Walking Backwards into the Future

Written By Noah Armbruster

Trusting God in the In-Between

New beginnings are often framed as exciting, fresh starts, clean slates, and optimism. January invites us to believe that hope should come easily, that forward motion should feel energizing. But when I think about new beginnings, I don’t always think about excitement. I also think about loss.

For me, January is less about rushing forward and more about looking back. It’s a time of holding what has been, the beauty alongside the pain, love alongside sorrow, and gratitude alongside grief. That holding involves tension, and at times, it can feel overwhelming.

There is a Māori proverb that has helped me name this posture: Ka mua, ka muri, “walking backwards into the future.” It describes moving forward while facing what is behind you, allowing memory and history to guide your steps into what you cannot yet see. You do not deny the past or romanticize it; you carry it with you as you walk.

Scripture reflects this same wisdom. When the Israelites left Egypt, they did not step directly into the Promised Land. They stepped into the wilderness. Exodus tells us that God did not lead them “by the way of the land of the Philistines, although that was near,” but instead by a longer road — one that required trust (Exodus 13:17–18). God went before them in a pillar of cloud by day and fire by night, never leaving His place among them (Exodus 13:21–22).

The wilderness was not punishment; it was formation. God did not give Israel the full map, but He did promise His presence. Each day, He provided manna, “daily bread” that could not be stored or controlled, only received (Exodus 16:4). Later, Moses would remind them that God led them this way “to humble you and test you, to know what was in your heart… that He might teach you that man does not live by bread alone” (Deuteronomy 8:2–3).

I resonate deeply with this story. This past year has held significant transition, returning home after building a life elsewhere, walking through vocational change, and beginning a new year without clear answers. There are parts of my life I’ve left behind that I cannot return to, even if I wanted to. Like Israel, I sometimes feel the pull of what was familiar, even when I know God is calling me forward.

I recognize this wilderness feeling most clearly in quiet moments, in stillness, in silence, or when I see people I love living lives I’m no longer near. Even now, I often feel like a fish out of water, unsure of where I fully belong. And yet, faith here doesn’t look like confidence. It looks like remembering. Like looking back and naming where God has already shown up.

Perhaps this new year finds you in a similar place, standing between what was and what will be. If so, Scripture invites us not to rush past this space, but to attend to it.

You might ask God:

  • Where have You already been faithful in my story?

  • What have You delivered me from, even if I still grieve what was lost?

  • What daily provision are You offering me right now?

  • What would trust look like today, not for the whole year, but for this step?

Faith in the wilderness is often built through baby steps, not big declarations. It is learned by walking, sometimes backwards into the future, trusting that the God who has been faithful before will be faithful again.

Prayer

God of the journey,

Teach us to trust You in the in-between.

Help us remember Your faithfulness when the path ahead feels unclear.

Give us courage for today’s step, humility to receive daily provision,

and grace to believe that You are with us, even here.

Amen.

A New Year Blessing

As we step into this new year, whether with hope, hesitation, grief, or quiet courage, may you know that you do not walk alone. May God meet you in your questions, steady you in your uncertainty, and gently provide what you need for today.

May this year hold moments of unexpected kindness, deepening trust, and small graces that remind you that your life is seen, held, and treasured, even in the wilderness.

And from all of us at Revoice, and from me personally:

Happy New Year.

We’re grateful you’re here. We’re walking this road with you. And we’re believing, slowly, honestly, and together, that God is still writing a good story.

Noah Armbruster

Noah Armbruster is a Christian (Queer/Gay) He/Him who writes at the intersection of faith, sexuality, trauma, and belonging. He has spent years navigating what it means to love Jesus honestly while holding a sexual identity that has often been misunderstood or rejected in Christian spaces. Noah has served in ministry and nonprofit leadership, worked cross-culturally, and is deeply passionate about helping the Church become a place of safety, truth, and grace for LGBTQ+ people and their families.

Through writing, Noah seeks to name pain without losing hope, to honor faith without denying complexity, and to tell the truth in ways that invite humility rather than debate. His work is shaped by personal experience, spiritual reflection, and a commitment to staying tender in places where it would be easier to harden.

“My journey regarding the intersection of faith and sexuality has been marked by a deep love for Jesus and deep confusion about where I belong. I grew up believing that faith required certainty and conformity, especially when it came to sexuality. Naming myself as gay didn’t lead me away from God; it led me into an honest wrestling with Him. Over time, I’ve come to see that faith isn’t about resolving tension, but about remaining present within it. My sexuality isn’t something I’ve overcome, but something I now carry with humility, grief, gratitude, and trust, trusting that God doesn’t wait for clarity to meet me, but enters into the middle of the mess with tenderness and truth.

I began sharing my story through writing because it became one of the only places where I could speak honestly without being immediately corrected, debated, or dismissed. For much of my life, my story was talked about rather than truly heard. Writing gave me space to slow down, to name my experiences carefully, and to offer language to others who may not yet have words for their own journeys. I write because silence nearly cost me my faith, and because being heard, even quietly on a page, has been one of the ways God has held me together.

I hope my writing helps readers feel less alone and less ashamed, especially those who love Jesus but feel caught between faith and honesty. I’m not writing to persuade; I’m writing to accompany. If my words help someone breathe more deeply, soften toward themselves, or trust God with just one more unanswered question, then I’ve done sacred work. I want to create space for complexity without abandoning conviction, and for tenderness without losing truth.

For Revoice’s Our Voices Blog, I’m most passionate about exploring spiritual trauma, belonging, intimacy, and what it means to remain faithful without erasing any part of oneself. I care deeply about how language shapes shame or healing, how theology takes root in real bodies and relationships, and how the Church can become safer without becoming shallow. I’m drawn to stories that live in the gray spaces, where obedience, grief, desire, and hope all meet and hold hands.” — Noah

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