Today in church, I was convicted.
Not by something I had done. Not by some obvious sin I had been trying to hide. But by something I had been saying in my prayers for years, something I had convinced myself was a sign of spiritual maturity.
“Thy will be done, not mine.”
Those are good words. Biblical words. Words Jesus Himself prayed in the Garden of Gethsemane.
But today, I had to confront a difficult truth.
I haven't always been saying them for the right reasons.
A Faith That Goes Back and Forth
Today's sermon was from John 11, the story of Lazarus.
Lazarus was sick. His sisters, Mary and Martha, sent word to Jesus. They knew Him. They loved Him. They believed He could heal their brother.
But Jesus didn't come right away.
And Lazarus died.
By the time Jesus arrived, Lazarus had been in the tomb for four days.
Both sisters expressed the same heartbreaking thought: if Jesus had been there, their brother would not have died.
What struck me during the sermon was this back-and-forth struggle between faith and grief. That ping-pong faith we sometimes experience when we know what God is capable of, yet struggle to reconcile that knowledge with what He has allowed to happen.
They believed Jesus could have prevented Lazarus from dying.
But He hadn't.
And now they were standing in the middle of their grief, trying to understand why.
I realized today that I know that feeling all too well.
The Prayer I Have Been Hiding Behind
For years, I have ended so many of my prayers with the words:
“Thy will be done, not mine.”
I told myself those words demonstrated my willingness to submit to God's authority.
And sometimes, perhaps they did.
But today, sitting in church, I felt the Holy Spirit peeling back a layer of my heart that I hadn't wanted to examine.
What if those words had become an escape route?
What if I had been using them to soften the disappointment of an unanswered prayer before I ever gave God the opportunity to answer it?
What if I wasn't surrendering as much as I was protecting myself?
That's a hard thing to admit.
Because the truth is, I don't doubt that God can answer my prayers.
I believe He can heal the sick. Restore broken relationships. Change hearts. Open doors that seem permanently closed. Work miracles that defy human understanding.
My struggle hasn't been believing that God can.
My struggle has been believing that He cares enough about me, personally, to do it.
There. I said it.
And it hurts to write those words.
Does God Really Care About My Pain?
I know what Scripture says.
I know God loves us. I know He hears our prayers. I know He knows the number of hairs on our heads.
I have shared those truths. Encouraged others to hold on to those truths.
But knowing something in your head and trusting it with the deepest wounds of your heart can be two very different things.
There are prayers I have prayed for years.
Prayers involving people I love. Relationships I wish were different. Pain I would give almost anything to see healed.
And somewhere along the way, I think I began preparing myself for God not to answer them the way I hoped.
So I would pray.
And then I would add my familiar closing:
“Thy will be done, not mine.”
It sounded faithful.
But buried underneath those words was sometimes another thought:
I don't really expect You to do this for me, Lord.
Not because He couldn't.
But because I wasn't sure He would care enough to intervene.
That realization brought me face-to-face with something I needed to repent of.
Two Words That Changed Everything
Back to John 11.
There is one part of this story that I cannot get out of my mind. It wasn't covered today but I know the story too well.
Jesus knew what He was going to do.
He knew Lazarus would rise again. He knew the grave would not have the final word. He knew the miracle that was about to unfold.
And yet, when He stood among those who were grieving, Scripture tells us:
“Jesus wept.” — John 11:35
Think about that.
Jesus already knew the outcome.
But He still wept.
He didn't dismiss their pain because He had a plan.
He didn't tell Mary and Martha to stop crying because everything would work out.
He entered into their grief.
He cared about their pain even though He knew their story wasn't finished.
And perhaps that is what I needed to hear today more than anything else.
God's timing does not mean He is indifferent to my suffering.
His silence does not mean He doesn't care.
And His decision to answer differently than I hoped does not mean my pain has gone unnoticed.
The same Jesus who called Lazarus out of the grave first stood outside that grave and wept with the people He loved.
That's the Jesus I need to remember when I pray.
Do You Believe This?
But there was another moment in John 11 that struck even deeper.
Before Jesus raised Lazarus, He spoke to Martha.
He told her:
“I am the resurrection and the life. He who believes in me will still live, even if he dies.” — John 11:25 (WEB)
And then, in verse 26, Jesus asked her a question.
“Do you believe this?”
Four words.
Such a simple question.
But today, sitting in church, I felt as though Jesus was asking that question directly to me.
Do you believe this?
Do you believe I am who I say I am?
Do you believe I have the power to do what seems impossible?
Do you believe I hear your prayers?
And perhaps the hardest question of all:
Do you believe I care enough about YOU to answer them?
That's where the conviction really hit me.
Because if you had asked me whether Jesus could raise Lazarus from the dead, I would have answered without hesitation.
Absolutely.
If you had asked me whether God could heal the sick, restore a marriage, reconcile a family, or change the hardest of hearts, I would have said yes.
I believe all of that.
But when the question became personal, when it involved my own pain, my own unanswered prayers, and the things I have carried before God for years, suddenly my confidence wasn't quite so strong.
I realized I had been answering Jesus' question with my head while protecting my heart from what believing might require.
Because believing means being willing to ask.
Believing means allowing myself to hope.
And hope can feel dangerous when you've been disappointed before.
So I had found a way to pray without fully exposing my heart.
“Thy will be done, not mine.”
But today, Jesus' question cut through my escape route.
Do you believe this?
Not just for Lazarus.
Not just for Mary and Martha.
Not just for the people whose testimonies you hear on Sunday morning.
Do you believe this for yourself?
I want my answer to be the same as Martha's:
“Yes, Lord. I have come to believe that you are the Christ, God's Son.” — John 11:27 (WEB)
But I also recognize that believing Jesus is the Son of God and trusting Him with my deepest hurts is something I am still learning to live out.
And perhaps that is where my repentance truly begins.
Not with a promise that I will never doubt again.
Not with a demand that God answer every prayer the way I want.
But with an honest answer to the question Jesus asked Martha.
Yes, Lord, I believe. Help me live, pray, and trust like I believe.
Repenting of My Escape Route
I want to be careful here.
There is nothing wrong with praying, “Thy will be done.”
Jesus taught us to pray that way. He modeled it Himself.
The problem was never the words.
The problem was what I had allowed those words to mean in my heart.
True surrender says:
Lord, I believe You can. I believe You hear me. I believe You care about what is breaking my heart. I am asking You boldly because I trust You. And whatever Your answer, I will continue to trust You.
My escape route sounded more like:
Lord, I'm asking, but I don't really expect anything. So I'll say Your will be done, and that way I won't have to face the disappointment.
Those two prayers might sound almost identical to someone listening.
But God knows the difference.
And today, He showed me the difference, too.
I need to repent of using surrender as a shield against disappointment.
I need to stop confusing low expectations with humility.
I need to stop treating God's love for me as something I believe in theory but struggle to trust when it comes to my own wounds.
Learning to Pray Again
I don't think today's conviction means I need to stop ending my prayers with “Thy will be done.”
Quite the opposite.
I think I need to learn to mean those words again.
I want to pray boldly.
I want to ask God for the things that seem impossible.
I want to bring Him the pain I have carried for years, without minimizing it or apologizing for wanting things to change.
I want to believe that the same God who cares about the sparrows cares about the things that keep me awake at night.
And when the answer doesn't come?
When the relationship remains broken?
When the healing hasn't happened?
When another day passes and the circumstances haven't changed?
I want to trust Him then, too.
Not because I never expected Him to act.
But because I know He cares, even when I don't understand what He is doing.
That is the difference I needed to learn today.
Faith is not a guarantee that God will give me the outcome I want.
Faith is trusting His heart when I cannot see His hand.
And when Jesus asks, “Do you believe this?” I want my answer to be more than words spoken on a Sunday morning.
I want it to be reflected in the way I pray on Monday.
In the way I wait on Tuesday.
And in the way I trust Him when another week passes without the answer I have been hoping for.
Maybe You Have an Escape Route, Too
I wonder how many of us have developed our own ways of protecting ourselves from disappointment with God.
Maybe we stopped praying about something because we have waited too long.
Maybe we convinced ourselves that our problems aren't important enough to bring before Him.
Maybe we still pray, but we no longer expect an answer.
Or maybe, like me, we have wrapped our fear of disappointment in words that sound like surrender.
If that's you, I want you to remember something.
Jesus didn't rebuke Mary for weeping at His feet.
He met her in her grief.
And He didn't stand outside Lazarus's tomb unmoved by the suffering around Him.
He wept.
The God we serve is not distant from our pain.
He sees it.
He knows it.
And He cares.
That doesn't mean every tomb we stand before will open the way Lazarus's did. It doesn't mean every prayer will be answered in the way or timing we desire.
But it does mean we can approach Him with confidence, knowing we are loved.
Not just humanity in general.
Not just the people whose prayers seem to get answered.
You. Me. Personally.
And perhaps today, Jesus is asking you the same question He asked Martha.
“Do you believe this?”
My Prayer Today
Heavenly Father,
Today, I come before You with a repentant heart.
Forgive me for the times I have used the words “Thy will be done” not as an expression of trust, but as a way to protect myself from disappointment.
Forgive me for believing in Your power while quietly questioning Your concern for me.
I know You can do all things.
But Lord, help me believe, deep in my heart, that You care about the things that hurt me.
Help me come before You boldly, honestly, and expectantly.
Help me stop preparing for disappointment before I have even finished praying.
And when Your answer is different from what I ask, or Your timing is longer than I understand, help me trust that Your love has not changed.
Teach me to surrender from a place of confidence in Your goodness, not from a place of fear.
I still have prayers that haven't been answered.
I still have wounds that haven't healed.
I still have things I desperately want You to change.
And today, Lord, I am bringing them to You again.
Not because I know how the story will end.
But because I know You care about the one living through it.
You can. You care. And I trust You.
And when You ask me, “Do you believe this?” help my life and my prayers reflect my answer.
Yes, Lord. I believe.
Thy will be done, not mine.
This time, Lord, help me truly mean it.
In Jesus' name,
Amen.
From the Pasture Pulpit
“Do you believe this?” — John 11:26
Today, I realized that Jesus wasn't asking me whether I believed He could perform miracles. He was asking whether I trusted Him enough to bring Him my pain, my hopes, and my unanswered prayers without hiding behind the fear of disappointment.
I believe He can. I am learning to trust that He cares. And even when I don't understand His answer, I will trust His heart.
Scripture for reflection: John 11:1–44; Hebrews 4:16; 1 Peter 5:7; Luke 22:42.