A Malaria-Induced Vacation

So I've had a little hiatus from blogging, as a couple folks have emailed me about, and the biggest reason is that, since last Friday, I've been slowly getting a worse and worse case of malaria. A pretty bad one, too—I got four little cross-checkmarks on my malaria test, which was apparently bad enough that they said if I wasn't able to keep my pills down, I'd have to be hospitalized. Luckily, I was able to keep my pills down.

As much as I'm very much not dead, and as much as I in a sense feel much more like I've arrived at "true" adopted Mozambicanness, I still wouldn't recommend malaria to anyone anytime soon. It's kinda like the worst symptoms of the flu, for at least a couple days straight. That part's over with, at least (in large part supported by the amazingly kind help of Eric and Solomon, who between them have checked in on me at least once every two hours during the last few days, bringing me anything I might like and not looking at me the way I'd probably look at them if they rolled part of their blanket into a yogurt—really, those two men are saints).

Also on the positive side, one really amazing thing happened, yesterday—I've had some really weird patches of non-lucidity (one in which I apparently asked Eric to bring me some dust to eat), but I've also had some really amazingly clear moments of insight. For example, yesterday while I was reading the Book of Mormon, as much as I've loved Alma 32 for a long time and have some very dear personal associations with it, I felt like it came alive for me as I was studying yesterday, and I almost couldn't put it down. I studied for about an hour and a half, scribbling notes like crazy, and then trying to transcribe and organize them later in something that resembled sanity. It was the most amazing feeling while I was studying—but I'm very curious as to how understandable the end result is. So, Rolf's malaria-driven musings on faith, 1 2 3 go:

Faith gets a bit of a simple-minded bad name these days, to the point where it can start influencing the way even people of faith see their faith. I’ve noticed this in myself—even though I’ve felt a strong dedication to my religious beliefs from a young age, I can think of times when I’ve overemphasized the logic or reasoning behind my beliefs in order to make them feel more justified in certain company.

However, especially what I’ve been studying recently has reinforced strongly to me the truth that not only is faith not just for the simple-minded—but that true faith leads to true knowledge through a path that requires the sacrifice and struggle to help us fully appreciate it.

I started thinking about this while studying Alma 32, especially when I started studying verse 18, in which Alma explains the difference between knowledge and faith. His explanation is simple: knowledge isn’t faith, because “if a man knoweth a thing he hath no cause to believe, for he knoweth it.” This may almost seem like a cheap dismissal of knowledge, but to me it seems more like a dismissal of knowledge easily acquired. When one starts with faith, acting on that faith requires incrementally growing trust—and not blind trust, but thoughtful, informed, analyzed trust, like the kind of trust that you see build incrementally in the children of a good, loving parent, as he or she is consistently there for them. That trust over time is tested, and there is stretching, reflection and struggle—and, in the end, knowledge (to follow the same example, after years of building trust, you not only trust, but know that your mother or father is there for you and loves you). However, that end product of knowledge, without the process that was required to reach it, seems empty—if you know your father is trustworthy, but that knowledge never was tested or proven, will that knowledge lead you to be as loving, loyal and trusting to him as you would be if you had reached that same point by faith? Really, starting at faith seems like the only way to imbue knowledge with the dedication and passion that make it useful. This type of faith seems to me to be the regular starting point not just for the religious person, but for any passionate person in search of truth—in other words, all knowledge in its truest and fullest sense is reached by starting with faith. Seen in this context, it is he that dismisses the faith-driven path of a seeker of truth as the path of a simpleton that seems truly simplistic.

In verse 19, Alma explains how this difficult and struggled path from faith to knowledge demonstrates the love of God for His children: “And now, how much more cursed is he that knoweth the will of God and doeth it not, than he that only believeth, or only hath cause to believe, and falleth into transgression?” Because those who know Divine truth (or some aspect of it) and don’t practice it are more condemned than if they didn’t know it, God has prepared a way so that those who do come to know a portion (or more) of Truth are those who will have already shown their dedication to Him and It through the time and sacrifice they have made to seek It out. These—those who have sacrificed, and struggled, and who value the Truth they have found—these are they who shall be allowed to truly know, because these are they who can be trusted to live It.

Then we get to the famous definition of faith: “faith is not to have a perfect knowledge of things; therefore if ye have faith ye hope for things which are not seen, which are true.” A similar scripture can be found in the Bible, in Hebrews 11:1, where Paul says that faith is “the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.” However, Paul’s version lacks something which you see here—a hope for things which are not seen, that are true. Once again, we see reason to cut the tie between Faith and Simple Minds (as much as I love 80s pop): it doesn’t take a stupid or simple person to believe in things that are true. It only takes a sensible one. Also, it’s important to note that neither Paul nor Alma says that this hope is based in nothing concrete—they only say it isn’t based in anything seen. Though somewhat harder to measure objectively, feelings can be quite concrete and identifiable—and when especially powerful, can far outweigh the memory of sights or sounds. Even more appropriate, then, that most personal experiences of faith begin with concrete feelings.

However, once those feelings are felt for the first time, the knowledge is hardly complete. The person in question must “experiment” upon what they have heard and “exercise” (Alma 32:27) their faith—faith is a principle of work, not blind acceptance. And that work is rewarded, with more and more concrete feelings: feelings of swelling, of something sprouting, of the beginnings of growth (Alma 32:30). These feelings may seem small, but they are nonetheless distinct, and can be identified as something good that comes of God. I love the simplicity of Alma’s litmus test in that sense: you can easily identify light and truth, because “whatsoever is light, is good, because it is discernible, therefore ye must know that it is good” (Alma 32:35). You might not be able to take it out and show it, but you can feel it and discern that feeling, which cannot be denied.

However, the process hasn’t stopped here, either. Knowing that something is true is not the same as knowing how and why it is true, steps which must also be taken for knowledge to become full and mature. To stop here would be like stopping after learning that electricity is an energy source, without bothering to learn how it functions or how it can be harnessed or what it can be used for. As Alma puts it, “now behold, after ye have tasted this light is your knowledge perfect? Behold I say unto you, Nay; neither must ye lay aside your faith, for ye have only exercised your faith to plant the seed that ye might try the experiment to know if the seed was good” (Alma 32:35-36). In other words, once it has been discerned, it can’t be abandoned—it must be fed. In that sense, faith is like any other living, organic thing—once you have given birth to it with those first feelings you had, once it has been given the spark of life, it must continually be fed so that it may grow big and strong.

“And behold, as the tree beginneth to grow, ye will say: Let us nourish it with great care, that it may get root, that it may grow up, and bring forth fruit unto us. And now behold, if ye nourish it with much care it will get root, and grow up, and bring forth fruit” (Alma 32:37). And not just fruit, but “a tree springing up unto everlasting life” (Alma 32:41). This is the point at which faith matures. It must still be fed (with great care, no less), just as a mature man must still be fed if he’s expected to keep on being a man, but it has become, through experience and dedicated discipleship, wise and understanding. At this point, your faith becomes more than a means of gaining knowledge, because that knowledge has already been strengthened and confirmed—it has become yours. But at this point, it also becomes a means of work, or an enabling power. Your faith becomes a vehicle of social change. Because you have reached this point of complete knowledge, and because you have reached it through faith, in a way that has made it a precious part of you for which you have sacrificed, your passion for this newly acquired knowledge will drive you to expand it. You will see the fruits of your personal growth not only in yourself, but in the lives of others. This type of faith has no limits—it can grow as much as you’re willing to believe it can. In this perspective, the words of Christ take on a much fuller meaning: “If ye will have faith in me ye shall have power to do whatsoever thing is expedient in me” (Moroni 7:33).