Christian, what do you believe when faith stops being theoretical?

Dietrich Bonhoeffer once wrote from a prison cell, “It is only by living completely in this world that one learns to have faith.” He wrote those words after the world had closed in, when faith could no longer remain theoretical.

I live with someone who understands exactly what he meant.

In those moments, belief stops being a feeling and becomes a claim. Not something you summon, but something you test.

My wife, Gracie, has lived with disabilities for virtually her entire life. Hospital rooms and operating schedules do not interrupt our life — they form its familiar terrain. Over time, suffering has stopped being a concept and become a place we recognize.

I also have a friend who understands what Bonhoeffer was describing.

Her name is Joni Eareckson Tada. A diving accident in her teens left her a quadriplegic. Her life has unfolded under paralysis, chronic pain, and illness. She does not approach suffering from a distance.

Last year, during one of Gracie’s long hospital stays, Joni called.

Most people asked about Gracie. Joni did too. But then she asked about me.

That question deserved more than a stock reply.

I paused.

Moments like that strip away emotional self-examination and force you to examine your claims instead.

As I spoke with Joni, I shared something that has steadied me for decades.

In our church, there came a moment when the pastor would stop, look out over the congregation, and ask a single question: “Christian, what do you believe?”

We did not improvise. We did not search for language that felt expressive or current. We stood and recited the Apostles’ Creed or the Nicene Creed. No personal spin. No tailoring belief to the moment. Just a clear declaration of what had been received.

That question stayed with me.

It returned again and again over the years, especially in places where explanations had lost their usefulness. I learned the limits of “why.” Even good answers rarely hold steady there.

In those moments, belief stops being a feeling and becomes a claim. Not something you summon, but something you test.

If Christ is who I say He is, then what does that require of me here?

I was not trying to manufacture courage or resolve. I was asking whether the faith I professed in calm settings could bear weight when standing itself cost something.

“Christian, what do you believe?”

Over time, many of the questions I once carried narrowed to that one. Not because the pain diminished or the losses stopped coming, but because belief, when real, clarifies responsibility.

The apostle Peter tells believers to be ready to give an answer for the hope within them. That readiness has nothing to do with eloquence. It comes from knowing where you stand.

As a new year begins, many caregivers feel little sense of reset, except for the deductible and the co-pay.

Some stand outside an ICU, looking through glass at someone they love. Others stand in different hallways, facing different kinds of loss. Different rooms. The same ache.

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Bonhoeffer did not write from a place of safety or control. He wrote from confinement, where faith could no longer remain theoretical. Many recognize that narrowing, the sense that life has closed in and the ground beneath you has given way.

Faith is learned there, not discussed.

Exhaustion thins memory. Words scatter. Not everyone can recall creeds when sleep runs short and decisions carry real weight. But belief does not measure itself by recall. It reveals itself by posture.

When the floor gives way, you still need to know where to stand.

If He is Lord at all, then He is Lord of all.

Not only of sanctuaries, but of hospital corridors.

Not only of strength, but of weakness.

Not only of moments we would choose, but of moments we would never script.

That confession does not remove pain. It does not explain every loss. But it does tell us where to stand when the world presses in.

And when glass separates you from the one you love, whatever room that glass happens to be in, the question does not stay abstract.

It turns personal.

Christian, what do you believe?