Probably my favorite part of the night is when my wife softly sings hymns to our 4-month-old son. Somehow, I like to think my little boy is getting a taste of the joy that comes from having a relationship with Christ as described in those ancient lyrics.

“Great is thy faithfulness, morning by morning new mercies I see …”

But sitting at a lunch table with three other believers this week during our weekly men’s group meeting, an eavesdropper would’ve heard very little about joy and mercies. One guy discussed mounting medical bills and aggravation with aspects of his job; another noted his frustration and discouragement with his work in the ministry; and still another said he was so fed up with circumstances in his life that he and his wife just wanted to “pack up and move on.”

And I was right there with them, more so uninspired than anything else, just going through the motions of life. Where is this joy the hymn writers seem to know so intimately?

One of the guys told us about a friend of his. This friend, for the longest time, was antagonistic toward Christians. He was an intellectual and, from the sound of things, an incorrigible hedonist. Four months ago, he came to faith in Christ. He quit his job and began working two minimum wage jobs in a rough part of town – all so he could closely interact with people he wanted to reach with the gospel. “He’s on fire for God,” my friend told us.

In their latest conversation, this recent convert asked my friend in what ways he was being a servant.  Convicted, my friend couldn’t really answer him. Too busy just getting by, too selfish with his time to really want to get involved in the lives of others, he confessed to us at our meeting.

That pretty much sums me up, too. The dilemma I face is why is it so easy to fall into this same rut?  I can think of no greater discouragement in my walk with Christ than knowing intimately the pitfalls that lead to spiritual shallowness – an absence of a real prayer life, no serving of others, little to no devotional time, minimal time spent reading the Bible – and yet repeatedly finding myself in exactly those predicaments. In other words, what Paul touched on in Romans 7.

How is it that the same all-powerful, all-loving God who can save and embolden a foul-mouthed atheist lately doesn’t even inspire me to invite my next-door neighbors to church on Sunday?  Have I grown that callous? Why am I so easily discouraged, prone to extended bouts of indifference?

There’s practically an entire aisle in Christian bookstores devoted to the subject; the chaplain at the Christian high school where I teach expounds on the subject often at our weekly chapel services.

Still, for me at least, it too often seems an inner struggle, where answers aren’t so black and white the way I’d prefer they be. Strangely, I take comfort in knowing I’m not alone.

One of the guys in our group has had a specific prayer request for a while now. It’s something we’ve prayed for as a group often. The request has not been answered. Months have lingered on. The discouragement has become palpable. “I know He gives me grace to get through it,” my friend told us this week, “but that doesn’t mean I wake up every morning rejoicing about it.”

We offered our prayers to God, then left our group in much the same way we entered. A little unburdened, maybe, and more in touch with our brokenness than we were before, but still wrestling with feelings of apathy, disillusionment, even despair.

Later that night, as my wife put our son to bed, I heard her singing softly to him again as she cradled him peacefully in her arms.

“Prone to wander, Lord, I feel it, prone to leave the God I love …”

For a moment, I felt a kinship with the songwriter. That same night, I prayed that the same passion he must have felt for his Lord as he penned those powerful lyrics might soon be rekindled in me.