Skip to main content

Trust and Belief in What is to Come


Sunrise in Northern New South Wales

The following is my sermon in St. Paul's Cathedral, Dunedin on Sunday April 28, 2019

When people speak of “faith”, what they usually mean is “belief”. So we talk of “believer’s baptism”, or when we want to enquire after someone’s relationship with God we ask, “do you believe in God?” and what follows next is usually a conversation about whether or not God exists. Faith is, in other words, about facts. It’s about the universe as we perceive it, and what happens or not as the case may be. But I think that when the New Testament talks about faith, it’s actually talking about something else.

The noun used in the New Testament is pisteuo, which means something like “I put my trust in”. So faith isn’t about belief, it’s about trust. It’s not about struggling to believe a whole lot of stuff which cannot be proven, but it is, rather, an attitude or a way of thinking about what we believe. If you’ll bear with me for a bit I’ll try and explain that. But to do that, I’ll need to take the scenic route.


A year ago, when he was 4, my grandson Noah came to me and asked “Pappa, is heaven before or after space?” A great question, don’t you think? He had just had his first encounter with the universality of death, and my daughter Bridget had reassured him by telling him about heaven. He needed, of course, to fit that in with what he knew of the universe, and  it seems that his world was his own version of a medieval layered cosmos.


He knew there was the ground, of course, and, above that, a layer where the clouds were; and above the clouds the sky; and above that was space, that wonderful realm where Luke Skywalker lives and where they have planets and aliens and stars. He was asking where this new layer fitted.

Now nobody had ever taught him this worldview, he’d figured it all out himself from what he had understood  and observed of what was going on around him, and a pretty good effort it was too - after all, for many hundreds of years a version of this schema was  believed by some very bright people.


There’s two things I want you to notice about the way Noah saw and understood the world. The first is, that what he believed about the world was not chosen. The universe presented itself to him, and, through his sensory systems he interpreted what was presented, and an organisation of all that data sort of fell into place. So it is for all of us. Our organising of the data and the consequent ideas we have about how the world is made and how it works are largely unconscious. We don’t choose to see the world the way we do, our worldview is circumstantial not chosen, and our beliefs about the world are very strong. For example, just yesterday I flew back from Australia on the A380, the big one which weighs in at about 500 tonnes. Now I understand perfectly well the theory of how planes fly, but walking past that enormous pile of aluminium I still can’t believe that it can get itself off the ground in Sydney and move at 1000 kph all the way to Christchurch – even when I’ve experienced it doing so dozens of times.


The second thing I want you to notice is that Noah’s beliefs are likely to change. In a few years at the most, Noah will exchange his layered version of the universe for another possibly more accurate one. This is something that will happen to him many times over in the course of his life. And again, this happens to us all.

For me, one such change happened when I was in my early 50s. One of my parishioners, Wes Sandle, who as many of you know is a retired professor of physics, made a deal with me. He came to my place every Wednesday and I taught him theology while he taught me physics. We did this for 3 or 4 years. I don’t know how much theology Wes ever learned, but he changed the entire way I perceived the world. He taught me, for example, that matter isn’t matter at all, but mostly empty space containing minuscule bits of stuff, which is probably not matter either, but is instead differing types of energies. He taught me things about the way those little pieces of stuff behave, which I assent to be true, but still can’t quite believe, but we don’t need to go into all that here, other than to say that the world was a different place for me after my conversations with Wes.


Now every time we adopt a new world view, we must give up the old one, after we first realise its shortcomings. So, our growth perception involves us constantly in doubt, then new understanding then doubt again. Doubt is a lifetime companion, in other words, and it is a necessary component of belief. And as we get older we begin to realise that we only ever answer one question by asking another two, and we realise that our beliefs about pretty much everything are, at  best, tentative. One of the marks of maturity is that, even though we come to have more and more knowledge, we believe less and less.


So, just to recap,  beliefs are not chosen and they are constantly changing.


Trust, on the other hand, is more likely to be conscious, and therefore chosen, and it can be constant.

The Universe is presented to us and we form our ideas about what it is and how it works, and then we evaluate it. We make a call about whether the world is ordered or chaotic, is threatening or benign, is good or bad. We make this judgement and hold this attitude to the things we believe. And this attitude is our faith. The New Testament invites us to adopt a particular faith: that is, an attitude to life and to the world we live in which is characterised by the life, death and resurrection of Jesus Christ. That is, we are invited to interpret the world as purposed, as loving, and as following the pattern of death and resurrection which marks Jesus’ life, death and resurrection.


Think about this morning’s Gospel. Thomas’ problem wasn’t about belief; after all, all the other disciples seem to have had trouble believing in the facts of the resurrection as well as Thomas. We are told, for example,  that when Jesus finally ascended into heaven there were some of the disciples who saw it and yet still doubted; or in other words, some who still couldn’t believe the evidence of their own eyes.

Thomas’ problem wasn’t one of belief it was one of trust.

If we follow his story in John’s Gospel we get a picture of a man who is increasingly disillusioned, and losing his ability to trust Jesus. For example, when Jesus and the disciples were across the Jordan and receive news of Lazarus death, Jesus says he is going to Judea, to which Thomas responds,  with an Eyeore like depression,“let us go so that we can die with him”. And at the last supper, Jesus says he is going somewhere and that the way is known. To which Thomas responds “Lord we don’t know where you are going, so how can we know the way?” [ sub text – and I don’t think you know where you are going either, and you seem as lost as we are]

It’s a picture of a man becoming more and more disillusioned, less and less trustful. That is, he is becoming less and less faithful. And as his faith in Jesus decreases so does his connection with the community of the disciples, until, when Jesus appears after the resurrection, Thomas is not even present.  What is restored by Jesus is not Thomas’ beliefs – though those, along with those of all the disciples,  certainly change – but his trust.

Faith is about trust, not about belief. Beliefs can change and vary and waver, sometimes by the day – by the hour, in fact -  but through all that we can be constant in trust – that is, in faith.


Now all of this is well and good, as we think of the Bible story, but I want to think for a bit about how it applies to a very personal issue. In fact, the same big issue confronted by the disciples after the resurrection, that is, Life and Death and how these relate.


All of us will probably, at some stage receive a significant phone call. Our GP will phone and say that very worrying phrase, “there’s nothing to worry about” and continue “can you come and see me first thing tomorrow and bring your spouse?” I’ve had four such phone calls, the last one being only a few  weeks ago. As many of you know, I have metastatic prostate cancer. That means that unlike many of you I can have a pretty good guess at what I’m going to die of and even, to some extent, when.  Every time I’ve had one of those calls and the illness has moved on to some exciting new development, I’ve had to face, again, my own mortality and been forced to ask myself “what is going to happen on that day when I close my eyes for the last time and step out of this 3 dimensional reality for ever?”


And the answer? I wouldn’t have the foggiest idea.

Now don’t get me wrong. I do believe in life after death. In the course of a long ministry I’ve sat with many people who were dying – on a few occasions, being present at the moment of death. Many people have shared with me their remarkable experiences of their loved ones after those loved ones have died. About half a dozen times people have told me of being declared clinically dead and then being revived and what happened to them during that process. On the basis of all that, I believe that my consciousness will survive the death of my body.

But what that will be like, exactly, I just don’t know. Oh sure, I’ve trawled through the Bible and read what it has to say on the subject, but actually it doesn’t say all that much. It’s not some sort of oversight on the part of the Holy Spirit. I think we are not told much because we are simply not capable of understanding.

Clemency has a metaphor for this. She compares our perceptions of the afterlife to the understandings of a baby in the womb. In utero the infant lives what must appear, to it, to be a full and complete life. From time to time some rumours of another world – sounds, movements, or perhaps emotions transmitted by its mother – make their way into its world, but how can it know what these are, or what they mean for the life that lies ahead? – about ice cream, and St Paul’s cathedral, and birds and the sea? It can’t know because it can’t even have a grasp of the building blocks out of which our perception is formed – light and dark, up and down, cold and hot and so forth.

In the same way that the baby emerges into this unimaginable world, I trust that when I die,  I will emerge from this life into another, as much bigger and fuller and richer and more complete, as is this life compared to life in the womb.


I don’t know, so I don’t believe much at all about the afterlife. But I do trust. I trust that God has given us, in Jesus Christ the best picture we are ever going to get of what lies at the heart of reality. That the life death and resurrection of Jesus Christ shows me what lies ahead- a reality marked by complete love and absolute understanding and acceptance. And just as the pattern of death and resurrection demonstrated in Jesus’ life seems to apply to every single thing in the universe, so it will apply to my own consciousness. At death I believe I am going to be in for a big surprise, and I trust that that surprise will be good. Very, very good.


So Jesus calls us to live a life of faith. That does not mean that he expects us to believe a whole lot of unprovable and improbable stuff. It does not mean he wants us to give assent to a long list of propositions. It means that he invites us to trust – That our lives have purpose and direction. That we are known. That we are held in a love which far, far exceeds our wildest imaginings. And that he means what he says when he tells us that he goes ahead to prepare a place for us.

Comments

Wonderful! Your perspective gives a realistic aspect to faith and trust. How hard it must be for those who only have their own observations to trust. I would say to those who look at faith and say, just try it, give it a chance - plant it in your garden of dreams. My hope for them is that from the seed of faith, trust will blossom. After all, what God offers is a free gift, if it proves a delusion then everyone is in the same boat and life goes on, but if it is true, as I know it is, it is rich beyond our wildest dreams. We have everything to gain and nothing to lose!
BrianR said…
Thank you for this, Kelvin. Amazingly, I had a similar conversation awhile ago with a retired English teacher n which we used precisely the same metaphor of the unborn child whose life is complete (as far as it goes) but who then enters on a realm of life she or he literally could never have imagined. Which is precisely what St Paul tells us: 'Eye has not seen, neither has it entered the mind of man, what God has prepared for those who love Him." We must picture heaven in terms of the only world we know (we cannot do otherwise), while at the same time recognising that it cannot be "literally" true. (I think here of the dream of the martyr St Perpetua of Carthage in which she pictured her death as ascending a ladder to meet the Good Shepherd.) My conversation with the reired teacher was in the context of discussing Lewis's 'Till We Have Faces', which ends with these words: 'I ended my first book with the words "No answer." I now know, Lord, why you utter no answer. You yourself are the answer. Before your face questins die away. What other answer would suffice? Only words, words; to be led out to battle against other words."

Popular posts from this blog

Camino, by David Whyte

This poem captures it perfectly Camino. The way forward, the way between things, the way already walked before you, the path disappearing and re-appearing even as the ground gave way beneath you, the grief apparent only in the moment of forgetting, then the river, the mountain, the lifting song of the Sky Lark inviting you over the rain filled pass when your legs had given up, and after, it would be dusk and the half-lit villages in evening light; other people's homes glimpsed through lighted windows and inside, other people's lives; your own home you had left crowding your memory as you looked to see a child playing or a mother moving from one side of a room to another, your eyes wet with the keen cold wind of Navarre. But your loss brought you here to walk under one name and one name only, and to find the guise under which all loss can live; remember you were given that name every day along the way, remember you were greeted as such, and you neede

Kindle

 Living as I do in a place where most books have to come a long way in an aeroplane, reading is an expensive addiction, and of course there is always the problem of shelf space. I have about 50 metres of shelving in my new study, but it is already full and there is not a lot of wall space left; and although it is great insulation, what is eventually going to happen to all that paper? I doubt my kids will want to fill their homes with old theological works, so most of my library is eventually going to end up as egg cartons. Ebooks are one solution to book cost and storage issues so I have been  using them for a while now, but their big problem has been finding suitable hardware to read them on.  I first read them on the tiny screens of Ipaqs and they were quite satisfactory but the wretchedness of Microsoft Reader and its somewhat arbitrary copyright protection system killed the experience entirely. On Palm devices they were OK except the plethora of competing and incompatible formats

Ko Tangata Tiriti Ahau

    The Christmas before last our kids gave us Ancestry.com kits. You know the deal: you spit into a test tube, send it over to Ireland, and in a month or so you get a wadge of paper in the mail telling you who you are. I've never, previously, been interested in all that stuff. I knew my forbears came to Aotearoa in the 1850's from Britain but I didn't know from where, exactly. Clemency's results, as it turns out, were pretty interesting. She was born in England, but has ancestors from various European places, and some who are Ngāti Raukawa, so she can whakapapa back to a little marae called Kikopiri, near Ōtaki. And me? It turns out I'm more British than most British people. Apart from a smattering of Norse  - probably the result of some Viking raid in the dim distant past - all my tūpuna seem to have come from a little group of villages in Nottinghamshire.  Now I've been to the UK a few times, and I quite like it, but it's not home: my heart and soul belon

En Hakkore

In the hills up behind Ranfurly there used to be a town, Hamilton, which at one stage was home to 5,000 people. All that remains of it now is a graveyard, fenced off and baking in the lonely brown hills. Near it, in the 1930s a large Sanitorium was built for the treatment of tuberculosis and other respiratory ailments. It was a substantial complex of buildings with wards, a nurses hostel, impressive houses for the manager and superintendent and all the utility buildings needed for such a large operation. The treatment offered consisted of isolation, views and weather. Patients were exposed to the air, the tons of it which whistled past, often at great speed, the warmth of the sun and the cold. They were housed in small cubicles opening onto huge glassed verandas where they cooked in the summer and froze in the winter and often, what with the wholesome food and the exercise, got better. When advances in antibiotics rendered the Sanitorium obsolete it was turned into a Borstal and the

Return to Middle Earth

 We had a flood, a couple of weeks back, and had to move all the stuff out of the spare bedroom, including  the contents of two floor to ceiling book cases. Shoving the long unopened copies of Sartor Resartus and An Introduction to Byron into cartons, I came upon my  copy of The Lord of the Rings . Written in the flyleaf are the dates of its many readings, the last one being when I read it aloud to Catherine, when she was about 10 or 11, well over 20 years ago. The journey across Middle Earth took Catherine and me the best part of a year, except for the evening when we followed Frodo and Sam across the last stretches of Mordor and up Mount Doom, when we simply couldn't stop, and sat up reading until 11.00 pm, on a school night.  My old copy is a paperback, the same edition that every card carrying baby boomer has somewhere on their shelves. The glue has dried and hardened. The cover and many of the pages have come loose. I was overcome with the urge to read it again, but this old