One feature, the “Questions for Reflection and Discussion” at the end of each chapter, which I had thought of dropping fearing that some readers might find a bit intimidating (or in some cases, in their original form, slightly outdated), I have decided to keep. Originally included as a stimulant for classroom and small-group discussion — having been a teacher myself, I realized how much these might enhance the value of the book for anyone faced with giving out home-work assignments — it is hoped that these might now serve even more as a means of helping the reader relate in a very personal way to the matter at hand. For this book is not so-much about religion or beliefs in the abstract, but rather, is about the psychology or even more, the psychodynamics of religion or the process of faith. Unless each of us can relate what we read to what we ourselves have gone through in terms of our beliefs, or even our doubts and disbelief, what I have attempted to describe in this book will have no relationship to the reality of our own life.

      While it has become fashionable in recent years to downplay the historical value of the gospels, especially those parts that relate so-called “miraculous” events, there appears a story (related in three of the four gospels) that I have always found arresting and provocative when it comes to the subject of faith. It is the one about Jesus coming to the apostles by walking across the Sea of Galilee — a story not without it’s parallels in Buddhism and some other religions. But among the Christian versions of this story, only Matthew (8:21-28) relates how Peter challenged Jesus to identify himself by bidding Peter to meet him by walking on the water as well. Having climbed over the side of the boat and ventured out to meet Jesus, we’re told that Peter had second thoughts about what he was doing, and, as a result began to sink beneath the waves and cry out for Jesus to save him. Then Jesus, after rescuing him, upbraids him for being a “man of little faith.”

      This story (whether it be true or not) raises some very probing questions. Was Peter really engaged in an act of faith or foolhardiness? What was the impetuous apostle really thinking? Was it really their “Master” who was approaching them across those stormy waves or was it an apparition of some kind or even the figment of their own frightened imaginations? It seems that Peter had to know for sure, for himself. There could be no passive waiting for him. Yet, almost immediately, aghast at the risk to his own life and paralyzed by fright, Peter began to sink. Seeking the assurance of the Master’s presence, Peter had risked himself, only to flounder in the waves of doubt. Was it really Peter’s faith or was it a lack of faith that had impelled him to want to walk across the water to meet this strange figure that approached them? Why couldn’t he be content like the others to wait and see? Was not the temporary security of the storm-tossed boat enough? Why insist on the additional insurance of the Lord’s presence when months before, on that same lake, Jesus had insisted that faith itself was all that was needed?

      How like Peter we all are, even if we lack his boldness. Often we seem to believe, only to doubt and lose courage when the going gets rough. There is an inborn tendency in us to seek the security that faith would provide and, at the same time, a profound aversion to take the risks involved. If Peter’s brash act of faith failed to meet the test, perhaps it was because Jesus required of him a greater test of trust — or of patience. But one thing is sure: whatever was required of him involved a risk and at the same time a commitment. Once venturing out on his chosen path of faith, Peter could not afford to turn back or to lose courage, except at yet a greater risk. Faith, and life, are like that.

      So we can not avoid risk. The American philosopher and psychologist William James saw this only too clearly. James’ idea of faith, as we shall see, was based on the pragmatic idea of “nothing risked, nothing gained.” We cannot advance spiritually (or any other way in this life) unless we are willing to let go of the security that so often binds us to what is familiar and comfortable. In other words, faith involves risk. Faith, then — at least a living faith — is not so much a thing as an attitude or a way of life. And like life itself, it is always on the move, always reaching out toward the future. “To live is to change”, said Cardinal Newman, “and to have lived fully is to have changed often.” Whatever doesn’t change is already dead. Faith is alive only when it grows, develops, and continually matures.

      If I have briefly turned to William James as someone who both underscored the dynamic idea of faith and underlined its dangers, I have turned to Viktor Frankl even more to show how this dynamic works in our life and on every level of faith. Ever since I first read Frankl’s own engaging account of his survival of the Nazi concentration camps many years back, I have been convinced that his personal story, as well as his theories, contains the essence of what the life of faith is all about. Over the years I have attempted to apply his insights to several aspects of the spiritual life, but it is only now that I have attempted to apply his thought, along with some ideas borrowed from theologians Paul Tillich and Avery Dulles,