Hakuna Matata & Other Lies I Told Myself

I wonder how many times I’ve accused God of being silent when the truth is that I simply didn’t like what He already said.

Because apparently, I’ve been demanding audible instructions from a God whose written instructions I haven’t always bothered to follow.

And the audacity of that realization is almost impressive.

This morning, Acts 8:26–31 had me sitting with a rather uncomfortable question. What if the reason I keep struggling to recognize God’s direction isn’t because He’s withholding it, but because I’ve become so accustomed to directing myself?

Luke, the author of Acts, was a physician. Colossians 4:14 confirms that, and something about that detail fascinates me. Physicians are trained to be meticulous. They observe, investigate, examine symptoms, and recognize that overlooking one seemingly insignificant detail can change an entire diagnosis.

Luke explains in Luke 1:1–4 that he carefully investigated the accounts he received. He wasn’t casually collecting stories. He was deliberately documenting what had happened, and Acts continues his account of how the Holy Spirit worked through the early church.

So when Luke tells me that an angel of the Lord instructed Philip to travel toward the road from Jerusalem to Gaza, I pay attention.

Especially to what he doesn’t say.

Philip wasn’t given the itinerary. He wasn’t told who he would meet, what the outcome would be, or why this particular road mattered.

He was told to go.

And he went.

Meanwhile, I have been asking God for directions, estimated arrival times, anticipated obstacles, and preferably a written guarantee that nothing uncomfortable will happen along the way.

Because apparently, I believe in walking by faith as long as faith comes with a tracking number.

And that’s when I realized I’ve been treating obedience like a negotiation.

I want God to lead me, but I also want to approve the route. I want His protection, but I want to maintain control. I want Him to order my steps, provided those steps eventually lead to the destination I’ve already selected.

Which immediately made me think about The Lion King.

Simba spent years running from something he couldn’t control while neglecting something he actually had responsibility for.

Scar manipulated him into believing he caused Mufasa’s death. Simba carried that guilt into the jungle, where Timon and Pumbaa introduced him to Hakuna Matata. No worries. No responsibilities. No difficult conversations. Just bugs, questionable life advice, and an entire kingdom deteriorating while its rightful king was somewhere eating grubs.

And every time I watch that movie, I’m practically yelling at the screen.

SIMBA. GO HOME.

Meanwhile, I wonder how many times God has been confronting me with instructions I’ve avoided because they required me to face something uncomfortable.

Because Simba couldn’t control his father’s death. He couldn’t control Scar’s deception. He couldn’t undo what happened in that gorge.

But he could influence what happened next.

And there it was.

I am not in control. I have influence, but I do not have control.

That distinction is one I desperately need to grow in.

I can influence my decisions, my attitude, my preparation, my obedience, and what I choose to entertain. I cannot control outcomes, timing, other people’s choices, or whether life cooperates with the beautiful little screenplay I’ve written in my head.

And if I’m being completely transparent, that terrifies me more than I’d like to admit.

I’ve experienced enough loss, instability, and circumstances that changed my life without asking permission to develop an almost impressive relationship with control.

I learned to anticipate disappointment, prepare for abandonment, and mentally rehearse everything that could possibly go wrong.

I called it wisdom.

Sometimes it was just fear with excellent organizational skills.

Psalm 23 says the Lord is my shepherd, but apparently, I’ve been operating under the impression that I’m the assistant shepherd.

Jesus, take the wheel. Just let me control the GPS.

I’ve wanted the comfort of His rod and staff without always welcoming the correction they represent. I’ve wanted Him to protect me from danger while occasionally resenting the direction intended to keep me from it.

And I’ve had to confront the possibility that what I call independence is sometimes just resistance to surrender.

The more I read about Philip, the more uncomfortable I became.

He obeyed before he understood.

And because he obeyed, he encountered an Ethiopian official reading Isaiah. The Holy Spirit directed Philip toward the man’s chariot, and what initially appeared to be an ordinary road became an opportunity to explain the good news about Jesus.

The explanation unfolded through obedience.

I wonder how many opportunities I’ve missed because I demanded understanding before movement.

How many times have I called God silent because His instructions weren’t accompanied by the explanation I felt entitled to receive?

Because I’ve been doing something else that I need to confess.

I keep asking God to speak to me verbally.

Lord, SAY something. Make it obvious. Let me hear Your voice. Give me confirmation.

Meanwhile, my Bible is sitting within arm’s reach, probably wondering whether it needs to grow a mouth.

I’ve been asking for an extraordinary encounter while occasionally neglecting the ordinary discipline of opening the Word.

And even when I do open it, I have to examine how I’m reading it.

Am I looking for transformation or confirmation?

Am I allowing Scripture to correct me, or am I searching for verses that support what I’ve already decided?

Hebrews 4:12 says the Word of God is living and active, discerning the thoughts and intentions of the heart.

Yet I’ve approached it with my feelings sitting in the judge’s chair.

I’ve called anger discernment. I’ve called fear wisdom. I’ve called offense conviction. I’ve justified decisions because they felt right, even when I hadn’t seriously examined whether they aligned with Scripture.

My feelings have been given entirely too much authority.

And that’s precisely why the Holy Spirit matters when I’m reading the Bible.

In Acts 8, the Ethiopian official was reading Isaiah but didn’t understand what he was reading. When Philip asked whether he understood, the man admitted that he needed someone to guide him.

That humility convicted me.

He didn’t confuse the ability to read Scripture with the ability to interpret it correctly.

I wonder how often I’ve done exactly that.

I’ve read passages through the lens of my pain, my preferences, my upbringing, and my personal experiences, sometimes without recognizing how much those things were influencing my interpretation.

And the consequences of mishandling Scripture aren’t always small.

People used the Bible to justify slavery. They quoted Scripture while participating in systems that denied other human beings their dignity. Even today, biblical passages are invoked to defend positions surrounding ICE and immigration enforcement, sometimes without adequately wrestling with the Bible’s teachings about justice, mercy, and how foreigners should be treated.

And before I get too comfortable pointing out how other people misuse Scripture, I have to ask myself an equally uncomfortable question.

How many times have I done the same thing on a smaller scale?

Have I used Scripture to justify my unwillingness to forgive? Have I called my preferences biblical standards? Have I mistaken my discomfort with someone for the Holy Spirit warning me about them?

Unfortunately, yes.

I’ve wanted the Word to expose everybody else’s hypocrisy while quietly negotiating with my own.

2 Timothy 2:15 calls me to correctly handle the word of truth. That requires context, humility, study, and dependence on the Holy Spirit.

I cannot afford to be spiritually enthusiastic and biblically careless.

And when I struggle to understand what Scripture reveals about God’s character, I have to look at Jesus.

John 1 tells me that the Word was with God, the Word was God, and the Word became flesh.

Jesus is the Word made flesh.

Which means I cannot claim to understand the heart of God while consistently disregarding the character of Christ.

And that realization brought me to another question I almost wish I hadn’t asked.

Does my holiness resemble Jesus or the Pharisees?

Because the Pharisees knew Scripture. They were disciplined, religiously educated, and confident in their understanding.

Yet many of them stood directly in front of the One their Scriptures pointed toward and failed to recognize Him.

Imagine knowing the text and missing the Author.

Imagine being so committed to defending God that I become unwilling to let Him correct me.

And I don’t have to imagine very hard.

I’ve been so certain I was right that I became difficult to teach. I’ve confused surviving the consequences of my decisions with receiving God’s approval of them.

I’ve called things blessings when, looking back, they were evidence of His mercy in situations I helped create.

God has rescued me from places He never instructed me to go.

That doesn’t mean He approved the trip.

And perhaps that’s what hurts the most this morning.

Not every painful thing that happened to me was my fault. Some circumstances were completely outside my control. Some losses changed me before I was old enough to understand what I was losing.

But some of the things I’ve struggled through as an adult?

Some of those situations had my fingerprints all over them.

And I cannot keep asking God to change what happened behind me while refusing to take responsibility for what He’s placed in front of me.

That’s where Simba’s story becomes painfully personal.

He had to recognize that his father’s death wasn’t his fault without allowing that truth to become an excuse for abandoning his responsibility.

When Rafiki confronted him with the truth about who he was, Simba eventually had to stop running.

And I wonder whether I’ve been running from responsibility in some areas while trying to assume God’s responsibility in others.

Taking ownership of things I was never meant to control, while avoiding accountability for things I absolutely could influence.

That is exhausting.

And it isn’t faith.

I cannot change my childhood. I cannot reverse certain losses. I cannot undo every foolish decision or recover every opportunity I mishandled.

But I can surrender today.

I can study. I can listen. I can repent. I can obey what I understand while humbly seeking guidance about what I don’t.

Philip needed faith to follow an instruction without knowing the outcome. The Ethiopian official needed humility to acknowledge that he didn’t understand the Scripture in front of him.

And apparently, I need both.

Because control was never mine to begin with.

Influence was.

I am responsible for my choices, my obedience, my willingness to learn, and how I steward what God has entrusted to me. I am not responsible for guaranteeing the outcome.

And perhaps that’s why The Lion King feels different this morning.

Simba spent years believing he could escape his pain by avoiding his responsibility. Meanwhile, I’ve spent years believing I could prevent pain by controlling everything around me.

Different approaches. Same misplaced trust.

Hakuna Matata isn’t the answer, and neither is trying to run the entire kingdom myself.

I don’t need to be the king of Pride Rock.

I need to remember who my Shepherd is.

And maybe the reason I keep asking God to speak louder isn’t because He’s been quiet.

Maybe it’s because I’ve become so comfortable with the sound of my own plans that His instructions keep sounding like interruptions.

The Word has been open to me all along.

The question is whether I’m finally willing to let it read me.