It hit me as my family was preparing for a recent trip to Colorado: I don’t know how to pack.

Oh, don’t get me wrong—I’m not lacking in the mechanics of packing. In theory, I perfectly understand how to create a thoughtful list, organize it into sections, efficiently use allotted space, and ensure that all essentials are available. My problem is not that I don’t know what to take; it’s that I don’t know what to leave behind.

I take more books than I’ll have time to read. I pack more phone chargers than anyone should even own until the inside of my computer bag looks like technological spaghetti. And I select more clothes than I could possibly wear (is it necessary to have three different camo coats? I need an intervention.)

But the time when I truly realize the severity of my situation—when my overkill tendencies spiral completely out of control—is when I pack my wilderness equipment. The minute I begin the process, I veer far away from common sense and into a more dreaded mental territory—one that might be familiar to you as well. I call it just in case.

I already have three compasses in here…but I’ll add this extra one, just in case. I’m not planning to be anywhere near water…but it couldn’t hurt to have this waterproof pouch as a backup. Flint and steel? Probably unnecessary, but might as well bring them along. Two pairs of hiking boots? Better make it three. Oh, here’s a fourth compass! Better throw it in there…just in case.

After agonizing over my decisions, certain that I’ve somehow forgotten something anyway, I reluctantly stash the bulging box of equipment in our motorhome and spend a sizable percentage of our travel time to Colorado concerned over what I may still have forgotten. And then, once we reach our destination and begin hiking, I find myself using ten percent—at a generous estimate—of what I packed in that box!

Shamefaced, I vow to myself that I’ll learn from my mistakes. Next time I’ll minimize, taking only what’s essential. But the next trip we take still finds me frantically cramming items into the box. I didn’t use it last time…but just in case…

This experience of just in case is lighthearted, of course, but there’s a deeper issue. Because all too often, the principle of just in case doesn’t only infiltrate our packing for a vacation. Instead, it corrupts our spiritual lives.

We’re called to be people of the Lord, trusting Him to provide for our needs. But relying on His ways and timing is stressful sometimes. After all, what if He doesn’t come through? What if His response is delayed? Or what if—worst of all—His answer doesn’t match what we crave?

Better have a backup plan…just in case.

And like most spiritual lies, there’s a grain of truth at the bottom. The truth is that preparation is important. In my case, entering a wilderness area without proper equipment is a recipe for disaster that can sometimes have life-or-death consequences. To carelessly select the items I’ll be using would be as foolhardy as not taking anything at all. Similarly, we’re called to consider the future carefully and plan wisely for how we will steward the resources God has given us—and there’s absolutely nothing wrong with this. The problem arises when we seek to go one step further by somehow shoring up God’s sovereignty with our human efforts.

Who knows why this mindset is so pervasive? Probably for all the reasons I overkill on my packing efforts. We want to be ready—never caught off guard or vulnerable. We want to be in control—with the tools at our disposal to influence our course. We want to be empowered—not weak or helpless.

But I think the greatest underlying culprit, as in most things, is fear. After all, we long to be safe. And relying fully on God’s intervention feels a bit too risky, a bit too precarious. What if, after all, He doesn’t come through?

I’m reminded of an obscure story in Genesis 31. After suffering for two decades from his father-in-law’s harsh treatment, Jacob receives a mysterious vision: the voice of the Lord commanding him, “Return to the land of your fathers and to your kindred, and I will be with you” (v. 3). He tells his wives, Rachel and Leah, the message he has received, and both agree—at least externally—with the plan: “Whatever God has said to you, do” (v. 16).

So far, so good. God has spoken, the family agrees, and plans are made to move out. But not so fast. Look at the incidental detail reported in verse 19: “Rachel stole her father’s household gods.”

This is one of those details of Scripture that is so far removed from our own cultural context that it’s easy to miss on a superficial reading. But it’s incredibly important. You see, these “gods” were idols meant to represent the territorial spirits of Rachel’s homeland—the spirits worshiped by the people around her. Looking at the situation from Rachel’s point of view, the implications are obvious. Her husband is about to take her out of her family, community, and homeland, into a foreign land to face the very people who once tried to kill him. if anything happens to him, as a woman in the ancient Near East, she’ll be defenseless, alone, and impoverished.

So Rachel, who has been for twenty years a worshiper of her husband’s God, now resolves on a backup plan. If Jacob’s God doesn’t come through—well, she’ll still be under the protection of the gods of her homeland. So in an act of terrible disobedience, as the family prepares to leave, she grabs these false deities—just in case.

A thousand years later, the cycle repeated all over again. As part of His covenant with Israel, God made a staggering promise: to provide the seasonal rains (Deuteronomy 11:14). For an agrarian society like Israel, where arid conditions were relieved only by adequate rainfall, God’s trustworthiness meant the difference between survival and famine. And that’s why, over time, it was easy for the Israelites to fall into the worship of Baal. Pictured as the “storm god” of the Middle East, Baal was credited with the power of bringing rainfall. And so Israel worshipped this god as well—just in case. Author and Bible scholar Michael Rhodes states that “the primary attraction to Baal wasn’t a pretty statue; it was an economic promise…. Of course, most Israelites probably didn’t totally reject Yahweh, the God of Israel. They just added Baal worship to their insurance policy” (emphasis mine).

I read these accounts, and oh, I feel the conviction.

In what ways do we add to our spiritual “insurance policy,” as Rhodes puts it? We probably don’t bow down to other spirits…but we probably do heed the seductive call of our own earthly understanding. God has an ideal spouse chosen for me…but just in case, I’ll stay in this relationship with red flags. God promises to meet my needs…but just in case, I’ll skimp on my tithe check. God will make all things work for my good…but just in case, I’ll try to manipulate the outcome so my wishes are met now. God will ensure justice in my situation…but just in case, I’ll nurse a grudge and seek revenge. God will provide my answer…but just in case, I’ll worry over the situation and seek to untangle the loose ends myself.

Did any of those statements make you cringe? Yeah. Me too.

And in the midst of all of it—all our self-righteousness, all our self-pity, all our rationalization and justification and desperation—God’s command to us is still the same as it was for the Baal-worshipping Israelites: “Stop limping between two different opinions” (1 Kings 18:21 ESV). We can’t walk in both ways at once, or we’ll end up with the awkward gait of someone with one foot on the sidewalk and one on the road. The truth is that we can’t stack spiritual options or play a savvy hand or corner the market with our worship. We can ignore God and choose our own way. Or we can sink every ounce of our confidence into His hands. But we cannot, cannot, nominally trust Him with our words yet secretly look for alternatives with our deeds.

So when the urge of just in case is just too loud, when we’re tempted to scramble for every alternative—what can we do?

First, we remember God’s character. “God is not man, that he should lie, or a son of man, that he should change his mind. Has he said, and will he not do it? Or has he spoken, and will he not fulfill it?” (Numbers 23:19 ESV) The character of God is the absolute epitome of trustworthiness. In fact, the Bible tells us that He swears His promises to us upon His own Name because there is no greater in the universe (Hebrews 6:13)! Even when trust is scary, we know the object of our trust is unshakable.

Second, we remember Who holds true power. When the Israelites worshipped Baal, hoping he would bring rain, they received famine instead—because God, the true king of the weather, shut up the heavens as punishment for their disobedience. In the same way, no strategy in which we put our hope can compare to the power of God. Our feeble human efforts may be reassuring to us, but they can’t possibly measure up to God’s limitless authority.

Third, we begin taking small steps of trust. Sister Maria Faustina, a well-known figure in the Polish Catholic Church, wrote these words in her diary: “One act of trust at such moments [of despair] gives greater glory to God than whole hours passed in prayer filled with consolations.”

In other words, it is precisely when we are most frightened that trust is most necessary. God understands our weaknesses (Psalm 103:14), and He is pleased by even the smallest actions of obedience. What does that look like for you? Maybe it’s writing that tithe check, or waiting for that relationship, or taking your hands off the situation, or finally relinquishing your illusion of control.

Are these steps easy at first? No, not with our own human fears screaming for our attention. But are they necessary? Yes—because trust is the only true antidote to the disease of just in case. I’m thinking about it this week as I pack my equipment, as I keep my hands more open, as I leave that extra compass in my drawer. Because this I know: my own efforts can never replace or reinforce the plans of the One Who holds my life in His hands.

Photo credit: Josiah Weiss on Unsplash