001 - Too Many Voices

April 2004

In the days immediately following my dad’s death, I was in shock—numb, dazed. That fog lasted for weeks after the funeral. But eventually, the insulation cracked. The steady sense of peace I thought I had was gone, replaced by a grief so deep it consumed nearly every ounce of emotional and physical energy I had. Every day became a struggle like none I had ever experienced.

There were moments of despair, even depression. Friends and family offered sincere condolences, prayers, listening ears, and sometimes advice. I’m deeply grateful to all who reached out.

But something caught me off guard. I began to notice that my experience of grief didn’t seem all that different from the people around me who didn’t believe the gospel. That troubled me.

Why wasn’t I content? Why couldn’t I bring myself to worship? Why didn’t I “see” God in any of it?

Isn’t that what we’re taught as Christians—that no matter the circumstance, we should be content because we have Christ? That message is True, yes—but I now believe we often misunderstand what it means. I know I did.

My first attempt to restore joy and escape the grief was intellectual. I tried to think my way through it: “The death of one person doesn’t change the truth of God in my life,” I told myself. “So what’s my problem?”

But the more I thought, the more frustrated I became. So I decided maybe I wasn’t asking the right questions. I began again. What is contentment? What is joy? What is worship?

That’s when I realized I had only assumed I knew what those words meant. I had to admit—I wasn’t sure anymore.

So I re-asked the questions. I read Scripture. I dug into commentaries. I asked pastors, preachers, and fellow Christians. But what I found was inconsistency. The answers changed depending on whose “voice” I listened to. The Pentecostals said one thing. The Baptists, another. The Presbyterians had their angle. The Puritans, their own. Christian television and best-selling authors offered plenty of answers—each one convinced of their accuracy, just as convinced of everyone else’s error.

There’s a scene in the movie Jurassic Park that comes to mind. Dr. Ian Malcolm confronts the billionaire CEO, John Hammond, saying: “You didn’t earn the knowledge for yourself, so you don’t take any responsibility for it.”

He might as well have been speaking to me.

I’ve often approached the gospel the same way—gathering knowledge secondhand, parroting it back without truly owning it. How many times have I read a book or heard a sermon and turned around five minutes later to share it as if I had discovered it myself? How often have I accepted something as truth simply because “so-and-so said it”?

That verse—“My people perish for lack of knowledge”—hits harder now.

And that’s really the heart of it.

This is why I can’t write the books I once thought I could. Not yet. I can’t be just another voice in a sea of voices when the only one that truly matters is God’s. Yes, He speaks through people. But I’ve placed far too much dependence on others to explain God to me.

And that’s not discipleship. That’s a cult of personality.

So I need to step back.

I need to put in earplugs, so to speak, and stop being lazy. I’ve spent too long waiting for someone else to interpret God for me. Now, I’m choosing to listen to the only voice that truly matters: God’s.

Through His Word.

That means no commentaries. No study guides. No outlines or devotional methods. Just the Bible—read slowly, intentionally, prayerfully.

That’s not to say I’ll never read or listen to anything again. But for now, I need to return to the basics of trust—trust that God’s Word is sufficient. That He is willing to teach me. That everything I truly need to know is already there. And that He will guide me at the pace He wants.

I’ve always been struck by the times Jesus stayed silent—when He gave no answer at all. That kind of silence is deliberate. It’s not passive; it’s active. It’s a choice.

When my dad died, it changed me—but I didn’t know how. I didn’t know who I was going to become in the aftermath of that loss. But I do know this: if I want answers to those questions, I’ll need to make some decisions.

This is where I begin.

And I can’t help but wonder—what would the Church look like if we all did the same for a little while? What would the world look like if we just stayed quiet… and read?

Maybe then we’d hear His voice.

Maybe then we’d see Him more clearly.

Maybe then we could tell the difference between truth and a lie.

Maybe then we’d understand what it really means to love… to be content… to have joy.