If I Were Ever Angry with God
A reflection on grace, grief, and the sacred space between
The thought came quietly—not as a rebellion, but as a wondering. “What would happen if something truly tragic happened in my family? Would I be angry with God?”
The answer I felt, just as quietly: Maybe I would.
And then another realization followed, one that felt like comfort wrapped in fire:
Even if I was angry with Him, He wouldn’t leave. Even in my imagined grief, in my hypothetical heartbreak, I knew this truth deep in my bones: Being angry with God doesn’t mean I stop believing in Him. It might actually mean I do.
The God Who Stays
In many spiritual spaces, we’re given a quiet rule: Keep your voice calm. Keep your doubts tidy. Don’t bring your mess, your fire to the altar.
But I don’t think God is afraid of the mess or the fire we hold within ourselves.
If anything, I think He meets us in it.
I’m reminded of the story of Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego in the Book of Daniel—three men thrown into a blazing furnace for refusing to bow to false gods. What was meant to destroy them became the place where they were most clearly seen and known—because when others looked into the fire, they saw a fourth figure walking with them. One who “had the appearance like a son of the gods.”
They were not spared from the fire. They were accompanied in it.
And maybe that’s what God does with us too. Not just in the polished praise, but in the raging of “Why?”
Not just in the trust, but in the trembling.
There’s something sacred about realizing that our relationship with God can hold more than we thought. That it doesn’t break when our hearts do.
A Somber Knowing: Eclipse Season and Sacred Pre-Grief
As I write this, we’re still in an eclipse portal—the space between two eclipses where time feels strange, and the soul tends to speak louder than usual. There’s a somberness in me right now, not because anything has happened, but because something in me is already holding the weight of what could be.
It’s not anxiety. It’s not fear, though some might be present. It’s a kind of preemptive emotional wisdom—as if my body or spirit is saying: “Let’s feel a little now, so we’re not crushed all at once later.”
And maybe that’s one of the quiet gifts of eclipse season: It gives us permission to process the shape of emotions that haven’t yet taken form. To cry for what we love, even before it’s lost. To open our hearts gently to what change might ask of us—without needing to predict or prevent it.
It reminds me again: being human is sacred. And feeling deeply, even without a clear reason, is a kind of devotional preparation.
Reflected in the Sky
These realizations didn’t come from nowhere—they've been mirrored in the stars in subtle, powerful ways.
Not long ago, I experienced my Black Moon Lilith return—a once-every-nine-years cycle where Lilith, the archetype of the raw, untamed feminine, returns to her natal position. Mine is in Libra, in my 9th house—the house of faith, belief, philosophy, and the ways I seek and relate to the divine.
I happened to be at church that day, and I felt a strange, but powerful aversion to being there. I wasn’t angry. Just… disconnected. Restless. And now I can see it for what it was: A sacred invitation to listen more honestly to my spirit. Lilith doesn’t destroy faith— She deepens it by insisting that all parts of us—grief, doubt, sensuality, anger—are worthy of being included.
And now, Lilith is approaching another sensitive point in my chart: a conjunction with Venus and my Midheaven in Scorpio. In the coming weeks, she will meet them both—calling me to show up in the world with even more emotional truth, creative power, and unapologetic authenticity. Even in spiritual spaces.
And Then There’s Ceres
Another quiet but powerful presence in the sky is Ceres, the nurturing mother archetype. She recently crossed over my North Node in Pisces, a point of soul direction in a chart. Where I’m being asked to grow. Where I'm being called to trust.
Ceres teaches that real nourishment doesn’t just come from comfort—it comes from honoring the full spectrum of experience, including grief. She whispers: You can feel sorrow and still be held. You can feel anger and still be loved. You can ask questions and still belong to the Divine.
Faith with Room to Breathe
This thought experiment—this sacred what-if—didn’t lead me away from faith. It brought me deeper into it.
It reminded me that my belief isn’t based on the absence of pain, but on the presence of a God who remains.
If I were ever angry with God, I believe He would stay. And I believe He would still be God.
That’s not a crisis of faith. It’s just the faith journey that I have been on. That’s the faith I want to hold.