The thunderous, grating roar of my neighbour’s generator is the soundtrack to my writing this. Loadshedding Stage 6. Again. The sudden silence was first a shock, then a familiar frustration. My carefully planned work, my digital tether to the world, my light—all severed by a switch I cannot control. And in the ensuing, infuriating darkness, the same old, frantic script begins in my mind: How will I meet my deadline? What if the food spoils? When will this end? My knuckles were white, not on a steering wheel this time, but on the edge of my desk, wrestling a phantom of control.
This, my friends, is the modern South African theatre where a ancient spiritual battle is staged daily. We are a nation of survivors, of braai-masters making a plan, of hustlers fighting for a sliver of stability in a grid that keeps failing. We worship at the altar of self-sufficiency, believing the great lie of our age: that we are the authors of our own destiny, the sole engineers of our personal power supply.
But the blackout—both the literal one from Eskom and the metaphorical ones of shattered health, fractured relationships, and national anxiety—reveals the terrifying truth: our control is a phantom. We are not the authors; we are characters in a divine drama, and the true Conductor of the chronicles has allowed this scene.
The Illusion of the Switch
Let us define our terms with logical precision. What is this "control" we crave? It is the perceived power to dictate outcomes, to ensure comfort, to avoid suffering through our own intellect, effort, or worry. It is the belief that if we grip the wheel tightly enough, the road will smooth itself.
The Scripture declares unequivocally the folly of this. Proverbs 16:9 states, “In their hearts humans plan their course, but the Lord establishes their steps.” This is not a sentimental platitude; it is a theological axiom. We operate in the realm of plans and proposals; God operates in the sovereign execution of His perfect will. Our frantic fight for control is like a child in a car, gripping a toy steering wheel, believing they are driving. They mirror the father’s movements, but the true navigation, the avoidance of peril, the power to reach the destination, rests entirely in the Parent’s hands.
A common objection arises: "But doesn't God call us to diligence? To work? To be responsible?" Absolutely! This is where we must sound the alarm against a fatal error. The call to surrender is not a call to passivity. It is the call to active, militant trust. It is the difference between a soldier who abandons his post and a soldier who, having done all to stand—having dug his trench and sighted his rifle—now trusts the General's overarching battle strategy, even when his own section of the front is thick with fog and enemy fire.
The Surrender that is True Warfare
This is where we need a dynamic, war-like imagery. Surrender in the world’s eyes is defeat. In the economy of Christ’s Kingdom, surrender is the decisive, opening manoeuvre of victory. It is the D-Day of the soul.
Picture the scene in Gethsemane. Jesus Christ, the Son of God, in agonising prayer. The humanity in Him craved a different plot—"Let this cup pass from me." This was the desire for control, for a path around the suffering. But then came the active, costly, world-altering surrender: "Yet not as I will, but as you will" (Matthew 26:39). This was not passive resignation. This was the Commander-in-Chief of Heaven, consciously, willingly, submitting His will to the Father’s superior, redemptive strategy. In that moment, He won the war against sin, even as He walked into its darkest battle.
Our own "Gethsemane moments" may be less cosmic, but they are no less real. It is the white-knuckled prayer in the doctor’s waiting room. It is the choice to forgive the unforgivable offence, releasing the right to retaliate. It is the decision to worship, truly worship, when the ESKOM app pings with the news of another four-hour outage, and your small business is on the line.
This surrender is an active transfer of trust. It is taking the anxiety, the fear, the raging need to rule, and consciously, verbally, casting it onto Him. The Apostle Peter, a man who tried to control Jesus’ fate with a sword, learned this lesson deeply. He commands us: "Cast all your anxiety on him because he cares for you" (1 Peter 5:7). The word "cast" is a verb of force and intention. You don't casually drop your burdens; you hurl them. You wage war on worry by launching it onto the shoulders of the One strong enough to bear it.
The Peace that Powers the Pause
So, what happens in the surrendered life when the lights go out? You discover a generator you never knew was installed. The Holy Spirit becomes your divine inverter, humming with a peace that "transcends all understanding" (Philippians 4:7). Your external circumstances may not change immediately—the darkness remains, the traffic jam doesn't dissolve, the diagnosis is still serious—but your internal power source has switched from the fragile grid of self to the infinite reactor of Grace.
My peace was in the pause, not the pressure. In the loadshedding silence, I heard it: the whisper of the Conductor. I was reminded that my value, my purpose, and my provision are not wired to a national power utility or my own frantic productivity. They are secured by the finished work of Jesus Christ on the cross. My hands, once clenched in futile fight, are now open. And open hands can be filled. Not necessarily with my plans, but with His peace. Not with a change of circumstance, but with the changeless character of God.
Prayer:
Lord, in the grating roar of this world's chaos and the silent screams of my own anxiety, I release my raging need to rule. I wave the white flag of my will, and in doing so, I enlist in the victorious army of Your sovereignty. I rest in Your sovereign script for my life and for this nation. My hands are open, Lord; fill them with Your peace, not my perishing plans. Amen.
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