My fist pounded the steering wheel as I drove down I-24 screaming in God’s face at the top of my lungs. Both the wheel and my fist were at their breaking points as I literally demanded to know what his problem was.
“If you are really God, then why don’t you care? Aren’t you listening? Why aren’t you doing anything? You know my dad doesn’t deserve this–Do SOMEthing!”
I screamed until I became hoarse and my vocal chords literally hurt.
The man who loved and was loved by his wife and two sons. The man who drove 100 miles to the mines every day so he could provide for his family. The man to whom children flocked because they sensed his gentle spirit and good-natured humor. The man who served his church as a trustee for longer than I could remember. The man who was more of a father to my wife than hers had ever been. The man who my sister-in-law described as having “Jesus eyes.”
This man lay dying of cancer and was not getting better. I was mad and becoming more angry by the day. And my anger was aimed squarely at God. My dad didn’t deserve this. God knew it and could do something about it, but he wasn’t. Or more like he wouldn’t.
That thought fueled my rage. Rage at my helplessness. Rage at a church that wanted me to gloss over my true feelings with a happy face even if I had to lie to do it. Rage at an all-powerful God who just sat on his hands and did nothing. Just rage.
It all boiled over that day while driving home. I’d had enough and I challenged God with every fiber of my being. Never had I challenged anyone like that before and never have I since.
But finally, finally, God did something. He worked a miracle. He began a healing. Only it wasn’t in my dad–it was in me. The point where I got real with God was the moment he was able to reach into my heart and start repairing the hole that had been ripped wide open.
I wasn’t fooling him anyway–he’s God and he knew I was mad at him. He was just lovingly waiting for me to drop the Christian act so he could help me.
Once I got honest with him, the rage went away and the hurt was covered by peace. The hurt was, and is, still there but it was tamed by a comfort I never knew existed.
Even after getting up in his face he made sure I knew he still loved me just as much as he did before. I couldn’t explain it but everything was going to be alright even though what I feared the most was about to happen.
Yes my dad died. He died a Christian. No anger, no self-pity, and no doubt in the arms of Christ–the same arms that carried me through it all. He taught me what it meant to be a Christian in death as much as in life. And God taught what love could do in both.
Are you mad at God? Are you keeping a brave Christian face on the outside but shaking your fist at him on the inside? Are you struggling understand why he’s not doing what you need him to do?
You’re not fooling him, you know. Get real with him and tell him about it. I promise you he can handle it. He’s got big shoulders, thick skin, and a listening ear. And he’ll love you through it all.
Live The Mission,