When Faith Becomes a Crutch: Why “Thank You, Jesus” Isn’t Always the Answer to Chronic Illness

As someone living with chronic illness, I read a lot of other people’s blogs about it. Maybe that’s the writer in me, or maybe it’s just a mix of empathy and morbid curiosity. Either way, I notice a common theme: faith. People talking about how their faith pulled them through, how Jesus saved them, or how every single breath is proof of divine love. And look, I get it. Faith is a comfort. It gives structure to chaos. But when every other line is “Thank you, Jesus” or “God is good all the time,” I start to wonder—are we talking about healing, or are we trying to win a holiness contest? Because somewhere between faith and fanaticism, there’s a line that’s easy to cross.

Now, before the pitchforks come out, let me say this: I’m not anti-Jesus. The guy did good things. Technically, I guess I’m still Christian. Twelve years of Catholic school made sure of that. But let’s just say my relationship with organized religion is like my relationship with kale: I know it’s good for me, but sometimes it leaves a bitter aftertaste. My issue isn’t with belief—it’s with obsession. It’s when people hand over the wheel completely to God and forget they have their own steering to do.

Faith is essential, especially when you’re chronically ill. It helps us survive the kind of exhaustion that medicine can’t fix. It keeps hope alive when doctors shrug and say, “We’ll just have to see.” But faith was never meant to replace action. Studies on chronic illness and spirituality back this up—faith can absolutely improve emotional well-being and resilience. But when it turns into spiritual bypassing, when we start believing God will fix what we refuse to face, it becomes harmful. Research from Healthline and Psychology Today points out that people who rely too heavily on religious coping—like seeing illness as punishment or waiting for divine healing—often feel more guilt, anxiety, and even despair when things don’t get better. That doesn’t sound like spiritual health to me; that sounds like self-sabotage wrapped in a prayer shawl.

I’ve come to believe we’re here to learn lessons, and some of us just got handed the harder syllabus. If you came into this life with sarcoidosis, heart failure, or any other chronic beast, maybe the goal wasn’t to be rescued—it was to evolve. Think of it this way: if you drop your kid off at school and the teacher calls you every five minutes to help them with every math problem and every playground spat, your kid will never learn a thing. That’s what it’s like when people expect God to solve every little crisis. We’re supposed to struggle a little, fall sometimes, and learn to get back up. The higher power—whatever name you give it—isn’t there to catch us before every fall. It’s there to make sure we can stand again after we hit the ground.

I’ve spent enough days in hospital gowns to know that sometimes prayer helps, but sometimes what helps more is grit. And sarcasm. And coffee. I’ve prayed plenty—before procedures, after bad news, during those nights when breathing felt like trying to inflate a brick—but prayer didn’t fix my lungs. What it did was steady my mind long enough to make a decision. It gave me clarity, not cures. That’s what faith should do: remind us we’re not alone, not relieve us of responsibility.

I think about this often when I’m writing—because creative work and chronic illness are both exercises in surrender. You don’t get to control the outcome; you just keep showing up. And while I do believe in divine timing, I also believe in deadlines. Faith might whisper “trust,” but the manuscript still has to get written. The same goes for living with illness—you can pray for healing all you want, but you also have to take the meds, go to the appointments, say no when your body demands rest, and yes when life still offers something worth savoring. It’s not unholy to take responsibility for your own healing. It’s the most sacred thing you can do.

When I see people thanking Jesus for every sip of water, I don’t roll my eyes because I think they’re wrong. I roll them because I know they deserve more credit. Gratitude is beautiful, but it’s not meant to erase you from your own story. God doesn’t need constant applause; you need acknowledgment for surviving. Chronic illness isn’t a test of obedience—it’s an invitation to resilience. To rise, fall, and rise again. To cook a meal, write a sentence, hug your dog, and whisper, “I did it.” Not because God carried you every step, but because sometimes you carried yourself.

Maybe faith isn’t about expecting a miracle. Maybe it’s about realizing you already are one. And maybe, just maybe, God—or the universe, or whatever you call that force—isn’t watching to see how often you say thank you, but how often you choose to live fully, despite it all.

So yeah, thank you, Jesus. But also, thank you me. For showing up. For doing the hard work. For refusing to let illness or doctrine define the whole story. And if that makes me sound a little rebellious, then amen to that.

If this hit a nerve—or a funny bone—tell me about it in the comments. Has faith helped you, frustrated you, or both? And if you’re juggling illness and creativity too, subscribe below so we can navigate this wild, weary, holy mess together.