When Jesus Was the Answer to Everything Except the Actual Problem

Growing up in church, I learned very early that Jesus was the answer.

Bad day? Pray about it.

Heartbroken? Give it to God.

Scared? Trust Jesus.

Confused? Read your Bible.

Someone hurt your feelings? Forgive them.

Family problems? Pray.

Friendship drama? Pray.

School stress? Pray.

Anxiety? Pray.

Boy problems? Girl, you already know. Pray.

I am not about to write a blog post acting like prayer doesn't matter. I believe in prayer. I believe in Scripture. I believe Jesus is the answer in ways that I am still learning how to understand. But growing up, it felt like Jesus was the answer to everything except the actual problem. And I don't mean that disrespectfully.

I mean sometimes I didn't need someone to immediately tell me to pray. I needed someone to ask me, “Okay, but what happened?” Sometimes I didn't need a Bible verse thrown at me before I had even finished explaining why I was crying. Sometimes I didn't need to hear, “God won't give you more than you can handle.” Sometimes I needed somebody to sit next to me and say, “Yeah. That really sucks.”

Because there is a difference between reminding somebody that God is with them and using God as a shortcut around their very real emotions. I think a lot of us who grew up in church learned how to spiritualize everything. We learned how to say, “I'm blessed,” when we were exhausted. “I'm trusting God,” when we were terrified. “I'm fine,” when we were absolutely not fine.

Sometimes we got so good at giving the Christian answer that we stopped being honest about the human one...

Somebody could be dealing with family issues, and we'd tell them to honor their mother and father.

Somebody could be experiencing grief, and we'd remind them that they're in a better place.

Somebody could be dealing with depression, and we'd tell them to pray harder.

Somebody could be dealing with church hurt, and we'd tell them not to let people get in the way of their relationship with God.

Somebody could be in a toxic relationship, and we'd tell them to pray for their partner.

Somebody could be struggling financially, and we'd tell them that God is Jehovah Jireh.

And again, none of those things are necessarily wrong. But sometimes the right statement at the wrong moment can still hurt. Because if I'm telling you that I am hurting and your immediate response is to explain why I shouldn't hurt, eventually I'm going to stop telling you that I'm hurting.

We don't talk about it enough. People aren't rejecting God... They're exhausted from feeling like they have to translate every human experience into a spiritual lesson before they're allowed to talk about it.

I think about how often we were taught that having faith meant being positive.

"Don't speak negatively."

"Watch what you say."

"Trust God."

"Don't worry."

"Don't complain."

Some of us accidentally learned that having a difficult emotion meant having a difficult faith. But then I did some research via the Bible. And y'all... These people were going through it.

David was out here writing entire Psalms basically asking God, *“Are You seeing this?!”

Job lost almost everything and had some very serious questions.

Jeremiah was called the weeping prophet for a reason.

Jesus himself wept.

Jesus got angry.

Jesus experienced grief.

Jesus asked for the cup to be taken from him.

Jesus didn't walk around pretending that pain wasn't painful.

So maybe being honest about what hurts isn't the opposite of faith. Maybe sometimes honesty is part of faith. Maybe saying, “God, I don't understand why this is happening,” is still prayer. Maybe saying, “I'm angry,” is still prayer. Maybe saying, “I don't know what I'm supposed to do,” is still prayer. Maybe crying before God without having a neat little lesson at the end is still prayer. And maybe sometimes the most spiritual thing we can do for somebody isn't give them an answer... Maybe it's sit with them in the question.

Jesus can be the answer without us pretending the problem doesn't exist.

If someone is grieving, let them grieve. If someone is angry, let them be angry. If someone is confused, let them admit that they're confused. If someone is hurting, don't rush to make their pain inspirational.

Not every painful situation needs a “but God...” attached to it five seconds later. Sometimes the “but God” comes later. Sometimes you have to sit in the “this really hurts” first. I think that's one of the biggest differences between the faith I grew up with and the faith I'm learning to have as an adult.

When I was younger, I thought faith meant always having the answer. Now I'm realizing faith can also look like admitting that I don't. I can believe God is good and still be upset. I can trust God and still have questions. I can pray and still need therapy. I can forgive somebody and still need boundaries. I can love Jesus and still admit that church hurt me. I can believe that God has a plan and still say, “Lord, I do not like this plan.”

Not the faith that has a Bible verse ready for every uncomfortable conversation. But the faith that knows God is big enough for the conversation itself. Because yes, Jesus is the answer. But sometimes before somebody needs the answer, they need somebody to acknowledge the question. That's what we've been missing. Not more people telling us to find Jesus. But more people willing to sit with us long enough to realize that Jesus was already there.