Faith

I am noticing I do not actually have a lot of faith.

As per usual, I was singing worship songs in my car the other day, and I was feeling it. I mean really feeling it. I was the perfect worshipper. I would have gotten an A+ in worship. I knew all the words. I meant the words. I was praying while singing. I was present.

I was the best worshipper with the most faith of anyone at that moment.

I was so proud of myself… and that’s where it all went wrong.

The moment my focus shifted from God to myself was the moment everything turned. In the same way Peter walked on water until he didn’t. Until he looked away. Until he noticed himself standing on something impossible. Pride didn’t feel loud or arrogant — it felt subtle. Quiet. Almost spiritual. And then suddenly, I wasn’t standing anymore.

But when I think about why I was having an A+ worship day — before I ruined it by noticing myself — it was because I was happy.

My happiness dictated how well I worshiped.
How tuned in I was.
How much attention I paid.

That fleeting feeling of happiness changed how I heard the words in each song and how deeply they landed. It even changed my view of God.

Sometimes, when I am going through things — when my heart is broken — my worship becomes a sacrifice of praise. It feels heavy. Distracted. Fractured. It feels like sinking in the water. It feels like it doesn’t really count.

Each line of a song, each word of prayer feels costly. Like something I am giving but not fully believing. It often feels like a lie — or at least something I should believe. Something a good Christian would say out loud, so I choose to say it, even when I don’t fully have the faith behind it.

Faith is deeper than belief.

I believe that Jesus is the answer.
I believe that God works all things together for the good of those who love Him.
I believe that God loves me — and you — and desires the best for all of us.
I believe His love is not based on my works, my effort, or my good days.
I believe His love is constant. Forever. The same today as it was the day I was born.
I believe there is nothing I can do to earn His love or cause it to diminish.
Today. Tomorrow. Or ever.
I believe God hears my prayers.
I believe He stays close to the brokenhearted.
I believe God is a good God.

I believe a lot.

But my faith — my faith is different.

Sometimes my faith feels like the devil on one shoulder and my belief feels like the angel on the other.

I am a logical person. I enjoy data. Numbers. Spreadsheets. Organization. I love logic. I took a logic class in middle school — something they should absolutely bring back — and learned things like, “Just because all women are short does not mean all short people are women.” A terrible example, but you get the point.

I remember that class more clearly than almost anything else from middle school. Logic stuck. Logic makes sense. Logic feels safe. Logic gives me handles.

I was talking to my therapist yesterday, and she had sent me a “20 questions” worksheet to combat negative thoughts. As the A+ client that I am, I took that worksheet very seriously. I picked a negative thought, typed out all 20 questions into a Word document, answered every single one, and emailed it to her — because I would like my gold therapy star. Thank. You. Very. Much.

During our session, she praised my homework (whoop whoop) and said she might ask other clients to do the same thing. I am either her favorite client or her least favorite. Hard to say. Her other clients will hate me, though. We all hate a teacher’s pet.

Anyway, we walked through my answers, and the gap between my logic and my feelings showed up loud and clear.

I can logically answer every question. I can tell you when I’m using extreme language. When I’m confusing thoughts with facts. When I’m jumping to conclusions. When I’m using all-or-nothing thinking. When my thinking isn’t benefiting me. When I’m holding double standards.

And yet — all the logic in the world doesn’t cancel out the feeling.

It may help me counteract the thought. It may help me talk myself down. But the thought still exists. Logic doesn’t erase emotion.

In the same way, my belief about God doesn’t cancel out my lack of faith.

My beliefs carry me when things are going well — or even just okay. But as soon as life gets hard, my heart gets broken, grief sets in, money feels uncertain, family struggles, friends receive devastating news, enrollment at work drops — etcetera, etcetera, etcetera — my faith is the first thing to go.

The belief remains.
The faith disappears.

The prayers remain, but the words feel hollow.
The worship remains, but the lyrics feel like something I want to argue with.
The desire for time with God grows — and so does the resentment.

My faith is fleeting.
My belief is steadfast.

I don’t know how to grow faith. In the same way I don’t know how to logic myself out of feeling. I don’t know how to rely on faith the way I rely on logic. I don’t know how to keep my focus on Jesus for very long without noticing myself.

I have the attention span of a small child when it comes to stepping out in faith.

Turns out, Peter is my homeboy. And Peter struggled with faith. So I think it’s okay if we do too!