Poor Unfortunate Theology

I have spent a lot of time asking God for more fire.

More passion. More revelation. More power. More evidence that He is moving. More of whatever makes me feel like something is happening because apparently I would like sanctification to come with special effects.

Meanwhile, I am beginning to wonder if God has been looking at me like, “Baby, the fire is fine. Your wood is wet.”

And unfortunately, I think He has a point.

Jesus says in John 12:42–43, “Nevertheless many even of the rulers believed in Him, but because of the Pharisees they were not confessing Him… for they loved the approval of people rather than the approval of God” (NASB).

That passage bothered me because these people were close enough to Jesus to believe, but their proximity did not automatically produce transformation.

They had access.

They had exposure.

They had evidence.

They believed.

Yet something in them still would not catch fire.

That forced me to ask a question I would much rather ask about somebody else: What if I have been around the fire long enough to know what it looks like, sounds like, and even feels like, while still carrying wood too wet to burn?

Because wet wood does not care how hot the fire is.

And neither does an unsubmitted area of my life.

I can sit under good teaching, read Scripture every morning, highlight half the Bible, fill notebooks, pray, worship, cry, have a revelation so good I need to stare at the wall afterward, and still resist the very thing God is trying to change in me.

That is horrifyingly humbling.

Because I have occasionally confused exposure with transformation.

I heard it, therefore I learned it.

I learned it, therefore I live it.

Except James completely ruins that little progression.

“Prove yourselves doers of the word, and not just hearers who deceive themselves” (James 1:22, NASB).

Deceive themselves.

Not confused.

Not uninformed.

Deceived.

Which means I can know enough Scripture to explain exactly what obedience looks like while simultaneously constructing a very sophisticated explanation for why I personally should be exempt.

That is a talent nobody asked for.

Faith comes by hearing, yes, but change requires doing. Knowledge is not growth. I can collect revelation like Ariel collected forks and still have absolutely no idea what to do with it.

Which, speaking of Ariel…

I owe Ursula an apology.

Not because she was right. That woman was absolutely running an underwater predatory lending operation. Zero stars. Would not recommend.

However, Ariel already had something incredibly valuable before Ursula ever showed up.

Her voice.

Her problem was not that she possessed nothing. Her problem was that she became convinced what she possessed was insufficient for the life she wanted.

That is where this became painfully personal for me.

Because bad theology will have me mismanaging what God has already given me.

If my theology says love means tolerating everything, I will call a lack of boundaries “grace.”

If my theology says forgiveness means unlimited access, I will repeatedly hand people keys God never told me to give them.

If my theology says being Christlike means never confronting anything, I will baptize people-pleasing and call it meekness.

If my theology says suffering automatically makes me holy, I will stay in situations God may actually be telling me to leave.

If my theology says being a “good Christian” means always being agreeable, I will silence discernment to maintain an appearance of peace.

Suddenly I am Ariel at Ursula’s table, signing away something God gave me because somebody convinced me surrendering it was necessary to obtain something else.

Except sometimes Ursula is not another person.

Sometimes Ursula is the theology I never questioned.

Whew.

Because there are things I learned about God through experience that God never actually said about Himself.

Experiences create theology if I do not intentionally let Scripture correct them.

If people abandoned me, I can unconsciously develop a theology that says God will too.

If love historically required me to overfunction, I can begin believing love always requires self-erasure.

If keeping the peace once kept me safe, I can begin calling peacekeeping godliness.

Then Matthew 7:16 comes along: “You will know them by their fruits” (NASB).

Fruit.

Not intentions.

Not how Christian it sounded.

Not whether everybody was comfortable with my decision.

Fruit.

Bad theology produces bad fruit, even when the theology sounds loving.

And that means I have to become more discerning about the condition of my wood.

Because here is what I am learning about wet wood: it is easy to blame the fire.

“This church isn’t feeding me.”

“This message didn’t hit.”

“I don’t feel God.”

“I need a fresh word.”

“I need another confirmation.”

Maybe.

Or maybe the fire is burning just fine and I keep walking into the rain.

That one hurt my own feelings.

Because wood does not become wet simply because rain exists. Wood becomes wet when it remains exposed without protection.

Structure matters.

Boundaries matter.

Discernment matters.

What I repeatedly expose myself to matters.

Who has access to my mind matters.

What conversations I keep entertaining matters.

What voices I permit to narrate my life matters.

Paul says, “Do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind” (Romans 12:2, ESV).

Renewing my mind does not mean I never have another intrusive, fearful, angry, insecure, or ridiculous thought. Please. My brain can produce a full eight-episode Netflix limited series before breakfast.

Renewal means the thought does not automatically get authority.

I cannot stop every bird from landing on my head, but I can absolutely prevent it from building a three-bedroom nest with a breakfast nook.

Every thought does not deserve agreement.

Every feeling does not deserve leadership.

Every open door does not deserve my entrance.

Every person who wants access does not deserve it.

Open doors give access to my mind, but open doors do not get authority over my will unless I hand it over.

And I have handed it over before.

Fear has had the microphone.

Rejection has chaired the meeting.

Trauma has been allowed to interpret Scripture.

Anger has written policy.

People-pleasing has somehow been promoted to Director of Operations.

Meanwhile, discernment is outside the conference room like, “Are y’all finished?”

This is why I cannot blame the fire anymore.

No wood stays the same in every condition.

So I have to inspect mine.

What has soaked me lately?

What have I been exposed to?

What am I calling love that is actually fear?

What am I calling patience that is actually avoidance?

What am I calling grace that is actually a refusal to confront?

What am I calling spiritual warfare that might actually be the consequence of something I keep choosing?

That last question is especially disrespectful.

Because sometimes I have rebuked things I needed to take accountability for.

James tells me not merely to hear the Word but to do it because application exposes where revelation has actually taken root.

God gets no glory from me being able to quote the verse I refuse to practice.

And perhaps the deepest part of this for me is gratitude.

Because bad thinking is not always obviously “bad.”

Sometimes bad thinking is simply forgetting.

Forgetting what God has already done. Forgetting what He carried me through. Forgetting the prayers He already answered. Forgetting the doors He already opened. Forgetting the fires I was absolutely convinced would consume me, yet somehow I am still standing.

And apparently I cannot blame all of that forgetting on menopause.

Although… I thiiink I should be allowed to blame at least 37% of it on menopause. My hormones have left the group chat and taken portions of my short-term memory with them. I came into this room for something, God. You know my heart.

Still, spiritual forgetfulness is different.

Because when I stop intentionally remembering God’s goodness, whatever is happening today starts feeling like evidence that He has stopped being good. I allow the discomfort of this chapter to develop amnesia about every chapter where He already proved Himself faithful.

And that is dangerous theology.

God’s character cannot be rewritten by my current circumstances—or by the fact that I currently have no idea why I walked into the kitchen.

The fire did not stop being fire because my wood got wet.

God did not stop being God because I got tired.

His goodness did not expire because I got disappointed.

His faithfulness did not become questionable because I cannot currently understand what He is doing.

Although if anyone finds my memory, please return it. I believe it may be somewhere near my estrogen.

Maybe this season is not about begging Him for a bigger fire.

Maybe it is about finally letting Him dry the wood.

Dry out the false theology.

Dry out the survival mechanisms I baptized as personality.

Dry out the need for everybody’s approval.

Dry out the belief that love requires unlimited access.

Dry out the thinking that says knowing the Word is equivalent to obeying it.

Dry out everything that keeps getting close enough to the fire to feel warmth without ever becoming combustible.

Because I do not want to spend my life collecting forks and calling it transformation.

I don’t want a cave full of revelation I never use.

I don’t want to know what Scripture says while allowing my experiences to have the final word.

I don’t want to keep handing Ursula my voice and then asking God why I cannot speak.

I want my theology to produce fruit.

I want my boundaries to protect what God entrusted to me without hardening my heart.

I want my experiences to inform me without becoming my god.

I want Scripture to have permission to correct the version of God I created while trying to survive.

And maybe that is what God has been showing me through all this fire.

The question is no longer merely, “God, are You burning?”

I know He is.

The more uncomfortable question is:

“What condition is my wood in?”

Because the intensity of the fire is irrelevant if the wood is wet.

And I am finally learning that sometimes the most spiritual thing I can do is stop asking God to turn up the fire…

and step out of the rain.