Daily Reading
The Heart has its Reasons
January 5, 2025
“Do you care for me, God?”
What’s under that question?
“The heart has its reasons that reason knows not of,” Pascal said. What’s under that question is our personal stories, often punctuated by the Message of the Arrows: parents who were emotionally absent; bedtimes without words or hugs; ears that were too big and noses that were too small; others chosen for playground games while we were not; and prayers about all these things seemingly met with silence. And embedded in our stories, deep down in our heart, in a place so well guarded that they have rarely if ever been exposed to the light of day, are other grief-laden and often angry questions: God, why did you allow this to happen to me? Why did you make me like this? What will you allow to happen next? In the secret places of our heart, we believe God is the one who did not protect us from these things or even the one who perpetrated them upon us. Our questions about him make us begin to live with a deep apprehension that clings anxiously to the depths of our hearts. ... Do you really care for me, God?
This is the question that has shipwrecked many of our hearts, leaving them grounded on reefs of pain and doubt, no longer free to accompany us in our life and our spiritual pilgrimage. We might be able to rationalize away that question by telling ourselves that we need to be more careful, or that sometimes others are just bad. We can even breathe a sigh of relief when we realize that trouble has come from our own sin. But even the careful, legalistic, and constricted lifestyle that arises out of thinking we can avoid trouble through our own devices shipwrecks when the Arrows seem to strike us out of nowhere. What are we to make of God’s wildness in allowing these things to happen?
Indeed, the things that have happened to us often suggest that the real script of the play we’re all living in is “God is indifferent” rather than “God is love.”
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What’s under that question?
“The heart has its reasons that reason knows not of,” Pascal said. What’s under that question is our personal stories, often punctuated by the Message of the Arrows: parents who were emotionally absent; bedtimes without words or hugs; ears that were too big and noses that were too small; others chosen for playground games while we were not; and prayers about all these things seemingly met with silence. And embedded in our stories, deep down in our heart, in a place so well guarded that they have rarely if ever been exposed to the light of day, are other grief-laden and often angry questions: God, why did you allow this to happen to me? Why did you make me like this? What will you allow to happen next? In the secret places of our heart, we believe God is the one who did not protect us from these things or even the one who perpetrated them upon us. Our questions about him make us begin to live with a deep apprehension that clings anxiously to the depths of our hearts. ... Do you really care for me, God?
This is the question that has shipwrecked many of our hearts, leaving them grounded on reefs of pain and doubt, no longer free to accompany us in our life and our spiritual pilgrimage. We might be able to rationalize away that question by telling ourselves that we need to be more careful, or that sometimes others are just bad. We can even breathe a sigh of relief when we realize that trouble has come from our own sin. But even the careful, legalistic, and constricted lifestyle that arises out of thinking we can avoid trouble through our own devices shipwrecks when the Arrows seem to strike us out of nowhere. What are we to make of God’s wildness in allowing these things to happen?
Indeed, the things that have happened to us often suggest that the real script of the play we’re all living in is “God is indifferent” rather than “God is love.”
Want More? Order your copy of The Sacred Romance today