🙅♀️ As Long as It Makes Sense to Us — Are We Fair-Weather Believers?
I hear and read it so often. In conversations. In comments. In quiet, honest moments where people are not trying to sound spiritual — just real:
“If there were a God… this wouldn’t be happening.”
Sometimes it’s said with anger. Sometimes with resignation. Sometimes almost casually — as if it were the most obvious conclusion in the world. And every time, it touches something in me. Because behind these words, there is usually not rejection — but hurt. Confusion. A longing for a world that makes more sense.
For many, this is not just the moment where faith breaks. It is the reason it never begins. They look at the suffering in the world — war, loss, illness, injustice — and think: If there were a God, He wouldn't let that happen. And if He does… then He isn’t good.
Others once believed — until life became too heavy to carry. A loss. A shock. A moment that tears through the illusion of control. And suddenly, the same question rises like a storm: If there were a God… how could He allow something like that?
And maybe, if we are honest, many of us know this kind of faith. A faith that quietly depends on life making sense. A faith that stays — as long as it doesn’t hurt too much.
But the moment life stops meeting our expectations, something in us begins to question everything. And while this is deeply human… we might also be making it a little too simple.
Because if we look closer, the world is not something God alone is “doing” — it is something we are part of shaping, even if not everything is within our control. I explore this more deeply in “The God Who Punishes — Or the Garden That Returns What We Plant.”
And for me the deeper question is not: Why would God allow this? But: Who decides what is "good" in the first place? And which part of us is it that actually wants anything at all — whether to experience something, to possess something, or even to prevent something?
The Quiet Condition Behind Our Faith
There is an unspoken agreement hidden in this kind of belief:
- “I will trust… as long as life feels good.”
- “I will believe… as long as things make sense.”
- “I will stay… as long as I am not confronted with pain I cannot explain.”
It is a human agreement. Understandable. Tender. And yet, if we are honest, there is something in it that trembles close to ego: A quiet expectation that life should meet our standards before we offer it our trust.
We look at the world and say: This is good. That is bad. This should exist. That should not. But based on what? Our perspective is limited — shaped by time, by memory, by personal experience. We see fragments and call them the whole.
A forest fire destroys everything in sight — and years later, new life grows from the ashes. A loss breaks a heart — and opens it in ways it had never known before. This does not make pain “good.” But it reveals something deeper: Our labels are not the full story.
💝 The Gift We Rarely Recognize
What if existence was never meant to be controlled for us? What if it was given? Not as a finished, perfected world — but as a living field of experience. A space where something infinite could become finite. Where the eternal could experience time. Where unity could explore itself through diversity and separation.
- Light and shadow.
- Joy and grief.
- Birth and loss.
Not as mistakes — but as the very conditions that make any experience possible. This does not justify suffering. But it points to something deeper about how experience itself becomes possible.
- Without contrast, how would you perceive?
- Without darkness, how would you be able to see light?
- Without struggle, how would you ever discover your strength?
- Without fear, how would courage reveal itself?
- Without uncertainty, how would trust be born?
- Without loss, how would you ever feel the depth of love that refuses to disappear, even in absence?
- Without breaking, how would you know what it means to become whole again?
The Child and the Infinite Parent
For just a moment, allow yourself to enter this: Imagine your own child. Not just any child — but one that came through you. One you hold, protect, and never truly stop watching over.
You give it life. You nourish it. You guide it. But you do not control every step it takes. You cannot. And you should not. Because the child is not meant to remain an extension of you. It is meant to become itself. It will stumble. It will make mistakes. It will experience pain.
And still — you do not withdraw your love. You remain. Not as control. But as presence. What if the Divine relates to us in the same way? Not as a puppeteer pulling strings. But as a presence that allows experience — because without that freedom, there would be no growth, no discovery, no becoming.
📝 The Will to Experience All of It
What if there is a part of us — beyond memory and identity — that is open to experiencing all of this? A part that said yes?
- Yes to life.
- Yes to experience.
- Yes to the full spectrum.
Not dividing it into good and bad — but embracing it as a whole. As if the soul, or the highest self, whispered:
“I want to know what it is to feel.
To love.
To lose.
To rise again.
To forget…
and to remember.”
Because only through forgetting can remembering become an experience. Only through fragmentation can wholeness be rediscovered.
Life does not only give us light. It gives us the capacity to become light in places where there was none before.
An Invitation
Faith is not the absence of doubt. It is the willingness to remain open even when life does not make sense. Not blind belief. But a deeper trust that there is more than what we can currently see.
The next time life feels unbearable, the next time the question rises — “How could this be allowed?”
Pause.
Not to force an answer. But to soften the question. And maybe, just maybe, let another one emerge:
What if this moment, too, is part of something larger than I can understand right now? What if I am not being abandoned — but invited into something deeper?
And maybe, beneath all of this, there is something very human — something we spend a lifetime learning:
🫳 To change what we can.
🧘♀️ To accept what we cannot.
🕵️♂️ And to slowly, honestly learn the difference.
And even when we cannot change what is happening — we are not powerless.
We can still turn, ever so slightly, toward how we meet it. Toward the way we see. Toward the meaning we give — and the power we let it have over us.
And this, too,
is part of the unfolding.
🕊️
A Letter From You to Yourself
Beloved,
I am not somewhere else.
I am not watching you from a distance.
You ask why there is pain.
Why there is loss.
Why there are moments that seem too heavy to carry.
And I understand.
You are seeing from within the story.
While we are holding the whole.
You came here to experience life —
not just to stay 'safe'.
To feel the full range of what is possible.
To discover yourself not as an idea,
but as a living, breathing truth.
You are not being punished.
You are unfolding.
You are remembering strength through challenge,
love through loss,
courage through fear.
And even when you forget me,
I do not forget you.
Because I am you —
before the forgetting,
within the forgetting,
and after the remembering.
Trust the unfolding.
❤️💛💚
Yours and mine,
I & I 🦁
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