Is God laughing at me?

          An old Yiddish proverb states “Man plans, God laughs.” While I don’t think this aphorism should be taken literally—I doubt if God takes our hopes and dreams that lightly—I do think there’s some truth to be found in its humor. One of the spiritual lessons I’ve learned time and time again throughout my life is that the timeline I create for myself isn’t always in sync with God’s timeline for me. And despite consistent evidence that God’s timeline for me is better than my own, I still have trouble resting in faith, knowing and believing that God will provide.

          As a child I learned in Sunday school about the manna from heaven, described in the Hebrew book of Exodus, chapter 16. The Israelites were only a couple of months free from their bondage in ancient Egypt, wandering the vast wasteland of the Sinai (I’ve been there, about twenty-six years ago; it’s not the kind of place one wants to be lost in). They were hungry, tired, and discouraged, and as most humans are inclined to do, they complained to the human in charge, Moses. Moses took their complaints to his boss, who told Moses he would provide sustenance for the people, with some conditions: first, he would provide only as much as they needed—no more, no less; and second, if they took more than they were allotted, it would spoil. So in the evenings, flocks of quail descended on their camps so they could have meat, and in the mornings, a flaky bread-like substance covered the ground. On the day before the Sabbath they were allowed to gather enough for two days, so that they could rest on the Sabbath. Still lost, yes, but hungry no more, the Israelites spent the next forty years forming their identity as a distinct ethnicity and culture in the ancient world.

          Later in the Hebrew Scriptures, in 1 Kings 17, we read the story of Elijah, a prophet of God visiting a town where a widow lived with her son during a time of intense drought. Elijah asked her for a cup of water and some bread, and the widow replied that she had only enough flour and oil to make one more loaf of bread for her and her son to have their last meal before they starved (there was no social welfare system in that age; widows and orphans were left to fend for themselves, and in a culture that treated women and children as chattel, the fending often wasn’t so good). Elijah assured her that her food would not run out before the drought ended, then he instructed her to make two loaves of bread, a small one for him and the rest for her and her son. The widow complied, and sure enough, there was enough oil and flour to last them until the rains came again.

          In both of these stories, God provided to the people in need just what they needed, and just when they needed it. Can you imagine, though, the anxiety the Israelites in the wilderness and the widow must have felt before they realized that God would, indeed, provide for them? I’ve never been on the verge of death by starvation, but I can imagine it’s not a good place to be. And I can also imagine that, being humans, the Israelites and the widow still experienced some anxiety after their needs were met, thinking to themselves, “OK, when will this run out? What will I do then?” It’s natural to feel anxious about our physical needs; that anxiety is one thing that helps us survive.

          In both stories, a little work was involved after God’s promise was made clear. The Israelites had to go out and gather the manna, and the widow had to go home and cook. Neither got breakfast in bed served by the angels.

          In another story, though, the people experiencing the anxiety were reprimanded for their lack of faith and pretty much told to just be still and quiet (I wanted to write “sit down and shut up,” but that’s not God’s way of communicating). Both the Gospels of Matthew and Mark give an account of Jesus on a boat with several of his disciples. A storm brews, and the boat is rocked violently enough to make the disciples fear for their lives. Jesus, however, was sound asleep. His panicked followers wake him and demand that he do something about the situation, at which point Jesus rouses himself, lectures his disciples on their lack of faith, then calms the storm. The disciples are amazed that even the winds and the sea obey this man they call Teacher.

          I feel sort of sorry for the disciples. I’ve never experienced stormy seas, but I’ve flown through storms that I thought might be the end of me at 35,000 feet. To feel anxiety is human; to feel calm in a storm is Divine. So being reprimanded for feeling anxious seems a little harsh to me. Then again, Jesus didn’t really reprimand them for what they felt, but rather for what they didn’t feel. And therein lies the lesson: It’s OK for us to feel anxious during stressful times—undesired change, natural disasters, economic downturns, whatever—but we can’t let our anxiety cloud our faith that God is in control and will provide for us. Our faith, no matter how small, has to be just a little bigger than our fear. Even if that difference is miniscule, faith will triumph, because faith even as small as a mustard seed can move mountains (Matthew 17:20).

          I am experiencing a time of big change in my life right now. It is a desired, welcomed change: I resigned a full-time, tenured position at a community college to pursue a new career. I’m giving myself the rest of this year to acquire new skills and knowledge, and half of next year to secure gainful employment—either working for myself or for someone else—before I look at my “fallbacks” (academic advising/counseling and teaching English as a second language). But as I wrote in the first paragraph, “Man [I] plans, God laughs.” I wonder sometimes if God is laughing at me for making such a definite timeline. Or, is God proud of me for listening to my heart and not my head, for seeking his words of wisdom for me and not the world’s (which would tell me I’m foolish to leave a tenured position to go independent)?

          While I’m enjoying my new path, learning things that engage parts of me that haven’t been engaged in a very long time, and feeling assurance that my decision was right for me, I do feel afraid from time to time. Today was my first day to not have health insurance, so I signed up on the California health care exchange. I’ve heard both good stories and bad about people’s experiences with that, so I’m nervous. And while I’m financially on solid ground for the time being, I wonder what will happen if an unexpected expense occurs that drains my savings.

          Then I remember the Israelites in the wilderness, gathering only as much manna as they needed every day. And the widow, who went from the verge of death by starvation to having just enough to eat until the drought ended. And the disciples on the boat, who got afraid when the storm came but ended up feeling amazed by the power of their rabbi. And all the times in the past fifty years (what I can remember of them, anyway) when God provided for me. I have never been hungry, never been destitute, never been homeless, never been without enough income—not an abundance, usually, but always enough—and never so sick or injured that I incurred outrageous medical expenses. I am blessed by overall good health right now; by access to learning opportunities to change my career; by a domestic arrangement that includes a loving, supportive, and nurturing partner; by a church family that accepts me just as I am; and by a four-legged psychologist who provides some of the best therapy ever in return for belly rubs, ear scratches, and long walks in the park.

          God might laugh at my plans, indeed. But the curious thing is, when God’s plan for me unfolds, I laugh, too. Not out of derision, but out of relief. For God’s plans have always—ALWAYS—been better than my plans for myself. To borrow a bumper sticker cliché: I don’t know what the future holds, but I know who holds the future.  So bring it on, God. Make me laugh.