“How do you know he’s your father?” someone once asked. For most of us, the answer is simple: “My mother told me.” That’s all. No DNA tests, no birth certificates waved in the air. Just a word from someone we trust. It’s a curious thing, really, this quiet reliance on what can’t be immediately proven. And yet, it’s the foundation of so much of our lives.

Now, consider this: how do we come to know anything at all? How do we understand the world, much less something as vast and unfathomable as God?

We often hear that reason has limits, that there are things too large, too intricate, or too subtle for the mind alone to grasp. So, how do you find your way to a reality that lies beyond your senses? It’s not an idle question—it’s one that people have wrestled with for centuries.

Here’s the crux of it: everything in life has its own way of being known. Every truth has its tools, every path its guideposts. Step off the path, and while the truth remains where it always was, you won’t reach it.

Take, for example, a love letter. If you close your eyes and press it to your ear, hoping to hear its secrets, you’ll be disappointed. To understand it, you have to open your eyes and read. The same goes for a song: plug your ears with cotton and say, “I’ll watch this music with my eyes,” and you’ll find yourself missing the point entirely.

Now let’s step into a garden. In comes a blind man, feeling his way among the flowers. “This one is red,” someone tells him. “That one is green. Here’s a lovely yellow bloom.” The blind man scoffs. “Nonsense! Unless I see it with my own eyes, it doesn’t exist.” The irony is clear—he has no eyes with which to see. Yet, his conviction is unshaken. He declares, “All this talk of colors is just your minds playing tricks on you.”

Next enters a deaf man. From a nearby grove, the melodious song of a bird fills the air. Someone tries to explain it to him, perhaps even plays a recording on their phone. But he shakes his head, insisting, “No, no, no. None of that is real.”

Now imagine you’re in their place. You can’t see ultraviolet light or hear sounds beyond certain frequencies. Would you deny their existence altogether? It’s tempting, isn’t it, to reduce reality to what our senses can grasp. But reality doesn’t shrink to fit our limitations.

In truth, every experience demands the right approach. To gaze at distant galaxies, you need a telescope. To hear a heartbeat, a stethoscope. Mix them up—a telescope for a feverish patient, for instance—and you’ll end up with nothing but confusion.

Even our everyday measurements reveal this logic. At the market, you wouldn’t ask for three meters of oil. Nor would you walk into a tailor’s shop and demand four liters of trousers. The absurdity is obvious because each thing must be approached in its own way.

Now think about this: if you can’t measure the height of a mountain with a teaspoon, why would you expect to comprehend something as vast as God with the tools of everyday reason? God, by definition, isn’t like the things we encounter in the world. And yet, people often say, “I’ll only believe if I can see Him with my own eyes.” But does this demand make sense?

Here’s an example. The ceiling fan spins. The lightbulb glows. The air conditioner hums. All signs of electricity at work. Now imagine someone walks into the room and asks, “Is there electricity here?” You point to the fan, the bulb, the AC. “See for yourself,” you say. But they insist, “I won’t believe it until I can touch it.” You might hand them a live wire and say, “Go ahead. Experience it firsthand.” Of course, that may well be the last time they quench their thirst for firsthand knowledge.

Faith isn’t just about seeing or touching. It’s about trusting the signs around us. Just as a creation implies a creator, the intricate dance of the universe points to something greater.

Think about travel. When you board a plane to Washington, D.C., you don’t see the destination from 30,000 feet in the air. The plane moves through an empty sky, and yet, you trust that it’s heading to the right place. Hundreds of passengers sit in quiet faith. But what if someone storms the cockpit demanding proof? “Show me the compass! I need to make sure we’re going to D.C.!” Such a person, we’d agree, has missed the point.

Faith operates differently in different areas of life. For some things, like a father’s identity or a plane’s trajectory, trust is enough. For others, like the unseen realities of the universe or the existence of God, the tools are subtler, the journey deeper.

In the end, every truth reveals itself in its own way. But to see it, we must approach it on its terms—not ours.