It’s easy to have head knowledge about things but until you actually do it, you never really can say you’ve experienced it. You also have no way to gauge your ability.

And as with anything else, while you may never forget how to ride a bike, you still get pretty rusty or fall behind the times. If I took a class on FrontPage in 1995 then claiming to be a web developer today would be worthless.

The same applies in living our faith first, but also in articulating our faith. You can hear the Gospel over and over again but it won’t be much good when topics of faith come up in conversation unless you’ve actually practiced.

That’s why I’m excited about the “Gospel Conversations” class.

I don’t experience any need to test my beliefs. I wouldn’t hold them unless I thought they were dead-on. Interesting how I think I’ve got the perfect balance, and the guys to the left of me and to the right of me are just wrong. And then something hits me that tests my beliefs for me. Unsolicited. Unwanted. Annoying. Producing high levels of anxiety. Causing me to run and cover my ears until the shrieking is over. But in the end it produces results. My beliefs shift, even to place where I’m wholly uncomfortable with them. And as I settle in to them, I delude myself once again that they’re perfect now, and the guys to the left of me and to the right of me are just slightly off, no matter that just one test ago I was to the right or the left of where I’m standing now.

The cognitive tests I can handle. I have this dogged resolution to solve a matter. I could never tolerate a software bug. When I find one, the game is on. I’m going to eradicate it. I will go after it with tenacity, scrutinizing every line of code, every bracket, until I find the rogue. And there is nothing more satisfactory then fixing it and have the annoying “error on page” disappear.
These other tests, the ones which test my beliefs beyond what I confess with my mouth, the ones that test the mettle, the ones that are aimed at transforming me (kicking and screaming) into the image of Christ, now those are the ones I dread.

But once again it all comes down to perspective, as you pointed out.

When I get a glimpse of what the test brings about, I don’t shriek as loudly at it. When I start to see that my short hour on earth is nothing compared to the eternity for which I’m being prepared, my perspective shifts. The shrieking of the test is still overwhelming, but I know it won’t last forever. And even if I feel devastated, with no reason or purpose to continue on in this life because of the severity of the test, my anxiety slowly turns to thanksgiving. Now that’s weird. It freaks me out a little.

But I start to see the Test-Giver, and instead of tapping his foot and checking his stopwatch, He is running along the sideline, cheering me on, believing with such optimism that I will not only make it, but win this race. And I take heart. After struggling with the All-good vs. the All-powerful, I suddenly see the All-wise, and that provides a rest that extends beyond logic and any set of beliefs I hold. In the midst of this test, God is good, God is sovereign, and God is wise. It doesn’t diminish the questions, but it increases the depth of the trust. I have a faint suspicion that this trust, wrought through tears and shrieking, which eventually results in surrendering (albeit sometimes angrily and resentfully), is what the test is all about.

And that’s when I say with an inner excitement, Bring it on! Go for it! Test away! I have such a short time for this relationship to be soldered before I’m thrust into eternity with Him, that I can’t afford to waste time. I need to know the All-wise. I need to develop this trust that will fill me with joy amidst the deepest personal sorrow. I want it. I’m going to go after it. So the game is on.

Maybe I’ll even test my smoke detector today.