The Safety Nets I Call Wisdom
Why the escape routes we build might be the very thing blocking the breakthrough we're praying for
I want Exodus-like certainty while pretending I can live on Abraham's kind of trust.
The truth is I still wait for signs before moving. I call it prudence, stewardship, wisdom—anything that sounds virtuous. What I mean is I want timelines, not just a promise.
When I left my employer, I called it obedience, but it wasn't without calculations. I had backups—financial, relational, logistical—already in place. Even now, small choices stall until I can see the outline of the outcome. I know Hebrews calls faith "the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen," but my "assurance" is usually built on contingencies, not trust in God's word alone.
This isn't just a present tendency. It's the same survival strategy I learned when unpredictability meant danger and control felt like the only safe ground. It was how I learned to live in a house where the rules could change without warning and where being caught off guard could mean being shamed or harmed.
The Compression of Promise
I compress the space between promise and fulfillment with control. I tell myself it's discipline. I map out every variable, not to serve God's will, but to keep the unknown from touching me.
After leaving my employer, I filled the silence with work and planning so I wouldn't have to feel the vulnerability of having no plan. I turned to projects, lists, and long-term strategies, not prayer. The readings don't leave space for that. Abraham set out not knowing. I don't set out without a safety net.
I build them into everything—budgets, relationships, commitments, even the way I think about time. My prayer life is run like a schedule, fitted into measurable blocks, monitored for completion, not lived as surrender. It becomes a controlled environment where God can speak only in ways I'm prepared to hear.
The Discomfort of Being Served
Luke's reversal—the Master serving the servants—presses deeper. I don't want to be served. I can't stand asymmetry. Every kindness feels like a debt.
This isn't only about fairness; it's about shame. Being served confronts the part of me that believes I have to earn my place, prove my worth, and balance the scales before I can feel secure. If I can't receive from people without repayment, how do I receive from Christ without turning it into a transaction?
I know the Eucharist is a gift I can't repay, but I still try—doubling my service afterward, working harder, as if I could prove I was worth giving it to. I keep the exchange in my control so that nothing about it feels vulnerable.
Showing Up While Staying Guarded
The consistency I have in Mass and adoration hides inconsistency in surrender. I show up, but I stay guarded. I know exactly what I'm willing to let God see and touch, and I keep the rest sealed off.
This guardedness isn't harmless—it risks convincing me I'm ready when I'm not. Readiness in Luke's terms means no locked rooms, no conditions, no clauses that let me reclaim the keys when it gets uncomfortable. It means trust without a plan B, stepping forward without rehearsing how to retreat. I'm still keeping the escape routes marked and clear.
The Weight of Self-Reliance
Psalm 33 says His eye is on those who fear Him, to keep them alive in famine. I say I believe that, but I live like provision is my responsibility alone. Every safeguard I build reinforces that belief.
I call it responsibility, especially toward my family, but in truth, I use it to justify avoiding full dependence on God. My vigilance might be more mistrust than prudence. If His care is constant, then my hoarding of control is resistance, not wisdom.
That resistance shows up in how I make decisions, in how I protect myself in relationships, and in the way I hold back in prayer—anywhere uncertainty might require that I rely on Him without proof.
Living in Tents
The image of Abraham living in tents unsettles me. My life is built for permanence. My routines and systems are fortified against disruption. My vigilance is selective—alert to threats I've anticipated, blind to the knock I didn't schedule.
Faith as I live it is readiness with an escape route, a preplanned retreat I can execute the moment things turn uncertain.
The real question these readings leave me with is whether I'd still move if all I had was His word—no map, no fallback, no proof. And whether I'd open the door at an hour that made no sense, with nothing in my hands but trust, no plan to secure myself first, no structure to soften the risk, and no guarantee that stepping forward wouldn't undo the life I've built.
What safety nets are you building that you're calling wisdom? What control are you hoarding that you tell yourself is just good stewardship? I find myself asking these questions not as someone who has learned to trust without guarantees, but as someone still discovering what it costs to move forward with only God's word as my map. I'd love to hear what you're wrestling with in the comments below.
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Today's Readings
If you'd like to read along, here are the passages that sparked this week's reflection:
Wisdom 18:6-9 - The night of deliverance made known beforehand, so our ancestors might "rejoice in sure knowledge of the oaths in which they trusted."
Psalm 33 - "Blessed the people the Lord has chosen as his heritage" and the promise that "the eye of the Lord is on those who fear him, on those who hope in his steadfast love."
Hebrews 11:1-2, 8-12 - Faith as "the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen," and Abraham who "set out, not knowing where he was going."
Luke 12:35-40 - Jesus' call to "be dressed for action" and ready for the master's unexpected return, even when he comes "at an unexpected hour."
© 2025 Between Belief and Doubt. All reflections are offered freely in the spirit of shared spiritual journey.