A week later his disciples were in the house again, and Thomas was with them. . . . Jesus came and stood among them and said, “Peace be with you!” Then he said to Thomas, “Put your finger here; see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it into my side. Stop doubting and believe.” Thomas said to him, “My Lord and my God!” Then Jesus told him, “Because you have seen me, you have believed; blessed are those who have not seen and yet have believed.”
—JOHN 20:26–29
It is easier, somehow, to accept a no from a God who makes all things new. Isn’t it he who wants healing and wholeness, who reconciles all things? If all things are summed up in God as yes, then what happens at the intersection of no and prayer? Does the penitent pray-er of prayers stop petitioning? Is the Almighty’s denial meant to undercut the faith of the weak-kneed?
It is evening, and I can hear Ian snoring in his bed. I hear the creak of the bunk beds and know that Jude and Isaac are tossing and turning themselves to dreams. They are such precious children, and I consider how one day, they’ll experience their own denials of prayer.
Lord, protect them from cynicism and anxiety in this; teach them to be persistent.
Taking my own advice, I avoid the no, push through and continue my requests for Titus’s healing. Perhaps this makes me an obstinate fool, a kicker against the goads. But I suppose this also puts me in good company.
When the Israelites scorned Moses by worshiping a metallic calf, God, in his fury, purposed to kill them all, to replace Abraham’s line with that of Moses. Did Moses not petition God to change his mind? Maybe Moses was obstinate, but did God not consider Moses’ plea? Did he not relent (Exodus 32)? Yes, Moses was obstinate, but the Exodus account records that, even still, God spoke to Moses “face to face, just as a man speaks to his friend” (Exod. 33:11 NASB).
Audacious enough to speak face to face, I pray again. “God, please heal my son.” Praying these things on the heels of divine denial raises the question of effectiveness (not to mention immaturity or stupidity).
Amber called earlier and said the doctors at Mayo have noted some genetic anomalies, and one has postulated a rare syndrome that, though complicating, is not always life-threatening. She delivered this as good news, and the fact that Titus does not suffer from a disease that will end his life in the near future is a blessing. That being said, the doctors believe he might have an esophageal abnormality that will need continuing care and consistent monitoring.
I consider this, and there is some relief. Considering the clouds instead of the silver lining, though, I think about Titus’s DNA coding. Is there a flaw that keeps him from taking in all the nutrients he needs? Perhaps God, though able, is not willing to unwind the genetic code, to straighten the double helix gone astray. Does God undo what genes have already done?
I question whether there is a single purported case of miraculous healing of a genetic mutation. Are there some things God purposes to remain unchanged forever? Are there things to which his eternal answer is, “Let’s let it ride?” The Christ of Scripture was a master of casting things out—demons and sin in particular—and restoring life to the dead. He healed maladies—blindness, deafness, and leprosy. Did he ever cure a genetic defect? Would he? If God created all beings, all things for his glory, then aren’t those with genetic maladies somehow a display of his glory?
The questions flood and my evening prayers are drowning. I feel the rising anxiety. It is only one night after great peace in the face of a denied prayer, and I feel the need for liquor. This is not a loose and gentle craving but the burning ache of compulsion. It is my body’s tell: there is pain coming and I need to sit in it.
The pain is this: what if God can’t, or simply will not, heal? The grass withers and the flower fades, and what if Titus withers too? What if the word of God’s nostands forever?
It seems this life of faith is ever held in a great tug-of-war tension. Yesterday, I was in victorious communion with the mystery of God’s will. Today, I am flailing. The human condition is such an enigma.
Hopelessness creeps in with its company of thieves: disillusionment, anger, and deception. And these things all arose from a simple, perhaps willful prayer—God heal my son?
This is why I gave up prayer’s ghost last year. I know that now.
I remember the words I heard in therapy: when anxiety rises, when things spin ever out of control, go back to the mesquite trees of your childlike faith. I recall them, the early days of faith. I can almost smell the dust-heavy wind, almost hear the cattle calling from the other side of the great mud hole. I can hear the call of God in the winds blowing through the trees. He was with me then, and I remember his promise: I will never leave you nor forsake you.
I feel the fires dulling, the cravings being put to death. God is here.
I have found that even in the obstinate prayer, even in the prayer that is not answered to my liking, I can survive the pain without the liquor; I can allow my will to be bent to his so long as I know that God abides even in the mystery of the divine no. He is here, even in this.
Does bending the will of man to the will of God mean that praying for the desired outcome ceases? Quite the contrary. If those prayers ceased, men would never be required to face their inability to change the eternal aspects of life. If those prayers ceased, how would men pray in the hope that, yes, sometimes God changes his mind? If those prayers ceased, would we understand the abiding presence of God as being with us in conversation, or would we rather see him as the dictator of divine edicts? The Good Book shows us example after example of God-fearing men who prayed in the face of certain answers. Sometimes God changes his mind or relents. Sometimes he does not.
All this is part of the mystery. Who can understand it?
Consider Moses. God heard his prayer and relented, sparing the nation of Israel.
Consider David as he prayed for God to spare the child carried by Bathsheba. Did he hear his prayer?
Consider Jesus in the garden. Jesus, the Son of God himself, prayed and received the divine no.
Titus’s healing would bring steel to the legs of my faith. But in praying through the divine no, in asking God to relent, I am finding that my will is becoming more malleable; I am becoming more open to the not my will but yours be done. This is the slower process of shoring up genuine faith, and it seems a different expression of faith than that of the faith healers of long ago.
This is an expression of faith that hurts.
The bones of faith are brittle. This is a product of the human condition. When our prayers go unanswered, when God does not meet us at the point of our desires, we turn to the lowercase gods to ease the pain of living. Bow to the god of booze; bow to the god of sex; bow to your food, to your material possessions! I traded my prayers for a liquid fire-god, because the idea of having my will bent around God’s (as if I’d yet discerned it) was unbearable.
But here, I’m asking the Lord to reconsider the divine no. I’m asking for healing again. And in these prayers, I am reminded that prayer is less of a signpost of radical faith and more of a measure of communion with God. In these prayers for healing, I confess how I have felt toward the divine will, and God visits, bends my will by his abiding presence.
I feel once manipulated by the platitudes of a faith healer, and I tell God.
I feel the anger of faith unanswered, and I tell God.
Yet I feel relief that God is present, that he is speaking even in the divine no, and I tell him that too.
Go back to the mesquite trees, I hear again.
I remember this God of the mesquite groves, how he played with me in a world that I didn’t know needed reconciling or forgiving. I consider his presence then, his presence now, and am hopeful that the bending of my will to his is yet another sign that he is with me, even to the end of the age.
“I will never leave you nor forsake you,” he says, “in sickness or in health.”
The invitation to make our will known to God, to beg for his intervention, is an invitation to act like the blood-sweating Jesus in the garden. Bending the will, though, requires the Christlike willingness to endure the cup of unmet expectations. Bending the will requires a Christlike faith, a faith that says, “Father knows best.” Bending requires Chirstlike knowledge that even in the shadow of every valley, God works all things together for good (Rom. 8:28).
I will continue to pray for my son because this is where I most meet God. This is a crucible of sorts, a place where the fire of unmet expectations is always stoked. But this fire is the place where my will becomes more malleable. There will always be the temptation to give in to the weaker parts of the flesh, to numb it all with a drink, but I know, now, that God will abide, even if I fall off the wagon of sobriety or belief.
God is in the valley of the shadow, yes. I believe he’s in the joy in the morning too. How do I know? I’m not one to second-guess his promises.
“I will never leave you nor forsake you,” he says and says and says.