Faith is deliberate confidence in the character of God whose ways

Host: The night had fallen over the harbor, where fog hung like ghosts above the water. The docklights flickered in the mist, throwing shadows that danced upon the wet wood. A ship’s horn echoed faintly — long, lonely, deliberate — as if the sea itself were mourning something unspoken.
Jack stood by the edge, his hands buried deep in his coat pockets, eyes fixed on the distant horizon where the moonlight broke through clouds in fractured silver shards. Jeeny sat on a bench behind him, a small thermos in her hands, watching him with quiet concern.

Jeeny: “You’ve been staring out there for an hour, Jack. What do you see?”

Jack: “The same thing I always see — nothing that makes sense.”

Host: Her breath made misty curls in the air, as if even her words wanted to warm the cold that surrounded them.

Jeeny: “Maybe not everything has to make sense. Oswald Chambers said, ‘Faith is deliberate confidence in the character of God whose ways you may not understand at the time.’ Maybe the point isn’t understanding.”

Jack: “That’s a comforting excuse for ignorance, Jeeny. People say faith when they run out of answers.”

Jeeny: “And maybe people say logic when they run out of hope.”

Host: A wave struck the pier, splashing saltwater onto their boots. The wind picked up, carrying the smell of diesel, fish, and rain — the scent of endings.

Jack: “Look around you. The world runs on physics, not faith. Planes fly because of aerodynamics, not because God lifts them up. Medicine works because someone tested it, not because someone prayed hard enough. Confidence in what you can’t understand is reckless, Jeeny — it’s how people die.”

Jeeny: “And yet people live because of it, too. Because sometimes, all they have is that trust — that something bigger than their pain still has a plan. You talk about medicine — think of Florence Nightingale, Jack. She walked into plague-ridden tents in Crimea, surrounded by death, and she said she was ‘guided by the hand of God.’ Without that faith, she would’ve fled.”

Jack: “She didn’t need faith; she had discipline and training. She acted, that’s what mattered. Faith didn’t hold the lamp — she did.”

Host: The tension between them tightened, invisible but palpable, like the rope that held the boats against the tide.

Jeeny: “But what made her act when others wouldn’t? Faith isn’t inaction, Jack. It’s the courage to step forward without understanding the outcome. That’s what Chambers meant. ‘Deliberate confidence’ — not blind faith, not wishful thinking, but a choice to trust even when reason says to fear.”

Jack: “Trust in what? In an invisible will that lets children die of cancer? That lets wars tear apart the innocent? Don’t talk to me about God’s ‘character’. If there’s a plan, it’s a cruel one.”

Host: His voice broke slightly, though he tried to hide it behind gritted teeth. The light from a passing fishing boat illuminated his face — the sharp lines, the tired eyes, the kind that had seen too much and still refused to look away.

Jeeny: “You talk like someone who’s been hurt, not convinced.”

Jack: “Everyone’s been hurt. Some of us just don’t need a divine story to make sense of it.”

Jeeny: “Then how do you make sense of it?”

Jack: “I don’t. I accept the chaos. The universe doesn’t owe us meaning, Jeeny. It just is.”

Host: The wind sighed through the masts, like an old organ playing in a cathedral made of steel and salt.

Jeeny: “But even that — that acceptance — it’s a kind of faith too. You believe in chaos, in the consistency of randomness. You trust in your version of the unknown. Isn’t that… a deliberate confidence?”

Jack: “That’s just semantics.”

Jeeny: “No, it’s not. You can’t live without faith, Jack. Whether it’s in science, or people, or yourself — you always have to believe in something unseen. Every time a scientist conducts an experiment, they have faith that the laws of nature will behave as they did yesterday. Every pilot who flies trusts that the air will still lift the wings tomorrow. Faith isn’t against reason — it’s what holds reason together.”

Host: Jack turned, his eyes narrowing. The lamplight caught the faint scar beneath his chin, a small story of a past accident he never spoke of.

Jack: “Then where was faith when the earthquakes hit Haiti? When towers fell in New York? When a man prays for his child to live and the child doesn’t? Tell me — where is this ‘character of God’ then?”

Jeeny: “It’s still there, Jack. Even when we don’t see it. Faith doesn’t erase pain — it redeems it. It doesn’t promise clarity — it promises presence. When the towers fell, remember the firefighters who ran in. When Haiti broke, strangers across the world gave, built, healed. God’s ways aren’t always visible, but His character often shows up in ours.”

Host: A long silence fell. The harbor groaned softly. Somewhere in the distance, a church bell tolled — slow, deliberate, like a heartbeat of the night.

Jack: “So you think all suffering is just part of some hidden curriculum? Some test?”

Jeeny: “No. Not a test. More like a journey we don’t yet have the map for. We’re not meant to see the full design. Faith means trusting the artist while the painting still looks like chaos.”

Host: Jack exhaled, a faint cloud of steam rising from his lips. His shoulders dropped slightly. Something in Jeeny’s voice, its soft but unyielding conviction, had unsettled the walls he’d built.

Jack: “And if the artist doesn’t exist?”

Jeeny: “Then we still become the art, Jack. Every act of goodness, every moment of forgiveness, becomes its own creator. Maybe that’s God — the part of us that still chooses light in the dark.”

Host: Her eyes shone, reflecting the harbor lights like tiny planets, burning with belief. Jack looked away, his jaw tightening, then loosening, as if the fight within him had suddenly become tired.

Jack: “You make it sound easy.”

Jeeny: “It’s not. Faith is the hardest thing in the world. It’s not for the naive — it’s for those who’ve looked into the void and still say, ‘I trust.’ It’s deliberate, not blind. That’s what Chambers meant. A soldier doesn’t understand his general’s every move — but he trusts his character. Faith isn’t certainty — it’s confidence in the one who leads.”

Host: The fog began to lift, slowly, like a curtain drawn back after a long act. A faint light broke through the clouds, touching the harbor water in trembling silver lines.

Jack: “You really think faith can exist without proof?”

Jeeny: “Proof is overrated. You can prove a fact — but you can only live a truth. Faith is about living as if something is true, even before it’s proven. That’s where courage is born.”

Jack: “And what if you’re wrong?”

Jeeny: “Then I’ve still lived with hope. What’s the cost of that?”

Host: Jack gave a faint, almost imperceptible smile. It wasn’t victory, nor surrender — something in between, like a truce signed quietly in the heart.

Jack: “Maybe faith isn’t my language. But… I can respect those who speak it fluently.”

Jeeny: “That’s a start. And who knows — maybe understanding isn’t the goal, after all.”

Host: They both stood, their breath visible in the cold air, as the morning light began to creep along the docks. The harbor came alive with the sound of waking engines, the seagulls calling, the sea stirring with new motion.

Jeeny handed Jack the thermos, still warm.

Jeeny: “Coffee?”

Jack: “Thanks.”

Host: They drank in silence, the steam from the cups mingling with the mist, rising like prayer smoke into the brightening sky.

And as the sunlight finally broke, touching both their faces, it felt — for just a moment — like understanding itself wasn’t necessary.
Only trust.
Only presence.
Only the quiet, deliberate confidence that even in uncertainty, something good was still moving unseen beneath the surface of the world.