From time to time I talk to people who are searching for faith.  They may ask me what it is, what I mean by it, how they’ll know they have it when they finally do.  The conversation is completely theological–talk about God and God’s stuff–but it is no less plain and practical and meaningful, full of meaning.

Faith is the stuff you feel after going to the mechanic you’ve been to for years.  When you first go, it feels like a blind date, arranged by that buddy whose taste you’ve forever doubted.  Eventually those feelings connect with knowledge.

The mechanics come to know your car.  They’ve taken in its history like a good physician, scanning its parts and checking things for your safety even though you didn’t know to ask.  At first you shopped around.  Maybe you took the car to the dealer to get a second opinion before replacing that T belt, especially since the dealer’s charge was two or three times this other shop’s estimate.  You weren’t sure who to believe, but you let the trust develop. 

You read reviews.  You started with small jobs.  You spent a bit more as you gave the mechanic more rope.  An oil change.  Wiper blades.  Winterizing.  The hood latch.  Brake work.  You secretly hoped you weren’t hanging yourself.

Along the way, things changed; something’s been built.  Now, you know where the mechanic lives.  You’ve met his wife and maybe one of his children.  You call him by his first name and correct him when he places a handle before yours.  You believe he’ll tell you the truth because he’s done it.  Again and again. 

 At some point, the nervousness relaxed.  You didn’t feel the need to look over your shoulder, eavesdrop over their calls as they answered questions while you waited in line, or get other estimates.  You stopped looking at the litter of pink customer order copies strewn around the place.  You gained an appreciation for their strict hours of 9-5 even though it was largely inconvenient.  They spend time with their families, you were told.  You liked that, a mechanic with values.  It made it easier to come a few blocks from home to a local mechanic who didn’t take credit cards in a world where every other shop did.

Frederick Buechner, a novelist and preacher, says that faith is “disorderly, intermittment, and full of surprises.”  When faith develops, when it sits on top of trust and experience and tested knowledge, you stretch yourself.  You’re surprised.  Things that were unlikely or unthinkable before become doable, even enjoyable.  Faith and hope dress in fluids like oil, antifreeze, and transmission juice, wear brake shoes instead of boots, and tell you what to expect as you leave when you don’t listen to wisdom.

I believe in my mechanic.  Of course, my ultimate faith rests and wrestles in some place else, but I trust and believe in the Foreign Car Hospital.