Wrestling with Justice, Mercy, and the God I Don’t Understand

Pastor Rick posted something that hit me hard:

Oof. That one stayed with me. Because, yeah. We beg for mercy when we fail but demand justice when we're wronged. We want to be forgiven and set free, but we also want to see people who hurt us pay. How does that even work?

And then there’s the Bible. A book filled with both devastation and redemption, justice and mercy—a constant reminder that faith means trusting even when the story seems too harsh to understand.

I’m reading through it in a year, and 80 days in, has been… brutal. If you haven’t spent time in the Old Testament, let me tell you—it is not for the faint of heart. There’s war, plagues, entire cities wiped out—men, women, children. And it’s God making these calls. How do I reconcile that with the same God who later tells me to love my enemies and forgive seventy times seven?

And I needed it, too.

Here’s the real gut punch: I’ve been so guilty too. Maybe not of all the things that put others behind bars, but I’ve done enough... I’ve failed. I’ve been selfish, cruel, hurt people (really, really hurt so many, including my daughter), and blind to my own faults. And yet, God spared my life and Issy's, arranged for a miraculous rescue, then met me in prison, where I thought my life was over, and gave me hope. He didn’t strike me down. He didn’t say, You had your chance, Kelli. Now you get what you deserve.

Instead, He showed me mercy. He reminded me that even in the darkest places, His presence can bring light, that no prison—physical or spiritual—can keep out His love.

The state of Michigan wanted ten years of my life for justice. They got it.

So where does that leave me with all the Old Testament violence? Where does that leave me when I want justice for those who have wronged me but mercy for myself?

The truth? I don’t understand God, and I never will. But I think that’s the point. Faith isn't about having all the answers; it's about trusting the One who does. Hope isn’t found in perfect understanding but in knowing that He is working, even when I can’t see it.

God sees more than I do. His mercy isn’t my mercy, and His justice isn’t my justice. He wipes out nations in one chapter and then weeps over Jerusalem in another. He commands Israel to destroy the Canaanites but later sends His own Son to die for people who deserve destruction.

I don’t get it, and I never will. But I do know this: God doesn’t operate on my terms. He doesn’t fit into my little ideas of fairness. He is fully just and fully merciful at the same time. He holds us accountable, but He also forgives.

And if I claim to follow Him, I have to live in that tension.

So what do I do?

I sow generously. I sow mercy if I want mercy. I sow grace if I want grace. I forgive, even when I want revenge, because I have been forgiven. I trust that God sees the full picture, even when I don’t.

I don’t understand Him, but I trust Him. And maybe—for today—that’s enough. Tomorrow, I’ll wake up and try again—try to choose mercy, try to live with grace, and try to hold onto the faith that even when I can’t see the full picture, He can. Because hope isn’t about certainty; it’s about believing that God is still writing the story.