THE LINC COLLECTIVE

Scriptures

Genesis 11:31–32; Genesis 12:1–9; Proverbs 29:18; Hebrews 11:8–10; Hebrews 12:1; 1 Corinthians 2:9; Colossians 1:27; Hebrews 13:8; Romans 8:28

Look What We Have

It is easy to build a life around what is missing. We notice the opportunity we did not receive, the prayer that has not yet been answered, the resource we do not possess, the door that still appears closed. Comparison trains our eyes to scan the room for lack. Fear keeps a running inventory of all the reasons we cannot move forward.

But the Gospel gently, boldly, and continually redirects our gaze: look what we have.

We have Jesus. We have the unshakeable presence of God. We have grace for today, mercy for this moment, the Holy Spirit within us, and a future held securely in the hands of the Father. We have not been abandoned to the uncertainty of life. Christ is in us, “the hope of glory” (Colossians 1:27). The world may promise rest through a location, a salary, a relationship, or a holiday, but true rest is not found in a place. Rest is found in a Person.

Genesis 11 tells us that Terah, Abraham’s father, set out from Ur toward Canaan. There was movement. There was intention. There was a destination. Yet when they came to Haran, they settled there. Haran was meant to be a stop along the way, but it became a permanent address.

There is a holy question in that passage: Have we settled in a place where God only intended us to pause?

Not every season of waiting is a season of inactivity. Biblical waiting is not passive resignation; it is active trust. It is the posture of a heart that remains available to God. Sometimes we call our delay “preparation,” when in reality it has become procrastination. Sometimes we call it “wisdom,” when it is actually fear wearing spiritual language.

God is gracious with us in those places. He does not shame us for being tired, wounded, or uncertain. But His grace is never merely permission to remain stuck. Grace comes with an invitation: Rise. Trust Me. Take the next step.

When the Lord called Abraham in Genesis 12, He did not hand him a complete map. He gave him a promise: “Go… to the land I will show you.” Abraham did not receive every detail before he obeyed. He received enough light for the next step. Faith is not recklessness; faith is responding to the word of God. It is placing the weight of our obedience upon the reliability of His character.

Many of us want God to show us steps five through ten before we will take step one. We want certainty before obedience, resources before movement, and guarantees before surrender. Yet often the details become clear only on the other side of obedience. God says, “Go,” and then He shows. He calls, and then He provides. He leads, and then He reveals the path beneath our feet.

Abraham’s journey also reveals a beautiful rhythm: he pitched his tent, and he built an altar. The tent spoke of availability. Abraham did not root his identity in temporary ground. He lived as a pilgrim, aware that God was leading him somewhere greater. The altar spoke of worship. At every stage, Abraham remembered who God was.

We need both in our lives: tents and altars.

We need tents—a willingness to move when God moves, to release comfort when calling requires courage, and to hold earthly things with open hands. Comfort is not evil, but it is a poor master. It can quietly persuade us that “fine” is enough. Yet we were not created merely to be fine. We were created to be formed by faith, alive with purpose, and responsive to heaven.

And we need altars—regular places of remembrance where we declare, “God has been faithful. God is faithful. God will be faithful.” An altar is built when we worship in uncertainty, forgive when we have been wounded, give when it costs us, pray when answers seem delayed, and choose hope when cynicism feels easier. Every altar reminds our soul: Look what we have.

We have a God who is the same yesterday, today, and forever. We have a salvation that does not expire. We have promises that cannot be cancelled by our circumstances. We have access to the Father through Jesus Christ. We have a cloud of witnesses cheering us onward. We have a calling that is bigger than our comfort and a legacy that reaches beyond our lifetime.

Abraham was seventy-five years old when he stepped out from Haran. His age did not disqualify him from beginning again. It is never too late to obey God. It is never too late to forgive, to dream, to build, to serve, to begin the conversation, to start the business, to pursue healing, or to respond to the whisper of the Holy Spirit. The question is not whether we have all the strength we think we need. The question is whether we will trust the God who calls us.

Your history may explain where you began, but it does not have the authority to dictate where you finish. In Christ, inherited patterns do not have the final word. Family pain, past failure, disappointment, addiction, fear, and limitation may be part of your story, but they are not the author of your story. God is writing something deeper. He can use even broken crayons to colour again. His grace does not wait for perfection; it meets us in weakness and makes us strong.

Perhaps today you feel like you are “fifty-three for seven”—surrounded by pressure, watching options disappear, unsure how things will turn around. Do not panic. Jesus has already gone to bat for you. He has defeated sin, death, shame, and the enemy’s accusation. You are not fighting for victory; you are moving from the victory of Christ.

So do not confuse movement with progress. Do not settle for polishing a life God is calling you to surrender. Do not wait for every detail. Put distance on your feet. Build an altar. Pitch your tent. Take one obedient step.

The promised land may still contain giants, but the presence of God goes with you. And when you walk with Him, your life becomes more than survival—it becomes a witness. Look what we have: a faithful God, a living hope, and a call to move forward.