“We have come to share in Christ if we hold firmly till the end the confidence we had at first.” Hebrews 3:14

I remember as a kid, listening to the story of the Israelites wandering around the wilderness for 40 years, searching for the The Promised Land–a place only something like eight days away. I remember thinking how goofy and whiny and ignorant they were spend so much time and emotion attempting to get to a place that was so much closer than they realized.

The people of Israel led by Moses complained because things weren’t going the way they had expected. So they had a much easier time believing that the slave life they came out of was more palatable than the life of freedom and abundance that God had committed to them. The work to get there was laborious and what was promised to them wasn’t real enough. Not as real as the food, comfort and provisions that were provided to them…as slaves…without freedom. Provided to them (and certainly on occasion taken away) on someone else’s terms.

So, many of them–in their bitter uprising and refusal to let God do things His way in the process, never got there. Because they never believed (3:19)

“What stubborn and simpleminded boneheads,” my adolescent (and surely older) self thought. My present self, though? I look at what these Israelites went through. Then I look at my own story. And then I get very…sometimes VERY…anxious. Because I’ve been that Israelite. I’ve passed up rest and beauty for shackles and extra work and pain and time.

There’s one particular “Promised Land” in my life that I LONG to long for. Notice, I didn’t say I…long for. Because if I really desired it so much, it wouldn’t be such a battle for me to stay on the course to get there. I want to want it. No, this particular “land” was never exactly promised to me, but I do believe it’s a territory I could one day arrive to. I do believe it’s a place God desires incredibly for me to be. And certainly, whether I ever get to the tangible part of that land or not, there’s the intangible heart place of rest and peace and…softness…that I also long to long for that comes with holding fast to my confidence and hope in the living God.

At various levels of urgency, I’ve pursued this rest for many years. I’ve never stopped trusting the heart of God, but there have been countless instances where my unbelief has kept me from rest. Has my heart experienced seasons of less pliability through this? Surely. Has it ever been hardened? In His great mercy, I can say it hasn’t. At the truest gut-level that I’m able to contain, I don’t know that I’ve ever felt contempt toward God like the Israelites did. Contempt for myself? Daily. But I’ve never believed that God was holding out on me or treating me unfairly.

Dr. Jim Richards says “the deceitfulness of sin is hardness of hearts. A hard heart is incapable of hearing the voice of God because it’s become calloused and insensitive to him. A hard heart ultimately leads us into unbelief which prevents us from entering into His rest. Rest is the place where we have ceased from our own labors/strength and experience God’s grace (His ability). We don’t stop laboring, we just stop laboring in our own strength.”

And that, to me, is the essence of the rest Hebrews 3 reminds me that whole generation of Israelites never experienced. The rest that is so soft and sensitive to the Spirit’s voice that it hears the slightest sound, like a sleeping mother who hears her baby’s whimper 20 feet down the hall. The rest that makes me so secure because the connection is so evident–I can feel it. I can hear it. The rest that doesn’t have to strive for earning righteousness because I know it’s already there, and the strength that keeps me there is working. Because I trust God so much. And I trust Him so much because I know Him. And as long as I’ve known Him, He has always proven Himself faithful. Even in my sadness, loneliness, fear and hurt.

Please do it your way, Father. Without your promises, I have no assurance. Without your assurance, I have no reason to persevere. Without perseverance, I have no hope. Without hope, I have no rest.