Little Wren Writes

I used to think confidence meant certainty.

Confident people had answers. They walked into rooms knowing what to say. They made decisions quickly. They seemed unshaken by doubt. I admired people like that. I quietly assumed that was what mature faith looked like too.

Know the right verses.
Have the right theology.
Have an answer for every question.
Never hesitate.
Never doubt.
Never admit you don’t know.

Somewhere along the way, I began to believe that certainty was the goal. If I could just understand enough, read enough, study enough – think enough…perhaps then I would finally become the sort of Christian who never wrestled.

The trouble is, life has a remarkable way of unravelling tidy definitions.

I think I am less and less convinced that confidence and certainty are the same thing. In fact, I wonder if they’re often very different. I’ve met people who were incredibly certain and surprisingly unkind. People who had answers for everything but room for no one.

I’ve also met people whose lives had been turned upside down – people carrying grief, illness, disappointment, unanswered prayers and honest questions – and yet they possessed a quiet confidence that was deeply comforting to be around. The difference wasn’t what they knew. It was who they trusted.

I think children understand this better than adults. Spend enough time with children and you’ll discover they ask extraordinary questions.

“Why is the sky blue?”
“Where does God live?”
“Do animals pray?”
“If Jesus was perfect, did He ever stub His toe?”
“Will I get motion sick on rollercoasters in heaven?”

Children don’t ask questions because they lack faith. They ask questions because they’re curious. They assume there is more to discover. Somewhere between childhood and adulthood, many of us lose that curiosity. We start believing that asking questions is dangerous. That doubt is failure. That uncertainty is something to hide.

We become experts at pretending.
We nod politely when everyone else seems certain.
We keep our questions to ourselves.
We quietly wonder if everyone else has figured something out that we somehow missed.

Jesus was constantly surrounded by questions. Some sincere. Some hostile. Some heartbreaking.

“Who is my neighbour?”
“Lord, teach us to pray.”
“Why couldn’t we heal him?”
“Why are we afraid?”

Jesus never seemed threatened by honest questions. In fact, He asked hundreds of His own.

“Who do you say I am?”
“What do you want me to do for you?”
“Why are you crying?”
“Do you love me?”

He wasn’t collecting information. He was inviting people to discover something. Good questions don’t simply uncover answers. They uncover hearts.

I’ve realised that much of my own anxiety has been connected to certainty. I desperately wanted guarantees. If I could understand why something happened…If I could predict what was coming…If I could explain every difficult Bible passage…If I could solve every problem…

Then perhaps I’d finally feel safe. And certain.

But life stubbornly refuses to offer guarantees. People leave. Bodies get sick. Dreams change. Prayers seem to echo in silence. Sometimes the very questions we hoped God would answer remain unanswered for years.

At first, I found that deeply unsettling. Now, strangely, I think it might be one of God’s greatest kindnesses. Certainty was making me self-reliant – curiosity is teaching me dependence.

Instead of asking,
“How do I explain this?”

I found myself asking,
“God, what are You teaching me?”

God, what are You teaching me?”

Instead of needing every answer before taking the next step, I need to start asking, “What does faithfulness look like today?” Those are very different questions.

One demands control. The other invites trust.

Curiosity is slowly changing the way I read Scripture and (a little more slowly) changing the way I lead others through studying God’s word. Instead of rushing to find the ‘correct’ interpretation as quickly as possible, I’ve begun lingering.

Wondering.
Listening.
Paying attention.

I’ve started trying to ask not only,

“What does this passage mean?”

But also,

“What does this passage reveal about the character of God?”

Because at the end of the day, Christianity isn’t about collecting correct information. It’s about knowing God. Not like I ‘know’ Taylor Swift. Genuinely knowing who God is, what He is like and what He has done for me.

I am trying to be more curious. I think it has made me a gentler person. At least, I hope it has! It’s harder to judge someone quickly when you’re genuinely curious about their story. It’s harder to dismiss someone when you realise you don’t know what they’ve carried. Every person you meet has chapters you’ll never read. Every smile hides battles you cannot see. Every angry person has a history. Every fearful person has a reason. Curiosity shouldn’t ever excuse harmful behaviour, but it often replaces condemnation with compassion.

Also, these days, I think my confidence looks very different from the confidence I admired when I was younger. It’s quieter. Less interested in winning arguments. More interested in listening well. Less concerned with appearing impressive. More willing to say, “I don’t know.”

Those three words can still feel like failure – I’m working on it!
I would love for them to instead feel like freedom. I don’t need confidence in my own understanding but confidence in the character of God. I still have questions. Probably more than I did ten years ago. But they don’t frighten me as much anymore. Not because I’ve found all the answers. But because I’ve come to trust the One who holds them.

Perhaps mature faith doesn’t look like certainty after all. Perhaps it looks like curiosity rooted in confidence. The confidence that God is good. That His character is trustworthy. That His love is steadfast.

And that I don’t need to know everything in order to know enough.

“Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding.” 
Proverbs 3:5