Uncategorized – God or Delusion?

Reading This Site Now

Some of the writing here was born out of urgency.

At the time, argument felt necessary—not for sport, but for survival. Certain doctrines and practices had shaped real fear, real harm, and real silence. Naming those dynamics required clarity, and clarity sometimes arrived as critique.

Those posts remain.

They reflect honest moments in a longer inquiry—moments when the moral stakes felt too high to speak gently, and too consequential to leave unnamed.

What has changed is not the seriousness of the questions, but the posture from which they’re asked.

I’m less interested now in persuading than in noticing. Less interested in dismantling arguments than in understanding what belief does to human lives—how it forms identity, justifies power, and survives even when certainty loosens.

If you read older posts here, you may hear a sharper edge. If you read newer ones, you may notice more space. Both belong to the same inquiry.

Nothing here is meant to tell you what to believe, or how to arrive anywhere. The only invitation is to read carefully, pause when something resonates—or unsettles—and notice what remains when the noise falls away.

That, for me, is still the God Question.

Why Common Sense Proves God is Human Imagination

The Illusion of the Soul

The Poverty of Surrender: A Response to August 18th

This is part of my year-long series exploring human-centered alternatives to the spiritual promises in Oswald Chambers’ classic devotional My Utmost for His Highest. Today’s entry, “Have You Ever Been Speechless with Sadness?” promises that believers who completely “sell everything” and “strip yourself of everything that might be considered a possession” until they stand before God as “a mere conscious being” will become true disciples, claiming that total surrender makes Jesus’s hard commands “easy” for those with His disposition.

Here’s what stripping away everything actually delivered:

Brother Francis had been living as “a mere conscious being” for seven years, and he was beginning to suspect that God wasn’t as interested in his radical surrender as Chambers had promised.

It had started with the rich young ruler passage that haunted him during a men’s retreat. “Sell everything you have,” Jesus had commanded, and Francis had heard it as a direct word to his own comfortable suburban life. The sadness had been immediate and speechless—just as Chambers described.

Within six months, Francis had liquidated his marketing consultancy, sold his house, given away most of his possessions, and moved into a Christian intentional community dedicated to radical discipleship. His wife Lisa had initially supported the decision, moved by his spiritual conviction and their shared desire for authentic faith.

“Strip yourself of everything that might be considered a possession,” Francis had explained to concerned family members. “Stand before God as a mere conscious being. This is where the battle is fought—in the domain of the will.”

The surrender had felt spiritually intoxicating. No more mortgage payments, no more client demands, no more accumulation of stuff. Just simple living, prayer, manual labor, and waiting for Jesus’s hard commands to become easy through divine disposition.

But seven years later, Francis was discovering that poverty wasn’t as spiritually transformative as advertised.

The intentional community had dissolved after three years due to personality conflicts and financial mismanagement—apparently even “mere conscious beings” struggled with basic human dynamics and practical decision-making. Francis and Lisa had moved to a small apartment where they lived on Lisa’s part-time teaching income while Francis did odd jobs and continued his spiritual pursuit of total surrender.

The surrender, however, had only revealed how little there was underneath all the possessions. Without his career identity, his home, his financial security, Francis felt not like a pure conscious being before God, but like a middle-aged man who’d made a series of impulsive decisions based on religious feelings.

Meanwhile, Francis watched his brother Mark build a successful architecture firm over the same seven years. Mark hadn’t surrendered anything to Jesus—he didn’t even believe in Jesus. But Mark had used his talents consistently, employed twelve people, designed beautiful spaces that improved communities, and provided well for his family while contributing generously to local charities.

Mark’s “unsurrendered” life was producing more tangible good in the world than Francis’s radical discipleship.

The most painful realization was watching Lisa. She’d followed Francis into voluntary poverty out of love and shared spiritual conviction, but seven years of financial instability had worn down her enthusiasm for radical surrender. She worked longer hours to compensate for Francis’s sporadic income, worried constantly about their future, and had given up dreams of travel, education, and starting a family because they couldn’t afford any of it.

“Maybe Jesus’s hard commands aren’t supposed to be easy,” Lisa had said quietly one evening as they calculated whether they could afford both groceries and utilities. “Maybe they’re supposed to be hard because life is hard, and following Jesus means facing that honestly instead of pretending that surrender solves everything.”

Francis had wanted to argue, but the words wouldn’t come. Speechless with sadness, just like the rich young ruler—but not because God was asking him to surrender more. Because he was finally admitting that he’d surrendered everything and received nothing in return except the illusion of spiritual superiority.

The battle wasn’t in the domain of the will before God. The battle was in learning to live responsibly in the world God had apparently left him to figure out on his own.

That night, Francis opened his laptop and began researching how to restart a consulting business. Not because he’d lost faith in radical discipleship, but because he’d found faith in something Chambers had taught him to distrust: his own capacity to contribute meaningfully to the world through sustained, skilled work.

Surrender hadn’t made him a mere conscious being. It had made him an irresponsible one. But responsibility—that felt like resurrection.

Reflection Question: What would change if you stopped trying to become a “mere conscious being” and started using your actual abilities to contribute to the world?

This story is part of my upcoming book “The Undevoted: Daily Departures from Divine Dependence,” which offers 365 human-centered alternatives to the spiritual certainties in Chambers’ devotional. Each day explores how reason, community, and human resilience can address life’s challenges without requiring divine intervention.

The Words That Never Came: A Response to August 17th

This is part of my year-long series exploring human-centered alternatives to the spiritual promises in Oswald Chambers’ classic devotional My Utmost for His Highest. Today’s entry, “Are You Discouraged in Devotion?” promises that when Jesus speaks “stern words” to believers, “sooner or later it will bear fruit” even if it initially produces discouragement, claiming that Jesus “knows perfectly well” that His difficult words will eventually result in devoted obedience, and that He never shames believers for past refusals to hear Him.

Here’s what listening for Jesus’s stern words actually delivered:

For twenty-three years, Pastor Mike had been telling his congregation about the stern words Jesus had spoken to him. The word that had called him to ministry. The word that had led him to seminary. The word that had directed him to this particular church in this particular town.

“When Jesus speaks something difficult to you,” Mike would preach, “you’ll know it’s meant specifically for you. It demands a choice. It might discourage you at first, like the rich young ruler, but sooner or later it will bear fruit if you don’t prevent it.”

The congregation loved these stories. They made Mike seem spiritually sensitive, personally chosen, intimately connected to a Jesus who still spoke stern, specific words to faithful listeners.

But Mike had a secret that would have destroyed his career: he hadn’t heard a word from Jesus in over a decade.

The “call to ministry” had been his mother’s relentless pressure and his own inability to figure out what else to do with a theology degree. The “word” about seminary had been financial aid availability and proximity to his girlfriend. The “direction” to this church had been the only job offer he’d received after six months of searching.

Mike had learned to retrofit normal life decisions with spiritual language because that’s what people expected from pastors. Every reasonable choice became a divine word. Every practical consideration became spiritual guidance. Every calculated decision became stern instruction from Jesus.

But lately, Mike was facing decisions that actually required divine guidance—if such a thing existed. His marriage was failing. His teenage daughter was using drugs. The church board was questioning his leadership during the worst financial crisis in the congregation’s history.

Mike desperately needed to hear something—anything—from Jesus. A stern word about his marriage. A difficult instruction about his daughter. A clear direction about his ministry.

The silence was complete.

Mike tried everything he’d taught others. He listened deliberately. He waited for words that were “amazingly hard.” He looked for choices that would demand sacrifice like the rich young ruler’s. He examined his heart for refusals to hear that might be blocking divine communication.

Nothing. No words, stern or otherwise. No specific instructions. No personal messages from Jesus about the crises that were destroying his life and ministry.

Meanwhile, Mike watched his atheist neighbor, Janet, navigate similar challenges with remarkable clarity. When Janet’s marriage hit rough water, she and her husband entered counseling. When her teenager got in trouble, she researched adolescent behavior and set clear boundaries. When her job became unstable, she updated her resume and networked aggressively.

Janet never waited for stern words from Jesus. She assessed situations, researched options, consulted experts, and made informed decisions based on available evidence. She took responsibility for her choices without crediting divine direction or blaming spiritual interference.

And Janet’s life was working better than Mike’s.

Standing in his empty church office late one Tuesday night, Mike finally faced the question he’d been avoiding for months: What if there were no stern words from Jesus to hear? What if the discouragement he felt wasn’t the initial response to divine instruction, but just the normal human experience of facing difficult decisions without supernatural guidance?

What if the rich young ruler had walked away sadly not because he’d rejected divine words, but because he’d realized there was no divine voice to reject?

Mike looked at the resignation letter he’d been drafting for weeks. Leaving ministry would break his mother’s heart. It would disappoint his congregation. It would require him to build an entirely new career at forty-five.

But for the first time in twenty-three years, Mike was ready to make a major life decision without claiming to hear stern words from Jesus. He was ready to choose based on what he could actually see: a failed marriage, troubled children, and a job that required him to pretend to hear voices that had never spoken.

The decision felt terrifying. But it also felt honest in a way that no spiritual word had ever been.

Reflection Question: How many of your major life decisions have you attributed to divine words that were actually just normal human reasoning dressed in religious language?

The Silent Shepherd: A Response to August 16th

This is part of my year-long series exploring human-centered alternatives to the spiritual promises in Oswald Chambers’ classic devotional My Utmost for His Highest. Today’s entry, “Does He Know Me?” promises that Jesus “calls his own sheep by name” and knows believers personally even when they fail to recognize Him, claiming that those with “personal history with Jesus Christ” will experience His “personal touch” and maintain “intimate connection with him, a knowledge of Jesus Christ that nothing can disturb.”

Here’s what having a personal history with Jesus actually delivered:

Margaret had built her entire identity around her personal relationship with Jesus Christ. For thirty-four years, she’d cultivated what Chambers called “intimate connection”—daily devotions, prayer journaling, worship experiences where she felt His presence so tangibly she could almost hear Him calling her name.

Like Mary Magdalene, Margaret knew she had a personal history that no amount of doctrine could replace. She’d been delivered from depression at nineteen. She’d felt Jesus guide her to her husband at twenty-five. She’d experienced miraculous provision during financial struggles in her thirties. She was absolutely certain that Jesus knew her by name.

But then came the diagnosis.

Stage four pancreatic cancer. Six months, maybe nine with treatment. At fifty-three, with two kids still in high school and a husband who’d never balanced a checkbook.

Margaret had waited for Jesus to call her name through this crisis. She’d waited for the personal touch that Chambers promised would be “indescribably precious.” She’d waited for the intimate connection that nothing could disturb to carry her through the valley of death.

The silence was deafening.

Not just the absence of miraculous healing—Margaret had been prepared for that possibility. It was the complete absence of the personal Jesus she’d known for three decades. No whispered comfort. No sense of presence. No calling of her name in the darkness. The intimate knowledge of Christ that had defined her spiritual life had simply evaporated when she needed it most.

“He knows you even when you can’t sense Him,” her pastor assured her. “Sometimes the shepherd leads through valleys where we can’t hear His voice.”

But Margaret had begun to suspect something more disturbing than divine silence. What if the voice she’d been hearing for thirty-four years had never been Jesus at all? What if her “personal history” was just a series of coincidences and emotional experiences that she’d interpreted through Christian language?

The thought terrified her more than the cancer.

Margaret remembered her dramatic deliverance from depression—which had coincided with starting college, moving away from her dysfunctional family, and making her first real friends. Her sense of divine guidance toward her husband—who had been the kindest man in her social circle and the obvious choice for anyone with decent judgment. The miraculous financial provision—which had come through her husband’s job promotion that he’d been working toward for months.

Had any of it actually been Jesus? Or had it been Margaret, living a normal human life but crediting a divine narrator for every good decision and fortunate circumstance?

Now, facing death, the personal Jesus was nowhere to be found. No intimate touch. No calling by name. No restoration like Peter experienced. Just the stark reality of dying cells and medical statistics and family logistics.

Meanwhile, Margaret watched her oncologist, Dr. Patterson, navigate terminal diagnoses with dozens of patients every month. Dr. Patterson made no claims about personal relationships with Jesus. She didn’t promise divine touch or intimate connection. She offered honest medical information, genuine compassion, and practical support for end-of-life planning.

Dr. Patterson’s presence felt more healing than Margaret’s absent Jesus. Her straightforward kindness was more comforting than thirty-four years of imagined divine relationship.

In her final weeks, Margaret stopped waiting for Jesus to call her name. She started paying attention to the actual voices around her—her husband’s worried whispers, her children’s tearful conversations, her friends’ awkward attempts at comfort. Real people, with real presence, offering real love.

For the first time in decades, Margaret felt genuinely known. Not by an invisible shepherd, but by the flesh-and-blood humans who were staying up nights to care for her, who were rearranging their lives to be present, who were grieving her death even before it happened.

They didn’t need to call her name. They were right there.

Reflection Question: When have the real people in your life provided more comfort and presence than your personal relationship with Jesus?

Born Again, Still Broken: A Response to August 15th

This is part of my year-long series exploring human-centered alternatives to the spiritual promises in Oswald Chambers’ classic devotional My Utmost for His Highest. Today’s entry, “Signs of the New Birth,” promises that believers who are “born again” will manifest “unconscious holiness” and receive “supernatural power to stop sinning,” claiming that the new birth provides “new power of vision” to discern God’s kingdom and results in actually stopping sin rather than merely trying to stop.

Here’s what being born again actually produced:

Pastor Stevens had been born again at age sixteen, and he could still remember the exact moment—July 23rd, 1985, during summer youth camp, when Jesus became real to him in a way that felt like seeing God with his own eyes. The supernatural transformation had been immediate and undeniable.

For thirty-eight years, Pastor Stevens had preached about the new birth with absolute conviction. “You don’t just try to stop sinning,” he’d tell his congregation every few months. “When you’re truly born of God, you receive supernatural power to actually stop. The Bible is clear: no one born of God continues to sin.”

The irony wasn’t lost on him now, sitting in his car outside the motel where he’d been meeting Rebecca, his administrative assistant, for the past six months.

Stevens had experienced everything Chambers described. The conscious repentance—check. The personal knowledge of Jesus—absolutely. The new power of vision to discern God’s kingdom—he’d built a career on it. The supernatural power to stop sinning—well, that’s where things got complicated.

Because Pastor Stevens hadn’t stopped sinning. He’d just gotten better at hiding it.

The pornography addiction that had started in seminary. The financial irregularities that had begun as “emergency borrowing” from church funds. The emotional affair that had become physical. The prescription pills that helped him sleep, then helped him preach, then helped him exist.

Each time, Stevens had explained it to himself through spiritual language. He was still learning to walk in his new nature. The old man was putting up a fight. He needed more accountability, more prayer, more surrender. Sometimes he’d have breakthrough moments where the supernatural power seemed real again—weeks or months of victory that convinced him the new birth was finally taking full effect.

But the sins always returned. Different forms sometimes, but the same underlying patterns of deception, compromise, and self-serving choices that had existed before his dramatic conversion experience.

The most disturbing part wasn’t the failure to live up to Chambers’ promises about the new birth. It was how normal this seemed to be among his born-again colleagues. Behind closed doors, every pastor Stevens knew struggled with the gap between the supernatural transformation they preached and the very ordinary human brokenness they lived with daily.

There was Mike, born again for twenty-two years, whose marriage was ending because of his gambling problem. Sarah, who’d had a powerful conversion at nineteen, now battling alcoholism at forty-five. Jim, who could preach about supernatural holiness but couldn’t control his rage at home.

All of them born again. All of them still very much broken.

Stevens thought about his congregation members who’d approached him over the years, confused and guilt-ridden because they weren’t experiencing the automatic holiness Chambers promised. “I thought being born again meant I’d stop struggling with these things,” they’d say. Stevens had always counseled them to seek deeper surrender, more complete rebirth, greater identification with Christ’s death and resurrection.

Now he wondered if he’d been giving them the wrong medicine for the right diagnosis. What if the problem wasn’t insufficient spiritual birth? What if the problem was that spiritual rebirth—whatever it actually was—didn’t work the way Chambers claimed it did?

What if being “born again” didn’t give supernatural power to stop sinning, but simply provided a different framework for understanding the same human struggle everyone faced—religious or not?

Stevens started his car and drove home to his wife, who deserved better than a man still waiting, after thirty-eight years, for his new birth to take full effect. Tomorrow he would begin the very non-supernatural work of confession, counseling, and rebuilding trust through consistent actions rather than spiritual transformation.

For the first time since 1985, that felt like honest progress.

Reflection Question: What would change if you stopped expecting spiritual rebirth to solve problems that require sustained human effort and accountability?

The Divine Discipline Delusion: A Response to August 14th

This is part of my year-long series exploring human-centered alternatives to the spiritual promises in Oswald Chambers’ classic devotional My Utmost for His Highest. Today’s entry, “Discipline,” promises that believers who don’t “quench the Spirit” by despising God’s discipline will experience divine sanctification as God grips them “by his power,” claiming that the Spirit reveals spiritual blindness through divine rebukes and sanctifies those who “let him have his way.”

Here’s what divine discipline actually produced:

Thomas had been interpreting everything through the lens of divine discipline for six years now. His wife’s cancer diagnosis? God’s sanctification process. His son’s autism? The Lord’s loving rebuke. The layoffs at his engineering firm? Divine grip tightening for spiritual growth.

“Never despise the Lord’s discipline,” his accountability partner reminded him every Thursday morning at Denny’s. “Don’t lose heart when He rebukes you. Let the Spirit reveal what He needs to reveal.”

This philosophy had made Thomas remarkably calm during crises. While other families panicked about medical bills or fought with insurance companies, Thomas saw divine purpose. While other parents researched autism therapies and advocated for their children’s educational needs, Thomas prayed for sanctification through suffering. While other laid-off workers networked frantically and updated their resumes, Thomas waited for God to complete His work.

“I’m not where I thought I was,” Thomas would say, quoting Chambers. “The Spirit is revealing this to me. I need to let Him have His way.”

His wife Linda had initially found his spiritual perspective comforting during her chemotherapy. But as months passed and Thomas remained passive in the face of mounting challenges, his divine discipline framework began to feel less like peace and more like paralysis.

“The insurance company denied my claim again,” she told him one evening. “We need to appeal. Can you call them tomorrow?”

“God is sanctifying us through this trial,” Thomas replied. “I don’t want to quench the Spirit by fighting His discipline.”

Linda stared at him. “The Spirit isn’t handling our insurance appeals, Thomas.”

But Thomas had become addicted to finding God’s hand in everything. Every setback was divine education. Every struggle was sanctification. Every crisis was God gripping him by His power for spiritual growth. The framework provided meaning for meaningless suffering and made him feel spiritually superior to people who responded to problems with practical action.

Meanwhile, their neighbor Jeff faced his own family crisis when his daughter was diagnosed with leukemia. Jeff’s response was radically different. He researched pediatric oncologists, fought insurance companies, connected with other families, and turned his engineer’s problem-solving skills toward navigating the medical system. He took family leave, learned medical terminology, and became his daughter’s fiercest advocate.

Jeff never once mentioned divine discipline. He just acted like a father whose child needed help.

Two years later, the contrast was stark. Thomas’s wife had died—not from cancer, but from treatable complications that he’d interpreted as God’s will rather than medical emergencies requiring aggressive intervention. His son was struggling in school without the therapies and support other autism families had fought to obtain. Thomas himself remained unemployed, still waiting for divine sanctification to complete its work rather than actively job searching.

Jeff’s daughter was in remission. She’d received cutting-edge treatment because Jeff had researched clinical trials and advocated for experimental therapies. The family had survived financially because Jeff had immediately applied for assistance programs and organized fundraising.

Standing at Linda’s graveside, Thomas finally heard a different voice than the one he’d been calling the Spirit for six years. It wasn’t divine discipline speaking to him. It was his own conscience, finally breaking through the spiritual framework that had paralyzed him during the most critical moments of his family’s life.

The voice was saying something Chambers had never prepared him to hear: “You weren’t being sanctified. You were being negligent.”

For the first time in years, Thomas didn’t interpret the rebuke as coming from God. It was coming from the part of himself that knew the difference between spiritual meaning-making and responsible action—the part he’d been calling the devil when it urged him to fight for his wife’s life.

Reflection Question: When has looking for divine purpose in suffering prevented you from taking practical action to address real problems?

No Spirit’s Voice: A Response to August 13th

This is part of my year-long series exploring human-centered alternatives to the spiritual promises in Oswald Chambers’ classic devotional My Utmost for His Highest. Today’s entry, “Do Not Quench the Spirit,” promises that believers living in “perfect communion with God” will hear the Spirit’s “gentle” voice and detect His “checks” through “still small voice” warnings, claiming that those who remain “sensitive” to the Spirit will maintain spiritual vitality and receive ongoing discernment, with God “engineering crises” repeatedly until believers obey His direction.

Here’s what trusting that the Spirit provides gentle guidance through still small voice warnings actually delivered:

“The Spirit’s voice is gentle as a zephyr,” Pastor Chen declared with spiritual sensitivity. “Unless you’re living in perfect communion with God, you’ll never hear it. The Spirit’s checks come as a still small voice. Be sensitive to detect them, or you’ll quench the Spirit. When God engineers a crisis, obey the first time or face repeated crises with less discernment.”

Rachel had been struggling with a difficult decision about whether to leave her stable but unfulfilling administrative job to pursue freelance graphic design with no guaranteed income. The promise that living in perfect communion would enable her to hear the Spirit’s gentle voice and detect divine checks seemed like the spiritual guidance she needed to navigate this major life transition through supernatural direction rather than human reasoning.

Rachel desperately wanted to believe that developing sensitivity to the Spirit would provide the still small voice guidance that perfect communion was supposed to activate. For months, she spent intensive quiet time seeking to hear the Spirit’s gentle warnings and divine checks about her career decision, trying to live in perfect communion while waiting for supernatural discernment that would reveal God’s will about leaving her job. She practiced what she called “zephyr listening,” attempting to detect the Spirit’s still small voice that would provide clear direction about this engineered crisis in her life.

Week after week, Rachel sat in silence seeking the Spirit’s gentle voice that perfect communion was supposed to enable, waiting for divine checks or confirmations about her career transition that would demonstrate spiritual sensitivity rather than human decision-making. She tried to remain alert to the Spirit’s warnings while trusting that God was engineering this crisis to test her obedience to supernatural guidance, avoiding practical steps like market research, portfolio development, or financial planning because she believed human reasoning would interfere with the Spirit’s gentle direction. When concerned friends suggested career counseling, freelance business planning, or at least gradual transition strategies, she declined, trusting that the Spirit’s still small voice was more important than practical preparation.

But the promised Spirit’s guidance was decision paralysis disguised as spiritual sensitivity.

Rachel’s desperate attempts to hear the Spirit’s gentle voice produced no supernatural direction, no still small voice warnings, no indication that perfect communion was enabling divine discernment about her career crisis. Despite months of seeking spiritual sensitivity and trying to detect the Spirit’s checks, no divine guidance emerged, no supernatural warnings materialized, no sense that God was engineering repeated crises for her obedience developed. The silence grew more frustrating each day as career opportunities passed while she waited for the Spirit’s gentle direction that perfect communion was supposed to provide.

Meanwhile, Rachel’s friend Karen approached her own career transition through immediate practical research and strategic planning. When Karen considered leaving her corporate job for freelance work, she researched market demand, built a client base gradually, and developed a comprehensive business plan while maintaining her current income until the transition was financially viable.

Karen’s approach came through market analysis, financial planning, and gradual business development. She successfully transitioned to freelance work through sustained practical preparation rather than waiting for the Spirit’s gentle voice guidance.

When Rachel finally abandoned her search for the Spirit’s voice and sought career counseling, she discovered that major career transitions required understanding market realities and financial planning. The months she’d spent seeking supernatural direction had been months she could have used building actual skills and client relationships for freelance success.

Where was the Spirit’s gentle voice that perfect communion was supposed to enable? Where were the divine checks that should provide supernatural discernment about life decisions?

The guidance that actually worked came from career research and business planning. The silence where the Spirit’s voice was supposed to be revealed the truth: there was no gentle divine voice providing direction through perfect communion, no Spirit offering supernatural checks or crisis engineering.

Only career decisions that required practical research and strategic planning, not spiritual sensitivity seeking gentle guidance from an absent Spirit whose supposed voice never provided actual direction for real-world choices.

Reflection Question: When has practical career research and strategic planning been more effective than seeking to hear the Spirit’s gentle voice through perfect communion with God?

No Divine Rest: A Response to August 12th

This is part of my year-long series exploring human-centered alternatives to the spiritual promises in Oswald Chambers’ classic devotional My Utmost for His Highest. Today’s entry, “The Theology of Rest,” promises that believers who develop perfect confidence in God will become “the reliable ones in any crisis” and experience “perfect rest” and “oneness with him,” claiming that those who learn to “worship God and trust him” will go “to the breaking point without breaking our confidence in him” and become “a deep joy to him.”

Here’s what trusting that perfect confidence in God provides divine rest and crisis reliability actually delivered:

“Jesus expects perfect confidence from those who name His name,” Pastor Martinez declared with spiritual authority. “God’s children should be the reliable ones in any crisis. Learn to worship and trust Him, and you’ll reach perfect rest and oneness with God. You can go to the breaking point without breaking confidence in Him.”

Jennifer had been caring for her husband Mark through his battle with early-onset dementia, watching the man she’d loved for twenty years gradually disappear into confusion and aggression. The promise that developing perfect confidence in God would provide divine rest and make her reliable during this devastating crisis seemed like the spiritual strength she desperately needed to endure what felt like an impossible caregiving situation.

Jennifer desperately wanted to believe that worshiping God and trusting Him completely would result in the perfect rest and oneness that would sustain her through Mark’s decline. For months, she spent early morning hours practicing what she called “crisis confidence,” trying to develop unwavering trust in God that would enable going to the breaking point without breaking, waiting for the divine rest that perfect faith was supposed to produce. She avoided practical steps like respite care, dementia support groups, or caregiver counseling, believing that seeking human help would demonstrate insufficient confidence in God’s ability to provide rest and reliability during crisis.

Day after day, Jennifer sat beside her increasingly confused husband seeking the perfect rest and divine oneness that complete trust was supposed to activate, waiting for supernatural strength that would make her the reliable one God expected during this crisis. She tried to worship and trust through Mark’s violent outbursts, his inability to recognize her, his complete personality transformation, believing that perfect confidence would prevent her from reaching the breaking point and would produce the deep joy that oneness with God promises. When overwhelmed friends suggested adult day care, dementia specialists, or even antidepressants for her own mental health, she declined, trusting that divine rest through perfect confidence was more important than human caregiving support.

But the promised perfect rest through divine confidence was caregiver breakdown disguised as spiritual reliability.

Jennifer’s desperate attempts to develop perfect confidence in God produced no divine rest, no sense of oneness, no supernatural strength that would make her reliable during the dementia crisis. Despite months of trying to worship and trust without breaking confidence, no perfect rest emerged, no divine reliability materialized, no sense that she was bringing joy to God through her faithfulness developed. The silence grew more devastating each day as Mark’s condition worsened while she waited for the divine rest that perfect confidence was supposed to provide.

Meanwhile, Jennifer’s neighbor Carol approached her own husband’s dementia through immediate practical support systems. When Carol faced similar early-onset dementia in her spouse, she arranged respite care, joined dementia caregiver support groups, and worked with specialists to understand disease progression while protecting her own mental health through counseling and medication.

Carol’s approach came through dementia specialists, caregiver support, and mental health treatment. She maintained her well-being and provided better care through sustained practical work rather than waiting for divine rest through perfect confidence.

When Jennifer finally abandoned her search for perfect rest and sought caregiver support, she discovered that dementia care required understanding brain disease and building support networks. The months she’d spent trying to develop divine confidence had been months she needed professional guidance and community support for an impossible caregiving situation.

Where was the perfect rest that complete confidence in God was supposed to provide? Where was the divine oneness that should make her reliable during crisis without breaking?

The support that actually worked came from dementia specialists and caregiver counseling. The silence where divine rest was supposed to be revealed the truth: there was no perfect rest available through confidence in God, no divine oneness providing supernatural caregiving strength.

Only progressive brain disease that required professional understanding and comprehensive support systems, not spiritual confidence seeking divine rest from an absent God whose supposed reliability never emerged through perfect trust.

Reflection Question: When has seeking dementia specialists and caregiver support been more effective than trusting that perfect confidence in God provides divine rest and crisis reliability?