Have you ever had God show up in a dream and gently suggest that your understanding was incomplete? I have, and it shifted my perspective in ways I’m still processing. But let me back up a bit.

Over the past couple of years, I’ve been diving deep into biblical themes through The Bible Project. You know how they trace themes – wilderness, covenants, redemption – through various books of the Bible? Well, these themes don’t just reveal things about scripture; they connect ideas in our minds that might otherwise stay isolated, helping us see patterns we’d never noticed before.

Recently, two books helped me see these patterns in a new light and gave me a fresh perspective on my dream about God.

Let me share something that might surprise you: God suffers. I mean really suffers. At least, that’s what Terence Fretheim shows us in The Suffering of God: An Old Testament Perspective. This book opened my eyes to the ways the Hebrew Bible depicts God as experiencing genuine emotional pain.

The second book was particularly thought-provoking: Abraham’s Silence: The Binding of Isaac, the Suffering of Job, and How to Talk Back to God by J. Richard Middleton. This one explores what God might have really wanted Abraham to do when he was asked to sacrifice Isaac. (It might not be what we’ve always been taught.)

What I appreciate about books like these is how they invite us to genuinely engage with the Bible, not just read it. They make you think more carefully about who God really is and who God wants us to be. And sometimes, they help you reconsider experiences you thought you understood.

So here’s my dream. I should mention that I’d started blogging about spiritual things a few months before this happened.

In the dream, I somehow ended up standing in front of God (or at least someone I believed was God), who was sitting at a table. I asked him if there was any truth in what I was writing in my blog posts. God looked at me and offered an “eeuh” – like a verbal shrug, a euphemistic not exactly – and he continued, “You should write about things you know.”

That’s it. That’s the dream.

I’d wanted God to say I was doing a great job, to keep up the good work. You know that feeling, right? When you’re hoping for validation and instead get… well, not that. It was a pretty serious letdown.

But there was another thing about that dream that stuck with me: it wasn’t just what God said, it’s how he looked while he said it.

He looked like someone worn down by emotional pain who had mustered up just enough energy to respond to me. He looked like a broken man in need of healing.

Have you ever seen someone you love in deep pain and wondered if you might be part of the cause? That’s how this felt.

In my dream, I didn’t say anything back. I just accepted what he had to say, which felt all the more forceful because of his broken demeanor. I stayed silent.

But now I wonder: was my silence part of the problem?

Apparently, classical theology says God cannot suffer. Makes sense on paper – if God is all-knowing and all-powerful, nothing should surprise him, and he should be able to fix anything, right?

But Fretheim presents a different picture. What if God intentionally limits his own knowledge and power so he can have genuine, meaningful relationships with us? Think about it: real relationships require vulnerability. When you truly love someone, you open yourself up to the possibility of rejection, loss, and grief.

According to Fretheim, that’s exactly what God does.

The God of the Hebrew Bible feels deeply about things (especially us humans) but isn’t completely ruled by emotions. He can judge us, yes, but he also stands with us in our suffering so we’re never alone. And while God isn’t overwhelmed by his emotions, he does become weary from all the suffering he witnesses and shares.

How exactly does God suffer? Fretheim suggests three ways:

1. When we act in ways that push him away or reject his love
2. When we suffer, because he empathizes so deeply with us
3. When he absorbs the consequences of our failures to offer us redemption

The Hebrew Bible is full of passages where God expresses emotional pain – either in his own words or through prophets who share what God is thinking and feeling.

So maybe my dream about a God in pain wasn’t off the mark after all.

But this raises a question that’s been bothering me: If Jesus solved the problem of human salvation, why would God still be so sad? Shouldn’t we expect God to be joyful?

Here’s my speculation (and I could be totally wrong): What if we Christians have become so focused on our individual salvation through belief that we’ve forgotten about the relationship part? What if God is less interested in us believing the right things and more interested in us actually engaging with him?

The Shema – one of the most important declarations in the Hebrew Bible – tells us to love God with all our heart, soul, and might. But you can only love someone deeply when you really know them. And maybe knowing God means understanding that he suffers, that he’s vulnerable, that our choices and our silences affect him.

So what does a powerful, vulnerable, loving God expect from us? If he’s opening himself up to such pain, clearly these relationships matter deeply to him. But what does he actually want from us in these relationships?

This is where Middleton’s Abraham’s Silence challenged my understanding.

Many of us know the story: God asks Abraham to sacrifice Isaac, Abraham prepares to do it without a word of protest, and an angel stops him at the last second. Abraham is then commended for his faithfulness. It’s been held up for millennia as the ultimate example of faith and obedience.

But what if Abraham actually failed the test?

I know, I know – stay with me here. Middleton doesn’t just make this up. He points to clues throughout the Bible itself that suggest God wanted something very different: for Abraham to intercede for his son, to argue with God, to insist that sacrificing Isaac would be wrong.

I can’t do Middleton’s full argument justice here (seriously, read the book), but let me share what opened my eyes:

Earlier in Genesis, we see Abraham sort of intercede for his nephew Lot and his family. He negotiates with God about Sodom and Gomorrah, but stops short of really pushing. It’s like he’s testing the waters of disagreement with God.

Then we look at Moses. Now there’s someone who knew how to argue with God! When God wants to destroy the Israelites, Moses talks him out of it. Multiple times. And God seems to appreciate this pushback. Sometimes it even seems like God is inviting the argument.

Have you read Job recently? Really read it? God actually values Job’s wild, honest complaints more than his friends’ pious defenses of divine justice. God wants that bold, honest communication, even when it’s angry.

And then there are the Psalms – so many lament psalms where people voice deep dissatisfaction with God. These aren’t hidden away somewhere; they’re right there in our prayer book! God apparently accepts – maybe even wants – honest speech and challenges from people whose hearts are in the right place.

Here’s what stood out to me: Look at what happens after Abraham’s near-sacrifice of Isaac. Abraham and Isaac apparently part ways. Isaac seems to have learned that God is to be feared rather than that God is merciful. Isaac’s descendants have relationship issues for generations. There’s negative fallout everywhere.

What if this wasn’t the outcome God wanted?

Middleton helped me see that God was offering Abraham three growth opportunities:

• A chance for their relationship to deepen through working out this conflict together
• A chance for Abraham to fully understand God’s merciful character
• A chance for Abraham to realize genuine love for Isaac, to feel for him the way he felt for Ishmael

All of these required Abraham to speak up. But he didn’t. He stayed silent.

And here’s something that troubles me (and many others who read about the near-sacrifice of Isaac): Is it possible to reconcile a merciful, loving God with one who would want us to see silent readiness to kill our own children as faithful obedience? When you put it that way, something seems off, doesn’t it?

As I reflected more on Abraham’s story, I noticed something: his silence during the near-sacrifice wasn’t unusual. The whole Abraham narrative is full of failed communication.

Remember when Abraham asks Sarah to pretend to be his sister because he’s afraid the Egyptians will kill him? Sarah doesn’t speak up. God doesn’t speak up. No one asks for help. Only plagues bring the problem to light.

Then Abraham does the exact same thing with Abimelech! And still – silence all around. You’d think someone would say something this time. Maybe God could pipe in: Abraham, seriously? This was a disaster last time! Or Sarah might say: Get over your fear! God promised to bless us. Just trust him! Or Abraham could appeal to God: Please, Lord, is there another way?

But no. Silence.

When Sarah asks Abraham to sleep with Hagar – silence (from Abraham and God). When conflict erupts – silence. Even Isaac, when he’s bound on the altar, says nothing. No “Father, I thought God would provide the sacrifice. Surely it can’t be me? Please, ask the Lord where the sacrifice is!”

It makes me wonder: Were they all afraid of speaking up? Were they all silently testing each other’s love?

Throughout Abraham’s story, I see this struggle between love and fear, and fear keeps winning.

When Abraham fears for his life, he lets Pharaoh take Sarah. When he fears again, he lets Abimelech take her. When he fears God’s test, he prepares to sacrifice Isaac. Fear wins almost every time.

Now in the two situations where love seems to prevail, fear isn’t as much a factor. When Abraham rescues Lot, he had 318 trained men with him (and just speculation, but perhaps Abraham was safely orchestrating the rescue from his tent). Likewise, when Abraham intercedes for Sodom and Gomorrah, God appears to Abraham as a flesh-and-blood person. Maybe that incarnation made God more approachable, more relatable, less fear-inspiring? (Yep, that would also work for God through Jesus, as well.)

There’s something else that bothers me: all those transactions around Sarah. Pharaoh pays Abraham for her. Abimelech pays him to cover up the incident. Abraham insists upon paying for a freely offered burial cave for Sarah. Yet when Abraham rescues Lot and recovers stolen goods from Sodom, he refuses any reward. What does this say about how Abraham valued different relationships?

So this brings me back to my dream and that broken-hearted God telling me to write about things I know.

At first, I took it as God putting me in my place. But what if it was an invitation? What if instead of accepting the criticism in silence like Abraham, I responded?

“I understand that I need to write about things I know, but please – help me know what’s important to write about. Having read The Suffering of God, I see more clearly that you still suffer. Let me help you in the little ways I can. And having read Abraham’s Silence, you can expect me to be lovingly insistent in that offer.”

That’s what I should have said in my dream. I should have spoken up. Abraham should have spoken up. Maybe that’s what God really wants from all of us.

Not perfect obedience. Not silent compliance. But real engagement – the courage to speak up, to push back, to love boldly even when we’re afraid.

So I invite you:

• Open your mind to know God more deeply – through scripture, prayer, and those who illuminate God’s message in new ways.
• Open your heart to the God who feels deeply for you and with you, who suffers when you suffer, who longs for genuine relationships.
• Open your arms to embrace a faith that includes wrestling, questioning, and honest dialogue – where you’re not just God’s child but also his trusted friend.

The God who suffers doesn’t need more silent Abrahams. He needs people brave enough to say, “Wait, let’s talk about this. Help me understand. And if you’re hurting, let me be here with you.”

Our voice matters to God. Let’s use it.