... And I hoped for things unseen

I believed in what I hoped for,
And I hoped for things unseen.
I had wings and dreams could soar;
I just don't feel like flying any more.

I think I'll start this weblog* off with a confession. It seems fitting, seeing as how journals are supposed to be a safehaven of vulnerability and soul-baring and other touchy-feely things. Well, the confession is this: I've created this log for two reasons, and both of them are terrible ones. The first reason is that I have a rather sizable take-home test that I really, really should be working on now. The more important an assignment is and the nearer it is to the due date, the greater lengths I will go to in order to avoid doing it. The second reason is that everyone else is doing it. Yep, I'm just that lemming-esque; everyone else has a blog, and I've been feeling technologically inadequate. Well, I'm glad to have gotten that out in the open! On to the tedious introspection.

*(Contrary to popular belief, this word is actually pronounced with a heavy emphasis on the second syllable, sort of like weh-BLOG. Consult Eddie or Chris for a more detailed explanation.)

Verse to ponder: Lamentations 3:22-24
Because of the LORD's great love we are not consumed,
for his compassions never fail.
They are new every morning;
great is your faithfulness.
I say to myself, "The LORD is my portion;
therefore I will wait for him."

I believe, in a far-off and detached sort of manner, that God is a Renewer: of my soul, of the world, of that wayward flock called humanity. But, to follow in the theme of confession, I admit that I struggle to connect my heart with this truth. I have a suspicion as to why this is. It's because renewal necessarily entails change, and in my flesh, change is the last thing I want. Change is frightening because it brings with it all sorts of unseemly possibilities like struggle, sacrifice, and uncomfortability. And so it is that I resist change, in my life and in my heart -- even at the expense of my own renewal. Is it any wonder, then, that I feel tired and dissatisfied? The unadorned truth of the matter is that change isn't comfortable, nor safe. There is no guarantee that struggle and sacrifice won't follow close on its heels. But then, the Spirit guides me to think on the life of Christ, on Him who was changed from the subject of ceaseless praise to the object mockery and derision, and whose glorious dwellingplace was changed into a lowly manger. Such a somber precedent makes it harder than ever for me to deny that change can bring pain, but it also shows me the full extent of the measures God takes to redeem those whom he loves. It also gives me hope that a willingness to endure change in my own life will be met with gracious rewards that exceed my comprehension. So, what's the hangup? Why am I still here engaging in self-gratifying rationalization and that ageless art of fence-sitting? It's not insecurity. It's not prudence, nor even hesitence. It's a lack of faith, masquerading itself as a fear of change.

"Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen." -Hebrews 11:1

The faithlessness of my heart is revealed to me when, as I dwell upon my eternal citizenship and my hope in Christ, I am neither assured nor convicted. I have ideas of heaven, and notions of fellowship with God, but they are tentative and fragile, and they seem all too good to be true. A heart that has been burned by disillusionment and frozen by apathy is naturally slow to accept such untainted notions as grace, paradise, and the sovereignty of a boundless God who knows and yet loves me. After all, such things fly in the face of everything the world has taught me. I'm simultaneously clinging to conventional wisdom and straining toward a reckless trust in God -- and only now am I coming to terms with the fact that I can't have both. When God calls me to change, he also calls me to choose. I'm faced with a choice between the comfort, reliability, mediocrity and placidness of the status quo, or the danger, hardship, glory, and freshness of the life he's laid before me. There comes a time for throwing caution to the wind, and all indications are that now is that time. I feel called to cast my hope on an unsafe God and to put my trust in an invisible glory. Will it be easy? I have no such illusions. Will it be comfortable? I hope not. Will it be glorious beyond all reckoning? Undoubtedly ... undoubtedly.

By the strength of the Lion's heart, by the grace of Him who makes all things new, I draw a breath and take the plunge. And so my life begins ... I'm going in.