What kind of person am I becoming,
as the days come and go,
each one unfinished?
I thought I’d be more by now—
more generous, more faithful, more whole.
The year begins, and I make my plans,
but still, I falter.
I look up to people like Elijah,
bold and broken,
a man who said there would be no rain
and lived with the weight of it—
three years of hiding,
fed by ravens,
living on trust alone.
Faith costs something.
It isn’t polished or easy.
It’s leaning when you want to stand.
Holiness is not a perfect story.
It’s not filtered or clean.
It’s raw and real.
It’s lying on the body of a dead boy,
grieving, asking hard questions,
crying out to God,
and waiting for the breath to return.
At Mount Carmel,
Elijah didn’t strive.
He let the prophets of Baal exhaust themselves,
then called for water,
prayed simply,
and trusted God to show up.
The fire came.
It always comes,
not to the strong
but to the dependent.
I will never be enough.
Not for the widow who lost her son,
not for the crowds watching Elijah,
not even for myself.
But holiness doesn’t ask for enough.
It asks for faith,
for trust,
for the courage to take the next step.
Holiness is being set apart—
not perfect,
but different than before.
It’s trusting that God is
who He says He is,
and living like it’s true.
So I ask again—
what kind of person am I becoming?
The one who says, “I trust You.”
Original message preached at The Bridge church Macquarie Park NSW
The Afterword 
Leave a comment