When I was a child, there was a reason for everything. If a neighbor died of cancer or had a heart attack, it was because of their diet and lifestyle. If a marriage fell apart it was because of this or that decision or pattern, or something they didn’t do that they should have. If a friend got hurt, it was because they took an unwise risk. If a church member’s kids didn’t turn out, it was a direct result of bad parenting. Instead of being broken with the broken, we labeled them. I grew up believing the lie that if others – if I – make the right choices things will turn out well.

Not just big things, but little things too: if I didn’t sleep well, it must have been something I ate. If I didn’t respond well, it was because you provoked me. If I forgot to take something to the post office, it was because you didn’t put it by the back door where I would see it. If I broke something, it was because I wasn’t being careful enough. If I had a hard time emotionally it was because I wasn’t controlling myself enough. Every problem had either a solution or someone/something to blame. As an adult I fight the truth and am simultaneously freed by it: problems are normal.

If I believe that all problems are fixable, then a loving, all-powerful God is the best thing since sliced bread! Bring some of that loving power over here and fix this! Fix that! I can pray for my problems, I can even pray for your problems. This could be amazing! Feeling anxious? There’s a verse for that. Having marriage problems? There’s a prayer book for that. Having doubts? There’s a reason for everything. Experiencing mental health problems? Get your whole church to pray.

There’s only one problem: God’s presence doesn’t actually fix everything (yet). And believing it does makes me a villain, both to myself and others. I sit in judgement over myself, always a finger pointing that I must not be trusting enough, praying enough, believing enough. And I point that same finger at everyone around me. And sometimes, when prayer or believing doesn’t “work”, I point my finger at God.

As a result of a recent season of questioning God’s character, I decided to start reading the New Testament in a paraphrase I’m less familiar with (to avoid hearing all the voices of my childhood), asking the Holy Spirit to be my Teacher. And so I begin in Matthew 1:1 with these words: “Jesus Christ was a descendant…” Despite having read the genealogy in Matthew many times, I had always thought of Jesus’ coming as an insertion. He’s up there, we’re down here, and He came and inserted himself into our world. But Matthew says He descended: he came from humans. He had human parents and grandparents and great grandparents, and so on, all the way back to Adam and Eve. So human. So humble. God descending from man, part of a human family just like today’s broken families (with a little barbarism thrown in).

Jesus entered this world among whispers about premarital sex. Then his parents were forced to travel at the time when most mothers are nesting and travel plans are on hold. They didn’t get to bring him home to the nursery they had been preparing, but brought Him into the world in an over-crowded city away from home. And before they had a chance to return home and settle down, they were woken in the middle of the night with the adrenaline-pumping, terrifying news that the governor was planning to kill their baby and they must flee. No time to think, throwing things in bags, running out the door, traveling under the stars and hoping not to be detected by soldiers. Or acquaintances who might betray them.

When they arrived in another country they settled down. Foreign language, foreign customs. How to make a living? Make friends? Be a proper Jew without the support of a loving community? It occurs to me that Jesus’ childhood was more broken than my own. Rumors. Running. Fear. Fugitive. Less adorable than Christmas plays, and more messy and dramatic.

When the governor back home realized he had no way to find Jesus and kill Him, “he was furious and ordered all the boys in Bethlehem and its vicinity, under two years of age, to be killed.” (Matthew 2:16) Jesus, being God Himself, and therefore perfectly in God’s will, did not experience life as neat and tidy and peaceful. As I finish the first two chapters of Matthew, I realize I have discovered something: drama and messiness are not a counter-indication of God’s presence. In some cases, they are the direct result of His presence.

Life is messy. I’m a mess. You’re a mess. At some point we’re ALL going to have to face cancer, divorce, mental health issues, financial ruin, trauma, death. If it’s not you or me, it’s our parents or siblings or friends or coworkers or church members. If I believe God’s first move is to fix the mess, then the only way forward is frustration. Either I’m frustrated God isn’t doing his part, or frustrated I’m not doing my part. Something isn’t working. To always believe there is something wrong with me is to perpetuate imprisonment. To always believe there is something wrong with you is to perpetuate separateness. Judgement.

Yes, God is perfect, but when we don’t look for Him in the mess, we miss Him. Your life being messy – my life being messy – doesn’t mean God is not present. God is present in the brokenness. He would rather compromise His own reputation than keep His distance in heaven, and He is here getting messy with us. I don’t know how all this works, but I know that God meets me in the moments when I hurt people around me, disappoint myself, and slog through the unexpected messes of life. Love does not always fix, but love is present. Perhaps if I get more comfortable with the things I don’t like in life, like the grinch my heart will grow three sizes.

Photo by Netaly Reshef from Pexels