The Hidden Metric of Spiritual Progress
In our data-driven world, we've become experts at tracking progress.
Fitness apps count our steps, budgets track our savings, reading lists measure our learning.
Yet when it comes to spiritual growth (perhaps the most important development of all) how do we measure our progress? Are we truly growing, or are we kidding ourselves?
When we try to measure spiritual progress, we naturally look at the obvious ways like prayer frequency, meditation minutes, religious observances.
While thinking about this question I discovered a surprising insight that became my most reliable spiritual thermometer:
"How much do I complain to God about His creation?"
Let me explain what I mean.
The Perfect Creator Paradox
Here's where it get a little tricky.
If God is perfect (and I believe He is) then what does that mean for everything He creates?
Think about it logically: A perfect Being, by definition, cannot make mistakes. Cannot create something flawed. Cannot produce anything less than what He intends.
Which leads to the conclusion: this messy, painful, seemingly broken world must be... exactly as it's meant to be. This world is perfect.
I know how that sounds. Our minds might be rejecting this idea right now. Mine certainly did when I first encountered it.
When we read the news, when we experience personal setbacks, when life feels utterly unfair, "perfect design" is the last phrase that comes to mind. The world feels random, cruel and broken.
But what if the problem isn't the world—what if it's our perspective? What if we're trying to judge a masterpiece while standing two inches away from the canvas?
Let me share an analogy that helped me understand this...
The Game Designer's Secret
Think about the board game Snakes and Ladders for a moment.
From the game designer's perspective, it's perfect. It works exactly as intended. There's a start, a finish, wins and losses built right in. Players compete, face setbacks, climb up, slide down. Some win, some lose. All by design.
But while you're playing? Landing on that snake when you're three squares from victory feels terrible. Especially if you're six years old.
I remember playing Snakes and Ladders with my son. When he landed on a snake, he threw the dice and declared the game "unfair!" and thew the dice. Classic tantrum.
But when we play as adults, we just smile when we hit a snake. We might even laugh. We lose games and it's fine. We're not playing to win - we're playing to spend time together, to have fun, to create memories.
Same game. Different perspective. Different response.
Spiritual Tantrums
Just like my six year old son with the board game, I get frustrated when life doesn't go according to my plan. I land on snakes and call the whole system unfair.
But what if these moments of complaint are actually showing me exactly where I need to grow?
Every time I catch myself complaining to God, I'm seeing my spiritual immaturity on display. Not because the complaint is wrong, but because it reveals where I still don't trust the bigger picture.
When I complain about pain, I need more patience.
When I complain about uncertainty, I need more faith.
When I complain about loss, I need to understand impermanence.
When I complain about injustice, I need to see the longer story.
Each complaint is like a spiritual x-ray, showing me exactly where my trust is broken, where my understanding is limited, where my heart needs to expand.
The Quran reminds us:
"But perhaps you hate a thing and it is good for you; and perhaps you love a thing and it is bad for you. And Allah knows, while you know not." (2:216)
When Acceptance Doesn't Mean Passivity
Now, someone reading this might think: "So we should just accept everything? Never fight injustice? Never try to improve things?"
That's not what I'm saying.
There's a difference between accepting that the game has snakes and refusing to play. There's a difference between trusting the designer and being passive about your moves.
I can work to make the world better while also trusting that whatever happens serves a purpose I might not see. I can take action from love rather than from complaint. I can participate fully while holding the outcome lightly.
The Freedom in Fewer Complaints
I'm not perfect at this. I still complain plenty. But I notice that the more my spiritual practice develops, the faster I catch myself. The sooner I remember: this is all part of the design.
And when I remember that, something shifts. The complaint transforms into curiosity. "What am I supposed to learn from this? Which quality is this situation asking me to develop?"
The frustration becomes a doorway instead of a dead end.
So the next time you find yourself complaining to God about His creation, remember: You've just discovered your spiritual growing edge.
The complaint isn't the problem. The complaint is the teacher.
