The Hiker’s Nod

If you’ve ever been five miles into a steep ascent — the kind where your lungs are burning and your knees feel like they’re made of glass — you know the “Hiker’s Nod.”

You’re struggling. You’re gasping for air. But the moment you see another hiker coming from the opposite direction, something happens. You instinctively stand a little straighter. You regulate your breathing. You wipe the sweat away. When they pass and ask, “How’s it going?” you give a breezy, “Doing great! Beautiful day!” You wait until they’re around the bend before you collapse against a rock to catch your breath.

Most of us are surprisingly skilled at answering the question “How’re you doing?” without actually answering it.

• “Doing alright.”
• “Hanging in there.”
• “Been a week.”
• “Still alive.”

We know how to give the kind of answer that keeps the conversation moving without accidentally turning the church lobby into a counseling session. But eventually, that starts shaping us. We learn how to bring edited versions of ourselves into the room — the manageable version, the composed version, the version that definitely didn’t cry in the car.

And once that becomes normal with people, it can quietly become normal with God too. Underneath the “Sunday face” is a fear we rarely say out loud: What if God is uncomfortable with my pain too? What if He’d prefer me a little more composed and a little less needy?

When pain settles in, it makes you feel like everyone else is standing outside the glass, looking in. It’s easy to assume God is standing outside the glass too. But in Exodus 34, after the betrayal of the golden calf, God passes by and declares His name. And the very first word He uses changes everything.

The Stoic Calf

Suffering reveals the kind of God we’ve imagined. If we’re honest, many of us have quietly built a “Stoic Calf.” We’ve built a god shaped by our own discomfort with weakness.

• A god who values composure more than honesty.
• A god who wants sound doctrine but would prefer it without the tears.
• A god who appreciates service but feels embarrassed by sorrow.

That god is easier to manage because a compassionate God feels dangerous. If God is truly moved by us, then we can’t keep hiding behind polished strength. We can’t keep performing.

We don’t usually reject God outright — we just revise Him into an emotionless manager. When that happens, church becomes exhausting. You learn to say “doing alright” even when your soul is barely breathing. You start to assume that pain means you’re immature or that grief means your faith is weak.

But the real God isn’t embarrassed by your tears. He made your tear ducts. He knows what it is to groan and to grieve. He isn’t asking you to become less human in order to come near Him.

The Revelation: The First Word

Go back to the mountain. The covenant is broken. The betrayal is undeniable. In that moment, God declares His name:

In many translations, that first word is Compassion. It’s the first word God speaks over a ruined people.

The Hebrew word is deeply tied to the idea of the womb. God’s compassion isn’t distant pity or cool observation. It’s visceral. It’s the kind of compassion that moves toward weakness. It opens up the beauty of Psalm 103:

“As a father shows compassion to his children, so the Lord shows compassion to those who fear him. For he knows our frame; he remembers that we are dust.” (Ps. 103:13-14)

He knows your frame. He knows how quickly you tire and how long the nights feel. He remembers that you’re dust — not with disgust or disappointment, but with compassion. God’s compassion isn’t stirred by your impressiveness. It’s stirred by your frailty. Your polish doesn’t move Him. Your need does.

Compassion Incarnate

How does an invisible God prove He’s actually moved by our misery? He takes on flesh. In Luke 7, Jesus walks into the town of Nain and meets a funeral procession. A widow has lost her only son. In that world, this meant total vulnerability and a lost future. She was utterly helpless.

The text says that when the Lord saw her, “he had compassion on her” (Luke 7:13). This is compassion with eyes and hands. Biblical compassion is never just an emotion floating in the air. It’s mercy that moves toward misery.

Jesus didn’t stand back. He didn’t send a note. He interrupted the funeral. He touched the bier — He touched death itself — and raised the young man. Then, Luke says Jesus “gave him to his mother” (Luke 7:15). He didn’t just perform a miracle. He restored a relationship.

When Jesus sees misery, He moves toward it. Not around it. Not past it. Toward it.

Bring Your Wounds

Stop bringing God the edited version of your pain. Bring Him the grief you can’t explain and the exhaustion you’re tired of dressing up. Bringing your wounds to God isn’t a failure of faith. It’s one of the purest acts of trust you can offer.

When you bring your actual pain to Him, you’re saying, “I believe You are who You say You are.”

We can't be a church that demands composure when our God invites tears. If our God moves toward suffering, then so should we. Sometimes faithfulness looks less like “fixing” and more like staying.

You don’t have to be impressive today. You’re allowed to be dust. You’re allowed to tell the truth. The God who names Himself in Exodus is the same God stopping the funeral procession in Luke. He isn't cold toward your pain. He’s already moving toward you.

This post was adapted from the series His Own Words, originally shared at the Glendale church of Christ.