God Doesn’t Co-Lead

“Take your son, your only son Isaac, whom you love, and go to the land of Moriah; offer him there as a burnt offering on one of the mountains I will show you.” — Genesis 22:2

Many of us say we want God to lead our lives, but what we often mean is something far more selective. We want God to guide us, yes — but preferably in the direction we already intended to go. We like the idea of surrender, but not the reality of it. We want His leadership, but not His disruption. We want His voice, but not His veto. We want His will, as long as it doesn’t interfere with our preferences, attachments, or carefully constructed plans.

We want divine guidance without divine redirection. It’s easy to pray, “Lead me,” but much harder when that leading pulls us away from our comfort, our preferences, or our carefully crafted plans.  We prefer confirmation over transformation. Often, what we call “seeking God’s will” is really seeking validation for what we already intended to do.  If God is truly leading, then by definition He will sometimes take us somewhere unexpected. Growth, calling, and purpose often require detours.

We gladly celebrate God’s will when it shows up as blessing, favor, and wide‑open doors. Those moments feel good, and they fit neatly into the story we want God to write for us. But God’s will is bigger than comfort and convenience. It also includes seasons of pruning, stretching, refining, and surrender. And that’s usually where our enthusiasm fades.

We want God to lead us—but we hope His leading takes us toward ease, not sacrifice; toward clarity, not mystery; toward blessing, not testing. Yet genuine spiritual maturity grows in the places where God’s leadership disrupts our expectations. His guidance is not always comfortable, predictable, or aligned with our preferences. Sometimes His will feels like being rerouted, slowed down, or stripped back.

But those are often the very moments where God forms us most deeply. The same God who opens doors also closes them. The same God who blesses also prunes. And the same God who comforts also calls us into places that stretch our faith. Learning to trust Him in all of it—not just the pleasant parts—is what transforms us.

This tension is exposed vividly in Genesis 22. Isaac was not merely Abraham’s son; he was the embodiment of God’s promise, the center of Abraham’s hope, and the joy of his old age. When God asked Abraham to offer Isaac, He wasn’t attacking Abraham’s love — He was revealing Abraham’s loyalties. The question beneath the command was simple: Do you want Me to lead, or do you want Me to protect what you’re attached to?

When you first begin walking with God, it’s easy to imagine that your heart can hold both His will and your own, His direction and your desires, His voice and your attachments. But as your relationship with Him deepens, you begin to realize something essential: the throne of your heart is not a committee seat. It is a single throne, designed for one ruler. And only one can sit there.

The longer you walk with God, the more obvious it becomes that your heart cannot sustain multiple masters. It was crafted for one King. The moment anything else — a relationship, a dream, a fear, a plan — tries to sit on that throne, your inner world becomes divided. A heart with competing leaders is a heart constantly pulled in conflicting directions.

You feel it in your decisions, your emotions, your priorities. You sense the tug‑of‑war between what God is calling you to and what something else is demanding from you. True peace doesn’t come from balancing multiple voices; it comes from surrendering to one. Giving God the throne doesn’t shrink your life — it centers it. It brings clarity where confusion once lived, purpose where wandering once ruled, and stability where chaos once reigned.

But surrender always confronts one of the deepest instincts we carry: the instinct to control. We want to predict outcomes, protect ourselves from disappointment, and pre‑arrange every detail of our future. We want to ensure life unfolds according to our preferences. Yet genuine trust in God loosens our grip on that instinct and teaches us a different way of living.

Control often grows out of fear—fear of losing what we love, fear of stepping into the unknown, fear that life won’t unfold the way we hoped. When fear drives us, we cling tightly to our plans, our timelines, and our expectations. But trust is built on a different foundation. Trust rests on confidence—confidence in God’s character, His wisdom, His goodness, and His timing. As trust deepens, fear begins to lose its grip, and the exhausting urge to micromanage every detail of life slowly loosens.

Carrying the weight of control was never meant to be our job. When we try to manage everything, we end up living in constant tension—anticipating every possible outcome, trying to prevent every potential problem, guarding every plan, and bracing for every unexpected twist. It’s a burden that drains your energy and steals your peace.

Trust invites a different posture. It says, “God, You see what I cannot. You understand what I cannot grasp. You are working in ways I cannot control.” Trust doesn’t ignore reality; it simply acknowledges that God’s perspective is higher, His vision is clearer, and His hands are steadier than ours will ever be.  Letting go isn’t weakness—it’s wisdom. It’s choosing to place the weight of your life on the One strong enough to carry it.

Trust obeys even when understanding is incomplete. It doesn’t wait for the full blueprint before taking the first step. Abraham is a powerful example of this. He didn’t know how the story would resolve. He didn’t know where the ram was hiding. He didn’t know how God would keep a promise that seemed impossible under the circumstances. But he moved forward anyway—one step at a time, fueled not by clarity but by confidence in God.

Trust doesn’t insist on seeing the entire path before walking it. It doesn’t demand explanations, timelines, or guarantees. Instead, trust believes that God is already present in the step you haven’t taken yet. It rests in the truth that God is working beyond what you can see, preparing provision you haven’t discovered, and fulfilling promises in ways you couldn’t predict. Obedience rooted in trust says, “I don’t know how this will unfold, but I know Who is leading me.” And that is enough.

The real test of trust is not when God’s path matches ours, but when it diverges. That’s where faith becomes faith. That’s where surrender becomes real. That’s where God stops being a co‑pilot and becomes Lord. And ironically, the places God leads us — the ones we never would have chosen — often become the places where we grow the most, see Him the clearest, and experience His provision the deepest.

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Pastor Godwin, FBC Danvers