometimes it looks like God refusing to give me something I would absolutely destroy myself trying to maintain.

And sometimes it looks like a blueprint instead of a blessing.

That one got me.

Because I keep asking God to give me the thing, and sometimes He gives me instructions for building the capacity to carry the thing.

I ask for the ark.

He hands me plans.

Excuse me, Sir.

I specifically requested an ark.

Yet Noah didn’t receive a completed ark floating conveniently outside his house.

He received measurements.

Instructions.

A blueprint.

Then came the responsibility to build before there was ever a raindrop.

That changes how I see preparation.

It also changes how I see procrastination.

Because what if some of the things God is asking me to build right now aren’t for right now?

What if something is coming that will require me to already have constructed what God has been telling me to build?

Suddenly procrastination isn’t merely poor time management.

Sometimes procrastination is me postponing obedience because I don’t yet understand why the instruction matters.

Conviction moves me.

Condemnation paralyzes me.

God saying, “Build,” creates movement.

The enemy saying, “Look how long you’ve taken to build,” creates shame.

Those voices produce completely different fruit.

Which brings me back to Luke 11.

Jesus eventually says something fascinating:

“How much more will your Father in heaven give the Holy Spirit to those who ask him!”

I would have expected Jesus to say, “How much more will your Father give you what you ask for.”

Instead, He gives them Someone.

The Holy Spirit.

Because perhaps the greatest evidence of God’s generosity isn’t that He gives me everything I want.

It is that He gives me Himself.

And maybe I have spent too much time evaluating the goodness of the gift based on what it does for me instead of what it does in me.

The Holy Spirit isn’t my spiritual Genie either.

He wasn’t given merely to make my circumstances easier.

He was given to make me more like Jesus.

Salvation.

Sanctification.

Service.

There is an order there that I desperately need to stop trying to skip.

Because I can become obsessed with being useful while completely avoiding being formed.

I can serve.

Write.

Encourage.

Pray.

Show up.

Speak life into somebody else while privately bleeding all over my own perception of God.

I can function without being formed.

And functioning can fool people.

Sometimes it can even fool me.

Gift can look impressive.

Fruit is harder to fake.

Galatians 5:22–23 describes that fruit: love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control.

And lately I have had to ask myself an uncomfortable question:

Do I want to have those things?

Or do I want to become those things?

Because there is a difference.

I want peace when life is chaotic.

God wants to make me peaceful.

I want joy when circumstances cooperate.

God wants joy rooted somewhere circumstances cannot reach.

I want love when people are lovable.

God wants to form a love in me that seeks the highest good of another person even when they are getting on every last sanctified nerve I possess.

Apparently “fruit of the Spirit” does not include “pleasant until provoked.”

I checked.

This is where yesterday and today collide for me.

Yesterday I wanted God to change my circumstances because I was exhausted from caring.

Today I am realizing that God may be using some of these circumstances to change me.

I still don’t like them.

That matters.

I am not going to sanitize yesterday because today’s revelation sounds prettier.

I meant what I said when I told God I was mad.

I meant it when I said I was tired.

I meant it when I questioned why following Him sometimes feels so unbelievably hard.

Faith does not require me to retroactively lie about what hurt.

It does require me to let God correct what the hurt taught me about Him.

That is the distinction.

Pain can affect perception.

People can affect perception.

Church can affect perception.

Disappointment can affect perception.

Unanswered prayers can affect perception.

Even answered prayers that looked nothing like I expected can affect perception.

If I don’t guard it, eventually I am no longer responding to God as He actually is.

I am responding to the version of Him my wounds created.

That version is smaller.

Less generous.

Less trustworthy.

Harder to please.

Quick to punish.

Slow to respond.

Standing somewhere in heaven with folded arms while I try desperately to say the correct prayer, have enough faith, make the correct decision and avoid whatever invisible trapdoor apparently sends me back into another season of character development.

No wonder prayer becomes exhausting when that is who I think I’m talking to.

Jesus corrects that immediately.

“Father.”

Not Genie.

Not vending machine.

Not cosmic customer service representative.

Father.

And who I believe I am talking to changes how I talk to Him.

Maybe that is why Jesus taught relationship before request.

“Our Father…”

Perspective first.

Petition second.

Because I cannot have right reception with wrong perception.

The enemy doesn’t always need to convince me that God doesn’t exist.

Sometimes it is enough to convince me that God isn’t who He says He is.

If he cannot make me stop believing in God, maybe he can make me reduce God.

Reduce His generosity to provision.

Reduce His goodness to outcomes.

Reduce His faithfulness to timelines.

Reduce His love to comfort.

Reduce His presence to feelings.

Reduce His character to whatever happened to me this week.

And I have done exactly that.

I have reduced the size of my God to the size of my circumstances.

Yet 3 John 2 says, “I pray that you may enjoy good health and that all may go well with you, even as your soul is getting along well.”

There is an internal work happening alongside the external life I keep asking God to improve.

My soul matters.

My formation matters.

My character matters.

The fruit I carry matters.

Because ultimately, I don’t only want the Holy Spirit to give me love.

I want to become loving.

I don’t only want Him to give me moments of joy.

I want joy woven into me.

I don’t only want Him to calm everything around me so I can finally experience peace.

I want Him to form such deep peace inside me that chaos doesn’t get automatic permission to become chaos within me.

That is different.

That is formation.

And formation is uncomfortable because God is not simply decorating my life.

He is developing my character.

Which means perhaps the answer to yesterday’s prayer isn’t God making me care less.

Maybe it’s God teaching me how to care differently.

Maybe the answer to my anger isn’t Him immediately removing everything making me angry.

Maybe it is Him showing me where anger has distorted my perception.

Maybe the answer to “God, where are You?” isn’t always an explanation.

Sometimes it is:

“I am right here.”

Still Father.

Still good.

Still generous.

Still present.

Still forming me.

Still handing me blueprints for things I don’t understand yet.

Still correcting me without condemning me.

Still giving me Himself when I keep asking Him for stuff.

Aladdin eventually learns something I apparently needed thirty-something years and several spiritual breakdowns to understand:

The greatest thing Genie gave him wasn’t the wishes.

The relationship changed him.

And yes, I know God is not Genie.

That is precisely the point.

I have treated Him like one.

Rub the lamp.

Make the request.

Expect the miracle.

Become confused when the magic doesn’t happen.

Except my Father isn’t interested in performing for me.

He’s interested in forming me.

So maybe prayer isn’t primarily where I go to get God to change His mind about my circumstances.

Maybe prayer is also where God keeps changing my mind about Him.

Yesterday, I told Him I was mad.

Today, He didn’t seem offended.

He just pulled the chair out a little farther and invited me deeper into the conversation.

“Okay. You’re mad at Me.

Now tell Me who you think I am.”

And that question may be more important than everything I’ve been asking Him to fix.

Because I am starting to realize that I don’t just need God to change what I see.

I need Him to change the eyes I am seeing Him through.

I don’t only want His gifts.

I want His fruit.

I don’t only want Him to change my circumstances.

I want Him to change my character.

I don’t only want to function.

I want to be formed.

I don’t only want the ark.

Apparently, I need to learn how to build it.

So today my prayer is different.

Father, correct every version of You I created out of disappointment.

Correct every place where pain became theology.

Correct every place where unanswered prayer became evidence against Your goodness.

Correct every place where I reduced Your character to my circumstances.

Teach me how to see You again.

Because if yesterday was me admitting that I am angry with God, maybe today is me finally becoming brave enough to ask:

Which God am I actually angry with?

The Father revealed in Scripture?

Or the smaller version of Him I created when life didn’t go the way I prayed?

Whew.

Apparently we are still bleeding.

At least now we’re cleaning the wound.