-By Ayushman Sinha
Oh, how I bow my humbled head,
To the Almighty, whom all things have wed,
Beyond all science, beyond all law,
The source of life, in silent awe.
Unseen by eyes, yet deeply known,
In every heart, His seeds are sown.
The endless spark, creation’s breath,
He reigns in life, transcends in death.
No formula binds, no mind defines,
His boundless power, pure and divine.
In quiet faith, to Him I yield,
The mystery of love revealed.
To Thee, O Infinite, here I kneel,
In wordless prayer, my soul I seal.
Beyond all worlds, yet close to me,
My heart bows down eternally.
In a world humming with the sound of data, debates, and digital chatter, I find a quiet sanctuary within myself—a connection to something boundless, eternal, a presence beyond the reach of science, argument, or fact. My bond with God is a tapestry of faith woven through experiences and feelings that defy the constraints of logic. It’s personal, unshakeable, a steady beacon that offers comfort in moments of solitude and hope when despair seems close. And yet, I encounter voices, often those of my peers, who dismiss this connection, who trivialize the notion of faith, insisting that in this age of reason, there is no room for such belief.
Many thinkers, such as Søren Kierkegaard, saw faith as the “leap” beyond reason, a leap that is by nature irrational yet essential to our humanity (Kierkegaard, Fear and Trembling). Faith, as Kierkegaard argued, is not the absence of doubt but rather the willingness to believe even when doubt looms large. This conviction—this choice to trust beyond the tangible—is my own form of resilience. My faith does not align itself with superstition or dogma, yet it does not shrink under scrutiny or disparagement. I do not ask for proof, for as the philosopher Immanuel Kant contended, faith resides not in the realm of science but in “the starry heavens above and the moral law within” (Critique of Practical Reason).
It intrigues me how, for some, faith appears to be something to dissect and dismantle, as if stripping it bare would reveal some hidden fallacy. “Prove your God exists,” they say, seeking evidence where none can be found, for God is not a formula to solve or a hypothesis to validate. I do not seek to impose my beliefs on others or demand they share my convictions. I ask only for the same respect, the freedom to believe as I choose, to walk my path without scrutiny, without the compulsion to justify. And yet, my faith is treated with suspicion, labeled as superstition, cast aside as archaic. But is it so incomprehensible that I find solace in something beyond the tangible world? That I seek comfort not in dogma, but in an omnipresent presence that transcends human understanding?
There is, in the criticism I face, an irony so sharp that it cuts through the conversations around me. Those who claim to champion freedom of thought seem unwilling to extend that freedom to my faith. The very ones who pride themselves on intellectual independence often recoil when my convictions run contrary to their own, as though my belief somehow threatens theirs. George Orwell once observed that "all animals are equal, but some animals are more equal than others," and sometimes I wonder if freedom of belief is rationed in this way too (Animal Farm). Is there not room enough in this world for both faith and reason, belief and skepticism to coexist without hostility?
The existence of God, I believe, lies beyond the realm of scientific inquiry, for He is not a phenomenon to be measured or a construct to be understood. The very fabric of science and technology, the laws that govern the universe, the particles that dance through creation—all are, in my heart, His design. This reflects the sentiments of Albert Einstein, who once remarked, “Science without religion is lame, religion without science is blind” (Einstein, Out of My Later Years). To demand proof of God’s existence through science is akin to expecting a painting to explain the mind of its painter. How can the created fully comprehend the creator? To me, it is in the mystery, in the unknowable, that God resides. If every aspect of God could be reduced to numbers, theories, or equations, then perhaps He would no longer be worthy of worship. Faith, in essence, is not a science; it is an embrace of the inexplicable, a trust in something we can neither fully understand nor explain.
There is a question that often lingers in my thoughts: if we are but chemical reactions, as some would suggest, how then can we trust our own thoughts, our own beliefs, our sense of self? This mirrors C.S. Lewis’s argument in Miracles, where he explores the reliability of human reasoning in a materialistic worldview. If we are merely the product of evolution, of chance, then what is the foundation of our values, our dreams, our hopes? It is my faith that grounds me, that assures me there is a purpose, a meaning to my existence. In the face of a world that insists on randomness and chaos, my faith offers a path, a purpose, a quiet whisper that reminds me that life is more than mere survival.
Death, too, takes on a different shade when viewed through the lens of faith. To me, it is not an end, not a final curtain drawn, but a transition, a passage to something beyond. The promise of an eternal existence, of a continuation beyond the physical, grants me peace. John Milton, in Paradise Lost, once wrote of “the shadowy shores of Death,” and I feel my own faith moving beyond that shadow, guiding me toward the hope of something more. And while I may not be able to articulate or prove what lies beyond, my faith allows me to embrace the unknown with courage, to face the mysteries of existence without dread.
There are those who would dismiss my beliefs as naive, who see faith as a crutch, a refuge for those unwilling to face reality. But I see faith as strength, as a light that guides me through the shadows, a shield that protects me in times of hardship. It is not an escape, but a foundation, a source of resilience that allows me to endure. My faith does not blind me to the world’s struggles or shield me from its pains; rather, it offers me a way to navigate them, to find hope amidst despair, to believe in goodness when the world seems lost.
Why, then, should I be asked to prove my beliefs? I ask nothing of others; I do not demand that they share my faith or adopt my views. I respect their right to doubt, to question, to search for answers in their own way. And yet, I am met with skepticism, with demands for evidence, as if my faith must justify itself to earn a place in their world. But faith, by its nature, is beyond proof, beyond explanation. As William James explores in The Varieties of Religious Experience, belief can provide a unique kind of knowledge—one that lies beyond the scientific but resonates deeply in the human heart. To demand proof is to misunderstand the essence of belief, to strip it of its meaning.
I do not claim to know the answers to life’s great mysteries, nor do I pretend to understand the nature of God fully. My faith is not a certainty but a choice, a decision to trust in something greater than myself. It is, perhaps, an act of humility, an acknowledgment of my own limitations, my own inability to grasp the infinite. For in a world that seeks to measure, to categorize, to control, faith reminds me that there is beauty in mystery, in the unknown, in the acceptance that not all things can be understood.
In the end, I ask only for respect, for the freedom to believe as I choose, to walk my path without judgment or derision. Let us coexist in peace, those of faith and those of reason, each finding their way through this world in their own manner. For there is room enough in this vast, complex existence for diversity of thought, for different perspectives, for belief and skepticism to stand side by side. Faith, to me, is not a challenge to science, nor an affront to reason. It is a choice, a way of seeing the world that brings me peace, that gives me strength, that allows me to find meaning in the midst of chaos.
And so, I walk my path in quiet reverence, undeterred by the voices that seek to challenge, to question, to belittle. For in my heart, I know that faith is not a burden, nor a weakness, but a gift, a light that guides me through the shadows, a whisper that reminds me that I am not alone.
Works Cited
- Einstein, A. (1950). Out of My Later Years. New York: Philosophical Library.
- James, W. (1902). The Varieties of Religious Experience. New York: Longmans, Green, & Co.
- Kant, I. (1788). Critique of Practical Reason. Translated by Thomas Kingsmill Abbott. London: Longmans, Green, & Co.
- Kierkegaard, S. (1843). Fear and Trembling. Translated by Alastair Hannay. Penguin Classics, 1985.
- Lewis, C.S. (1947). Miracles. New York: HarperCollins.
- Milton, J. (1667). Paradise Lost.
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