The spacious place is the place of safety. The place of deliverance. It's the feet-on-a-rock place. And it seems to me that so many are not sure that they're really in that place. I'm speaking of believers. For so many life just doesn't feel like a spacious place. They feel hemmed in, surrounded by the bulls of Bashan. The slightest move can start a stampede. Or they're caught in the fowler's snare, or lingering dejectedly in a slimy pit.
Tony Evans tells the story (in his book, The Promise) of buying a dog at the local pound. It had been mistreated by its previous owner, and when after having purchased it they tried to remove it from its cage, the poor pup cowered away from them, not wanting to leave its captivity. Evans likens this state to that of many believers. Their freedom has been purchased, but they cower in their cages, though the doors have been flung open.
We long for the outside. For freedom. For romping. For "living large." But can we trust this new owner? Is the offer for real? Because trust is the issue at the heart of all this, isn't it? Shall we trust God, or the lies of men?