The God Who Is Always Moving (and the Invitation to Be Still)
An invitation to slow down and make space for God in the middle of everyday life.
God is on the move
It can slip in quietly
Not as a dramatic shift or a moment you can clearly point to, but gradually, almost invisibly, shaping how we think about God, how we speak about Him, and what we begin to expect from Him without even realising it. It finds its way into our language, into the phrases we repeat, into the assumptions we carry about where God is and what He is doing. And over time, without intending to, we can begin to relate to Him as though He moves in bursts, in fits and starts, as though He appears more fully in certain moments and is somehow less present in others.
I heard it recently in a sermon – “God is on the move!” And I knew exactly what was meant. It was said with hope, with energy, with a sense that something good is happening, that there are signs of life and growth and renewal. But something in me paused as I heard it, not because it was wrong, but because it felt incomplete.
Because if we believe what we say we believe about God – that He is present, active, sustaining all things – then He isn’t sometimes on the move. He is always on the move. There is no moment where He is absent, no ordinary space where He has stepped back, no gap in which He is waiting to begin again.
And yet, if I’m honest, I don’t always live like that is true.
When life quietly becomes too much
Because most of life doesn’t feel like the kind of place where we expect to find God moving. It doesn’t feel like revival or breakthrough or anything that would make for a compelling story. It feels heavy in quieter, more familiar ways.
There is the weight of the world, yes – the ongoing conflicts, the headlines that seem to arrive faster than we can process them, the low-level anxiety that sits in the background whether we acknowledge it or not. But it’s not just that. It’s the ordinary as well.
The kind of tiredness that builds slowly over time.
Work that takes more than it gives. Evenings that are meant to be restful but somehow don’t reach far enough. The quiet pressure of finances, decisions, expectations, things that don’t resolve quickly or neatly.
And most of the time, we carry it. We keep going. We show up. We do what’s needed. From the outside, it can even look like we’re doing well, holding things together, managing life in a way that seems steady.
But underneath, something is building.
Not dramatically, not in a way that demands attention straight away, but slowly, quietly, accumulating. And then something small happens – something that, on any other day, wouldn’t have touched the sides. A comment, an email, a minor inconvenience, a moment that doesn’t quite go how you hoped. And suddenly, it’s too much. Not because that one thing is particularly significant, but because it lands on top of everything else you’ve been holding, everything that hasn’t had space to breathe.
And in that moment, it can feel like everything comes crashing down.
Not because everything has changed, but because you’ve reached the edge of what you can carry.
Holding more than we were meant to
I’ve been there more times than I’d like to admit. Not in ways that are always obvious to others, but in that internal space where you realise you’re more tired than you thought, more stretched than you realised, more affected by things than you’ve allowed yourself to acknowledge. Where even good things begin to feel like effort, and rest doesn’t quite reach the deeper level of what you need.
And if I’m honest, part of that has been the way I’ve tried to hold things together that were never mine to hold in the first place. Responsibility, expectation, uncertainty about the future, questions about provision, about direction, about what comes next. Even in my faith, I’ve found myself trying to make things work, trying to maintain connection, trying to carry something that was never meant to sit fully in my hands.
And underneath all of that, there’s a quieter, more honest reality that’s not always easy to say out loud. Sometimes I don’t feel as connected to God as I want to be. Sometimes I don’t know what He’s doing. Sometimes I’m holding things I know I’m meant to surrender, and I can’t seem to let them go. Or I do, briefly, and then I find myself picking them straight back up again without even thinking. Not because I don’t trust Him, but because when life feels uncertain, holding on feels safer than letting go, even if it leaves me more exhausted than before.
Not God in my story
There’s a line I’ve been returning to recently that has been quietly reframing things for me. Not God in my story, but me in His. It’s a small shift in wording, but it changes where the weight sits. Because if this is my story, then ultimately – it rests on me. My decisions, my direction, my ability to make something meaningful out of my life. God becomes someone I invite in, someone who helps, guides, supports, but the responsibility stays with me. But if this is His story, then I am not the one holding it all together. I am not the one responsible for fixing everything, or even understanding everything. I am part of something that is already unfolding, something that doesn’t depend on my clarity or control to continue.
And yet, living like that is not straightforward. Because surrender sounds simple until you try to practise it in the middle of real life. It sounds freeing in theory, but in reality it often feels like risk. It means loosening your grip on things that matter to you. It means sitting with uncertainty rather than resolving it. It means trusting that God is at work even when you can’t see how, even when things don’t feel like they are moving in the way you would choose.
And in those moments, it is very easy to take things back into your own hands, to try and manage what was never yours to manage.
The question we avoid
And at some point, if we are honest, a question begins to surface.
How long can we keep living like this?
Carrying everything. Moving at this pace. Calling it normal.
Because if we’re honest, it isn’t working – is it?
Not deeply. Not sustainably. Not in the way we quietly hope life might feel.
And deep down, we know it.
A quiet invitation
This is part of why I’m creating a small online space on Thursday 4th June. Not to fix everything, but to step out of the noise for a moment and make space for something more honest. I’ll come back to the details later – but if you’re already feeling the need for that kind of space, it’s there for you.
The quiet longing underneath
What I’ve found myself longing for in the middle of all of this is not more answers, or more input about what to do next. It’s something quieter than that. It’s presence. On a deeper level. To be with God in a way that feels real again, not rushed or squeezed into the edges of an already full life, not another thing to achieve or maintain, but something I can actually experience where I am. To sit with Him, to breathe, to slow down enough to realise that He hasn’t gone anywhere. That the distance I sometimes feel is not because He has moved away, but because I have been moving too fast to notice.
And more than that, I’m learning to notice that He is already here, in the places I would normally overlook.
In the ordinary moments that I tend to rush past or fill with distraction. Standing in the kitchen waiting for the kettle to boil. Sitting in the car before going into something I’m not sure about. Walking from one part of the day to the next. Moments that seem insignificant, moments that don’t appear to hold anything meaningful, and yet, if I allow myself to be present to them, they begin to feel different. Not because they become dramatic or extraordinary, but because I begin to notice that God is already present within them, quietly, consistently, without needing to announce Himself.
What if those moments aren’t empty?
What if the God who is always on the move is already moving there?
Learning to notice
I think part of the reason we miss this is because we have learned to associate God’s activity with what is visible and obvious. With growth, with momentum, with something we can point to and say, there it is, something is happening.
But so much of what God does does not look like that. It looks like waiting. Patience. Quiet transformation. It looks like something shifting beneath the surface long before it becomes visible. And if we are only looking for the obvious, we will assume nothing is happening at all.
Which is why this is not about doing more. It’s about making space. Not a huge amount of space, not something that requires you to change everything about your life, but just enough to pause, just enough to breathe, just enough to be honest about what is actually going on beneath the surface of your day-to-day life. Enough to stop, even briefly, and pay attention.
A simple invitation
So this is not an answer. It’s not a fix. It’s an invitation.
On Thursday 4th June, from 7:30 to 9:00pm, I’m hosting a one-off online Growing with God session. It’s not teaching-heavy, and it’s not about giving you something else to carry or achieve. It’s about creating a space you can step into, where you don’t have to perform or pretend, where you don’t have to hold everything together for a while, where you can arrive as you are and take a breath.
We’ll move through a simple rhythm – SPACE – EXPLORE – PRACTICE. Space to arrive without pressure. Explore as something more open-ended than just noticing what is going on – a short reflection that gently opens up a single idea or question, not to analyse or solve it, but to notice what it stirs in you. Practice as a way of responding that is small and grounded, something you can carry back into your everyday life without it becoming another weight.
A small, honest space
It will be a small group. I’m limiting it to 15 people, not to make it exclusive, but to keep it honest and spacious – a place where you can actually be present rather than just another name on a screen.
Tickets are £10. If that feels out of reach right now, there are a small number of supported access tickets at £5 – no explanation needed.
And it’s worth saying this clearly – by paying for the space, you’re not just committing to something for yourself. You’re helping to keep A Curious Follower going. You’re helping make spaces like this possible for others as we continue to explore what it means to follow God with curiosity in the middle of real life.
Tickets are live now on Eventbrite. If this resonates, you’re very welcome to book a place. If it’s full, join the waiting list – if there’s enough interest, I’ll run it again. But if you sense this might be something you need, it’s worth acting on that rather than assuming another opportunity will come.
If you’d rather begin quietly
And if you’re not sure about stepping into a live space yet, that’s completely okay.
The same rhythm we’ll use in the session – SPACE, EXPLORE, PRACTICE – is the one I’ve written from in The Radical Recall to Rest. The book simply walks through that process in a slower, more personal way, something you can engage with in your own time, at your own pace, without needing to show up anywhere or be seen by anyone else.
If that feels like a better starting point, I’ve got a small number of copies available directly, and I’ll include a link to order one. It’s not a different pathway – just a quieter entry point into the same way of being.
A final thought
I don’t think most of us are far from God.
I think we’re just overwhelmed, carrying more than we were meant to carry, moving faster than we were meant to move, trying to stay afloat in a story that was never ours to control.
God is on the move.
He always has been.
The invitation isn’t to chase Him.
It’s to slow down long enough to notice He’s already here.
Josh | A Curious Follower