I grew up under the shadow of bullies—those who wielded power not to protect, but to belittle. The sting of their words, the bruises both seen and unseen, etched something deep into me: a vow. I swore I would never become one of them, and more than that, I would not stand by while others were torn down. Especially those who couldn’t fight back. That vow planted in me a fierce sense of justice—a high view of what is right and fair. I believed justice was something that should come swiftly, like a sword in the hands of a righteous knight. But life has tempered that belief. I’ve seen injustice thrive, unchecked and smirking. I’ve stood by helpless as the cruel walked away victorious. And so my longing for justice has only deepened—but so has my sorrow. Because when justice is delayed, it doesn’t just frustrate me… it threatens my hope. And some days, it feels like giving up is easier than continuing to believe it will come at all.

“When He opened the fifth seal, I saw under the altar the souls of those who had been slain for the word of God and for the testimony they had maintained. They cried out in a loud voice, ‘How long, Sovereign Lord, holy and true, until you judge the inhabitants of the earth and avenge our blood?’ Then each of them was given a white robe, and they were told to wait a little longer…” — Revelation 6:9–11

Even the saints — even those who died for justice, for truth, for Christ — must wait for justice.

They cry out not in triumph, but in torment. Their voices rise not with praise, but with a plea: How long? Not if, but when, assuming justice will come eventually, but painfully aware that for now, it hasn’t.

And these are the saints — the faithful, the slain, the ones who bore witness even unto death. They are beneath the altar, wrapped in the gravity of holy suffering, and still they are told to wait.

So what hope is there for someone like me?

I haven’t died for the faith. I haven’t faced lions in an arena or tyrants with swords. I falter. I doubt. I burn with anger at the injustice I see — and sometimes, I wonder if my own heart is too corrupted, too compromised to even qualify for the waiting.

If the saints are under the altar… where am I?

Not above, not below, just—adrift. A soul caught between longing and failure. I try, I really do. But sometimes I feel like I’m failing at both righteousness and rebellion. Not holy enough for the robe, not heartless enough to smile through injustice.

And maybe that’s what this post is: my own cry from the in-between. A kind of psalm, not from the throne room or the altar, but from the alleyway. From the shadows of good intentions and broken hopes.

I don’t know how long. I don’t even know if. But I do know how it feels.

The Rock and the Hard Place

They tell you that following Christ means taking up your cross. But they rarely say what that feels like. The cross isn’t abstract; it’s splinters in your back, it’s betrayal with a kiss, it’s silence from heaven when your voice is gone from crying.

I try to do what’s right. I try to speak truth. I try to care. But the harder I try, the more I feel pinned — like Atlas beneath a burden that isn’t mine, like Boethius awaiting execution while still trying to reason his way toward consolation.

And then come the smiles. The hollow smiles of those who mock justice with their victories. The political chameleons who say, “You’re so brave,” while they stab you in the back. The coworkers who nod during your complaint about wrongdoing, only to vanish when you need a witness. The Pilate who washes his hands and walks away clean.

And the worst part? If I played their game — if I lied like them, manipulated like them, smiled like them — I could win. But I can’t. Not if I want to be faithful. And so I lose.

I’m not looking for applause. I’m not claiming sainthood. I’m just trying not to drown in the disconnect between what I believe and what I endure.

Because justice doesn’t seem to come. Not now. Not soon. And that hurts. It doesn’t just hurt emotionally — it corrodes. It eats away at hope like rust on iron. It tempts you to let go of belief, not because you don’t believe in God, but because you don’t believe justice is coming before your soul gives out.

Imagine standing on the deck of the USS Palomino, staring into the gaping maw of the black hole, knowing the laws of physics will be rewritten but having no idea what justice looks like on the other side. Or worse, wondering if justice is even allowed to cross the event horizon.

Maybe that’s why the saints cry out. Maybe even their faith can’t silence the ache.

And yet — this is the unbearable tension: I know that vengeance belongs to God. I know we’re supposed to leave it in His hands. But can we talk about how excruciating that is? It’s not noble; it’s exhausting. Because even when the wicked fall — even when karma comes back around — they rarely see it. They don’t connect the dots. They don’t repent. They just suffer, unaware, while I’m still sitting here wounded and wondering if that counts.

I don’t want revenge. But I want justice. And I don’t know if I’m allowed to want it. Not when I’m still a work in progress. Not when I don’t always care for the poor, or feel compassion when I should. Not when I question whether the downtrodden brought it on themselves.

I feel guilty. And guilt, like injustice, becomes its own kind of prison. So here I am. Not under the altar, not at the throne — just somewhere on the broken floor of the temple, trying to make sense of it all. Trying to keep my soul from rotting. Trying not to scream. But sometimes I scream anyway.

Let’s suppose, just for a moment, that you’ve done your best. You’ve held the line. You’ve tried to walk the path of justice, to speak truth, to love mercy, and to walk humbly. And yet, the more you try, the more you feel like you’re pissing into the wind—a raw, bitter phrase because there’s no poetry left in your heart. It’s all been wrung out. You watch the smug flourish of the unjust as they waltz away unscathed, grinning like the Fratellis slipping away while One-Eyed Willy’s treasure lies buried with the bones of the faithful.

Well, you might say, isn’t that just how the world works? Haven’t the righteous always suffered? Boethius composed his Consolation of Philosophy from a prison cell before his unjust execution. David, the man after God’s own heart, penned laments that still echo with anguish: “Why do the wicked prosper?” Even Frodo, bearer of the Ring, was wounded in a way that never fully healed—he saved the Shire, but not for himself.

But knowing you’re not alone in your suffering doesn’t make the suffering cease.

What makes it worse is that guilt festers in the wound. I’m not a saint. I falter. I miss chances to help the poor. I nurse bitterness against those who’ve hurt me. I question the sincerity of their smiles, the duplicity of their kindness. And because of that, I hesitate even to ask God for justice. Who am I to demand justice when I can’t even claim moral clarity?

Wrestling the Invisible

So here’s the question that haunts me: If the saints are still waiting for justice… what right do I have to ask?

Those martyrs, beneath the altar, lost everything for their faith. Their blood soaked the ground; their last breaths were confessions of truth. And even they were told to wait. Rest a little while longer, says the voice from heaven. The injustice that took their lives still lingers unresolved.

And me? I haven’t been tortured for Christ. I haven’t died a martyr’s death. My wounds are sharp but survivable. My heartbreaks are brutal but not terminal. So how can I cry out for justice when my grievances seem small in the shadow of the saints?

Still, the ache doesn’t go away.

It makes me think of Job — not the Sunday School Job who gets everything restored, but the Job who sat in the ash heap, scraping his skin with broken pottery, covered in boils and silence. His friends gave him reasons. God didn’t. And when God finally spoke, it wasn’t an answer. It was more mystery: “Where were you when I laid the foundations of the earth?” (Job 38:4).

I’ve read When God Doesn’t Make Sense. The title alone is the sermon I need. Because let’s be honest — sometimes He doesn’t. Not to me. Not in the moment. It’s easy to praise divine providence in hindsight. But in the middle of the storm, in the heart of the question, you feel like you’re speaking into wind and getting no echo back.

And then there’s Romans 8:28 — that all things work together for good for those who love God. I’ve held onto that verse like a lifeline. But some days it feels like that good is hidden behind a curtain I can’t pull back. Is there good in all this mess? Or is it just something I say to keep from going mad?

I don’t know. And that’s the part I wrestle with most — the not knowing. The waiting. The wondering if I even have the right to demand an answer.

But then… just when I feel like the whole structure of my faith is going to collapse under the weight of silence, God sends something. Not always big. Sometimes it’s a word from a friend. A line in a song. A verse I didn’t expect. A moment of quiet peace that doesn’t explain anything, but makes the waiting bearable for one more day.

It’s not a roadmap. It’s not a solution. It’s not justice. But it’s enough to say: Keep going. One more step. One more breath. Maybe that’s what faith really is. Not the confidence of the martyr facing death with a song on his lips. But the desperate choice to trust anyway, when all logic says not to.

To cling to the promise even when the fulfillment seems lost in the mist — like Frodo staggering toward Mount Doom with no hope, just the memory of the Shire.

So I keep walking. Not because I understand. But because somehow, even in the mystery, I still hear His voice.

Excerpt

Bullied as a child, I vowed never to tolerate cruelty—especially toward the defenseless. That planted in me a fierce hunger for justice. But life taught me a harder truth: justice often delays, and sometimes never arrives. And in that waiting, hope falters, and the silence can feel like betrayal.