It comes down, I think, to control, to this annoyingly inherited, perversely twisted Puritan work ethic/guilt thing. We're so afraid not to have our hands on the controls, that we end up driving for driving's sake--no nod to navigation, to terrain, to gas prices, to the waste of energy. For some reason, it just feels *wrong* to let go, to see where we'll drift. We confuse movement with progress, but in the end, we're just wasting whatever resources we can get our hands on.
Faith, I think, and hope, were meant to float out there on their own. Perhaps it's high time we let go--even if that thought causes the swoopy anxiety not felt since childhood, holding a balloon, terrified to unclench your grip, convinced--even with the string wrapped around your wrist--that somehow the balloon will escape.
Or--maybe worse--lift us up along with it.