Is it okay to sit with God in the quiet? 

This is something I have been meditating on this past year.

This year, twenty-two, has been a dream. And it has been a nightmare. Many know about the first part. Almost no one knows about the second part. But is this bad? This is the question I  have been thinking through, especially as I stepped onto a church staff in a brand new city in a brand new state. At what point is a trial, pain, grief, between me and the Lord and at what point does it transition into a ministry to help someone else? Does it always have to transition to be for everyone else? 

When I was in college I would throw my past trauma around in ministerial conversations constantly. Everyone knew about my first semester of college, everyone knew about the bridge. Publicly it was used as a tool to show, “Yes! God does provide solace in the midst of mental health struggles!” Inwardly, I relived the bridge moment every time I spoke about it. And don’t get me wrong– I was often the one who brought it up. It was a tool and I used it as such. But was that what the people I was ministering to needed? Did they need my story or did they just need me to affirm whatever they were going through did suck, yes, but God is good? 

When I moved from small town Missouri to large city Texas- though, really, I live in the middle of Fort Worth and Dallas, not in the city- I didn’t make a conscious effort not to share what I had been through. But I haven’t really brought it up. My story isn’t often needed in the contexts in which I minister. Obviously, I spoke about it here and there but never concretely, never with detail, never with intention, always something that I went through years ago. Is this bad? Am I being fake or disingenuous by forgoing this information? I can hear you saying, “Sara, NO! It’s your story, you tell it only if you’re comfortable”. 

But really, I’m really asking: do you really believe that? 

Everyone knows Gen Z values authenticity over all other things. This is why the Christian faith is booming among my generation- what is more authentic than Christ Jesus? Sharing your testimony is a far better evangelism tool than the three circles now-a-days (something I love, by the way!). Crying at a worship service is seen as a spiritual badge of honor. We crave authenticity, we crave other people’s stories, other people’s pain. We crave their prayers. Stadiums sell out in seconds with Christian artists who sell their every prayer to record labels, communicators build brands on the deepest struggles they have battled. I’m not condemning, I’m simply fearful. 

I remember I once told my story and didn’t spare any detail. I told every moment, every thought. I had a microphone in my hand, I sat on a stool. And I watched as I held the audience captive. I saw tears in people’s eyes, I saw the Spirit move in some. In that half-hour as I spoke I gained a level of spiritual respect I hadn’t had before. If I am completely honest it was not a spiritual respect I deserved at that time. My authenticity was masking my spiritual immaturity. I hadn’t read my Bible in weeks, I hadn’t prayed in months, I had no direction. But I was being authentic. I was being honest. I was being real. I wasn’t being wise. 

My one moment of radical authenticity bought me a semester of space to be ingenuine. Because I had exposed one part, it was easier to hide the rest. 

The semester after I graduated I was living alone. I lived on Church property. I saw my friends often. It was one of the darkest points in my life. To prove a point I’m not going to go further. I told no one. I have told no one. No one knows the details, no one knows the scope of what it was like. Not my sister, not my best friend, no one. (Maybe my mom, but she just knows all things without me saying them). 

And right now, I have no need to share. Those five months are something I have healed from quietly with the Lord. And here’s the thing: if someone who struggled in the exact same way I struggled came to me, I probably wouldn’t share the details, the pains, the griefs, the prayers. But I would still be authentic. I would comfort, confirm, love, give grace, pray with them, point them to Christ’s work. When did authenticity become bearing the soul? When did authenticity become selling the soul for spiritual respect? 

Sitting with someone, that’s authentic. Crying with someone, that’s authentic. Affirming their pain, that’s authentic. Bearing my own past in the name of caring for theirs? Is this authentic? Or is it another tool to find the easy out? It’s easier to talk about ourselves, what we have healed from, than provide genuine counsel and ministry to those in pain. 

I know what you’re thinking and you’re correct: of course there is a time to share your story. But should this be the expectation? Should I know the inner workings of the heart of every podcaster I listen to, every “worship leader” that packs stadiums, every pastor that preaches? I genuinely don’t know. I’m asking. 

But my inclination is to allow things to be hidden with me in the wings of the father. Does that make you uncomfortable? It does me. Maybe I’m too Gen Z, maybe I’m too wrapped up in American Christian Culture. But I’d rather authenticity be the curated stories we tell about our past than the sitting with someone in their pain. It’s easier. More comfortable. But being comfortable isn’t a promise in this faith. 

I know I sound harsh, but really I’m relieved. 

Is it okay to sit with God in the quiet? Yes. Talk about your struggles, show how the Lord has been good to you. But authentically. 

Is it okay to sit with God in the quiet? Yes. Go to the quiet place. Go pray. Quiet is okay, too. 

That’s what I’m taking into this year, twenty-three. 

“O God, you are my God; earnestly I seek you;

    my soul thirsts for you;

my flesh faints for you,

    as in a dry and weary land where there is no water.

So I have looked upon you in the sanctuary,

    beholding your power and glory.

Because your steadfast love is better than life,

    my lips will praise you.

So I will bless you as long as I live;

    in your name I will lift up my hands.”

Psalm 63:1-4