Faith

Faith is one of the most natural and yet most radical of human experiences. We exercise it every day in small ways—trusting the chair will hold us, the surgeon will be competent, the sun will rise. But Christian faith asks for something more audacious. It’s an invitation to step beyond the purely tangible, to build a life on a foundation that is felt in the soul before it is ever proven to the senses.

The Bible itself defines it perfectly: "Now faith is confidence in what we hope for and assurance about what we do not see" (Hebrews 11:1). It's not a blind leap in the dark; it’s a confident step into a reality illuminated by a different kind of light. Think of it like planting a seed. You hold a tiny, dormant object in your hand. You see no leaves, no trunk, no fruit. By all visual evidence, it is just a pebble of potential. Yet, you place it in the soil, water it, and trust that an unseen, powerful process will transform it into a towering oak or a nourishing vine. Faith is planting the seed of God's promise in the soil of your heart and tending to it, trusting the unseen power that brings forth life.

This was the faith of Abraham, often called the father of faith. He was asked to leave his home, his country, and everything he knew for a land he had never seen, promised to him by a God he was just getting to know. Later, he was promised a son in his old age, a biological impossibility by every known metric. His faith wasn't the absence of questions or the denial of reality. It was the choice to trust the Promiser more than the problems. He chose to believe that the God who created reality could also supersede it. This is the core of Christian faith: a deep, abiding trust in the character and power of God, even when circumstances seem to scream the opposite. It is an active, ongoing relationship, a conversation between our limited sight and God's unlimited vision. It’s an adventure into the heart of God, where the map is trust and the destination is a deeper reality.

In a world governed by transactions, where we get what we earn and pay for what we take, the Christian concept of grace is nothing short of a scandal. It's an idea so disruptive that it turns our entire system of merit, justice, and fairness on its head. Grace is unmerited, unearned, and unconditional favor. It isn't just forgiveness; it's a lavish, extravagant love bestowed upon those who have done absolutely nothing to deserve it.

Imagine a student who skipped every class, failed every exam, and was openly disrespectful to their teacher. On graduation day, they are not only saved from expulsion but are called to the stage and given the highest academic award. The straight-A students would be confused, even outraged. It isn't fair. This is the scandal of grace. It isn't fair by human standards; it’s a divine disruption. The central narrative of Christianity is that humanity, through its brokenness and rebellion (sin), is that failing student. Yet God, through the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus, doesn't just wipe the slate clean. He adopts us as His own children and gives us the full inheritance of His kingdom.

Jesus told a story to illustrate this, the Parable of the Prodigal Son. A younger son demands his inheritance, squanders it on a life of dissipation, and ends up destitute. Humiliated, he decides to return home and beg for a job as a servant. But while he is still a long way off, his father sees him, is filled with compassion, and runs to him. He doesn't lecture, he doesn't say "I told you so." He embraces him, puts a ring on his finger, and throws a massive party. The older, dutiful son is furious. "I've worked for you all these years," he complains, "and you never threw a party for me." The father's response reveals the heart of grace: "You are always with me, and everything I have is yours. But we had to celebrate...for this brother of yours was dead and is alive again." Grace isn't about rewarding good behavior; it's about celebrating the restoration of the lost. It's a love that defies logic and insists that your worth is not based on your performance, but on your position as a beloved child of God.

In our hyper-connected, notification-driven world, silence has become a rare and precious commodity. We are conditioned to seek noise, distraction, and constant input. This modern reality makes one of the most profound aspects of Christian faith—contemplative prayer—seem alien. We are comfortable with prayer as a form of speaking to God, presenting our lists of requests, thanks, and confessions. But what about prayer as a form of listening?

Contemplative prayer is the art of sitting in quiet communion with God, not to get something, but simply to be with Him. Think of the evolution of a deep friendship. In the beginning, the relationship is built on conversation, asking questions, and sharing stories. But as intimacy grows, you reach a point where you can simply exist in the same room in comfortable silence. Your presence is enough for each other. Contemplative prayer is learning to sit in that comfortable, loving silence with the Creator of the universe. It’s about tuning the radio of our souls past the static of our anxieties and to-do lists to the clear, quiet frequency of the divine.

This isn't a new or trendy idea; it's an ancient Christian practice. The Desert Fathers of the 3rd and 4th centuries fled the noise of the cities for the silence of the wilderness to better hear God's voice. Jesus himself modeled this, regularly withdrawing "to lonely places" to pray (Mark 1:35). Getting started is simpler than you might think. It doesn't require a monastery, just intentionality.

• Find a space: A quiet corner of your home, a park bench, even your car.
• Set a time: Start with just five or ten minutes.
• Still your body and mind: Take a few deep breaths. Acknowledge the thoughts that bubble up, then gently let them go without judgment.
• Focus on a simple anchor: You might repeat a single word like "Maranatha" (Come, Lord) or focus on a short scripture, like "Be still, and know that I am God" (Psalm 46:10). The goal isn't to empty your mind, but to fill it with a quiet, loving awareness of God's presence. In the silence, we stop telling God what we think we need and create the space to receive what He knows we truly need: Himself.

For many, the hardest parts of the Christian journey are the seasons of silence, suffering, and doubt. We are told faith can move mountains, but what happens when it feels like we can’t even move ourselves out of a valley of despair? What do we do when our prayers seem to hit the ceiling, or when a tragedy strikes that makes us question the very goodness of God? A sanitized, picture-perfect faith has no answer for this. But an honest, robust Christian faith not only makes room for doubt and pain—it can be deepened by it.

In Japan, there is an art form called Kintsugi.  When a piece of pottery breaks, it isn't thrown away. Instead, it is meticulously repaired with lacquer mixed with powdered gold, silver, or platinum. The philosophy behind it is that the object's history of being broken is part of its story, and the repair makes it more beautiful and valuable, not less. This is a powerful metaphor for the life of faith. Our moments of breaking, our questions, our anger at God, our doubts—these are not things to be hidden in shame. When we bring them to God honestly, they become the very cracks through which His golden grace can flow, creating a faith that is stronger, more resilient, and more beautiful than it was before.

The Bible is filled with these "broken hallelujahs." The book of Psalms is rich with laments, where the writer cries out in anger and confusion: "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?" (Psalm 22:1). Job, in his immense suffering, questions God's justice. Thomas, one of Jesus's own disciples, famously needed to see and touch the wounds of the resurrected Christ before he would believe. In none of these cases is the person condemned. Instead, their wrestling is recorded as a testament to an authentic relationship. Doubt is not the opposite of faith; indifference is. A living faith wrestles. It asks the hard questions. It allows for the full range of human emotion to be brought into conversation with God. A faith that has never been tested is a faith that cannot be trusted. It is in the valleys of suffering and the fog of doubt that we discover a God who is not distant and disapproving, but who is present, patient, and strong enough to handle our deepest questions.

When Jesus began his public ministry, his central message was about the arrival of the "Kingdom of God." But the kingdom he described was nothing like the empires of the world. It didn’t operate on principles of power, status, or wealth. In fact, it was a complete inversion of those values. It was an upside-down kingdom, a society with a radically different operating system.

Imagine a company where the org chart is flipped. The CEO's primary job is to wash the floors and make coffee for the interns. Success isn't measured by profit margins, but by generosity. Power isn't used to command, but to serve. This is a glimpse into the Kingdom of God. Jesus laid out its constitution in the Sermon on the Mount (Matthew 5-7). The citizens of this kingdom are the poor in spirit, the meek, those who mourn, and those who hunger for righteousness. Its core ethic is a radical, self-giving love.

• "You have heard that it was said, 'Love your neighbor and hate your enemy.' But I tell you, love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you."
• "If anyone wants to be first, he must be the very last, and the servant of all."
• "Blessed are the merciful, for they will be shown mercy."

Living as a Christian is about learning to live as a citizen of this upside-down kingdom while our feet are still planted in the right-side-up world. It’s a constant re-calibration of our instincts. The world says accumulate, Jesus says give. The world says seek revenge, Jesus says forgive. The world says climb the ladder of success, Jesus says descend it in service to others. He demonstrated this most profoundly himself. As the Apostle Paul wrote, Jesus, "being in very nature God, did not consider equality with God something to be used to his own advantage; rather, he made himself nothing by taking the very nature of a servant" (Philippians 2:6-7). The King of this kingdom rules from a place of ultimate humility—a cross. To follow him is to embrace this paradox: that true strength is found in weakness, true greatness is found in service, and true life is found in dying to ourselves.

While Christianity is a faith of the heart, it is not a faith of the imagination. It doesn't ask its followers to believe in fairy tales or abstract philosophies. At its core, Christianity makes a stunning set of historical claims. It posits that God became a human being, lived in a specific place (1st-century Palestine), did and said specific things, was executed by the Roman government, and physically rose from the dead three days later. These are claims of history, and they invite historical investigation.

Thinking of it like a legal case can be helpful. What is the evidence?

• Documentary Evidence: The New Testament documents. Scholars have a massive number of early manuscripts of the New Testament—far more than for other classical works like those of Plato or Caesar—allowing them to reconstruct the original texts with incredible accuracy. These documents contain multiple, independent accounts of Jesus's life and the events surrounding it.
• Eyewitness Testimony: The writers of the Gospels and the letters in the New Testament consistently claim to be, or to be recording the testimony of, eyewitnesses. They didn't just believe Jesus rose from the dead; they claimed to have seen him, eaten with him, and touched him. Critically, many of these same people went on to suffer persecution and die brutal deaths, not for a general principle, but for their specific claim that they had seen the resurrected Jesus. People will die for a belief they think is true, but they are far less likely to die for something they know is a lie.
• Corroborating Evidence: Non-Christian historians from the era, like Tacitus and Josephus, confirm the key pillars of the story: that there was a man named Jesus, he was a teacher, he was killed by Pontius Pilate in Judea, and his followers, who were scattered after his death, soon regrouped and began spreading a belief that he had risen from the dead—a movement that rapidly expanded across the Roman Empire.

This intellectual and historical bedrock doesn't "prove" Christianity in a mathematical sense, but it demonstrates that faith is not a blind leap. It is a reasoned trust in a God who has acted in verifiable, space-time history. It means that Christian hope is not wishful thinking. It's grounded in an event: the resurrection. This event is the anchor, suggesting that the claims Jesus made about himself, about God's love, and about the promise of eternal life are not just a beautiful story, but a profound reality. Faith and intellect are not enemies; they are partners in the journey toward truth.