Trust was a bridge we tried to burn a long time ago. We could name the breaches, the sins that so easily entangled, but I’m not sure it would serve much of a purpose at this point. It’s enough to say that when the truth came screaming into the light, it was easy to ask the question, “did I ever really know you?”
Trust is the victim of a lover’s vulnerability. We both know that. And in the wake of sin it would be easy to imagine a wasteland, to construct a nuclear winter and say things like, “I’ll never trust you again.” But words like that are only walls around the heart; they only serve to protect you from future pain. At the same time, those words hang the sword of disgrace perilously over the head of the offender. In the end, distrust is everyone’s prison.
Distrust is fortified city of narcissism.
Distrust is a sharpened dagger.
Distrust is a trip-line in the dark.
When God trusted all creation with such a great love, he knew men would hang it on a cross and mock it. I daresay that he was not surprised at the final outcome, he knew it from the beginning. But he exposed himself, allowed his trust to be betrayed so that men could see the truth–hope and freedom rise from the ashes of broken trust. And though God had the divine right to write us off, to build grand walls around heaven and keep us in separation, he used these breaches for our very sanctification.
That is divine.
I trust you. That trust leaves me exposed, I know. It creates the potential for great pain. And though I don’t expect that you’ll breach that trust–at least not in any signficant way–it would be naive to assume that any human carries the capacity for perfect fidelity. So if our acts bring us to the edge of distrust, I’ll ask for divine love and grace. I’ll ask that any breach leads us to greater sanctification. I’ll ask that freedom rises from the ashes. I’ll look to the cross and the empty tomb as the metaphor. And ultimately, I’ll say that love and trust are different sides of the same holy coin.