When I speak to Christ-followers, they will usually understand and “spot” me certain assumptions and positions. One usually startles them a bit. Faith is comprised of “stuff.”
Read with me the King James Version of Hebrews 11:1.
Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.
Faith is the substance. There’s “stuff” to it. It is the substance of the things for which we hope, like our dreams for example. Why is it so hard to “wrap your brain around” the notion that faith is something we can grasp and comprehend? And, as if that were not enough, faith is the proof, the evidence of that which we cannot see. Much like footnotes or endnotes in a scholarly paper, faith is the supporting proof that our assertions and our dreams are real.
I once taught an evening Bible Study for a class of fifth-graders on the subject of Hebrews 11:1. Fifth-graders. I drew a large circle with an “X” at the center on the board and then explained that this was Hebrews 11:1 illustrated. I explained to the class that they should imagine themselves seated at the “X” and we’re looking down on them from above. What surrounded them was the faith that they possessed and that faith was bounded by what they hoped for. The circle represented the limits to which they could hope based upon the amount of faith that was found inside the circle. Since faith was the substance of what they hoped for, the more faith, the wider the circle. And then I pointed them to Philippians 4:13 and we looked at Hebrews 11:1 using a little “reverse engineering.” In Philippians, Paul tells us that he can do all things through Christ who strengthens him. The realm of what’s possible for Paul would include all things. If that was so, I asked the fifth-graders how big would be Paul’s hope circle?
A hand immediately went up. A young man in glasses did not hesitate. “That circle would go to the infinite—it would go right off the board” due to Paul’s assertion that he could do all things through Jesus Christ, which would demonstrate his great faith. “Absolutely right,” I responded. “Precisely correct.” But then I turned to the class and asked them to work with me here for a moment.
I told them to go ahead and assume that we could see Paul’s hope circle for a moment and that we were able to conceptualize this infinite construct. I then drew a much smaller circle with a similar “X” at its center. I told them that you might know of someone in your class that comes to school each day from a different background or a different part of town, or has some struggles, and in fact may not have faith in God, or a great deal of faith in anything for that matter. The only thing he might be able to include in a hope circle is perhaps a roof over his head as he sleeps tonight, or a hot meal on the dinner table, or good weather as he walks home from school. His family may be separated or blended to a great degree.
He may include you as his friend somewhere in that hope circle, but he doesn’t have too much in there. In fact, his hope circle is incredibly close to him as he sits there on his “X” and it’s really easy to see beyond the edge of his hope circle. He can easily see beyond hope into the realm of hope—less—ness. I paused for a moment, and then asked a rhetorical question. “Is it any wonder why so many young people who are strangled by their individual hope circles today are hurting themselves, or worse, taking their own lives in suicides?” I looked at the class in front of me and asked, “Do you know of anyone like this in your class?” I saw exactly what I wanted to see. No hands were raised, but a group of fifth-graders’ minds were working hard thinking of such possibilities among their classmates who happened to sit nearby in their classrooms during the day.
Then I asked these same fifth-graders, “What should we do for this person? How can we help him?” A hand immediately went up. The same young man in glasses did not hesitate. “We should tell them about Jesus. We need to help them find some faith, to get that circle bigger around them.” “Absolutely right,” I responded. “Precisely correct.”
A child-like contentment with the world may lead that young man in glasses to go right out and tell his friends about Jesus. There’s something about a child’s wonder with creation that gives them an invincible, yet content posture when it comes to sharing their faith. No wonder Christ prefers the little children, “for of such is the Kingdom of Heaven.”[1]
If fifth-graders can grasp this concept of Hebrews 11:1 illustrated, then why do the rest of us struggle with the reality that faith has a substance? It has “stuff” to it. What keeps us from realizing this truth in order to point others, or perhaps even ourselves to greater faith? When did we lose the “child-like creation wonder” of matters spiritual?
When I see my visiting grandchildren, especially at Christmas, I see my family’s legacy, hope for the future, and love. But I look for and often find their child-like creation wonder and this brings me great joy. It’s the stuff of faith.
[1] With special thanks to Swenson, Richard A. Contentment: The Secret to a Lasting Calm. Colorado Springs: NavPress, 2013, and, of course, Matthew 19:14.