Perspectives on Faith: From Substance to Surrender

These are difficult times for those of us in the United States.  As a country we are increasingly dropping into the abyss of a fascist dictatorship.  We are under the control of a president who mistakenly believes he "owns" this country just as he owned his various companies as a business person.  He does NOT own  the US. We, the citizens, own it.  We will not allow him to bankrupt us as he bankrupted most of his businesses.  These times call for a depth of hope, faith and action like we have not experienced before. It is with these conditions in mind I offer a few thoughts about faith.

Faith is often spoken of as something solid—something we can lean on when the world feels uncertain. The writer of Hebrews captures this beautifully: “Faith is the substance of what is hoped for, the evidence of things unseen.” [1] It’s a picture of faith at its strongest, when belief feels grounded and hope rises naturally from that deep inner assurance. In this season, faith is not fragile. It has weight. It has texture. It has presence.

But faith does not always remain in that confident state. Life has a way of shaking foundations we once thought immovable. Circumstances shift, prayers go unanswered, certainties dissolve. In those moments, faith can begin to fray. What once felt like substance now feels thin. What once felt like evidence now feels distant.

It’s in this vulnerable space that another truth emerges:

Hope becomes the last vestige of a disintegrating faith. [2]

When faith weakens, hope doesn’t vanish. It lingers—quietly, stubbornly, almost defiantly. Hope becomes the final thread connecting us to what we once believed. It is the ember that refuses to go out, even when the fire has nearly died. In this stage, hope is no longer the flower of faith; it is the root that survives the winter.

And then comes the moment Kierkegaard describes—the moment of the leap of faith. [3] This leap is not taken from a place of certainty. It is not supported by substance or evidence. It is taken precisely when those things are absent.

A leap of faith is an act of courage in the face of unknowing.

You leap without guarantees.

You leap without clarity.

You leap without knowing how—or whether—you will land.

For Kierkegaard, this is the essence of faith: not certainty, but risk. Not assurance, but surrender. It is the willingness to step into the unknown because something within you insists that the leap is still worth taking.

When these three perspectives are placed side by side, they reveal a full emotional and spiritual arc:

•             Faith at its strongest gives rise to hope.

•             Faith under strain is held together by hope.

•             Faith in action requires a leap when hope is all that remains.

Together, they remind us that faith is not a static possession. It is a living journey—one that moves from confidence, to doubt, to the brave decision to keep going. And perhaps the deepest truth is this:

Hope is both the child of faith and its caretaker.

When faith is strong, hope blossoms.

When faith falters, hope holds on.

And when faith demands a leap, hope whispers, “Jump.”

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[1]  “Faith is the substance of what is hoped for…”

The Holy Bible, Hebrews 11:1.

(Traditionally attributed to the author of Hebrews; translation wording varies slightly by version.)

[2] “Hope is the last vestige of a disintegrating faith.”

Anonymous.

[3] Kierkegaard’s “Leap of Faith”

Kierkegaard, Søren. Fear and Trembling. 1843.

(Concept introduced in his exploration of Abraham, faith, and existential risk.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Doing Laundry and Folding Clothes

 Part Eight

It came to me while folding clothes: The Grass Is Always Greener on the Other Side of the Fence!  I am not certain why this age-old adage came to me this morning.  I found myself thinking about how many folks are caught up in that thought.  Someone else got the best job.  If I had the same tip so-and-so got, I could have cashed in.  Some folks get all the breaks. It seems easier to moan and groan than to just get on with life doing the best you are capable of doing.

I think it may have been one of the first sayings I remember hearing when I was just a youngster. Maybe I first heard it when I was about ten years of age.  Our family lived on two and a half acre piece of land just off Walker Road in Beaverton, Oregon. (The Nike complex is now located in that area.)  We were raising chickens, rabbits and goats, and selling the produce in the Portland Farmers Market.  Our goats kept sticking their heads through any fence to get at the grass on the other side.  It was probably my dad who first uttered the adage.

It may be because of that awareness that I have never been overly consumed with the notion that I was disadvantaged in any way.  Certainly, there have been others who excelled beyond what I might be doing, but good for them, I thought. People have made the comparison between their own lives and those of others they thought were more fortunate since the beginning of time,

• Ovid (Ancient Poet): Traced the idea in Latin as Fertilior seges est alienis semper in agris ("the harvest is always more fruitful in another man's fields").
• Robert Fulghum (Author): Famous for the counter-proverb, "The grass is greenest where it is watered," encouraging self-investment.
• Wolfgang Puck (Chef): Adapted this into "The grass is greener where you water it," emphasizing tending to your own relationships and life.
• Cecil Selig (Quote Attribution): Suggested the greener grass means others take better care of it, shifting focus to effort. 

It seems to me we each have our own options as to how we will attempt to guide our lives toward success and satisfaction.  How one person does it may offer a suggestion, but you still have to make your own way forward. Learn what you can from your experience and use it in your unique manner. I am reminded of the parable of the talents, Matthew 25:21, 23 NASB. "His master said to him, 'Well done, good and faithful slave. You were faithful with a few things, I will put you in charge of many things; enter into the joy of your master'".  And then, "Rejoice always, pray continually, give thanks in all circumstances; for this is God's will for you in Christ Jesus"  1 Thessalonians 5:16-18 NIV.

A final thought, apropos of nothing, it also came to me as I was folding clothes: I do not remember the last time I lost a sock in the wash!

 

Coping with Seasonal Affective Disorder

I do not remember if I have experienced Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD) before, but as we enter the darker days of the year winding through the Holidays, I certainly feel its weight this year.

This year feels different for many of us. Political and social upheavals have left us floundering economically and emotionally, casting a shadow of hopelessness. It feels like no action can restore the sense of well-being we once knew. These are difficult words for me to write. By nature, I have always been a mostly positive thinker, guided by faith, courage, and hope. I believe that taking responsibility for our lives empowers us to create success, comfort, and satisfaction. Yet, when discomfort and dissatisfaction arise, it can feel like a personal failure. This feeling of unfulfillment can open the door to a deep sadness — the kind that, when left unaddressed, becomes Seasonal Affective Disorder.

My sadness deepens with the realization that I may not have all the answers to navigate these desperate times. Yet, there is Light to be seen. I glimpse it — bright enough to keep me anchored to the bedrock of faith in a Power greater than my fear. But this view is not steady. While the Light never fails to shine, my vision of it is windswept and unsteady.

There is a part of me that knows the way will be shown. There is a part of me that clings by faith to the Light, ever shining through my clouds of fear and doubt. I will survive because there is no other choice. It is only a matter of reclaiming my natural belief in the power of Life to Live!

 Doing Laundry and Folding Clothes: Volume 7

Warm Laundry, Winding Roads

There’s something about folding warm laundry fresh from the dryer that invites the mind to wander. My hands move through the motions, but my thoughts drift elsewhere—into memories I rarely pause to explore during the rush of the day.

I think of family and friends, of moments that shaped me, and of the winding path that led me to the place I now call home.

These inner conversations are a gift. Most of the memories that drift into my mind settle with a gentle touch, like the warmth of the laundry itself—rich with the love of those who’ve shared my journey.

As with any journey, there are choices we make and forks in the road, each offering its own experiences. In the highs, and sometimes the lows, I find space to review and revise my feelings about what I’ve—hopefully—learned through the years.

Looking back, we may recall a time when someone else—or we ourselves—took a different path. That memory can stir a quiet sense of loss. I’ve faced several such junctures of major change. You probably have too.

But remembering those moments doesn’t mean we should have chosen differently. We can’t know whether our lives would have turned out better or worse. Still, reflection may offer lessons worth considering.

These are preliminary thoughts. They’re not finished.

As I contemplate where they may lead, I leave you to your own memories—of paths taken and roads less traveled.

May your journey be fruitful and richly satisfying.

 

Father’s Day 2025

                                                                                                                

                 

My father, Arthur Perin, was born March 6, 1898, in Connersville, Indiana, the eighth of twelve children.  He served as a member of the U.S. Marine Corps in World War I.  The only story I remember him telling me about his service when as a youngster came as I would ask, “What did you do in the war daddy?” He told of his ship being shot out from under them. He was able to grab a bit of floating debris.  Along came another marine, a rather stout man, who grabbed for the same debris.  Not a big enough piece for the two of them, my dad left to find something else to hang onto until rescued.  Obviously, he lived to tell the story!  The older I got, the more I wondered about the truth of the tale!  It made no difference; he was my hero in any case.

Dad was a jack of all trades and did well at most everything he tried. He made a set of chess pieces when I was about seven. They were fashioned on a lathe with the knights carved by hand.  I still have the set but am no better at playing than I ever was. He made many other hand-crafted works. The most ambitious items he crafted were four violins which were made in his 75^th year.  I arranged for those instruments to be donated to “The Last Repair Shop,” a part of the Los Angeles School District.  The students will repair them as needed and they will then be given to students who might not be able to have one otherwise.

My dad passed July 8, 1981, in West Salem, Oregon.  The older I get the more I wish I had lived closer so we might have shared more.