On Giving God Advice

“And Abraham said to God, “If only Ishmael might live under your blessing!” Genesis 17:18

When God told Abraham his wife would have a biological son, Abraham laughed. It sounded great, of course, but it was impossible. They had been down this road before with nothing to show for it. Nothing except Ishmael of course, who, although he wasn’t Sarah’s son, seemed to be a good enough substitute. Abraham was too tired to start hoping again, so he decided to make a logical suggestion to God that would be easier on everyone. “If only Ishmael might live under your blessing!”

Like Abraham, I have the very bad habit of giving God advice.

Almost always, it has to do with a man that, for whatever reason, it just isn’t working out with.

And I catch myself praying like this:

“Lord, I love his heart for you. I’ve prayed for a godly man for so long; can’t you see what a great team we’d be for your kingdom?”

“Lord, I know you can change hearts [insert 1 to 3 verses to support my argument], so will you change his heart toward me? We’d be so great together [insert dissertation on our compatibility].”

But behind the flowery words and the Scripture citations isn’t a heart submitted to God or His word, but a heart scrambling in fear, fear that unless I present a carefully crafted argument for my heart’s desires, He’s going to forget about me.

And although I’m saying “Lord,” I’m stripping Him of the title and claiming it as my own.

What I’m really saying when I pray those prayers is this:

“Lord, I know better than you, why can’t you get with the program?”

“Lord, if only my plan might live under your blessing.”

I love God’s response to Abraham, a patient response that extended over years of his inability to trust that God would do what he said. Abraham and Sarah had taken things into their own hands with the Ishmael incident some years before (Genesis 16), yet God appeared to Abraham again, reassuring him that His promise was as good as ever. Abraham, though, was still stuck on fitting Ishmael into a mold God clearly had not created him for.

It’s pretty audacious to give advice to the Creator of the universe and the Creator of our own hearts, yet He continues to gently, patiently lead us when we can’t escape the confines of our own logic.

So this is a reminder to myself that the next time I start giving God advice, I step back and reflect on just how much higher His thoughts are than mine (Isaiah 55:9), remembering the miraculous birth of Isaac that expanded into a story so much bigger than Abraham and Sarah.

I’ll end with this powerful quote from Susie Larson:

“If the devil can get you to doubt God’s provision, you’ll grab for yourself and miss the wonder of God’s goodness….If the devil can get you to doubt God’s timing, you’ll rush ahead and miss the wisdom of His ways.”

So let’s trust in His provision, refuse to grab for ourselves, and wait in confidence for the revelation of God’s goodness that ministers to the intimate places of our heart, yet extends far beyond our small story.


Genesis 17: 15-18 (New International Version) 

God also said to Abraham, “As for Sarai your wife, you are no longer to call her Sarai; her name will be Sarah. I will bless her and will surely give you a son by her. I will bless her so that she will be the mother of nations; kings of peoples will come from her.”

Abraham fell facedown; he laughed and said to himself, “Will a son be born to a man a hundred years old? Will Sarah bear a child at the age of ninety?” And Abraham said to God, “If only Ishmael might live under your blessing!”

Then God said, “Yes, but your wife Sarah will bear you a son, and you will call him Isaac. I will establish my covenant with him as an everlasting covenant for his descendants after him.


Divine Translation: The Word Became Flesh

“The Word became flesh and made his dwelling among us.” John 1:14a

The Word become flesh is the most breathtaking, precise translation of language ever accomplished.

In all other cases, there is something lost in translation, the nuances and intimacies of the native tongue sanded away until only the general message remains. But in this one, the precision is only intensified because the translator is also the Creator, knowing the hearts of the people He is speaking to and exactly how to reach them.

The truth of God, His mind, His heart, His message, translated into our flesh-language, the language of skin that bristles in the cold, is singed by the fire, that stretches, wrinkles, dies.

The Word become flesh is a translation of eternal omnipresence into a finite house of one human’s consciousness, a consciousness often clouded by hunger and cold and loneliness.

The Word become flesh is a translation of omnipotence into backaches and sweat and veins that would open and leak life away.

The Word become flesh is beautifully inefficient. An efficient translation would trade nuance for speed and intimacy for numbers, but He chose to save us by growing up in obscurity, 30 years of humility in mundane labor, living an unseen life so similar to ours. And then, in His ministry, again and again He slowed and stopped to listen to the individual, to hear their story to to speak healing into it.

God’s ways are higher than ours, His wisdom and love beyond our comprehension, but He has revealed them to us in the language that we can understand: Jesus Christ, Emmanuel, God with us. And I pray that you would let this language rest in your heart, that you would know, personally, the depth of God’s love that is in Christ, our Lord, our Savior, the Word become flesh.

I Have Seen the One Who Sees Me


Unclean am I, I am unclean, because of a bleeding that won’t stop, no matter how much I adhere to the doctors’ instructions, more outrageous and extravagant by the day. Weakness does not just fill me; it is me.

I feel cold in the sun.

I want to seek Him, Jehovah, the Lord, the One who saw and loved Hagar abandoned in the desert. But I am cut off. Shame and sin are mine, are me. An unrepentant woman. I hear the whispers: “It’s her sin. If only she would repent, she would be healed.” I am unclean, unclean am I. I used to have a name before the condemning blood.

When I heard about him from my mother, when she told me about what he did for the blind man that used to beg at the end of our street, all I could think of was how much he sounded like the One who saw and loved Hagar abandoned in the desert. But compassion was a word for others; it could never apply to me. For my uncleanness, my sin, they said, had cut me off from the people. Compassion should not be shown to one who willfully persists in iniquity. It might imply that misdeeds were acceptable in the eyes of Jehovah. But with Mother’s story about this Jesus, I saw that this man did not play by the Pharisees’ rules.

A rebel, a kind rebel.

I touched him, merely touched him, and I was healed. For a moment, I was thrilled, but then I felt the question like a slap.

“Who touched me?” 

I should have known better.

His voice wasn’t angry, but I knew it would be as soon as he realized that I, an unclean woman, had touched him. And if he was as powerful as my mother said, he would most certainly realize.

I feared that he would be angry, that I may have tainted his power with my unclean hands. But I was desperate; he was my last chance. My hands went numb and my body began to heave with tears that left me gasping for air. With my last bit of strength, I moved toward him, then fell near his feet, my hands scraped by the gritty ground.

“It was me! Forgive me, it was me.” The tears kept coming, but my face grew numb. I kept my head to the ground, waiting for the blow, or the curse, or the command to leave.

But instead, in a gentle voice, he said “daughter.”

I lifted my head in disbelief, and he looked in my eyes, really looked-not through me or past me as the others do. And when he looked in my eyes, his own filled with tears. And with a lump in his throat and a soft smile, he said, “your faith has healed you. Go in peace, and be freed from your suffering.”

He called me daughter, and he called me free. This compassion, this love, still feels strange and unreal. It’s been so long since I’ve been clean that I have to remind myself that my encounter with him wasn’t just a dream. But as I wake up every day with strength in my body and the memory of his words, I know that it is all true. And now I can proclaim with joy, just as Hagar did when he rescued her, “I have seen the one who sees me.” 


This fictional account is based on Mark 5: 25-34. Hagar’s words are from Genesis 16:13. Italicized words are direct quotes from Scripture.

A Grainy Photograph of the Unseen

  Dedicated to my father, who has shown me what it means to follow Christ.
I don’t see God the way he truly is, and this bothers me. I logically assent that he is the God who delivered his people from Egypt in an epic of miracles, the God whose glory would kill me if I looked on it, the God who is love incarnate in the sacrifice of his one and only Son. I affirm these facts about God, yet so often he seems as flat and scratchy as a mini Jesus on a Sunday school flannelgraph.  Attempting to fit the infinite Creator of the universe into my finite human paradigm leaves me with an unimpressive, blurry photo that I can fit in my wallet. Although logic tells me that this photo is nothing more than a crude representation of reality, I feel constrained by my humanity to perceive this grainy four-by-six as the real thing. I don’t see God the way he truly is, and sometimes I wonder if I am just worshiping an idol I’ve carved to fit the puny dimensions of my brain.
Andrea* and I sat across from each other in the quaint Salem pizza place, discussing whether some people were destined from the foundations of the earth to spend eternity being tortured. She was convinced that they were. I met Andrea, a young seminarian’s wife, my junior year at Gordon. I began attending a Bible study at her home, and it soon became clear that her favorite flower was definitely the TULIP: total depravity, unconditional election, limited atonement, irresistible grace, and perseverance of the saints. Back home, Calvinism was often the butt of jokes, an abstract theology that evoked the image of a crotchety man in Shakespearean dress high on his own hot air. My father, a devoted follower of Christ, often expressed frustration not only with Calvinist theology but with what he saw as the arrogance that was its center. His experience with Calvinists had been dominated by exchanges in which those not agreeing with their viewpoint were treated as second-class Christians. Not only was his viewpoint anecdotal; he explained his side with firm Biblical support. Everything I experienced confirmed my father’s viewpoint; it only took a cursory glance at the blogosphere to find a myriad of arrogantly judgmental comments from Calvinists, some going so far as to question the salvation of non-Calvinists. But when I saw Andrea’s life: her dedication to God’s word, her commitment to mentoring college girls and her love for the Lord, it frustrated me that she didn’t fit into a mold that was less attractive. She had definitely studied the Bible more than I had, so who was I to disagree with her conclusion? The heart is deceitful and desperately wicked, right?
At this point, I was secretly chagrined that Andrea hadn’t come across as judgmental and crazy, like the puffed-up Calvinist commenters I had discovered online. That would have been easier to swallow. Instead, two godly Christians in my life had come to different conclusions about an issue that seemed to define the character of God.  It wasn’t that I had to know the answer. I didn’t really care whether it was Calvin or Arminius who would be saying “I told you so,” the moment they entered heaven. No, what scared and frustrated me was the realization that I do not have the capacity to see God as he truly is.
Growing up, I don’t remember ever questioning my perceptions of God. I am one of those saved-since-she-could walk Christians, and God was just a natural part of life, so much so that I rarely stopped to stand in awe of Him or think about what it actually meant to be divine. He naturally knew me personally, loved me, and had great plans for my life (which I thought he needed to be constantly reminded about). But he was also very American. If I didn’t work hard enough, he would be displeased with me for my laziness. If I happened to miss “his will” for my life because of a poor decision, he would likely tell me “you’ve made your bed, now you lie in it.”
I have been taught from the womb to pray that the Holy Spirit would lead and guide me when I go to the Word of God. In junior high school, I may have had a passing question about the possibility of my faulty interpretation, but I was more into taking the Bible extremely personally. I’ll never forget the gleeful entitlement I felt when I found Proverbs 6:5, which said “free yourself… like a bird from the snare of the fowler.” Fowler was the last name of the boy I wanted to marry. He didn’t return my sentiment.
I still use that same Bible, and I am always slightly embarrassed when I have to share with someone, because I know they will see the confident personal applications of junior high in words like “basketball,” “high school,” and the initials of the boy I liked. But looking back at these scribblings, I have to wonder if I don’t do much of the same thing now, if maybe we all do. After all, even though Andrea and my father had prayed for the Holy Spirit to lead them when they approached the Scriptures, they had still come to opposite conclusions. My flustered question at this point was “why was the Holy Spirit leading them to believe totally opposite things?”
In my favorite novel, The Brothers Karamazov, two brothers, Ivan, an “atheist” intellectual, and Alyosha, a novice monk, discuss the problem of suffering and what it says about the character of God. Ivan brings in newspaper clippings detailing cases of child abuse in order to illustrate his assertion that “I accept God, but I do not accept his world.” For Ivan, the suffering of children was irreconcilable with a loving God. Alyosha, though, remains firm in his faith, willing to accept the paradox that God is good even when his world seems unjust.
My RA staff last year had a habit of getting into theological conversations about unanswerable questions such as those raised in The Brothers Karamazov. We had one “Ivan” on our staff who wanted answers that would reconcile a loving God with his sense of justice. Last year, I was the one who watched these conversations quietly, confused by his zealous anger towards not understanding.  “Ivan’s” perspective was fascinating, but I never could truly relate to it. I saw the world with the same eyes as Alyosha, and what others viewed as lack of engagement, I counted as peace.  This year though, I have been able to relate to Ivan’s perspective more than ever. Unanswerable questions have claimed a permanent home in my mind as I have become more and more aware of the seemingly unjust suffering and death in the world. But even in my questioning, I still am an Alyosha; I am more comfortable with paradox than many.
This comfort with paradox does have a negative side; I often am fearful to express conviction in any point of theology not contained in the Apostles’ Creed. If theologians who have studied the Bible their whole life have come to different conclusions, then who am I to approach the Word of God? I am often scared out of my mind about approaching Scripture, the one thing that I’ve been taught for years is the main ingredient necessary for my spiritual growth. Do I believe that the Bible is the inerrant word of God? Absolutely! Do I believe that I will come to it with my own biases and preconceived notions about God’s character? Again, absolutely.
Left to my own devices, I will inevitably distort God’s words, but I am learning that the Christian life is not about my ability to comprehend, but about God’s grace and power in my weakness. He knows that each and every one of us views life through glasses shaped by our culture, family, personality and experiences. This does not scare him, and maybe it shouldn’t scare me either. What should scare me is attempting to live as if I do have the capacity to comprehend God. It seems that the urge to fit God into a systematic theology might stem from the subconscious desire to usurp his place in our lives and become our own gods. Perhaps one of the reasons God has only allowed us to see him in a grainy photograph is to remind us that he is God, and we most definitely are not.
Maybe the differing conclusions of Andrea and my dad have less to say about the leading of the Holy Spirit and more to say about what God actually wants his followers to focus on during our few years this side of heaven. To me, the fact that they disagree says that having a monopoly on “good theology” isn’t one of God’s priorities for us during our short stint on planet earth. Jesus didn’t tell us to go therefore and make theologians; he told us to go therefore and make disciples. My focus should be on the tenets of the faith that all Christians agree on. I can trust that God is good; I can trust that God is love, and I can trust that it is his Son, not my theology, that saves me. And if I’m not taking it out of context, 1 Corinthians 13:12 tells me that one day I will know God as he is: “Now we see but a poor reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully.”
I don’t see God the way he truly is, and I am okay with that…for now. Now I hold a faded photograph, but one day I will be joyfully overwhelmed by the reality that it represents. Unanswerable questions and disagreements between Christians will continue to remind me that it is not my job to fully comprehend God, but to follow him, and I can take comfort in the fact that I worship and serve a God who refuses to be constrained to the puny dimensions of my brain.
*Name has been changed to protect the privacy of the individual mentioned.