When You Know What to Do But Don't Do It

Why we negotiate with clear commands and what it costs us

Jul 13, 2025

The hardest part of Deuteronomy isn't the clarity of the command. It's the exposure that I already know what it is.

"It is something very near to you, already in your mouths and in your hearts; you have only to carry it out."

That line cuts because it removes my favorite defense, discernment. I've used "waiting for alignment" as a shield. I've told myself I need to process more, pray more, see the full pattern.

I'm not confused. I'm just stalling.

When I Know But Don't Move

I do this most often in my marriage. I know when something needs to be said. I know when a repair is required. I know when I've been distant or dismissive or self-contained. But instead of stepping in, I go silent and tell myself I'm buying time to make sure I act with wisdom.

That's not true. I'm protecting the part of me that doesn't want to feel the risk of intimacy. I'm calculating the cost of tenderness. I'm hoping the window will close and the issue will dissolve on its own.

Even when it doesn't, I can justify the delay. I tell myself I'm preserving peace. I tell myself it's better to be deliberate than reactive. But what I'm actually doing is managing perception. I'm avoiding being seen mid-repair. I don't want to look clumsy or unsure. I want to love cleanly or not at all. But that's not obedience. That's performance.

The command is near. I already know where it applies. I know the next step with my wife. I know what my daughter needs me to say out loud. I know the gap between what I believe about presence and how I show up after a long day. I know the person I've been avoiding because the conversation might stir old wounds.

I keep calling these things "in process," but that's dishonest.

They're not complex. They're costly. That's why I haven't moved.

The Question Jesus Won't Let Me Avoid

The Gospel is blunt. Jesus doesn't offer a theory of justice or a parable about prayer. He shows a man broken in the road and asks what I do when I see him. I already know what I'd like to think. That I'd stop. That I'd help. That I'd risk something. But I've crossed the road more times than I'll admit, even to myself.

Not in emergencies, not in crisis, that's when I perform best. I know how to step in when the need is big and obvious and everyone would understand. Where I fail is the slow mercy. The kind that asks for time, presence, availability.

A friend needs to talk but it's late. A parishioner lingers after Mass with eyes that ask for something unsaid. A phone buzzes from someone who has already asked for too much this month. I don't stop. I wait it out. I tell myself I'll follow up. Sometimes I do. Usually I don't.

The ones closest to me don't always get mercy either. I say I'm tired. I say I've had a full day. But it's not about energy. It's about what I'm willing to carry. The Samaritan didn't just offer help, he interrupted his whole day. He changed direction. He spent money. He promised to return.

That's not pity. That's proximity. I talk about proximity like it's a value I live by. But I set strict limits on how close anyone is allowed to need me.

This isn't about boundaries. It's about control. I want to give mercy when it fits my rhythm. I want to be available on my terms. I want to love without cost. I admire the Samaritan because he did what I don't: stop without calculating.

"Go and do likewise" is not unclear. It's not vague. And I'm not obeying it.

I know who my neighbor is. I just keep hoping someone else will stop first.

Saying Christ Is Center While Living Divided

Colossians says that in Christ all things hold together. I believe that. I've built my theology around it. I've written about integration, presence, rightly ordered relationships. But the way I live still divides the sacred from the scheduled. Christ may hold all things together, but I still treat Him like one more thing to hold.

It's clearest in how I move between roles. I go to daily Mass. I pray in Adoration. I write about the Eucharist. But when I step into work mode or family stress, something shifts. The center doesn't move, I do. I step into old reflexes: control, detachment, calculation.

I can walk out of the chapel and into a meeting where I monitor tone more than I offer presence. I can leave Mass and withhold affection from my wife. Not out of anger, just absence. I'm still present in body, but internally I've segmented again. Eucharist becomes a compartment, not a current.

This isn't about losing faith. It's about how fast I default to old architecture. I spent years surviving by keeping compartments. Home here. School there. Hurt in one room. Pretend in another. I learned to move between them without breaking. The Church gave me a new frame, but I haven't always let it break the old one.

When I say Christ holds all things together, I mean it doctrinally. But I still don't trust that if I bring everything into Him, fatigue, anger, resentment, lust, fear, He will hold me together. I still think some parts need to be kept separate or controlled before I can let them near Him.

That's not reverence. That's fear.

When the Poor Won't Admit They're Poor

The psalm says the Lord hears the cry of the poor. I believe it. But I still work hard not to sound like I'm crying. I keep the ache measured. I tell the truth in fragments. I pray as someone offering thoughts, not as someone begging for help.

I don't like needing anything. I especially don't like needing in front of others. I've told myself that's discipline, or temperance, or maturity. But underneath that is shame. Somewhere I started believing that being strong meant being self-contained. Even in prayer. Especially in prayer.

When I feel the collapse rising, I withdraw. I walk. I write. I let it come out sideways. I don't call anyone. I don't ask for prayer. Even in confession, I talk about sins of omission, not the fact that I don't trust Christ to hold the full weight of what I carry. I avoid naming the need beneath the need: that I want to be held, seen, chosen without earning it.

There are people in my life who would sit with me if I asked. But I don't ask. I tell myself they have enough to carry. Or that I'll be better tomorrow. Or that this is just part of my wiring. I even tell myself that naming the ache makes it worse. That naming it makes it real.

But it's already real. The ache is there whether I speak it or not. Silence doesn't sanctify it.

I've said that mercy is real. I've written that Christ carries what I can't. But I don't let Him carry me. I want to carry myself into His presence. I want to offer something intact. I want to pray from composure. I want to ask from strength. But the psalm doesn't say the Lord hears the composed. It says He hears the poor. The ones in pain. The ones undone.

When I'm really honest, I still believe I have to earn nearness. That if I come unguarded, I'll be judged or misunderstood or rejected. That I'll be too much. I know that's not who God is. I know it's not who Christ has shown Himself to be. But the reflex doesn't go away just because I can name it.

The Cost of Negotiating with Grace

There's nothing ambiguous in this week's readings. The command isn't far off. The Samaritan doesn't hesitate. Christ holds all things together. The psalmist turns to God in affliction and trusts He hears. These aren't abstract ideas. They're clear. Lived. Demanding.

And I still negotiate.

I tell myself I'm discerning. That I need to be sure. That I'm waiting for confirmation. But I already know what's being asked of me. I just don't want to give it. Not because I don't love Christ. But because I don't want what obedience will cost. I don't want the disruption. I don't want the energy drain. I don't want the conversations that take more from me than I feel I can spare.

There's a conversation I need to have with my wife. One I've needed to have for weeks. I've avoided it. I've shaped it in my head, rewritten it three different ways, waited for a better mood or moment. The real reason I haven't had it is because I know it will reveal something I can't manage mid-sentence. I'll have to say something I can't take back. Not unkind. Just true. And I don't know what happens after I say it.

So I stay silent and call it prudence. It's not. It's fear of rupture.

Same with work. There's someone I've been holding at arm's length. I keep pretending it's professional, or about timing, or bandwidth. But the truth is I don't want to face the emotional cost of being honest. I've built a way of moving that avoids relational unpredictability. I keep it smooth. That smoothness is a lie. It's not peace. It's distance.

These readings won't let me keep pretending I'm confused. I'm not. The struggle isn't for clarity. It's for surrender. I want to obey without losing control. I want to live the Gospel without being interrupted. I want to carry mercy without being inconvenienced by it. And I can't.

Every part of me that delays is doing so with full knowledge of what I'm resisting. I already know the way forward. I'm just hoping it will cost less if I wait. But all I've done is teach my soul how to stall. How to label fear as discernment. How to rehearse truth without stepping into it.

The command is near. The wound is visible. The question has been answered.

Now the only question is: will I move?

What's the conversation you've been avoiding? What's the mercy you've been calculating instead of offering? I find myself asking these questions this week, knowing the answers are already near—already in our mouths and hearts. I'd love to hear what you're wrestling with in the comments below.

Today's Readings

If you'd like to read along, here are the passages that sparked this week's reflection:

Deuteronomy 30:10–14 - "It is something very near to you, already in your mouths and in your hearts; you have only to carry it out."

Psalm 69 - "Answer me, Lord, out of the goodness of your love; in your great mercy turn to me. Do not hide your face from your servant; answer me quickly, for I am in trouble."

Colossians 1:15–20 - "He is the image of the invisible God, the firstborn of all creation. For in him all things were created... He is before all things, and in him all things hold together."

Luke 10:25–37 - "But a Samaritan, as he traveled, came where the man was; and when he saw him, he took pity on him... 'Go and do likewise.'"