“Indeed, my plans are not like your plans,
and my deeds are not like your deeds,
for just as the sky is higher than the earth,
so my deeds are superior to your deeds
and my plans superior to your plans.” (Isaiah 55:8, 9)
“Go ahead, son, let go. You can trust me,” Dad said.
My feet dangled from a bright-green walnut tree, just beyond his reach. I shook my head and clutched the branches. A skinny six-year-old would’ve been an easy catch, but I wouldn’t make the leap. Something in my juvenile reasoning concluded that if I couldn’t catch a falling person, nobody else could either, not even my strong father.
Now it’s my heavenly Father I’m disappointing with my lack of trust. As when I was six years old, my mistrust grows out of a failure to acknowledge the differences between me and my Father.
There are two responses to the dissimilarities between God and me. The one I commonly adopt is to humanize God. I do the same thing to my pets. “Hey old girl, you look like you want to go for a walk.” I project my thoughts onto my dog. Just so, I make God into an aloof being with limited insight like me.
The other response is to be awed into trusting humility. Moses, Isaiah, Peter, and John all had common reactions when they encountered God up close—they hid their faces and stumbled over what to say. That’s where I need to exist, not contriving how God is, not limiting him by my understanding, but blown facedown by a majesty to which I cannot find the edges.
The gargantuan immenseness of God’s knowledge and love should leave me cured of trying to climb the tree of life by my strength, and willing to fall limp into his arms.
Prayer: Holy One, I trust your wisdom for my life.