“Truly, I say to you, whoever does not receive the kingdom of God like a child shall not enter it.”

 – Mark 10:15

“Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have believed.”

– John 20:29

Your heart beat 100,000 times today. Your lungs, thanks to 300 million alveoli, breathed in 11,000 liters of air. This year, your mouth will produce enough saliva to fill two bathtubs, and as you read these words, your feet are actually hurtling through space at 67,000 miles per hour. 

Such are a few of the marvels that occur under our literal noses.

Before I could spell the word thermodynamics, I remember my dad introducing the relationship between science and my faith. From the rocks beneath my feet to the stars above my head, the earth told a mesmerizing tale of creation. There I was, caught in between, wrapped up in a cosmic story massively bigger than my own existence. 

Science was never something to be afraid of, but to face, to scrutinize, to ask questions of. This passion for data and logic put an interesting edge to the nostalgic, pensive streak I’ve had since childhood. When I consider the marriage of science and philosophy, mine doesn’t feel like a blind faith. It’s rooted in reason, in observation, in evidences of creation, and the historical veracity of the Bible.  

I recently took a rainy afternoon walk with someone I sincerely love. The conversation meandered to the afterlife. Out of curiosity, I asked them what it would take for them to have faith. The simplicity in their response surprised me more than it should have. 

“Jesus and religion and all that – they’re just beliefs. You can’t prove them. I’ve always been the type of person that needs you to show me.”

They spoke the truth. Despite lovely rows of facts, the weight of science, the beauty of nature, and history books filled with deplorable human behavior proving the point that man is a sinner in need of a savior – my faith is simply that. Faith. Unprovable, unseeable, at times unexplainable. 

In Mark 10:15, Jesus says, “Truly, I say to you, whoever does not receive the kingdom of God like a child shall not enter it.”

While I love having faith that is scrutinized and reasoned and mature, at the end of all things I must accept it as a child would. As a gift I did not earn. A reality I can’t rationalize. After all, it stands to reason that my finite brain can’t grasp a divine gift any more than it can grasp the existence of 3 trillion trees on earth or 100 billion stars in the Milky Way. 

Life will always introduce new doubts. To question is to be human. To struggle for understanding is to be alive. But the pursuit of faith without childlike belief is the equivalent of setting out to capture moonlight. It is nothing we can cage or bottle or carry in our hands, but its etherealness does not make it any less real. 

After Jesus’s death, the disciple Thomas refused to believe in Christ’s resurrection from the dead until he had touched the pierced hands and feet. Jesus’s response to him echoes down, down, down through centuries of doubt. “Have you believed because you have seen me? Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have believed.” (John 20:29)

I don’t sense the earth moving at rocket speed around the sun. I can hardly appreciate the strength of my heart muscle as it approaches its one billionth beat. I could never guess the sheer sum of trees on earth or stars in the galaxy. But I endeavor to believe without seeing. I endeavor always to accept it like a child.