In an attempt to cover all my bases, I have been praying for patience but also praying for the removal of everyone and everything that frustrates me. Is that too much to ask? Surely God could make me patient and make them hurry up at the same time.
Then, in last week’s conversation between Andrew Murray and Hannah Whithall Smith, I heard a more helpful description of those things that stress you out and make you fearful and overwhelmed; she called them chariots God could use to carry you closer to him. In her estimation, struggles, disappointments, the person who is taking way too long and is slowing you down are all just potential transportation, chariots of triumph meant to take you to the very places your prayers have been begging for you to go.
If that’s the case, then there’s never a need for me to walk because I have a fleet at my disposal. The trouble is, I haven’t been riding in my chariots so much as being crushed by them, explaining to God that I would appreciate it if he would hurry up and do something about it all.
But that’s because I’ve been treating every difficulty like it has come to flatten me when, ironically, they were actually my lift; God using the very situation I want out of to bring me into a freedom I thought could never be mine.
In this metaphor, one thing goes wrong, and the chariots arrive. They roll over me at breakfast, drag me along my walk, and have flattened me by bedtime. Whatever happened may have been done in ten minutes, but I’ve given it the whole day to crush me. The tragedy is that there is all this potential transportation, and all I’ve done is lie down underneath it.
Can you imagine calling an Uber and then lying down on the street when you see it coming? That’s me when trouble hits.
But I guess that’s not my only response; sometimes I just try outrunning them by doing more, requiring more, worrying more, as if that will finally get me out in front of these blasted chariots of destruction, but to no avail.
Of course, to avoid the worrying, sometimes I just try to use my own transportation: my plans, predictions, ideas on how everyone should be doing what I think they should be doing. I’m perfectly willing to trust God. I just feel better if I drive.
But when my plan falls apart, I’m underneath the wreckage, trying to repair the thing I was trusting to carry me, while asking God why he isn’t helping. By helping, of course, I mean getting my plan up and working again. But finally, with the help of Hannah, I’m realizing that it might just be possible that he has another ride for me. I’ve just had a hard time recognizing it because it looks so much like the thing I wanted him to remove.
I mean, if you’d have come to me in Egyptian prison and told me I was on my way to running the country, I’d have asked you to take a good look at where we were having this conversation. But in Joseph’s story, the next stop after prison was Pharaoh’s palace.
For him, slavery and prison were the chariots used to carry him toward a position of power. I would have assumed God was out to get me. That’s because I tend to want my transportation to look more like a limo than a prison van.
Which makes me wonder how often I’ve mistaken a difficult stretch of my life for evidence that God isn’t taking me anywhere. I keep asking him for freedom from fear, then treating everything frightening as proof that my request has been overlooked. I want to trust him with what I cannot control. I would just prefer to get it under control first. Logic!
I know, I know, it’s a complicated travel policy I’ve been trying to enforce. But getting into the chariot would mean trusting God with a situation I’d still prefer him to fix. I’d also like to know where we’re going, how long it’ll take, and whether I should bring a sweater. Ok, the sweater is negotiable, but the part I really want is some assurance that this will turn out the way I want it to. And I can stay right here under the wheels until I get that assurance! I’ve done it before; I’ll do it again. But as long as I do, the problem stays a problem, and I spend the afternoon going over all the ways it might get worse.
God, I still want you to fix my life. I’m probably going to ask you again in five minutes. But I’d like to get out from under the wheels.
I can see myself now, reaching for the side of the chariot, pulling one foot up, still looking down at the spot where I’ve been lying. I’m not sure I can change my mind about wanting answers, but I just don’t want to spend another afternoon being dragged around by a chariot.
I want him to get rid of some of these chariots. And I have a few in mind right now, if he’d like a list. I’ll probably still duck the next time I hear wheels. But I’d like to find out where God can take me in the very thing I keep asking him to take away.