A New Thing
There's something intoxicating about newness. We chase it relentlessly—new year, new job, new home, new relationship. We plaster "new and improved" on everything from laundry detergent to life philosophies. But somewhere between the clichés and the broken resolutions, we've become callous to what "new" actually means.
As we start a new year in a new space, I want to look at what God sees in a making all things new.
As we start a new year in a new space, I want to look at what God sees in a making all things new.
New Over Nostalgia
In Isaiah 43:16-21, God speaks to a people trapped in captivity. The Israelites find themselves under Babylonian rule, far from home, desperate for deliverance. And God does something fascinating: He reminds them of their greatest victory.
"Remember when I parted the Red Sea? Remember when I drowned Pharaoh's army? Remember when chariots and horses were swallowed by water and you walked through on dry ground?"
It's the equivalent of pulling out the highlight reel—the moment when everything was perfect, when God showed up in the most spectacular way imaginable. This was their golden era, their "back in the good old days" story.
And then God says something shocking: "Forget the former things. Do not dwell on the past."
Wait, what? You just reminded us of the best moment in our history, and now you're telling us to forget it?
Here's the thing about nostalgia: it can become a prison. When we anchor our hope in the past, we're not actually hoping—we're regretting. We're saying that the best has already happened, that God's greatest work is behind us, that we peaked somewhere back there and everything since has been a slow decline.
But hope only exists in the future.
"Remember when I parted the Red Sea? Remember when I drowned Pharaoh's army? Remember when chariots and horses were swallowed by water and you walked through on dry ground?"
It's the equivalent of pulling out the highlight reel—the moment when everything was perfect, when God showed up in the most spectacular way imaginable. This was their golden era, their "back in the good old days" story.
And then God says something shocking: "Forget the former things. Do not dwell on the past."
Wait, what? You just reminded us of the best moment in our history, and now you're telling us to forget it?
Here's the thing about nostalgia: it can become a prison. When we anchor our hope in the past, we're not actually hoping—we're regretting. We're saying that the best has already happened, that God's greatest work is behind us, that we peaked somewhere back there and everything since has been a slow decline.
But hope only exists in the future.
New and [Re]new
"See, I am doing a new thing," God declares. But the Hebrew word used here isn't quite what we think. The word חדש [ḥadash] doesn't just mean brand new, fresh out of the box, never before seen. It means renewed. Restored. Repurposed.
This is the difference between escapism and redemption.
Escapism says: "Let's pretend the past never happened. Let's wipe the slate clean and start completely over." Redemption says: "Everything you've been through—every hurt, every failure, every moment of pain—I'm going to weave it together for good."
My grandmother lived through the Great Depression and never wasted a thing. One of my favorite creations of hers were the rugs she would weave together using plastic grocery bags. What was trash becomes treasure. What was meant to be thrown away becomes something beautiful and lasting.
That's what God does with our lives.
This is the difference between escapism and redemption.
Escapism says: "Let's pretend the past never happened. Let's wipe the slate clean and start completely over." Redemption says: "Everything you've been through—every hurt, every failure, every moment of pain—I'm going to weave it together for good."
My grandmother lived through the Great Depression and never wasted a thing. One of my favorite creations of hers were the rugs she would weave together using plastic grocery bags. What was trash becomes treasure. What was meant to be thrown away becomes something beautiful and lasting.
That's what God does with our lives.
The Pattern of Restoration
Look at how God works throughout Scripture:
Joseph is thrown into a pit, sold into slavery, falsely accused, and imprisoned. And when he finally stands before his brothers years later as second-in-command of Egypt, he tells them: "What you meant for harm, God meant for good." The Hebrew word for "meant" literally means "to weave together." God took all those terrible threads and wove them into a tapestry of redemption.
Moses kills a man, flees to the desert, and spends forty years as a shepherd. When God finally appears to him in the burning bush, does He say, "Great, now you can stay out here in safety"? No. He says, "Go back to Egypt. Go back to the place of your pain. That's where I'm going to use you."
Elijah runs for his life, hides in a cave, and hears the still, small voice of God. And what does that gentle voice tell him? "Go back."
Even in Revelation, we're told that God will wipe away every tear—not that we'll forget we ever cried, but that those tears will be healed, redeemed, given meaning.
God doesn't erase your story. He completes it.
Joseph is thrown into a pit, sold into slavery, falsely accused, and imprisoned. And when he finally stands before his brothers years later as second-in-command of Egypt, he tells them: "What you meant for harm, God meant for good." The Hebrew word for "meant" literally means "to weave together." God took all those terrible threads and wove them into a tapestry of redemption.
Moses kills a man, flees to the desert, and spends forty years as a shepherd. When God finally appears to him in the burning bush, does He say, "Great, now you can stay out here in safety"? No. He says, "Go back to Egypt. Go back to the place of your pain. That's where I'm going to use you."
Elijah runs for his life, hides in a cave, and hears the still, small voice of God. And what does that gentle voice tell him? "Go back."
Even in Revelation, we're told that God will wipe away every tear—not that we'll forget we ever cried, but that those tears will be healed, redeemed, given meaning.
God doesn't erase your story. He completes it.
A New Covenant
When Jesus sat with His disciples for the Last Supper, He took the cup and said, "This cup is the new covenant in my blood." Not a completely different covenant that erases everything that came before, but one that fulfills and completes it. One that takes all the brokenness and makes it whole.
This is the promise of renewal: that nothing is wasted. That your pain can become your purpose. That your deepest hurts can become places of profound hope. That the worst chapters of your story aren't just erased—they're redeemed.
This is the promise of renewal: that nothing is wasted. That your pain can become your purpose. That your deepest hurts can become places of profound hope. That the worst chapters of your story aren't just erased—they're redeemed.
Beginning A New Year
As you step into whatever newness lies ahead—a new year, a new season, a new challenge—don't fall for the lie that you need to become someone completely different or that your past is just baggage to discard.
Instead, ask yourself: What are the places in my life that need renewal rather than replacement? What hurts am I carrying that God wants to heal and repurpose? What has been wasted that He wants to weave into something beautiful?
Because I believe in a God of restoration; Who takes pain and turns into purpose. He takes wasted moments and restores them into meaning. He takes our deepest hurts and transforms them into hope.
Not erasing them. Renewing them.
That's the kind of new that actually changes everything.
Instead, ask yourself: What are the places in my life that need renewal rather than replacement? What hurts am I carrying that God wants to heal and repurpose? What has been wasted that He wants to weave into something beautiful?
Because I believe in a God of restoration; Who takes pain and turns into purpose. He takes wasted moments and restores them into meaning. He takes our deepest hurts and transforms them into hope.
Not erasing them. Renewing them.
That's the kind of new that actually changes everything.