3rd Sunday of Easter - Why do I believe? - The Revd Tom Kennar, Rector of St Faith's, Havant and Honorary Canon

Why do I believe?

Honestly, some days I don’t know. Some days belief feels like trying to nail jelly to the wall – messy, frustrating, and ultimately doomed to failure unless you cheat and use Blu-Tack. It’s such a tough question that, knowing I had to answer it today, I reached out to my Facebook followers for their answers as to why they believe. They are the Blu-Tack for my theological jelly. Some of their responses will be found in what follows.

But first, let’s reflect on where we are – we’re in Eastertide, celebrating resurrection and transformation, and the Nicene Creed, that great, ringing declaration of faith, forged in theological fire and imperial politics 1700 years ago. And our Precentor wants me to stand up and explain why I believe?

Let me start by saying this: I don’t believe because of the Nicene Creed. Don’t get me wrong – I’m grateful for it. It’s an extraordinary document. But it’s not where I begin.

I believe because – in the words of Facebook friend and fellow priest Caroline Sackley – “love is always there… a relationship that’s not transactional, but just present.” I believe because, over and over again, I have experienced a presence that is deeper than understanding and more constant than emotion – a presence that I might dare to call “God”.

And when I try to picture that love, to make sense of it, it is Jesus – Jesus of Nazareth – who gives it flesh and blood. As Pope Francis (may he rest in peace) once said, there are many paths to the mystery of God – but for me, Jesus is the clearest lens through which I glimpse the divine.

Now – let me be clear – I don’t believe about Jesus in quite the way the Creed insists. Yes, I’ll say it, or sing it with gusto. But what draws me, what keeps me, is not a list of doctrinal statements. It is him. The man who cooked breakfast for his friends by the lakeside in today’s Gospel. Who met them in their grief, their betrayal, their confusion – and fed them. Who didn’t ask for a confession of sin, or demand a theology exam. Just “Come and eat.”

You see, I don’t believe because of arguments. Or proof. Or metaphysics. Or creeds. I believe because he is believable.

Take today’s readings. Saul, who becomes Paul, is quite literally knocked off his high horse. (It’s not actually in the text, but I like to picture him landing unceremoniously in the dust, robes all akimbo, spectacles askew – if he wore them – and thinking: “Well that was unexpected.”) His belief isn’t the result of a careful Bible study. It’s a collision. A divine ambush. An experience of presence that leaves him changed forever.

Then there’s the psalmist, in Psalm 30, giving thanks because somehow, after darkness and weeping and despair, joy has come in the morning. That sounds a lot like faith to me: not certainty, but the memory of survival. Not knowing everything, but discovering that God was there even when we couldn’t see.

And in Revelation, the vision is cosmic – angels and elders and living creatures singing in wild praise. It’s not subtle. It’s not rational. It’s overwhelming, bewildering, excessive – like God sometimes is.

Of course, belief isn’t always easy. As Sarah McCarthy-Fry put it on my Facebook feed with bracing honesty: “To be honest, it’s because the alternative is scary and empty… I’d rather believe than not.” That’s not cowardice; it’s courage. The courage to choose hope in the face of fear. The courage to live as if love is stronger than death, even when we’re not sure.

And let’s not pretend the Church has always made belief easy. As Pam Wilkinson so rightly warned on Facebook: “‘Belief’ is one of the slipperiest and most weaponised words in religion.” How often has belief been policed rather than nurtured? Used to exclude rather than embrace? Sometimes I want to say: “I believe – but please don’t ask me to prove it by ticking a box!”

Christine Bennett offered a wonderful insight: she said that at some point, “I found that I knew that… it was true, independently of whether or not I believed it.” That’s not wishful thinking. That’s faith. That’s trust. It’s what the ancient Hebrews meant when they used the word emunah – a kind of steadfastness, a holding-on. Not intellectual assent, but faithfulness.

And speaking of intellectual adventures, we mustn’t overlook Franceska Dante’s majestic satnav theology. She compares the voice of God to “Dozy Doris,” the chaotic voice inside her phone’s GPS – except with more wisdom, less driving into fields, and an actual interest in your well-being. I think that’s marvellous. Because, yes, sometimes faith does lead us into strange fields. But unlike Doris the satnav, God doesn’t abandon us there. God walks with us. Challenges us. Grows us. And always – always – calls us back to the road that leads to love.

Bob – our Acting Archdeacon – summed it up beautifully in a message to me: “God chooses people like us, and still manages to achieve wonderful things!” What a miracle that is. That God chooses us. Not saints or sages or experts – but people like Peter, who denied Jesus three times and still got asked to feed his sheep. Like Saul, violent and self-righteous, transformed into a witness. Like you and me, muddled and inconsistent, yet somehow… chosen.

And finally, via Facebook, the wonderful Clare Amos reminded me of Augustine: “Our hearts are restless till they rest in Thee.” Even that restlessness, that longing – that, too, is part of belief. We are made for more than we can name. There’s a homing instinct in the human soul – and belief is not the cage that traps it, but the path that gives it direction.

So yes, I believe. Not always confidently. Not always coherently. But I believe.

I believe because Jesus shows me what God looks like: vulnerable, just, compassionate. I believe because love has met me in the dark and stayed. I believe because even when I didn’t believe, others carried the flame for me. I believe because faith is not a set of answers but an invitation to a journey – and the journey is worth it.

As we give thanks for the Nicene Creed, let’s remember it’s not a gate to keeps people out – it’s a signpost that points toward mystery. A poem of its time, yes – but one that still sings of the astonishing claim that this – this confusing, wounded, shimmering world – is not abandoned. That God is with us. That love wins.

So: why do I believe? Because I must. Because I can’t not. Because – in the end – it’s true.

Amen