Seam Ripper Theology

When faith feels like undoing and redoing

It’s the second week in Lent, which means we are officially past the “Ash Wednesday enthusiasm” stage and moving into the “Why did I give this up again?” phase of the season.

Lent is weird like that. It starts with this grand invitation—a season of reflection! Spiritual growth! Transformation!—and somewhere along the way, it turns into waiting. Wandering. Questioning.

Which, if I’m honest, is where I usually find myself when it comes to faith.

And let’s go ahead and name it: pastors aren’t immune to doubt, either. We wrestle with questions. We have moments where we wonder if we’re getting it all wrong. We have seasons where God feels distant, where prayer feels hollow, where we stare at the ceiling at 2 AM thinking, “Is this real? Am I just fooling myself?”

I don’t think we talk about that enough.

Maybe we should—because if faith is about trust, not certainty, then doubt isn’t the opposite of faith. It’s part of it.

I want to be the kind of person who wakes up every morning with a deep, unwavering confidence in God. The kind of faith that Psalm 27 starts with:

“The Lord is my light and my salvation. Should I fear anyone?”

But most of the time, I feel like the psalmist a few verses later, practically begging,

“God, please don’t hide from me. Please don’t leave me.”

Faith isn’t a straight line. It’s more like a quilt that’s come together with crooked seams, mismatched fabric, and at least one square that I had to rip out three times because I sewed it upside down.

And yet, somehow, it holds.

The thing about Psalm 27 that gets me is how both of those voices—the fearless declaration and the desperate plea—exist in the same prayer.

Faith and fear. Confidence and uncertainty.

For a long time, I thought real faith meant eliminating doubt altogether, like some kind of spiritual KonMari decluttering project. (If it doesn’t spark joy, throw it out, right?) But the longer I sit with this psalm, the more I realize that faith isn’t about eliminating doubt—it’s about holding the tension between trust and uncertainty, letting them sit next to each other without forcing one to disappear.

I mean, I trust my sewing machine. But if you’ve ever had your bobbin run out at the absolute worst moment, you know that trust is always mixed with a little bit of fear.

That’s faith. We trust, but we also know what it feels like when things fall apart.

And yet, we keep going. We keep stitching, keep showing up, keep choosing to believe that the next piece—the next stitch, the next moment, the next breath—will hold.

If you’ve ever made a quilt, you know the drill.

You measure twice, cut carefully (hopefully just once), line everything up just right. You press the seams, make sure your points are sharp, follow the pattern to a T.

And then—you step back, take a look, and somehow, despite all that precision…

The seams are just a little off.

Not dramatically. Not enough to ruin the whole thing. But enough that you notice.

Enough that it bothers you.

And then you have a choice.

You can rip it all out and try again. (Been there.)

You can try to ease the next seam in and hope for the best. (Also been there.)

Or you can step back, breathe, and remind yourself:

Perfection was never the point.

I think about that when I read Psalm 27. The psalmist’s faith isn’t perfect. It wavers, it questions, it pleads.

And yet, it holds.

Just like that quilt.

It might not come together the way we planned. The pieces might not be perfectly aligned. And yet, somehow, by some grace beyond our own skill and effort, it still becomes something beautiful.

The last verse of Psalm 27 is one I love and hate in equal measure:

“Wait for the Lord; be strong, and let your heart take courage; wait for the Lord.”

If there is one thing I am not good at, it’s waiting.

I want resolution. I want clarity. I want to know how things are going to turn out now—not six months from now, not “in God’s timing,” but right this second, thank you very much.

But Lent is a season that forces us to slow down. To sit in the questions without rushing to answers. To practice trust, even when we don’t feel it.

And honestly? I don’t love that.

Maybe that’s the point.

Because waiting isn’t passive. It’s not just sitting around hoping something happens. It’s an active trust—a choice to keep going, keep hoping, keep believing that God is still at work.

Maybe that’s why I love quilting so much. It’s slow. It’s methodical. And most of the time, it requires patience I do not naturally possess.

There’s a rhythm to it—the cutting, the stitching, the pressing, the undoing, the redoing, the stepping back and trusting that somehow, all of these messy little pieces will come together into something beautiful.

And maybe faith is like that too.

Maybe this Lent, instead of fighting the waiting, I can lean into it.

Maybe I can stop trying to force certainty and instead learn to sit with the questions.

Maybe I can trust that even when the seams don’t match up, even when I have to rip things out and start over, God is still holding it all together.

Even me.

Benediction: Go Forth, Even with Crooked Seams

May you go forth into this Lenten season knowing that doubt does not disqualify you, but makes your faith more honest.

May you trust that even the frayed edges of your life can be stitched into something beautiful.

May you wait with courage, knowing that God has been faithful before and will be faithful again.

And may you always remember:
If things start to fall apart—
If the seams don’t hold,
If the stitches get messy,
If the pattern isn’t what you expected—

God is still at work.

And worst case scenario? There’s always a seam ripper.

Go in love. Go in grace. Go with courage.

And maybe go finish that quilt.

Amen.