The question, “You of little faith, why do you doubt?” from Matthew 14:31b, pierces the stillness of this morning’s spiritual struggle. Why, I ask myself, do I harbor this doubt? Is it a sign of too little faith, or perhaps an excess of skepticism? I begin to resolve this internal debate by reframing doubt not as the antithesis of faith, but as its precursor.
Doubt, in its truest form, is the active, intellectual engagement that tests every claim before it is accepted. If faith were merely belief without question, it would be fragile, easily shattered by the winds of cynicism. Genuine faith is consequently what remains, solidified and strong, after doubt has finished its work. When Christ addresses us, he is not condemning our doubt; he is pointing to a moment where his character and the powerful context of his life should have already satisfied the heart’s deepest questions. The doubt, therefore, should be the “little” because it deliberately ignores the overwhelming evidence of his character.
The obstacle we face is that we are often raised to adopt a default skeptical setting where everything is suspected of being a trick, a con, or having a hidden angle. This mental conditioning is a necessary survival mechanism in our modern, complex world. The healing of the blind, the walking on water—these acts stand as an ultimate violation of our learned physics and ingrained cynicism. Our logic vehemently demands that these stories be discarded. Indeed, most of the world believes they didn’t happen, prompting the constant return of the question: why should we?
And yet, a few of us persist in believing. Why does this profound skepticism, which rules our everyday lives and shapes our interactions, suddenly yield when confronted with these ancient, impossible claims? The answer, I realize, is that we cannot isolate the spectacle from the speaker. The belief in the miracle does not stand alone, divorced from reality; rather, it is anchored entirely in the credibility of the character who performed it. If, for instance, a stranger on a street corner offered to sell you an invisibility cloak, you would immediately doubt, precisely because the stranger’s life and moral standing offer no context for such a fantastic gift.
But with Christ, the miracles are not standalone parlor tricks; they are authentic, necessary extensions of his moral authority. The teachings of radical, sacrificial love, the constant commitment to the marginalized and the sinner, and the world-altering sacrifice become the unshakeable framework that ultimately makes the impossible entirely believable.
“Maybe, just maybe,” I muse, “we also desperately want to believe that such goodness exists.” This desire is not a weakness; it is a necessity. In a world saturated with corrosive cynicism, hate, and despair, the affirmation of a power capable of defying death and walking on water serves as the much-needed counter-narrative. It offers a glimpse of an objective, transcendent goodness—a reality where love is manifestly more fundamental and enduring than hate. We commit to this path of belief not because it is intellectually easy—it is often far harder—but because it aligns with a deeper, irresistible longing for justice, love, and redemption that we intuit should exist. The faith, consequently, is sustained because it offers a necessary hope: the certainty that there is indeed a better and brighter path.
Mark 9:
23 Jesus said to him, “If[a] you can believe, all things are possible to him who believes.”
24 Immediately the father of the child cried out and said with tears, “Lord, I believe; help my unbelief!”