I think of faith, and it feels like a pulse beneath the skin.
Not loud.
Not something you can point to.
Just the quiet certainty that what we hope for is already alive, even when the eyes see nothing.
This is how they lived, those who came before us.
They stepped forward into places they could not see.
They believed a voice that spoke before time began.
The world was called out of nothing, from what no hand could hold.
I remember Abel, whose blood still sings.
Enoch, who walked with God until the earth could no longer keep him.
Noah, hammering wood while the sky stayed clear.
Abraham, leaving the warmth of the known, set up tents in a land that was only his by promise.
Sarah, laughing at the thought, then held laughter itself in her arms.
The dying blesses the living.
The bound blessing the free.
The exiles blessed the land they had never touched.
Some saw seas open.
Some saw walls crumble.
Some silenced the mouths of lions.
Others felt the weight of chains, the teeth of the saw.
They wandered deserts, hid in caves, clothed in skins, strangers, the world was not worthy of.
And all of them died still looking forward,
eyes lit by a promise that waited for us too.
So here we are, surrounded by their presence,
their stories still breathing in the air around us.
We let go of what weighs us down.
We shake free from the sin that clings like a shadow.
We run, slow and steady, breath after breath,
our eyes on Jesus.
He is the one who began this faith.
He is the one who will bring it to completion.
For joy beyond the grave, He endured the cross.
He bore the shame and broke its hold.
And now He rests in light, at the right hand of God.
Scribbling Theology 