Mad at God

There was a ten-day period in 2006 when God and I were not on speaking terms. That is, I was not speaking to God. I literally stood in front of my bathroom mirror every morning, looked at the ceiling, scowled angrily, and spat, "I am NOT talking to YOU today!!!"

And by golly, I did not.

I don't need to detail what was going on at the time that led me to this behavior -- it was big stuff. But I suspect most of you have had these moments, yes? Maybe not quite that level of anger, or for quite that length of duration, but yeah -- mad at God. If you haven't experienced that, you're lucky.

Well . . . maybe you're lucky. Okay, actually, maybe not.

Cuz here's the thing: I ultimately grew closer to God through those ten days of angry pouting. This was the most real and honest I had ever been with him. This was the biggest chance I had ever taken with our relationship -- believing that I could intentionally walk away and he would still be there when I walked back. If I were to plot out the ups and downs of my walk with the Lord over my lifetime, those ten days were a walk upwards -- towards God, not away; they were significant forward progress in my spiritual journey.

Of course, if a few of my friends at the time had witnessed the temper tantrums I was pitching with the Almighty, they might have feared for my eternal future. In fact, there are probably friends of mine reading this now who are already squirming at the idea of being angry at God. That's sin, isn't it? Talking to God like that? Doubting the Lord so much? Weren't you afraid of losing your salvation? But I can assure you that I was not losing my salvation: I was securing it. I needed to get REAL with him. And getting real involved getting pissed. I mean, it's not like he didn't know I was mad. I may as well be honest with him about it. The truth will set you free . . .

A particular Indiana Jones image really spoke to me at that time. That scene in the third movie, when he is walking on the invisible path crossing the deep gorge. The "Leap of Faith" bit.

That was me. A year before this, I had been walking slowly, steadily, across that invisible road toward the ledge on the other side, feeling all Harrison-Ford-brave, certain I was right smack in the middle of God's will. Then suddenly, I realized that there was no ground under where I was about to step. The path wasn't headed toward that ledge I could see over there -- the path CURVED sharply to the left and led out into the silent, dark abyss to God only knew where.

I stood there stunned . . . and then I was furious. "You sent me walking this way God! You showed me that ledge and told me you were taking me there if I trusted you, if I obeyed you, no matter how hard it got! And now you're backing down? You're changing the plan??"

I didn't know what to do. I couldn't get to that ledge. But I also had no intention of going back where I came from -- I knew there was nothing for me there. But to walk out into the nothingness?

No. NO, God. You're asking too much of me. So, instead . . . I copped an attitude. I sat on my butt and refused to walk.

Yep. I blatantly REFUSED to obey God. For a while.

Eventually, I gave in. (As Peter put it, "To whom shall I go?") I got on my knees and crawled my way . . . slowly, tentatively . . . around the curve into the abyss. Forward motion, at least. My mustard seed. I eventually made it to my feet again and kept walking. And as difficult and awful as many of my days in that abyss were, that path led me here . . . and here is a good, good place where God is always.

You know, for years, I think I thought it was my job as a Christian mother to teach my children how to live righteously, how to stay away from sin. Maybe. But it's far more important for them to simply know God. To know that they cannot dig themselves into a pit too deep for God to pull them out. Even if they fall into that pit by turning away from him for a while.

Go ahead and yell at God, friend. You can even cuss at him, for Pete's sake; he's heard it all before. And he has arms to rescue that are long and strong .  . . and his love never ends.