The Fatality of Familiarity

My grandparents’ 1930s house sat on brick piers with a shallow crawl space beneath it. When a train pushed through town, the whole house shook. The counterweight-balanced windows buzzed. The dishes rattled while the floorboards trembled just enough to let you feel the rumble in your chest.

      When my brothers and I were little and visiting, we treated every train like an event. We’d sprint across the front porch to look past the old icehouse down the road toward the tracks. We’d wave frantically at the engineer and count the cars behind him.

      Years later, when I moved in with my grandparents as a teenager, the magic had disappeared. A train would interrupt dinner, and no one flinched. Mid-sentence, we’d pause, sip coffee, smile at the timing, and pick up the conversation once the horn faded. When I was home alone, I hardly noticed the trains passing through.

      These days, when I visit and hear those horns blaring, it irritates me.

      Nothing about the train changed. I did.

      Familiarity reshapes us. It dulls what once startled us. It softens what once thrilled us. It trains us to live with the noise we once chased down the street.

      Sometimes familiarity is favorable. By growing resilient to hardship, we can learn to tolerate inconvenience. Other times, familiarity carries a darker edge. We can become blind to danger or desensitized to beauty. In the church, we can become so accustomed to the holy that we become careless in our reverence.

      A Christian can hear the gospel so often that it no longer shakes him. He can discuss the topics of grace with remarkable fluency and fail to feel its force. We can surround ourselves with Christian culture and allow Christ to fade into the background of our activity.

      Familiarity unchecked can be fatal.

Viewing the Miraculous as Monotonous

      The witness of history warns against spiritual numbness.

      Israel walked through the waters of the Red Sea. When they reached the other shore, they rejoiced over the Lord’s triumph with timbrels in their hands. Days later, they quarreled over water and complained about food. The God who split the waters became, in their minds, insufficient for the desert.

      I don’t think they ever began to deny God’s power. They just allowed themselves to stop standing in awe of God.

      As manna lay on the ground like dew, the people were sustained daily by the mercy of God. And still, the people groaned, “…Our soul loathes this worthless bread” (Num. 21:5 NKJV). What began with astonishment hardened into annoyance.

      If we’re not careful, the miracle of our salvation becomes monotony. It’s the same warning delivered to the church in Ephesus, which “abandoned the love you had at first” (Rev. 2:4 ESV). We do well to defend orthodoxy, but we must be cautious against dwindling awe.

When Wonder Wanes

      The Bible treats familiarity as a spiritual hazard. When holy things become common in our eyes, we begin to handle them casually. And when we handle them casually, we eventually distort them.

      Familiarity feeds pride. Our fallen nature craves affirmation. When we can articulate marvelous truths, we feel secure. We feel safe within the boundaries of our routines, even if our joy is tamped out. Knowing the language of Zion does not guarantee our hearts tremble before the Lord.

      Familiarity also breeds insulation. We grow comfortable within our circles, speaking in shorthand and assuming everyone understands. Meanwhile, a world desperate for hope gets neglected because the gospel that once stirred our urgency is content to sit politely in the corner of our lives.

      I am discouraged when the world rejects the gospel. But I’m bereft when God’s people grow used to it.

Recovering Our Wonder

      Nothing about the gospel changes. We do.

      The Son of God bore the wrath of God so that sinners like us could draw near. The curtain tore. Access opened. Hearts of stone were replaced with hearts of flesh. Calvary does not grow less costly with repetition.

      The train still roars down the tracks. The windows still rattle. The horn still overpowers conversation. But if you hear it long enough, you stop running to the porch.

      What if the greatest threat we face isn’t open rebellion? When wonder fades, witness weakens.

      Christ’s words to Ephesus provide a practical instruction: “Remember therefore from where you have fallen; repent, and do the works you did at first…” (Rev. 2:5).

      Remember. Repent. Return.

      Remember what it was like when grace first stunned you. Remember the weight of your sin and the relief of forgiveness.

      Repent of treating holy things lightly. Repent of settling for motion without affection.

      Return to the practices that once stirred your heart. Open the Scriptures slowly. Pray until you are aware that you’re speaking to the living God. Sing as one who has been rescued. Speak of Christ to someone who has never heard Him explained plainly.

      Ask the Spirit to make the gospel heavy again. Ask Him to restore the joy of His salvation amongst His people. Plead for protection and provision from ever growing casual again.