Substance and Evidence
A tropical storm was on course to crash our annual family and friends vacation. It was roughly two days out, and already the sea was choppy and the winds brisk. After nightfall, we grabbed some flashlights and made our way to the pier just off the pool area located inside the gated community we would call home for the next few days.
The pier was long and railless. In the darkness, illuminated only by a sliver of moonlight, it seemed to stretch out into infinity. Someone, I’m sure it wasn’t me, decided we should walk out to the end of it.
The seven of us ambled down the wooden slatted walkway. I moved carefully hoping there were no uneven boards waiting to trip me up. When we reached the end we gazed out into the ocean. By day, the illusion of endlessness is created by water stretching out farther than the eye can see. By night, the blackness of the ocean sprinkled with moonlight and the star-studded sky meet each other so that you can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.
We turned and looked back toward the shore. Somewhere off in the distance a wad of clouds held the lightning captive so that it flashed inside them like a firefly caught in a glass jar. Between each iteration of strikes, the clouds were barely visible. When the electrical pulses fired, the cluster looked like a great mound of glowing cotton candy in the sky.
“I yike yite-ning,” my three-year-old-grandson said. His voice held the awe and wonder we all felt.
“Me too,” said Gigi.
“Me too,” said I.
“Me three,” said my grandson.
We all laughed then fell silent lost in the display before us and the sensation of being suspended in the nothingness while a light show played out just for us.
“Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.”
Faith is substance and evidence. Yet, the happenings of this life seem designed to destroy both. So many things I’ve prayed for, believed for, have not come to pass. I’m left with the feeling that a rug has been pulled out from under me. Or a pier.
Among the who’s who of the faithful listed in Hebrews are Noah, Abraham, and Moses. Giants indeed. Their monumental accomplishments set a precedent that’s hard to live up to. Further down the list, I stumble across a name that doesn’t seem to belong, Samson. A man driven by anger and desire with a penchant for riddles who gets himself into one mess after another. How did he make it into faith’s Hall of Fame?
“And what more shall I say? I do not have time to tell about Gideon, Barak, Samson and Jephthah, about David and Samuel and the prophets, who through faith conquered kingdoms, administered justice, and gained what was promised”
Is it possible that when it’s all said and done God will take my fumbling, feeble attempts at this faith walk and list them among the exploits of the greats? Will the great love he has for me truly cover my multitude of sins so that when my story is told only the good remains?
I turn back to the passage the words familiar and new all at the same time. There were those who were tortured, stoned, imprisoned, sawed in two. I picture them, like the three Hebrew children when they were about to be thrown into the fire, saying, “Our God is able to deliver us, but if he doesn’t…we won’t bow down.”
My heart is pricked when I remember the times that God did not respond as I believed he would, as I believed he should. I’ve bowed down to fear, disappointment, and shame. The “why’s” can be crippling.
There have been many times in my life when I’ve been surrounded by a dark angry sea. Often times I wrestle with doubts and unanswered questions. It can seem as though the nothingness will swallow me whole. But like the pier beneath my feet that night, the truth I stand on is the substance that sustains me when the waters around me churn. Though I can’t always see it, even the clouds that come into my life hold the evidence that God is powerful and present.
I still have unanswered questions, but I’m learning to trust the pier I stand on and to look for the lightning in the clouds.
The pier at Port St. Joe, Florida.