Imagining Faith

One of the joys of this summer was fishing with my grandchildren. The youngest was quite content to watch the minnows and startle the frogs. The oldest had his line bobbing in the waves and would stare intently into the gloomy water, as if he could compel the fish to bite through sheer will. But the fish weren’t biting that day.  Still, fishing is a classic intergenerational activity—one captured so beautifully in a couple of Norman Rockwell paintings. His works often tell stories filled with nostalgia, sentimentality, and sometimes humour. At the close of one perfect day at a small fishing hole, filled with the distractions of frogs and minnows, a child turned to his grandfather and asked thoughtfully, “Why does it rain? Where do  the birds go when they die? Grandpa, does anybody ever see God”.  The old man paused over the hooks and line. He looked out at the colours of the gathering twilight, then down at the eager face of his grandson. A tear slipped onto his cheek, and something clutched at his heart. “Son,” he said, “it’s getting so I hardly see anything else.”
Some people have faith that is strong and deep. You can sense their calm and poise. They might echo the words of Robert Browning: “God’s in his heaven – all’s right with the world.”

But most of us look out at the world and ask: where is God in all this mess?
I once spoke to a paramedic who told me he’d seen good people die in horrifying ways. There are haunting images of suffering—innocent children killed in war, buried under crumbling concrete, millions left homeless, the weak dispossessed of all they had. Where is our loving God in all this?

It’s not surprising that many wrestle with doubt. I wonder if Abraham did too.
He was born in Ur of the Chaldees, in the ancient Middle East—a violent time in human history. Religion and cultural practice were brutal; parents might sacrifice their children to gods like Baal or Moloch. Who could live with such gods? Husbands had license to abuse their wives. Powerful men glorified war. As the historian  Thucydides wrote in the 5th century BCE, “The strong do what they can, and the weak suffer what they must.” Abraham, or Abram as he was then, was 75 years old when he felt an uneasy stirring in his heart. Leave this place, he felt—your home, your family—and start fresh in a new land. But was it really the voice of God? How could he know? What evidence was there that it would work out? Why should a rational person give up everything they know because of something stirring in their soul?

Abraham had been relatively successful in life, acquiring many possessions. But his family life, as we later learn, was complicated and flawed—full of intrigue and moral missteps. He deceived others about his wife Sarah and had a child with his maid Hagar. Still, one day, Abraham set out on an adventure. Do you know the difference between a journey and an adventure? A journey is when you know where you’re going. An adventure is when you don’t—but you go anyway.

It was the same for me, 56 years ago, when I landed at Pearson Airport as a teenager, bright-eyed and ready for whatever came next. For my parents, bringing me here was an act of faith. Faith is stepping beyond the edge of the light. Faith is taking the next step when the staircase is still in the dark. As the book of Hebrews puts it, “Faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the
conviction of things not seen.” Somehow, you trust that things will be okay.
The Danish theologian Soren Kierkegaard said that faith always involves a leap. You choose to trust, despite uncertainty.

Years ago, I visited Henri Nouwen at the L’Arche community in Richmond Hill. Later, I began receiving daily reflections from his writings. One thing you’ll discover about Nouwen is that he loved the circus. In that unlikely setting, he found powerful metaphors for faith. He was especially fond of the Flying Rodleighs, a troupe of German trapeze artists. Nouwen once asked the leader about what it felt like to fly through the air. The flyer explained, “I
must have complete trust in my catcher. The public thinks I’m the star, but the real star is Joe, my catcher. He has to be there for me with split-second precision. I just stretch out my arms and trust he’ll catch me.”
A flyer must fly. A catcher must catch. And the flyer must trust that his catcher will be there. Isn’t that how we live?
We swirl through life, often unable to see what’s ahead. We can’t prove the existence of a catcher. But we learn to stretch out our arms and believe we’ll be held.

We’re not grasping blindly in the dark. Perhaps we’ve experienced God’s trustworthiness for ourselves. Or perhaps we lean on the stories of others—the disciples, who staked everything on Jesus. We believe him when he says, “I came from God.” And at the end of his life, like a trapeze artist letting go, Jesus flung out his arms and cried, “Father, into your hands I commit my spirit.”

We are gripped by the story of his birth, life, teachings, death, and resurrection—and we say, “I must follow him.”
For many, the price is too steep. The rich young ruler was called to a new life and refused. Nicodemus, too, left confused. Many still turn away today, suppressing the voice that calls for moral courage or costly loyalty to Christ. They dismiss the message of the incarnation—God coming to us in Jesus—to show us how deeply we are loved. But that love is real. You are loved when you wake and when you sleep, when you work or play, when you live or die, when you succeed or fail. And when that extravagant love grips you—heart, spirit, and will—it transforms you. You commit yourself and your gifts, however great or small, to Christ and his way. You may even find yourself doing things you never imagined.

Biblical faith always leads to action. Hebrews gives us a roll call of the faithful. It doesn’t explain their theology; it simply tells us what they did:
Abel gave his best to God.
Enoch walked with God.
Noah built an ark.
Moses led a people to freedom.
Gideon, despite his doubts, obeyed.
David, flawed and broken, still sought God.
And Abraham left everything familiar to follow God into the unknown.
What would faith require of you?

It may mean sacrificial service—caring for others, supporting your church, or discovering a better version of yourself for the sake of the world. Sometimes, loving yourself is part of that call. Consider Ana Maria Trenchi de Bottazzi. She began piano at age two and gave her first recital in Buenos Aires at four. By eighteen, she was touring across five continents. By twenty-three,
she was a full professor in Tokyo. Then tragedy struck. A car accident left her with severe brain damage. Doctors said she would never play again.
She couldn’t even lift a plate. Her coordination was gone. But through years of painful recovery, her mother repeated a phrase: “What we are is God’s gift to us. What we become is our gift to God.” Gradually, Ana began to believe again. She imagined herself playing at Carnegie Hall. Sixteen years after the accident, she walked onto that stage, terrified. She sat down, prayed, and began
to play. For two hours, she poured herself into the music. When she finished, 2,000 people rose to their feet in a thunderous ovation. Overwhelmed, she
wept. And as she bowed, she whispered another prayer: “God, this is my gift to you.”

It doesn’t matter how public or quiet the act of service is. When Mother Teresa worked among the poorest of the poor, she said she was doing something beautiful for God. Faith enables us to participate in God’s vision for the world—and to feel the ache between that vision and our broken reality. Where do your gifts and the needs of the world intersect? That’s where you’ll find purpose. That’s where you’ll find joy.

Some have responded heroically. Like Dr. Ehab Bader, a neonatologist from London, Ontario, who volunteered in Gaza at the overwhelmed Shifa Hospital. Despite shortages and danger, he cared for the critically ill. A retired teacher tutors immigrant children. A mechanic offers free repairs to single mothers.
Jimmy Carter devoted time to Habitat for Humanity. Find a need. Meet it. Let that be your gift to God.

In the end, the response of faith always rests with you.