Reflections on Faith in Crisis

Dietrich Bonhoeffer once said, “Only by living thoroughly in this world does one learn to have faith.” This resonated with me, especially during times when faith shifts from being an abstract idea to something tangible and real.

I have a partner who exemplifies this understanding: my wife, Gracie. She has lived with a disability for most of her life. Hospitals and surgeries feel like second nature, not interruptions. Over time, suffering has transformed from just a concept to a place we know well.

There are others who share this insight as well. Take Joni Erekson Tada, for example. After a diving accident as a teenager, she became a quadriplegic. Her life has been shaped by paralysis, chronic pain, and illness—she knows suffering intimately.

During Gracie’s long hospital stay last year, Joni reached out.

While many asked about Gracie, Joni made it personal—she asked about me.

This wasn’t just a casual question; it carried weight.

I found myself pausing.

Such moments push aside surface-level introspection, demanding deeper exploration of one’s beliefs.

As we talked, I reflected on what has kept me grounded over the years.

There was a pivotal moment in our church when the pastor simply asked, “Christian, what do you believe?”

We didn’t scramble for the right words—we recited the Apostles’ Creed and the Nicene Creed together. No embellishments. There was no need to alter our beliefs to fit current times; just a clear declaration of what we hold true.

This question has lingered in my thoughts.

It has resurfaced repeatedly, particularly in difficult times where explanations feel inadequate. I’ve learned that sometimes “why” isn’t an answer that holds up well.

In those moments, beliefs transition from feelings to assertions—things to be tested, not merely summoned.

So, if Christ is indeed who I claim He is, what implications does that have for my life right now?

This wasn’t about mustering courage or determination; rather, I was assessing if my faith could endure the pressures that arise when beliefs are put to the test.

“Christian, what do you believe?”

With time, many of my earlier questions have boiled down to that central inquiry. Not because the pain has lessened or loss has become any easier, but because genuine beliefs clarify one’s sense of responsibility.

The apostle Peter encourages believers to be ready to share the hope within them. And this readiness isn’t about being articulate; it’s grounded in a solid understanding of your position.

As a new year unfolds, many caregivers experience only the usual routine, with reminders like deductibles and co-pays.

Some stand outside ICUs, gazing through glass at loved ones. Others navigate their own hallways of grief, facing varied forms of loss—all different rooms, but the same pain.

Bonhoeffer wrote from a place devoid of safety. His faith could not remain theoretical. Many know what it feels like to face a narrowed existence where life feels constrained, and the foundation begins to crumble beneath them.

Faith often emerges in those dark corners, though it’s rarely openly discussed.

Fatigue can dim our memories; words tend to escape us. It’s hard to recall beliefs when sleep is scarce and choices loom large. Yet faith isn’t just about memory. It’s about posture—where you stand when everything else feels shaky.

If the ground beneath you gives way, knowing your foundation is vital.

If He is Lord, He is Lord of all.

Not just in places of worship, but also in hospital corridors.

In moments of weakness, as well as strength.

In the unscripted times of life, as much as in the planned ones.

Such declarations don’t eliminate pain. Some losses simply can’t be reconciled. But they clarify where we stand when life presses in.

And when glass separates us from those we care about, the struggle shifts from being theoretical to profoundly personal.

So, Christian, what do you believe?