Walking With Christ

Psalm 10:1  Why, O LORD, do you stand far away?  Why do you hide yourself in times of trouble?(ESV)

Some questions are asked because we need information.

Others are asked because our world has stopped making sense.

Why?

Why did this happen?  Why now?  Why them?  Why me?  Why did one person survive while another didn’t?  Why did this house remain standing when the one beside it was destroyed?

We ask questions like these after accidents, diagnoses, deaths, disasters, betrayals, and losses that divide life into before and after.

There’s nothing wrong with asking them.  Scripture’s filled with people asking God why.

David, Jeremiah, and Habakkuk asked why.  Job certainly asked why.

Lament isn’t afraid of the question.  But sometimes there’s another question hiding beneath it.

What are we really looking for when we ask why?

Tragedy does more than hurt us.  It disorients us.

The world seemed to work a certain way yesterday.  There were assumptions we didn’t even realize we were making.  People leave home and come back.  Children grow older.  Plans happen roughly when we expect them to happen.  Tomorrow looks enough like today that we can prepare for it.

Then something happens that doesn’t fit.

Suddenly, the landmarks disappear.  We don’t know which way is up.  So the mind starts working.

What happened?  What caused it?  Could someone have prevented it?  What did we miss?  What should have been done differently?  How can we make sure this never happens again?

Sometimes those are questions that genuinely need answers.  Causes matter.  Mistakes can be corrected.  Lessons can be learned.  Understanding what happened may protect someone else in the future.

But there’s a point where we’re no longer searching for information.

We’re searching for stability.

We begin to believe that if we can understand why something happened, we can somehow make ourselves safe from it.

If I know why this house was destroyed and that one remained standing, maybe I can make sure mine survives.

If I know why this person died while another lived, maybe I can protect the people I love.

If I can understand the tragedy, maybe, just maybe, I can build a world in which that tragedy can’t happen again.

That’s where the search for an answer can quietly become a search for control.  And control can’t give us what we’re asking from it.

Even a perfect explanation doesn’t undo what happened.  Knowing why someone died doesn’t bring them home.  Knowing why the accident happened doesn’t erase it.  Knowing every detail doesn’t remove the empty chair.

An explanation may answer the question in our minds while leaving the wound in our hearts completely untouched.

Worse, even if we understood everything about yesterday, that knowledge could never guarantee tomorrow.  There will always be another thing we didn’t anticipate.  Another variable we couldn’t control.  Another storm we didn’t see coming.

We tell ourselves, “If I could just understand why, I could handle this.”  But sometimes that’s a lie born from desperation.

What we really mean is:  “If I understand why, maybe I can make the world feel stable again.”

That’s a burden understanding was never meant to carry.

Only God can carry it.

There’s a difference between asking God why and telling God that we can’t trust Him until He explains Himself.

One is lament.  The other makes understanding a condition of faith.

We’re allowed to ask.  We’re allowed to cry.  We’re allowed to tell God that none of this makes sense to us.  But faith eventually discovers that peace doesn’t require an explanation.

We can ask why without making the answer our foundation.  Because tragedy may change almost everything we can see without changing anything that’s ultimately true.

God hasn’t moved.  His character hasn’t changed.  His promises haven’t disappeared.  His mercy hasn’t ceased.  The cross hasn’t become less true.  The resurrection hasn’t been undone.

We may be completely disoriented, but our disorientation doesn’t mean that truth itself has moved.

Up is still up even when we can’t tell.

Perhaps that’s what we need beneath the why.  Not always an answer.  Not a complete map of what happened.  Not a guarantee that nothing terrible will ever happen again.

Something more dependable than any of those things.

Something that doesn’t move when everything else does.

Someone who remains God when the world no longer makes sense.

The question may remain.

Why?

We may carry it for years.

Some questions may follow us all the way into eternity.  But perhaps faith reaches a point where it can say:  “I still don’t understand.  But I no longer need understanding to hold me.”

Because understanding was never the foundation.

God is.