Discipling Through Disappointment

I had a friend who was struggling with her faith. Her experience with God had left her feeling disappointed and discouraged. He had not been who she wanted him to be; he had not shown up in the ways she had hoped. She was struggling with spiritual disciplines and practices, lacking the desire to even try. She desired to be faithful, but it felt like she was putting on airs, as if she knew the right things to say, but her heart felt indifferent and cold. “What am I supposed to do?” she asked. “Just fake it until I make it?” It was a question born of pain, discouragement, and confusion.

How should we respond when faith is difficult? What is a believer to do when the heart feels cool and indifferent? Is it best to “fake it until we make it?” Or is there some other way forward that both embraces the difficulty of the journey while also recognizing that the requirement of being a disciple is to act in accordance with our beliefs, even when it feels untrue? There is a tension at play. At times, acting in faith can feel incongruous and insincere when our hearts are struggling to believe what our minds have declared as true.

After I lost my eighteen-year-old son, Ezra, to cancer, I had months where I could not pray. It felt like words simply got caught in my throat. I felt hurt and confused by God. How was this a picture of a loving Father? We didn't attend church for several months after we lost Ezra. This was in part because my husband is a pastor, and stepping back into this place where we knew every eye would be watching us felt like too great a burden to bear. Even as we eased back in, I found worship incredibly difficult. I would stand during the music and try to sing, only to be overcome with tears that burst through the dam of my eyes. In hindsight, I realize that worship is often simply prayer set to song, so it makes sense that if I were unable to pray, I would also be unable to sing. There was a profound depth of sorrow, pain, and even a sense of betrayal from God. How could I worship when my heart was broken? How could I endure the hundreds of eyes watching? Did I just “fake it until I made it?” Or was there something more?

If I had been honest, I didn't want to be there. I didn't want to lift my voice in song. I didn't want to lift my hands in praise. My heart felt anything but praise toward God. I was deeply hurt and confused. Yet I knew that I must somehow press forward. I knew that I needed to act like a disciple, even if my heart was not in it. Like my friend, I too felt this tension. Praise and worship felt disingenuous. My heart felt so differently from what my mind knew to be true.

In his book, Mere Christianity, C.S. Lewis gives insight into this conundrum. He says, “Do not sit trying to manufacture feelings. Ask yourself, ‘If I were sure that I loved God what would I do?' When you have found the answer, go and do it.”

As I struggled to worship, my heart was undoubtedly broken, but deep down, there was the very real question of whether God could be trusted. Was he worthy of worship, even when his plans left me disappointed? Was he worthy of praise even when the sorrows and bitter pains of life had overcome me? Did I believe he truly is who he says he is?

The difficulty of worship was actually a battleground for faith.

What then is our duty in this in-between space? This space where we are called to discipleship, yet the sorrows and trials of this life leave us feeling broken and confused. What do we do when our hearts are simply not inclined to worship, and if our faith were truly exposed, it would feel deeply insincere, maybe even fabricated?

In these times of pain, confusion, and sorrow, we must look to Jesus. God's Word tells us that “although he was a son, he learned obedience from what he suffered” (Heb. 5:8). Jesus, even though he was God's very own Son, still learned (in some sense) what it was to submit to the Father's will through his suffering. He walked through temptation, agony, torture, and death, and he entrusted “himself to him who judges justly” (1 Pet. 2:23). He learned obedience when he submitted himself to God's plan, even when it cost him everything.

I think it's the same for us.

When sorrows rise and confusion abounds, when loss is overwhelming and worship feels nearly impossible, when our hearts are not inclined towards praise, we must look to Jesus, who “for the joy that was set before him endured the cross” (Heb. 12:2).

To answer my friend's question, should she simply fake it until she makes it? On the one hand, no, absolutely not. Worship and spiritual disciplines are not a matter of putting on airs or performing some religious ritual until the feelings return.

On the other hand, however, yes. There are times that faith requires that we act like disciples, even when the feelings are not there. We must always look to Jesus, “the founder and perfecter of our faith” (Heb. 12:2). We must understand that walking in faith requires us to believe all that God has promised is true, even when it doesn't feel true. It's asking the heart, “What do you know to be true that doesn't feel true right now?” Then going and living as if it is true, trusting that the Spirit will be at work, even in this act of painful submission.

This is, after all, the very essence of faith. “The assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen” (Heb. 11:1). It's practicing what is true, even when it doesn't feel true. It's fighting to believe that God has promised he will never leave nor forsake us (Heb. 13:15). It's standing in confidence that “there is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus” (Rom. 8:1). It's remembering there is nothing, “neither death nor life, nor angels nor rulers, nor things present nor things to come, nor powers, nor height nor depth nor anything else in all creation” that can separate us from God's love through Christ (Rom. 8:38–39). It's calling to mind the fact that we did nothing to receive the gift of salvation, and there is nothing we can do to lose it either (Eph. 2:8–9). There is great assurance knowing that our standing before Christ does not change, even when our feelings conflict with our faith. Our standing before Christ is secure, and nothing can steal us from his hand (John 10:29). The feelings that betray us do not change the heart of Christ toward us.

Maybe these seasons that feel impossibly hard, incredibly long, and horribly painful need to simply begin, not with faking it until it changes, but by reminding our hearts that our place is secure. We can thank God that the work is finished and that his grace is enough to cover this time of confusion and discouragement. And then we can “be still before the Lord and wait patiently for him” (Ps. 37:7). The season may last for longer than we’d hope, but we can be confident that “his going out is sure as the dawn; he will come to us as the showers, as the spring rains that water the earth” (Hos. 6:3).