Is your God created out of hunger? There is a quiet danger in faith that doesn’t present itself as rebellion. It feels reasonable. Even reverent. It begins when we try to understand God using only the raw materials of our own experience.
Exodus 20:3 “You shall have no other gods before me.”
The Origin of Hunger
We are finite creatures, bound by time, limitation, and need. Hunger is one of our earliest teachers. We learn the world first through absence—what we lack, what we want, what we fear losing. And because hunger is our native language, we are tempted to use it as our primary reference point for God.
But when we do that, something subtle happens.
We start shaping God in our own image — not intentionally, not rebelliously, but instinctively, carving Him from the wood of our own longing. We imagine a God who thinks as we do, reacts as we would, and values what we value. That god becomes understandable, predictable, and — most dangerously — familiar.
Habakkuk 2:18 19, “What profit is an idol when its maker has shaped it, a metal image, a teacher of lies? For its maker trusts in his own creation when he makes speechless idols! Woe to him who says to a wooden thing, awake; to a silent stone, Arise! Can this teach? Behold, it is overlaid with gold and silver, and there is no breath at all in it.”
Made in His Image
Scripture says we are made in God’s image. Our temptation is to distort that truth and shape God in our own image.
Genesis 1:27, “So God created mankind in his own image, in the image of God he created them; male and female he created them.”
The issue isn’t that such a god is entirely false. The issue is that he is small. A God born from our desires will always be limited by them. He can’t correct us because he is created from our assumptions. A god created by us can’t confront us because he shares our blind spots. He can’t surprise us because he never exceeds us.
This is why idolatry in Scripture is often described in terms of simple materials—wood, stone, metal —not because the materials themselves matter, but because they are easy to handle. A god we can shape is a god we can coexist with. A god we can live with rarely changes us.
The True God
Revelation 1:8 “I am the Alpha and the Omega,” says the Lord God, “who is and who was and who is to come, the Almighty.”
The true God resists this simplification. God refuses to fit neatly into our boxes. He answers Moses with “I AM,” not with an explanation. God responds to Job not with reasons but with vastness. He enters the world in Christ in a way no one expects and still cannot be contained.
And yet, even knowing this, I feel the pull.
I want a God I can predict. A God who agrees with my conclusions. A God who confirms my instincts and sanctifies my preferences. I am tempted—daily—to trade awe for familiarity, mystery for manageability.
But a God small enough to be comfortable is too small to be worshiped.
Psalm 139:14, “I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well.”
Perhaps the most authentic stance is not certainty, but reverence. Not mastery, but surrender. To allow God to stay God—even when that means acknowledging how little I truly understand.
If I ever find that God fits perfectly within my grasp, it might be time to question whether I have been carving again.
While reading recently, I encountered a term that initially sounded academic, almost theoretical: violent innocence. At first, I thought it described others—two people or organizations engaged in passive conflict, each claiming innocence while quietly undermining one another. It seemed like a more refined version of passive-aggressive behavior. But as I reflected on it further, it became more unsettling. Not because it described others so accurately, but because it revealed something inside me.
Cain’s Offering: Effort and Achievement
He saved you so you could do all these things. Mathew said it to Mary in an episode of The Chosen. He reminded her that, regardless of her iniquities, she mattered to God and others. It reminded me of a story from my own life. The idea that my voice could echo through eternity haunts me. I’m captivated by the thought that I might say something so meaningful that at least one person would pass it on. I don’t believe I possess that much wisdom; luckily for me, Christ does.
Because the man on the middle cross said I could come, that is what the thief might have said when standing before God. He didn’t mention Bible studies or mission trips. Acceptance wasn’t guaranteed by theology or learning; it was guaranteed because one man said he could come. That man was the representation of our living God. He was part of the Trinity, and He died so that we may live.
There is a risk in forming a narrative from a single story. But we do it all the time.
The Sound of Silence
I do; I want to be an avenging angel, raining down brimstone and fire on all that is evil in the world; I want God to empower me to wreak havoc on all that is wrong. I want to be invincible and omni-powerful; I want to walk into the private enclaves of the rich and powerful and demand retribution. How cathartic would that be? How validating and hopeful would the world seem to me? Me, reigning over the unjust and the unworthy. But who would want to rain down brimstone on me?
Matthew 5:10, “Blessed are those who are persecuted because of righteousness, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.”
Matthew 5:9, “Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God.”