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At the ICS office, I’ve earned a reputation as something of a pragmatic realist. In meetings, one of my stock (however archaic) phrases is, “A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.” It’s my way of reminding us not to count as ours what is still only an unrealized possibility. While this realism has its place, by itself it risks keeping us from reaching beyond what seems immediately possible.
To move toward what is not yet realized—to dare something extraordinary—we need more than realism. We need hope and faith. We need the courage to believe that the ideals we long for, however distant, can truly come to life. Aware of this need, I try to keep my realism from collapsing into pessimism, and instead to encourage our team to imagine what can be done, rather than dwell on what can’t.
Of course, my colleagues will tell you I don’t always succeed. When I spend too long listing the obstacles before us, someone will inevitably nudge me toward a more hopeful view, reminding me that what we’re striving for may be closer and more achievable than I, with my habitually sober approach, can see.
Perhaps this difficulty explains why I’m especially drawn to Scripture passages that challenge our sense of what is possible. The verse from Mark above strikes me as one such passage. I’ve always struggled with it, especially the part about believing you have already received what you have asked for. Is Jesus telling his disciples to pretend they have received something they clearly don’t yet have? Or is more going on?
In the teeth of this question, I remember the advice of my late mentor, Henk Hart: wherever the New Testament says “believe,” try reading “trust.” That shift changes everything. Instead of convincing myself I already possess something I don’t, the passage now asks me to lean forward in trustful expectation, confident that such a posture can have a real, material effect on the world around me: Whatever you ask for in prayer, whatever you hopefully expect, trust that it can come to be, and it will.
The philosopher William James put it this way in his essay Is Life Worth Living?:
Suppose, for instance, that you are climbing a mountain, and have worked yourself into a position from which the only escape is by a terrible leap. Have faith that you can successfully make it, and your feet are nerved to its accomplishment. But mistrust yourself… and you will hesitate so long that, at last, all unstrung and trembling, and launching yourself in a moment of despair, you roll in the abyss. (59)
For James, faith is more than wishful thinking. It connects us to an enabling grace, the Spirit waiting to fill our wings if we let it. As he says, “You make one or the other of two possible universes true by your trust or mistrust.”
This way of considering faith came to mind recently when Guy Clark’s song The Cape came through my headphones. It tells of someone who knows “life is just a leap of faith.” As a child, wearing only a flour sack cape, he jumps off the garage roof believing he can fly. He carries that childlike faith into adulthood, and even when he’s old and gray he’s still jumping off the garage. While people may chastise him for “acting like a kid,” one simple truth remains: “he did not know he could not fly, so he did.”
How far is the distance, I wonder, between “He did not know he could not” and “He knew he could”? There is a slight yet important difference, for the former speaks of faith and even a certain naivety, whereas the latter invokes a certainty we only enjoy after the fact. But perhaps the more important contrast is between “He did not know he could not” and “He knew he could not.” For the former stance keeps the space of possibility open, whereas the latter forecloses on it pessimistically and fatalistically.
Jesus spoke these words about prayer right after his disciples saw the withered fig tree and marvelled. The whole scene takes place in the shadow of Jerusalem under Roman occupation, with Jesus overturning tables and confronting corruption, fully aware of the world’s darkness yet unwilling to concede that it is beyond redemption.
Today, too, we hear many voices—from Gaza to Ukraine to right here in North America—telling us that “resistance is futile.” If we trust that refrain, it will be. But let’s not presume to know that it is impossible to fight against the world’s injustice and corruption, and for its healing and restoration. If we do not know we cannot, then perhaps we will.
Shalom, friends!
Ron Kuipers
Read and interact with this reflection on Substack.
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