HOPE WHEN FAITH FEELS FRAIL

The God who saw us across time and space knew how often our belief would cry out for help in our unbelief. And He wrote that into his story. He wrote in our weakness and our war. He wrote in our becoming and our being made—things that were always his job and not ours.

– seeanewthing.com

FAITH FEELS FRAIL WHEN LIFE IS HARD

My heart sank as I rolled over on the pillow. I had prayed the morning would be different but instead, it was darker than the night. Still tear stained. Still black. New struggles poured through the blinds faster than new mercies.

I started the shower and wondered if it would ever feel easier—why my faith seemed worlds away from the stories I’d known since childhood: David and Moses and Noah. My life didn’t look like that and maybe it never would.

Our stories don’t read like the ones we study. We don’t feel like Abraham, walking toward the promise. We don’t feel like Sarah, bearing a miracle or Joshua, encircling Jericho. We don’t resonate with people in Hebrews 11 who stopped the mouths of lions and conquered kingdoms and quenched fire. Those narratives mock our own small courage. 

It’s hard to imagine shutting the mouth of a lion when we’re bucking under ordinary life. We don’t see heroes in the mirror or faith that withstands flogging and mocking and chains. Instead, we see fear in the folds of our face. Unanswered prayers behind our eyes. We see missing miracles and dashed hope. 

The chasm between their conviction and ours can make us question where we got it wrong.

FAITH IS FORGED IN FIRE

When our prayers echo and fear stalks, we suspect that God made those people from different stuff and that our names don’t belong in that story—at least not without working or doing or being more. We read the hall of faith and resolve to try harder. We grit our teeth until we can’t, and we find ourselves back in the shower, slumped against the tile, wrestling our doubt. 

But there’s something we miss.

Nestled in Hebrews 11 between the descriptions of impossible things—between the heroes and giants and champions—is something quiet. Between enforcing justice, quenching fire, escaping the sword, and putting armies to flight, is this: people who “were made strong out of weakness,” and “became mighty in war”.^[1]Hebrew 11:32-34

Not giants, or superheroes, or born champions, but people forged in fire. Faith birthed through sighs and screams and tears, sweat and conflict and frailty. Stories of becoming. I don’t see Moses when I look in the mirror, but I recognize weakness. I can’t close the mouth of a lion, but I understand being trapped in a private war. And so does He. 

The God who saw us across time and space knew how often our belief would cry out for help in our unbelief.^[2]Mark 9:24 And He wrote that into his story. He wrote in our weakness and our war. He wrote in our becoming and our being made—things that were always his job and not ours. Do

OUR FAITH RESTS ON HIS FAITHFULNESS

Those buckling knees may be part of our making. That relentless fight may be our story of becoming. Our declaration of faith—our place in that cloud of witnesses—starts with whispering his name when we are slumped in the shower, and remembering that our faith rests on his faithfulness. Maybe He is just as pleased with that act of trust as when we quench fire.

We never know what will become of our battle from the middle of it. We don’t know what will be made in our weakness when we’re under it. But when the sea closes in, we’re not that far from Moses. When the lions roar, we’re not so far from Daniel. When darkness pours and words fail, He is less interested in us conquering kingdoms than He is in us calling out his name.