Stop Chasing the Snake

On Healing, Justice, and the Wounds Only God Can Restore

A monk once said:

“Imagine being bitten by a snake, and instead of focusing on healing from the poison, you chase the snake to understand why it bit you and to prove that you didn’t deserve it.”

Most of us don’t need that story explained. We recognize it immediately.

We’ve all been bitten in one way or another—by betrayal, abandonment, misunderstanding, misuse of power, or love that failed us. And instinctively, we turn outward. We replay conversations. We revisit memories. We analyze motives. We imagine finally saying the right thing that makes it fair.

We go after the snake.

Not because we’re vindictive, but because we’re human. Somewhere deep inside, we’re trying to get something back.

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When we chase the person, the story, or the explanation, we’re not really looking for revenge. We’re looking for restoration. We want the loss acknowledged. We want the imbalance corrected. We want someone—anyone—to name what was wrong and make it right.

That instinct isn’t sinful. It’s ancient. It’s the instinct for justice.

But here’s the quiet tragedy: while we’re chasing what hurt us, the poison keeps working. The nervous system stays inflamed. The heart stays turned outward. Our interior life slowly organizes itself around the wound.

We don’t heal.
We circle.

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Trauma trains us to do this.

It teaches us that understanding will save us. That closure comes from confrontation. That if we can just get the other person to see, then something inside us will finally settle.

And sometimes clarity does help. Sometimes truth matters deeply. Christianity is not opposed to truth-telling.

But there are wounds where no explanation is sufficient. Losses where no apology restores what was taken. Injuries where even justice, if it came, wouldn’t actually heal us.

At some point, we have to admit something harder:

There are things only God can repay.

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Scripture knows this tension well.

The psalms cry out for justice without apology. The prophets refuse to minimize injustice. And Jesus himself tells the story of a poor widow who keeps knocking on the door of an unjust judge—not because she’s powerful, but because she has nowhere else to go.

She doesn’t have leverage.
She doesn’t have protection.
She doesn’t even have a plan.

She has persistence—and the belief that justice must come from outside herself.

That’s the turning point.

Healing doesn’t begin when we stop caring about justice. It begins when we stop trying to carry it alone.

“And will not God give justice to his elect, who cry to him day and night?
Will he delay long over them?
I tell you, he will give justice to them speedily.”
— Luke 18:7–8

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This is where the Christian idea of atonement quietly enters our healing story.

Atonement names something we often avoid: some wrongs are too deep to be balanced by human exchange. No apology can resurrect what died. No explanation can restore the years the locusts ate. No confrontation can undo certain kinds of loss.

Who can repay it?

Not you.
Not them.
Only the Lord.

“I will restore to you the years that the swarming locust has eaten.”
— Joel 2:25

Until we understand this, forgiveness feels impossible—or worse, immoral. It feels like letting someone off the hook. Like denying the seriousness of what happened.

But forgiveness, in the Christian sense, isn’t forgetting and it isn’t excusing. It’s relocating justice.

It’s saying: This mattered so much that I will not pretend to resolve it myself.

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When we keep chasing the snake, we stay bent toward the ground—toward the wound, the story, the other person. But healing requires a different movement.

It requires us, at some point, to look up.

To entrust the unanswered “why,” the unresolved anger, the confusion and grief, into hands capable of holding them without destroying us. Not because God dismisses our suffering—but because He alone can absorb its weight and return something life-giving in its place.

This is why forgiveness is never just psychological. It’s theological.

It’s not saying, “What happened didn’t matter.”
It’s saying, “This mattered too much to let it keep poisoning me.”

“For God alone my soul waits in silence;
from him comes my salvation.
He alone is my rock and my salvation,
my fortress; I shall not be greatly shaken.”
— Psalm 62:1–2

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Resurrection doesn’t come from chasing what hurt us.

It comes when justice is finally lifted out of our clenched hands and placed where it belongs.

Not because the snake is suddenly harmless.
Not because the story makes sense.
But because healing begins when we stop drinking the poison—and start turning toward the only One who can make all things new.

If this reflection resonated, you’re not alone—and you don’t have to walk this path in isolation.

I share ongoing reflections on healing, faith, psychology, and the interior life across a few different spaces. You’re welcome to stay in touch and follow along wherever it’s most helpful for you: 👉 https://linktr.ee/drseantobin

That’s where you’ll find my Substack, social channels, and other ways to stay connected as this work continues to unfold. Glad you’re here.