The suck.

Can we be real?

There’s something that happens when a bunch of recovering addicts and alcoholics get together.

Last night I joined a podcast roundtable to talk about my alcoholism, sobriety, and emotions. Specifically, how I’ve learned to sit with uncomfortable thoughts and feelings instead of drinking them away.

And it was one of the most honest conversations I’ve been a part of. Ever. We admitted what we’ve been through, what we’re struggling with, and offered grace to ourselves and one another. It was, in many ways, beautiful.

Consider this, though: I was the only Christian on the call. And yet, the people around me weren’t afraid of being brutally honest about who they were, who they are, and the reality of life.

I was simultaneously encouraged and a little sad.

Why sad? Because I couldn’t help but think about how much we need that kind of honesty more in the Church. Amongst our church communities. We need to be radically vulnerable about what we’re going through, what we’re dealing with, and our complete inability to manufacture the outcome we want.

And yet we’re not.

We do this thing in Christendom where we convince ourselves that if we admit what’s actually going on in our lives and especially in our heads we’re going to either disappoint God or deny his power. We tell ourselves, “I can’t say that. That’s not very Christian-like to admit.” We think that if we talk about what we’re actually feeling or what we’re actually experiencing that there’s some kind of cosmic cementing that happens.

It’s a crock.

I had a family member that used to wake up with a cold—full blown, with the wet cough, runny nose, voice as deep as the ocean—and yet when you asked them if they were sick they’d look at you and say, “No, I’m not sick. I’m not going to speak that over myself.”

I just could never fully understand that. Why not admit what was going on and truly bring it to Jesus so he can help you? After all, time after time in the Bible we see sick people admitting they are sick as a first step to healing. The blind man didn’t say to Jesus, “No, I can see.” That would have been insane.

And yet so many times that’s exactly what we do. We can barely walk but we pretend we can run. We can barely breathe and yet we tell others we could run a marathon. Our eyes are foggy from the tears but we pretend everything around us is clear. Instead of being honest about our situation, we tell ourselves and others that everything is fine.

And the “unsaved” recovering alcoholics are looking at us like we’re crazy. Because we are.

Here’s the irony, though: Our faith is all about embracing the hard times. The trials. The tribulations. The “suck.” But for some reason we either forget that or ignore it. Despite that fact that Jesus himself told us we’d experience it.

“In this world you will have trouble,” he said clearly.

You know who embraced this really well? David. The Psalms are filled with admissions about admitting that life is hard. Or as the philosopher John Hobbes once said, “solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short.”

And you know what? I think that’s a really good thing because it points to the need for help, for someone outside ourselves. Here’s the thing: If life weren’t hard, why would we need Jesus? Think about that for a second. The very fact that life is difficult is a daily reminder of the need for a savior, for someone to make it right. Deny your troubles and you deny your need for a deity. The deity. Jesus.

“Biblical faith never asks us to deny the harsh realities of life in this fallen world,” Paul David Tripp writes in the entry for today in New Morning Mercies. “God invites our cries and welcomes us to run to him in our grief.”

That last part is key. That’s the difference between Christians and non-Christians. The difference shouldn’t be whether we admit the suck or not, the difference is what we do as a result of the suck. Where do we go? Where do we bring our hurts, confusion, and frustrations?

We have access to the greatest hope available. And that hope is that God is redeeming all the hardships for our good and his glory.

I saw a vivid picture of that yesterday.

Six months ago I experienced a break in a working, and personal, relationship. It happened for a variety of reason, not the least of which was my stupidity and pride. And while I came to realize what I had done pretty quickly, the damage had already been done.

So for the past six months I’ve been praying for restoration. For healing. For reconciliation. Yesterday, over tacos, chips, and queso that finally happened. And as I reflected on it this morning, I realized something: even though it was an uncomfortable and painful experience to walk through, God was faithful to use it for my good and his glory. Very practically, in fact.

As I mentioned earlier this week, I’m headed to grad school. Seminary, in fact. God has made it clear to me that’s the next step. And you know part of how he made that clear? By clearing my schedule. My regular “day job” projects have dried up. One of those projects did so six months ago when I messed up this relationship. And I can say pretty confidently that if I still was doing this project every week/month, I would have found an excuse not to go back to school.

I’m not saying that God caused me to sin and mess this relationship up. But I am saying that he was good enough to use it for my ultimate good and his ultimate glory. I’m seeing that now. And it’s not lost on me that literally the day I started my first seminary class (yesterday) and took my first quiz he healed the relationship. He brought restoration. He “closed the loop” so to speak.

He sanctified the suck.

Friend, sometimes it may take six months for you to see that. Sometimes it might take six years. Or 60. I don’t know. But my encouragement to you is to realize that this life will be filled with frustrations. And the “Christian” thing to do isn’t to ignore them or pretend they’re not there. No, there’s nothing more Christian than admitting they’re there so that when God uses them he can get the glory.

Admit the suck today. Embrace it, as they say. Because the hope you have on the other side is beautiful. And it may just look like a quiz and queso on the same day.

Photo by Piotr Gaertig on Unsplash