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Romans 11:33 "Oh, the depth of the riches of the wisdom and knowledge of God! How unsearchable his judgments, and his paths beyond tracing out!"

Think

We like things that fit neatly. Labeled bins. Filtered photos. Short summaries. We sort our inbox into folders and our faith into categories. The more predictable something is, the more secure we feel. We want systems. We want clarity. We want to know what to expect.

We do the same thing with God. We try to frame him—contain him in something familiar. We build mental outlines and spiritual expectations. We create a version of God that makes sense to us and feels easy to carry.

But God doesn’t fit in a frame. He never has.

Paul spends eleven chapters in Romans explaining deep theology: sin, grace, law, salvation, Israel, the church. Then in Romans 11:33, he hits pause and erupts into worship. Not because he has figured God out, but because he realizes he never fully will. “Oh, the depth,” he writes. He’s stunned. Not by confusion, but by awe.

This is the moment when understanding meets its limit, and wonder begins.

God is not a formula to master. He is not a spiritual concept we eventually graduate from. He is a living, infinite, holy Being. We are invited to know him, but never to box him in.

And yet, we try.

We frame God with past experiences. If we felt him during a certain song, we expect every worship set to stir us the same way. If he met us in crisis, we begin associating his presence only with pain. It’s like assuming the entire ocean is the same temperature just because of one swim.

We frame him with logic. We want input and output to match. If I obey, God should bless. If I pray, God should answer. If life doesn’t go according to plan, we don’t question the plan—we question God. But he’s not a vending machine. He’s a Father. And sometimes, good fathers say no.

We frame him with tradition. This is how church looked when we first encountered him. This is the language, the volume, the layout that feels sacred. But God moved in deserts before he moved in sanctuaries. He used donkeys and dreams and fishermen and tax collectors. He does not need our methods. He invites our surrender.

We frame him with personality. Extroverts picture him as loud and passionate. Introverts imagine him as quiet and reflective. We tend to project our preferences onto him and call it truth.

But just like a window frame can limit your view of the horizon, our mental frames limit our view of God. They create edges around something that is meant to be endless. Eventually, the frame cracks. Life throws us something our image of God can’t explain. A prayer goes unanswered. A tragedy comes without warning. A plan falls apart. And suddenly, our framed version of God doesn’t hold up.

Maybe that’s not the failure of God. Maybe it’s the failure of the frame.

Trying to live with a framed God is like trying to photograph the Milky Way with a flip phone. It’s like describing Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony using only one piano key. You might catch a glimpse, but you’re missing the grandeur.

Paul calls God's judgments “unsearchable” and his paths “beyond tracing out.” That doesn’t mean God is distant. It means he’s deep. It doesn’t mean he can’t be known. It means he can’t be measured. He reveals himself through Scripture, through the Spirit, through community, through creation. But there is always more to see. Always more to trust.

There’s a reason Scripture compares life with God to a journey. Not a spreadsheet. Not a checklist. A walk. A path. A relationship. You don’t get all the answers up front. But you get his presence. You get enough light for the next step. And over time, your picture of him grows fuller and richer.

Some days he speaks in the thunder. Other days in a whisper. Sometimes he breaks chains. Sometimes he walks with us through the fire. He is not inconsistent. He is infinite.

Letting go of the frame doesn’t mean you lose truth. It means you make space for more of it. You stop relying on the snapshot and start listening for his voice again. You stop treating him like a system and start worshiping him as a person.

God does not ask you to fully understand him. But he does invite you to trust him. Not once, but over and over. When life is loud. When prayers feel unanswered. When the next step is unclear. Trust is what you do when your frame is too small and his presence is still enough.

A framed God can only take you so far. But the God who breaks the frame? He can take you farther than you ever imagined.

Apply

Where have you limited God to a frame? A method? A past experience? Ask him to show you today. Let him gently break that box.

Then do one small thing that reminds you of his vastness—read a Psalm about his greatness, take a walk under the stars, or pray without an agenda. Let your wonder grow where your words run out.

Pray

God, you are bigger than my thoughts, deeper than my understanding, and more powerful than I can comprehend. Forgive me for trying to shrink you into something manageable. I release my expectations. I want to know you—not as I’ve imagined you, but as you are. Teach me to trust what I cannot trace. In Jesus’ name. Amen.