I didn’t expect this to happen. I didn’t expect that watching Jesus in a film — the very Person my faith is built on — would make my chest tighten and my stomach drop. I didn’t expect that reading Scripture, something I’ve loved for years, would suddenly feel sharp, overwhelming, even a little frightening. But lately, that’s exactly what’s been happening.
I’ll sit down to read the Gospels and feel a wave of anxiety. I’ll see Jesus portrayed on screen and something in me pulls back. And then the fear starts whispering: What if this means my faith isn’t real? What if God is going to reject me? What if I’ve somehow lost the child‑like trust I used to have? It’s a terrible feeling — especially when you genuinely love God.
And yet, strangely, I’ve found that I can still see Him clearly in stories that aren’t explicitly about Him. Stories like The Wingfeather Saga — where His love is echoed, not named. Somehow, I can breathe there. I can see Him there. I don’t feel overwhelmed or afraid. It’s like fiction gives me a softer doorway into His heart, a sideways angle that feels safer than staring straight at the sun.
It makes me wonder why I can see Jesus in echoes but feel anxious when I see Him directly. Why the God I love suddenly feels too big, too mysterious, too unknowable. Why “His ways are higher” feels less like awe and more like uncertainty.
I’m starting to realize there’s a kind of overwhelm that doesn’t come from doubt — it comes from exhaustion. When life is heavy and your emotions are stretched thin, even good things can feel threatening. Even God can feel too big to hold. And when you’re tired, your mind does something strange: it imagines the worst possible version of the One you love most.
What if He rejects me? What if He’s disappointed? What if I’ve misunderstood Him? What if He’s not as gentle as I thought? Fear paints God with the colors of our overwhelm. It’s not theology. It’s not rebellion. It’s not a loss of faith. It’s a nervous system in survival mode.
When you’re overwhelmed, “His ways are higher” doesn’t feel comforting. It feels like distance. It feels like standing at the edge of an ocean with no shoreline in sight.
And the God I imagine in those moments — unpredictable, harsh, ready to condemn, emotionally distant — isn’t the God I’ve actually known. The God I’ve known is gentle. Patient. Near. The One who heals, carries, forgives, whispers, and stays. The God I fear is a projection of my anxiety. The God I love is the One who has been steady all along. They are not the same God.
Maybe that’s why stories feel safer right now. They give me Jesus in a gentler form. They let me approach Him without the pressure of “Am I responding correctly?” or “Is my faith good enough?” They give me space to breathe. It’s not that Scripture is wrong — it’s just that my heart feels tired. And tired hearts sometimes need softer doorways.
I don’t really have a tidy takeaway for any of this. I’m still in it. Still figuring out what to do with the weird mix of love and fear and longing that shows up when I think about God. Some days I feel close to Him. Some days I feel overwhelmed. Some days I can read Scripture. Some days I can’t. I’m just trying to keep going without letting the anxious thoughts swallow me whole.
But I’m curious how other people walk through this kind of thing. How are you doing in your faith these days — honestly? What helps you feel grounded or connected? Is it story? Music? Prayer? Silence? Something else entirely?
If you feel like sharing, I’d love to hear.
