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.
Scribbling Theology 