Blessed and Highly Favored!

When God Doesn’t Fix It (And That’s Still Grace)

They say God works all things together for good, but sometimes, you stare at your life and think, “This…? THIS is the good?”

Here’s the truth: God can raise the dead, split the sea, feed thousands, and heal blind men with spit and mud. He can knock down walls with an amateur trumpet performance. But sometimes… He just doesn’t. Sometimes, the prayer for healing is met with silence. Sometimes, the thing you begged Him to remove from your life becomes your Tuesday routine. And sometimes, the “victory in Jesus” feels more like “survival with Jesus.”

You may be tempted to think: "Is this my fault? Did I not have enough faith? Did I say the prayer wrong? Should I have fasted more or used olive oil imported directly from Galilee?"

No. Stop. Don’t go there. This isn’t a magic trick, and God is not a vending machine who’s unresponsive because you pressed B-7 instead of A-9. This is grace, but it’s the kind we don’t talk about much or put on t-shirts. There are times when God splits the heavens and makes the blind see. And there’s another kind of grace—the kind you learn to recognize in the middle of long days, hard nights, and years where the needle doesn’t seem to move.

It’s the grace that says: “I will never leave you nor forsake you. Even if the situation doesn’t change, even if you’re tired, even if the meds mess up your marriage, even if you’re cleaning up after someone who no longer recognizes you, I will never leave you."

In Gethsemane, Jesus said, “If there’s any other way…” and the Father said no, and He still loved Him entirely. The Father didn’t remove the Cross. Jesus went through it, and now He lives in you (if you believe). This is not a test; this is a testament. You are not being punished. You are not failing. You are not under spiritual attack because you forgot to say “hedge of protection” with enough King James pomposity. You are living out the mystery of a Savior who suffered, and who now lives in you—not just as a genie to grant wishes, but as a presence that walks through the fire with you.

Sometimes He shuts the mouths of lions. Sometimes He lets them maul, and we trust Him to fix us in the fullness of time. But every time—every time—He stays. Christ lives in you. That is the kind of story certain religious people often can’t make room for, but God writes in bold letters. Do the name-it-claim-it-gab-it-and-grab-it people think Paul could have been free of his “thorn” in the flesh if he’d just had more faith? (Sometimes, I feel like I’ve got a whole sticker bush and a possum living in mine.)

I’m still here. A less realistic version of me might wish I had a happy ending to share, that after three to five business days of fervent prayer and a donation increase, God turned it all around. I wish I could tell you that my wife got better, my burdens lifted, and so on. But, here’s the reality: Things are still hard. She’s still sick. Tonight, she told me I’m too fat to talk to, and it is frankly a hilarious relief and an answered prayer. And yet…I’m still here. God’s still with me. And that is walking with Him by faith. Not the loud kind, with the phony healings on a conference-stage, but the real kind. Jesus napped in a boat during a storm. Things can look dicey for a while. He came back to life after three days in a dark hole. His power is made perfect in weakness. That’s wonderful, because some days I’m not walking by faith so much as limping while dragging one leg behind me and occasionally yelling “Wait up, God!” 

So, what now? If this is you—if you’re in the middle of the un-fixed, the unanswered, the unbearable—please know this: God is not holding out on you. He’s holding you. You’re not broken. You’re a vessel of something so sacred it can only be seen in the fire. And if the only thing you can say today is, “I’m still here,” then you are bearing witness to the God who doesn’t flinch at weakness, doesn’t leave when things get ugly, and isn’t waiting for you to clean yourself up before He loves you. Jesus is enough.

Jesus Didn’t Die So You Could Pretend You’re Fine

Have you ever noticed how church folks are some of the best actors on Earth?

Some Christians have mastered the fine art of smiling through inner turmoil, like flight attendants pretending turbulence is fun. Many of us walk in with our Sunday smiles stapled on like a clearance-rack Halloween mask, shake a few hands, and when someone says, “How are you?” we shoot back:

“Blessed and highly favored!”(Which, in Southern Christianese, roughly translates to: “Please don’t look too close, I’m barely hanging on by a thread and might throw a hymnal at the next person who says ‘everything happens for a reason.’”)

I’m not knocking hope. I’m all for encouragement. But somewhere along the line, we started acting like the good news of Jesus requires a good performance from us, like maybe if we act holy enough, say the right phrases, and wear enough Christian T-shirts, nobody will notice we’re tired, lonely, angry, bitter, or three seconds from throwing a ham at someone in the Costco parking lot.

But here’s the thing…Jesus didn’t die so you could pretend you’re fine.

Stop performing. Start living. Jesus didn’t go to the cross so you could spend your life acting like you don’t need it. He didn’t rise from the dead to launch a Sunday-only talent show where the best-smiling, verse-quoting faker wins a prize. He came for real people with real mess. And if you’ve got some of that? Congratulations. You’re exactly the kind of person He came for.

Let me say it again for the people who’ve been told their whole lives to “get it together” before they come to God: He already knows. He came anyway. He’s not shocked by your breakdowns. He’s not confused by your grief. He’s not disappointed in your sadness, or your struggle, or your questions. He’s not rolling His eyes when your worship sounds more like a sigh than a song.

In fact, He gets it. Surely he has borne our griefs and carried our sorrows…(Isaiah 53:4) That word "sorrows" in Hebrew? It doesn’t mean poetic sadness or light rain on a windowpane, it means mental anguish – the ugly crying on the toilet kind, the can’t-get-out-of-bed kind, etc.

He took that on. Let’s clear something up real quick: You’re not a Christian because you’re doing great. At this point, you may feel like your faith is like a houseplant you keep forgetting to water, but somehow it’s still alive and judging you. You’re a Christian because you need a Savior, not because you’re already polished, emotionally stable, and fresh from a Pinterest-worthy devotional life. Grace isn’t a reward for the well-behaved, it’s a lifeline for the undone.

Our church gatherings aren’t supposed to be a talent show for the spiritually photogenic. A congregation is a hospital for people who know they’re bleeding. So why do we pretend? Why do we paste on smiles like spiritual duct tape over a cracked soul? Maybe it’s pride. Maybe it’s pressure. Maybe we don’t want to make others uncomfortable. Maybe we were taught somewhere along the line that being honest was dangerous—that “good Christians” don’t say, “I feel like I’m drowning.” But here's the truth: The Cross already exposed all your mess. The Resurrection already covered it. You’re not impressing God with your costume. He’s not in love with your mask. He’s in love with you.

The Freedom of Letting Go

Here’s the wild thing about grace: The second you stop pretending to be fine is the second you start experiencing real freedom. It’s not the kind that says, “I’ve got it all figured out.” It’s the kind that says, “Jesus already finished it.” The New Covenant didn’t come with a to-do list—it came with a done list. And it doesn’t depend on your performance—it depends on His promise.

“I will be merciful to their unrighteousness, and their sins and their lawless deeds I will remember no more.” — Hebrews 8:12

The New Covenant is in effect; not just when you’re having a good day, not just when your Bible app streak is at 47 days, etc. (Those mildew laws in the Old Testament are still lurking in there, threatening your record, not to mention the genealogies, sacrificial requirements, etc.) If you’re full of doubt, wrung out from caregiving, quietly resentful, secretly and/or not-so-secretly sinning, publicly performing, and wondering why everyone else seems to have it together, you’re still His. That’s true not because you're fine, but because He is faithful.

Drop the Act. Pick Up Grace.

So what do you do now? Stop pretending. Tell the truth. Say, “I’m not fine.” Say, “I need prayer.” Say, “I’m struggling with bitterness, or anger, or loneliness, or sin I don’t even want to name out loud yet.” Let grace meet you there. 

The Gospel was never about pretending. It’s about dying (to many things, including pretending that we can save ourselves with our good works)—and rising with Christ, whose love is real enough to hold the whole ugly truth. You’re not okay? You’re not alone. You’re not “on fire for Jesus” this week? He didn’t walk away (2 Timothy 2:13). You feel like you’ve failed? He finished it already. Jesus didn’t die so you could keep up appearances, He died so you could be free—even if that freedom looks messy and unfinished, including crying in the shower, muttering your prayers in traffic, or just whispering “Help me” into the dark. Grace is not a filter. It’s not a performance enhancer. It’s a rescue.

So, let the mask fall, let the smile fade for a second, and let honesty have the mic.

Let Jesus meet you there.

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