What’s the meaning of life? What’s going to happen next? Why doesn’t God burn bushes anymore?
My guess is most people ask these kinds of questions at one point or another, and I also figure most people don’t really ever feel certain they’ve gotten any concrete answers.
Concrete is relative, though, in the face of faith.
I know people who are always certain of God’s constant presence with them, and they see his hand in every part of their day. They get a flat tire, and they believe God has a purpose for it. They catch the metro and thank God they weren’t a second later. They find their keys, and they feel certain it was God’s leading.
And then there’s me.
I stand on the edge of the Grand Canyon, and I’m speechless. No deep platitudes, no songs of praise, no inspiring metaphor. Just me, the canyon, and the sound of the wind blowing through that massive chasm.
A few years ago, I heard Louis Giglio speak about the magnitude of God. He shared about the star Canis Majoris. This star is in the sky somewhere far, far away, and it makes earth look like a speck of dust. It’s greater than humongous. It’s colossal, and to it, we are nothing but a dot floating by.
That whole thing messed me up for a while, and now I’m back pondering some of the same questions.
How can God love me?
Forget about my sin and questions and failures. Forget all that. Even if I were perfect, I’d be in this same insignificant spot.
He is Canis Majoris, and I am a speck on a speck on a speck.
So why? Why does he care?
Here’s what I think. I think I’ve been looking at his greatness and seeing nothing but my irrelevance, and all the while, the answer has nothing to do with me.
Perhaps instead of looking at my insignificance, it’s time to look at the expanse of heaven and believe. Simply believe.
There is one, holy, awesome, and all-powerful God of the universe and for some reason, he loves us. It’s a reckless, raging fury that is the love of God. To accept this love takes faith. It can’t be explained or maybe even understood, but it must be believed. To know him, I must believe. To see his holy fire, I must risk belief.
I’m not afraid of these questions that keep plaguing me. I’m fearful I’ll stop asking them before the matter is settled in my heart. It might be easier to ignore my uncertainty and dismiss it.
But that’s not what we’re about, is it?