Of Faith and Logic: A Razor's Edge

Someone once told me, “Where logic ends, faith begins, and where logic reigns, faith cannot flourish.”

I ask you, dear reader: What does this mean? How can it possibly apply in a world ruled by logic, reinforced by emotion and experience? How does this apply to the modern-day Christian? How does one walk in faith while placing logic, reason, and even emotion in the back seat?

And why are the things we were taught as children now the very things we must unlearn, heal from, or fight through?

This is the battle my soul has waged in recent days.

These are the questions I’ve carried as I seek the favor of the Most High.

If we are to think, press forward, and build a kingdom we cannot see—if we must believe in something we can only grasp by faith—how do we live that out in the very real, tangible world of the here and now?

There are moments in my walk with God when it feels like heaven touches earth. I’ve seen miracles—unbelievable ones. I’ve witnessed God move in ways that defy logic and rewrite the rules of what should be possible. I’ve been overwhelmed by the supernatural, surrounded by His presence, wrapped in peace I couldn’t explain. I’ve walked in divine favor, heard His voice, felt His leading.

But there are also moments when none of that happens. Moments when the miracles feel like distant memories. When the presence feels far. When life creeps in slowly—and it’s just… quiet.

I’m a born-again Christian. Saved by grace through Jesus alone. I’ve watched Him do the impossible, intervene in situations I couldn’t fix, heal what should’ve stayed broken, and restore what was beyond repair.

But what happens in the stillness? What happens when the fire fades, and faith feels heavy?

This is the tension I’ve found myself in. I know God is real. I know, to the depths of my being, that a higher power reigns—that I am loved, wanted, and waited for. I can’t deny what I’ve seen, what I’ve experienced, or who I’ve become because of Him. I can’t return to the world of sin, fleshly desire, and selfish living.

But I’ve also felt like I’ve hit a wall.

Not a wall of unbelief—but one of uncertainty. Of waiting. Of wondering: what now?

This is the valley of faith. And in this place, I’ve come to understand something hard but holy: faith isn’t always about seeing. Sometimes, it’s simply about staying.

I used to believe that if I wasn’t feeling God, I was somehow failing Him. But I’ve learned—often the hard way—that feelings are liars.

They’re loud. They fluctuate. They scream for attention. But they don’t always tell the truth.

God is still God, even when I can’t feel Him. He’s still moving, even when I can’t see it. He’s still speaking, even when all I hear is silence.

I’ve realized that the best way to truly know Him isn’t through emotional highs or dramatic encounters. It’s through experiencing Him—day by day—through His Word, His world, and His Spirit.

It’s in the stillness of Scripture when a verse speaks straight to my soul. It’s in the wind, the sunrise, the rhythm of the ocean—His fingerprints across creation. It’s in the gentle whisper of the Holy Spirit, steadying my heart when everything else is shaking.

Faith doesn’t always look like fire. Sometimes it looks like being still.

Psalm 46:10 reminds me: “Be still, and know that I am God.”

Not do more.

Not feel more.

Not see more.

Just… be still. And know.

So I wait. Not because I’ve given up—but because I He is teaching me trust.

I wait because I know He’s worth waiting for.

Because He always comes.

Isaiah 40:31 promises: “But those who wait for the Lord shall renew their strength; They shall mount up with wings like eagles; They shall run and not be weary; They shall walk and not faint.”

If you’re in the valley too—if it feels like God has gone silent, or like you’re standing still while everyone else is moving forward—know this:

You are not lost.

You are not forgotten.

You are not broken.

You’re just in the place where faith becomes real.

I can’t go back. I won’t go back. So I stay. I wait. I learn to trust.

Because in the end, my hope is not in what I see. My hope is in Jesus.

And He's never failed me yet.