Posted May 11, 2026
Seventeen Americans who evacuated from a cruise ship hit with a deadly outbreak of hantavirus have arrived in the US early this morning. One had mild symptoms of the Andes virus; another tested “mildly PCR positive,” according to the Department of Health and Human Services. Officials continue to assure us that risks to the general public remain low.
In other news, thousands of schools in a dozen states were affected last week by an attack on a widely used digital learning platform called Canvas. The incident disrupted classes, coursework, and exams during finals week for many schools in this latest example of cybercriminals using AI for nefarious purposes.
Here’s what the two stories have in common: I don’t want to write about them, and you probably don’t want to read about them.
We can’t do anything about either threat, so we’d rather not think about them. We don’t want to contemplate the prospect of another pandemic, however low the risk, or the thought that we could be defenseless victims of a cyberattack.
However, as Tennessee Williams reminded us, “Not facing a fire doesn’t put it out.”
This is a principle that relates not just to the news but to our souls. As we’ll see today, facing such “fires” can be the best way to embolden our faith.
Jonny Thomson taught philosophy at Oxford for more than a decade and now writes full-time. In a recent post titled “Every generation loses its sense of loss,” he discusses what is known as “creeping baseline theory.”
As he describes it, a “creeping baseline” is “when we grow accustomed to the reality we have and where we normalize the world as it is.” We accept our losses as the new reality, often without even asking what happened to them. A forested field becomes a housing project; a longtime neighborhood diner becomes a fast food restaurant.
This reaction makes sense: Our world is changing so rapidly and constantly that we must decide which parts to care about. If we grieve every time a store goes out of business or a friend moves away, we’ll grieve all the time. Better to accept things as they are and forsake hope that only hurts.
Reading Jonny’s article, my thoughts turned to all the times and ways I have done the same with God.
When I became a Christian at the age of fifteen, I was assured that I could pray to the God of the universe and he would answer my prayers. I could ask him for guidance with decisions and help with problems. It didn’t occur to me in those days that he wouldn’t give me what I asked. After all, I was now his child and he was my Father.
Then came prayers that went unanswered, so far as I could tell. Unconverted friends remained unconverted, despite my intercession for them. My days often didn’t go the way I hoped, despite my morning “quiet time” with God. And the big one: my father died of heart disease at the age of fifty-five, despite my earnest prayers for his healing.
I struggled to understand my frustrations with God. But over time, I devolved from such questions into tacit acceptance. I grew a “creeping baseline” in my soul by which I lessened my expectations of God so as to lessen my disappointment when he did not do as I hoped.
I wouldn’t have put this sentiment into words, but sentiments are as real as words.
And sometimes more dangerous.
Isaiah 1:18 is one of my favorite verses in Scripture: “Come now, let us reason together, says the Lᴏʀᴅ.” “Reason together” translates a Hebrew word that means to “argue it out.” This is God’s invitation to struggle with our faith, to wrestle with him in our minds and hearts. If Jesus could cry out, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” (Matthew 27:46) and remain sinless (Hebrews 4:15), we can ask our hard questions as well.
To this end, I’ll close with five practical principles that have helped me over the years.
Some come from Satan, who wants us to question God’s word and will (cf. Genesis 3:1). Some come from asking speculative questions of a practical book (cf. 2 Timothy 3:16). But some are genuine and even inevitable from finite, fallen people seeking to understand God’s transcendent ways (Isaiah 55:8–9).
For years after my conversion, I thought faith questions meant a lack of faith. Now I understand that they are actually evidence of faith. Atheists don’t ask questions of God for the same reason you and I don’t ask questions of Zeus.
Our Lord invites us, “Call to me and I will answer you, and will tell you great and hidden things that you have not known” (Jeremiah 33:3). I have this verse framed on my desk where I can see it every day. I encourage you to claim it as well.
Our Lord speaks rationally through his word (Hebrews 4:12), practically through our world (cf. Acts 16:6–8), and intuitively through our worship (cf. Romans 8:16). He cannot always explain his ways to us, since he is omniscient and we are not. But he will tell us what we need to know when we need to know it.
St. Anselm (c. 1033–1109) coined the phrase, fides quaerens intellectum, “Faith seeking understanding.” All relationships require a commitment that transcends the evidence and becomes self-validating. Accordingly, we understand more of God by obeying what we already understand.
As a mentor taught me, we are wise to stay faithful to the last word we heard from God and open to the next.
When I practice the presence of Christ, seeking to commune with him through the day, my questions don’t always disappear, but I experience “the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding” (Philippians 4:7). The closer I am to him, the better I can sense his voice and hear his wisdom for my mind and heart.
When two disciples on the way to Emmaus shared their walk with Jesus, they said afterward, “Did not our hearts burn within us while he talked to us on the road, while he opened to us the Scriptures?” (Luke 24:32).
When last did your heart “burn” like theirs?
“To deny, to believe, and to doubt absolutely—this is for man what running is for a horse.” —Blaise Pascal
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