There was a time when uncertainty felt like a threat. The nagging questions, the existential doubts, the moments when belief didn’t come easily—they all carried an undercurrent of fear. If I wasn’t certain, was I lost? If I didn’t have answers, was I failing to live in truth?

But something has shifted. What once caused anxiety now brings relief. Not because I have abandoned the search for truth, but because I have come to see that truth was never something I could grasp in its entirety. Instead, it is something I am invited to move toward—step by step, in humility and trust.

Truth is like the horizon. From where we stand, we can see it stretching out before us, and as we move toward it, believing we are drawing closer, it continues to expand. It is always before us, yet never fully within our grasp.

Hans-Georg Gadamer, a 20th-century philosopher known for his work in hermeneutics—the study of understanding and interpretation—described this idea in his concept of the "fusion of horizons" (Horizontverschmelzung). He wrote,

“Understanding is always the fusion of these horizons which we imagine to exist by themselves.” (Truth and Method)

Gadamer’s point is that our view of truth is never static; it is constantly reshaped as we engage with new perspectives and deeper reflections. When we encounter ideas outside our own framework, our “horizon” of understanding doesn’t collapse—it expands. The search for truth is not about seizing something fixed, but about continually growing into greater awareness.

This shift—from trying to own truth to learning to follow it—changes how we experience uncertainty. Instead of a threat, it becomes an invitation to continue walking forward, trusting that the pursuit itself is worthwhile.

There is something in us that craves certainty. It gives us the illusion of control, a foundation that feels unshakable. Certainty makes life feel predictable, manageable, safe. But Scripture reminds us that the desire for certainty can sometimes be a form of self-reliance rather than faith.

“Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and do not lean on your own understanding.” (Proverbs 3:5)

This does not mean that our understanding is useless, but that it is limited. The desire to be certain can keep us from the deeper, more enduring trust that sustains us even when answers elude us. We were never meant to know all things, to solve every mystery, to reduce faith to a formula.

In Job 38, God responds to Job’s suffering not with explanations, but with a reminder of divine mystery:

“Where were you when I laid the foundation of the earth?”

The answer Job receives is not the certainty he longs for, but an invitation to humility, to accept that some things are beyond his grasp. And somehow, this realization brings peace rather than despair.

Faith is not about grasping for certainty; it is about learning to trust in the absence of it.

“Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen.” (Hebrews 11:1)

We walk by faith, not by sight. This does not mean we abandon reason or stop searching for truth, but that we accept the reality that truth is often something we must grow into, rather than something we can immediately seize.

There is a paradox here. As a child, faith often feels like certainty—rules, beliefs, doctrines that offer a clear framework. But as we grow, we learn that faith is not the same as knowing about God; it is about knowing God. It is about trust, relationship, surrender.

The relief I now feel in uncertainty is not apathy or resignation. It is the freedom of knowing that I do not have to have all the answers to be held by the One who does.

Uncertainty is not an enemy of faith; it is often the very thing that deepens it.

“You will seek me and find me when you seek me with all your heart.” (Jeremiah 29:13)

To seek is to admit that we do not yet fully possess. To be comfortable with seeking is to acknowledge that we are always in process, always learning, always growing. Even Thomas, who doubted, was not condemned but invited to see for himself.

Jesus did not rebuke him for needing to wrestle with uncertainty. Instead, He met him where he was.

And perhaps that is the lesson—certainty is not the goal; presence is. Truth is not something we conquer, but something we are drawn toward. And the One who is Truth does not require our perfect certainty, only our willingness to keep walking forward in trust.

So we rest in the mystery, not because we have abandoned truth, but because we trust that truth is holding us, even when we do not fully understand.