Tag: Jesus

The God Who Refuses to Behave: Wrestling with God at Peniel

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I’ve been told God is tidy. Predictable.

A polite guest who knocks at the door of my heart (Revelation 3:20)
and waits patiently until I invite Him in.

Calm. Respectable.
Never raising His voice.
Never moving a chair out of place
unless I have done something so bad He cannot ignore it.

But that is not the God I have met.

The God I know does not knock.

He storms in
like a summer squall,
blowing the screen door off its hinges.

I have felt Him in the sting of sudden tears while washing dishes.
In the silence after a friend spoke truth I did not want to hear.
In the way a bush can blaze in the middle of nowhere (Exodus 3:2).

He walks through locked rooms (John 20:19).
He meets you in the night for a wrestling with God
until you cannot tell if you are losing or being saved
just as Jacob did at Peniel (Genesis 32:24–30).

Some days I love Him for this.
Some days I do not.

Not the God of Neat Theology

I used to think faith was holding the right answers in a tight grip.

I could draw the Trinity’s diagram.
Recite the problem of evil like a manual.
God as a solved equation.

But He slipped through my grip.

Like wind through a cracked window
rattling the frame.

Job knew this.
He asked for reasons and got a whirlwind (Job 38–41).

Questions instead of answers.
Not cruelty, invitation.
Awe, not explanation.

The Bible’s God has edges.

Fire on Sinai (Exodus 19:18).
A whisper Elijah almost misses (1 Kings 19:12).
Splitting seas (Exodus 14:21–22).
Walking gardens at dusk (Genesis 3:8).

Same God.
No one pattern.
The same untameable God who shows up in ways we never expect.

The Unmanageable Presence

We put Him in systems.
Creeds.
Charts.

Doctrine matters.
But I have seen how beautiful cages still hold prisoners.

And the God inside always finds a way out.

Jeremiah sees almond blossoms in winter (Jeremiah 1:11–12).
Hosea marries the unfaithful (Hosea 3:1).
Mary gives birth in straw and animal breath (Luke 2:7).

None of it fits the script.

The mystics knew.

Meister Eckhart prayed, “God, rid me of God.”
Julian of Norwich called Him “our clothing”
close as skin
but also a love without edge or floor.

The Rebellion of Love

I have heard Him in creation groaning (Romans 8:22).
In the psalmist’s clenched fist:
“Awake, O Lord! Why do You sleep?” (Psalm 44:23).

I have seen Him in the eyes of the crucified
where my answers go to die (Mark 15:34).

I do not want the domesticated god anymore.

The god who never interrupts.
The god who never overturns.

The real God flips tables (John 2:15).
Strips my blankets.
Leaves me with Himself.

No roadmap.
No checklist.

Just a Presence.
Wild. Untameable.
Too beautiful to bear for long.

The Limp of Faith: Wrestling with God

Jacob left Peniel with a blessing and a limp.

The limp is holy.
The awkward walk of those who have been wrestling with God
and lived to tell of it.

I have learned to live with mine.
To let mystery sit where certainty used to.

God’s ways are higher (Isaiah 55:8–9).
Not just in glory
in strangeness too.

Let the theologians frown.
Let the pious keep their polite God.

I will take the One who wrestles me until dawn.
Who wounds to heal.
Who tears down my idols
and gives me Himself.

The Dangerous God Who Saves

He will not fit my doctrines.
But He will fit my wounds.

He splits seas.
Mends hearts.
Consumes like fire (Hebrews 12:29).
Hides me like a refuge (Psalm 32:7).

He will not behave.
And that is good news.

Because a God who will not behave
is a God who will cross every line to find me.

Even the line between life and death.

If that is dangerous theology
then give me more danger.

And if You will not behave

If You will not behave
neither will I.

I will not pray tidy prayers.
I will pray with fists.
With silence.
With the names I do not know how to use for You.

If You will not stay in the lines
take me with You.

Past the fences.
Past the rules.
Past the maps I drew to keep from getting lost.

Find me in the dark.
Wrestle me to the ground.

Bless me with the limp
that teaches me how to walk.

And I will call it love.

Written in Heaven

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A biblical theology of suffering and hope

Suffering will find you

as it found Him.

But your name is written in heaven,

In light no shadow can touch.

In the beginning,

God breathed into dust

and called it good.

But even before the dust was firm beneath our feet,

a shadow waited.

The Serpent spoke,

and we listened.

The Garden shrank behind flaming swords,

and we stepped into the world

with thorns in our hands

and longing in our bones.

(Genesis 3)

Pain was not the beginning

but it was the consequence of forgetting

who we are.

Still, God did not turn away.

He clothed the shame.

He called the wanderers.

He wrestled with Jacob,

wept with Hannah,

answered Job not with reasons

but with a storm.

He carved covenant into stone,

carried the cries of Israel through wilderness,

and spoke comfort even in exile.

(Exodus, Deuteronomy, Isaiah, Lamentations)

And when words would no longer suffice,

The Word became flesh (John 1).

Not safe flesh,

not unmarked flesh

but bruised, bloody, breakable.

He came not to explain suffering

but to inhabit it.

To be born under empire,

to labour in obscurity,

to sweat blood,

to carry a cross.

“He was a man of sorrows,

acquainted with grief.”

(Isaiah 53:3)

The God of the cosmos

entered the wound of the world

and made it His dwelling place.

The cross is not a detour.

It is the way.

“If anyone would follow me,” He says,

“Let them deny themselves,

take up their cross daily,

and follow.”

(Luke 9:23)

This is not cruelty.

It is an invitation.

To union. To dying. To resurrection.

To be baptised not only in water,

but into His death.

(Romans 6:3–5)

And yet

your name is written in heaven.

(Luke 10:20)

This is what He told them, not after comfort, but after conflict.

Not when they were safe, but when they were sent.

When they saw demons fall and darkness tremble,

He said:

“Do not rejoice in this…”

“Rejoice that your names are written in heaven.”

Because what matters

is not that you wield power,

but that you are known.

Held.

Remembered.

Inscribed in the eternal.

“See, I have engraved you

on the palms of my hands.”

(Isaiah 49:16)

The apostles knew.

They were beaten and blessed.

Scattered and sealed.

They rejoiced to suffer disgrace for the Name. (Acts 5:41)

Paul was no stranger to thorns

in the flesh, in the church, in his prayers.

And yet he wrote:

“We suffer with Him,

that we may also be glorified with Him.”

(Romans 8:17)

“These light and momentary afflictions

are preparing for us

an eternal weight of glory.”

(2 Corinthians 4:17)

Even creation groans, but not in despair,

in birth.

(Romans 8:22)

The Spirit does not take away the ache.

The Spirit groans with us.

Prays when we have no words.

Dwells in the dust with us

until all things are made new.

And they will be.

For He will come again.

Not as a suffering servant,

but as the One who wipes every tear.

(Revelation 21:4)

And He will not forget.

He will open the book, the Lamb’s book

and read the names

that the world has tried to erase.

The names written in heaven

before the foundations of the world.

(Revelation 13:8)

Yours among them.

Suffering is not the evidence that you are lost.

It is the path of the saints,

the shape of the cross,

the echo of Eden groaning toward glory.

And you,

even as you weep,

even when you are wounded—

are not forgotten.

Your name is written in heaven,

in light no shadow can touch.

And the One who knows it

still bears scars of His own.

Not Drenched, But Drawn: Rethinking Baptism in the Spirit

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“The Spirit himself bears witness with our spirit that we are children of God.”

—Romans 8:16

They told us to wait for the wind.

To pray until the fire fell.

To tarry until we were baptised again—

not in water, but in power.

And so we did.

We begged for signs.

For the sudden tongue,

the holy heat,

the trembling proof that God had come close.

But God had already come close.

The Language That Divides

The phrase “baptism in the Spirit” has become a boundary line—between the anointed and the merely saved, between the spiritually alive and the doctrinally dull. But Scripture speaks differently. It does not cast the Spirit as a second experience but as the seal of the first.

In 1 Corinthians 12:13, Paul writes:

“For in one Spirit we were all baptised into one body.”

Not some. Not a chosen few. All. The Spirit is not a delayed second act. He is the very breath we inhale at new birth. The theology of “Spirit baptism” as a dramatic post-conversion event, often used to signal deeper intimacy or greater power, too easily fractures the body of Christ. It creates a hierarchy of holiness, a performance of spirituality, an upper room without a cross. But Pentecost was never a formula. It was the fulfilment of an ancient promise—God with us, within us, among us.

The Spirit as Union, Not Upgrade

Jesus breathes on His disciples in John 20 and says, “Receive the Holy Spirit.”

No rushing wind.
No thunder.
Just breath.

No spectacle—only substance.
This is not emotional hype,
not a dopamine rush mistaken for doxology.
It is Genesis again: the Spirit hovering,
and then entering—God breathing into dust,
and dust waking to communion.

It is Ezekiel’s valley, bones strewn like broken hope,
and the Word, like a prophet’s cry, calling sinews and skin back to purpose—
but only breath makes them truly live.
Not machinery of religion. Not memory of tradition.
Only breathe.
Only Spirit.

This is no theatrical power (though it can sometimes happen, like in Acts 2).
No divine electricity waiting for a better switch.
The Spirit is not the upgrade to your faith.
He is its origin and its goal—
The bond that binds us into the Triune life.

To receive the Spirit is not to perform
but to participate.
To be drawn into the perichoresis—
that dance of Father, Son, and Spirit,
where love has no beginning and union knows no end.

The Spirit is not a badge you earn, not a second tier for the elite.

He is the down payment of our inheritance (Eph 1:13–14), the seal of our adoption (Rom 8:15), the whisper that dares call God Abba.

He is not the sensation of holiness,
But the substance of it.
Not proof of ecstasy,
but the presence of intimacy.

“He who is joined to the Lord becomes one spirit with Him.”
—1 Corinthians 6:17

This is the deepest baptism—
not of water, fire, or even tongues or trembling limbs.
But of union.
Of soul sealed to Spirit.
Of a humanity lifted into the life of God.

Participation in the Triune Life

To be filled with the Spirit is not to overflow with noise,

But to abide in silence, thick with love.

To be caught up in the life of the Trinity.

The early church spoke of theosis—

that we become by grace what Christ is by nature.

“That you may become partakers of the divine nature.”

—2 Peter 1:4

Not a Second Baptism—A First Love

We are not waiting for the Spirit.

We are awakening to Him.

Not tarrying for power,

But turning to Presence.

The language of “Spirit baptism” has too often led us to look for a moment,

a manifestation,

a miracle.

But the Spirit is not a showman.

He is the Spirit of adoption.

He teaches us to cry, “Abba.”

To know God not in performance.

But in participation.

Not in a fire that consumes

But in flame that communes.

The Deep, the Breath, and the Beginning of Meaning

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Poetic and Theological Reflections on Genesis 1:1–2

“Now the earth was formless and empty, darkness was over the surface of the deep, and the Spirit of God was hovering over the waters.” — Genesis 1:2

In the beginning

there was no beginning.

Not like we think.

Not a ticking clock

not a big bang or a blank slate.

Only

deep.

dark.

Formless

unfurnished

uninviting.

And the Breath of God

hovering

not rushing

not fixing

not panicking

just waiting.

A mother-bird

brooding over brokenness

wings sheltering what could be.

This is where our story starts

not in triumph

but in tension.

Not in arrival

but in anticipation.

In the beginning,

God didn’t make things

not first.

God made room.

A place.

A sacred space.

He carved order out of what was not yet useful.

He called forth function

from futility.

He said:

“Let this be a place where I dwell

and they dwell.

Let it be home.”

The first act of creation

was not to build

but to breathe.

And the Breath still moves

over your chaos.

over your depths.

over your formless days

and unlit nights.

Don’t rush the Spirit.

It’s still hovering.

It’s still preparing.

It’s still holy.

Because in the beginning,

God made time to wait.

And called even the waiting good.

A Theological Reflection

Genesis does not begin with a scientific explanation nor with abstract philosophy. It begins with God. “In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth” (Genesis 1:1). But what follows is striking: “Now the earth was formless and empty”—tohu v’vohu in Hebrew—”darkness was over the surface of the deep, and the Spirit of God was hovering over the waters” (Genesis 1:2). The story opens not with perfection, but with potential. Not with answers but with mystery.

This state of tohu v’vohu—wild, waste, and without purpose—is not described as a problem to be eradicated but a canvas awaiting intention. In the biblical imagination, this primordial chaos is not evil. It is simply untamed. The deep, or tehom, is not a demonic force to conquer, as in the Babylonian Enuma Elish, but an unordered reality that awaits divine speech.

Genesis 1 is not a science textbook. Nor is it an ancient myth. It is sacred theology told through poetic narrative. As I’ve written elsewhere, Genesis 1 is not about material origins but functional order. It’s not primarily about how the world was made but how God gave it meaning. In the ancient Near Eastern mindset, something did not truly “exist” until it had a name, a function, a role in the cosmic order. As Old Testament scholar John Walton argues, creation in Genesis is about assigning purpose, not assembling matter.

This is evident in the structure of the text: six days of calling forth realms and rulers—light and dark (Day 1), sky and sea (Day 2), land and vegetation (Day 3), and then the lights (Day 4), birds and fish (Day 5), animals and humanity (Day 6). Each act ends with God’s affirmation: “And God saw that it was good” (Genesis 1:10, 12, 18, etc.). Good not as morally perfect, but functioning as intended. Creation is liturgy. Each day builds like a worship service, culminating in God’s rest on the seventh day (Genesis 2:1–3).

Genesis 1 portrays the world as a cosmic temple, with God taking up residence on Day 7. In the ancient world, a temple was not finished until the deity rested within it. “The heavens are my throne, and the earth is my footstool,” says the Lord in Isaiah 66:1—a temple image that harks back to Eden. When God rests, it’s not because he is tired but because creation is complete, purposeful, and ready to be inhabited by the divine presence.

Notice also what God does not do. The Spirit of God does not launch into production but hovers—rachaph in Hebrew—like a bird tending its young (Deuteronomy 32:11 uses the same word to describe an eagle hovering over its nest). This is not a moment of domination but of delicate presence. Before God says a word, God is simply there, waiting, brooding, holding space. The Spirit does not conquer the darkness but prepares the way for light.

This image is carried throughout Scripture. In the Gospels, when Jesus is baptized, the heavens open, and the Spirit descends like a dove (Luke 3:22). The waters part, the voice speaks, and once again, God hovers over the waters—not in creation now, but in new creation. Paul will echo this theme in 2 Corinthians 5:17: “If anyone is in Christ, the new creation has come.” Creation and re-creation are both acts of divine hovering, divine speaking, divine presence.

Likewise, in John 1, we hear another beginning: “In the beginning was the Word… through him all things were made” (John 1:1–3). This is Genesis 1, revisited with Christ at the centre. The chaos is not overcome by violence but illumined by speech: “The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it” (John 1:5). There is no war between light and dark in Genesis, just a calling forth—of form from formlessness, rhythm from silence, cosmos from chaos.

So we are reminded that Genesis is not just history—it is theological storytelling. It doesn’t answer all the questions of “how,” but it speaks profoundly to the questions of “why.” Who are we? What kind of world do we live in? What kind of God do we serve?

A God who hovers.

A God who speaks meaning into voids.

A God who rests not when he is done making but when the world is ready to be home.

So when we look into our own chaos—personal, cultural, existential—we do so not with fear but with faith. Because the God of Genesis 1 still hovers. Still speaks. Still brings light out of darkness.

Genesis opens not with resolution but with possibility.

Books for the Road: Reading Through Doubt and Deconstruction

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You’re not alone if you’re wrestling with doubt, rethinking your faith, or wandering the winding path of deconstruction. This journey is confusing, lonely, and sometimes even terrifying for many. But you’re not the first to walk it—and you don’t have to do it without companions.

Here are a few books that have offered wisdom, empathy, and even a little light in the dark for fellow pilgrims:

1. Faith After Doubt — Brian McLaren

McLaren gently reframes doubt not as the enemy of faith but as part of its maturation. If you’re deconstructing, this book offers a four-stage model that validates your questions and invites you to move forward with integrity.

2. The Audacity of Peace: Invisible Jesus in a Violent World — Scot McKnight

McKnight confronts the disconnect between the real Jesus and the distorted versions we often inherit. Rooted in peacemaking and justice, this book invites us to rediscover the counter-cultural Christ that many feared didn’t exist. It’s a bold, timely read for those burned by power-shaped religion.

3. The Sin of Certainty — Peter Enns

If “believing the right things” no longer works for you, Enns offers a different take: trust. Drawing from Scripture and his own story, he makes space for a more dynamic, less rigid faith.

4. When Everything’s on Fire — Brian Zahnd

I cannot recommend this book enough. Zahnd speaks to the crisis many face when faith burns down. But rather than leaving it all behind, he makes a passionate case for a deeper, post-deconstruction Christianity rooted in mystery and beauty.

5. Perhaps: Reclaiming the Space Between Doubt and Dogmatism — Josh McNall

McNall argues that we don’t need to choose between rigid certainty and total scepticism. Perhaps is a compelling call to humility and hope—a way to hold convictions while remaining open to mystery.

This isn’t a map—but maybe it’s a stack of trail notes passed from one wanderer to another.

I’d love to hear if you’ve read something that helped you stay in the wrestle.