So do you possess this faith? Or have you encountered this freedom? I ask because I am curious what motivates this powerful testimonial. Don't get me wrong: I come from Southern Baptists, whose religious fire in the belly would match your grandmother's, though, sadly, their political and racist ideologies would put our grandparents at odds. It's interesting.

A question also about the Cross. Or really, what your grandmother meant by freedom through the cross. Is it salvation through Christ? Or—here I detect a hint of something darker, a legacy of the symbol's origin and the story of Christ itself: That the reward for speaking truth to power is punishment by crucifixion, yet in this, in death, there is freedom from the world of trial and suffering, and possibly the freedom of heaven. Maybe that is not what she meant, but it seems to be there anyway.

Why "faith"? It was Easter and I always think of my preacher grandfather, both for the obvious reason of his profession, but also because the memorial service when he died (sixteen years ago now) was held on Easter. And I'm going to go somewhere with this in a future post.

It is, I think, easier for me to see faith clearly in this light because I do not have it, but also because I do not distrust it, as so many young radicals do. Given the parents - and grandparents - I had, it was inevitable that I would see the contradictions and compromises required for belief; and that I would reject them. Unfortunately (in some ways, not in some others), I jettisoned the faith too. But I never lost sight of the fact that it was his faith that made my grandfather a great man, one of the many small heroes that work the soil of the American spirit so that it might produce the great heroes like MLK Jr.

"Faith", for some reason, grows out of contradiction and paradox. I could discuss the Bible with my grandfather and point out its many flaws. They were never arguments, where one syllogism demolished another. Rather, the conversations revolved around the interpretation of those verses and their ultimate message. He never accepted that some passages were mutually exclusive; instead he saw them as mutually inclusive, as bringing together several streams heading toward God's truth. But he loved my attempts to dispute with him, often wondering out loud if I would be the family's first lawyer (the Jewish side joked about me becoming the first rabbi - because I had no sense of humor when I argued; at least I think it was a joke).

One of the great successes of compulsory primary education has been to teach almost every child the rudiments of logic. Now, nearly everyone can point out the holes in a really bad argument - that also opposes their ideological orientation. And the young and insurgent, the bright and the arrogant, the glorious rebel angels especially think it great sport to point out inconsistency wherever they find it, thinking therefore that a monument to evil has been overthrown, when all they've actually accomplished is to shift the stumbling, striving, curious conversation to a place where they cannot interfere (and they always seem so astonished - and petulant - when they find that the conversation continued, that they had not had the last word). Of course most people are not philosophers, do not relentlessly question everything including themselves, are content to turn their energies to more productive work and leave the heavy thinking to others.

But doubt is a subtle poison in small doses. Every qualification of every statement by every public figure, every failed drug test by an athlete, every exposed hypocrisy, every contradictory passage in the Holy Books falls upon us as though freezing water dripping from an icicle. Drop by drop, doubt worms its lethal way into the heart. A is A; A is not B. And I cannot explain how God could say two contradictory things. And faith dies of small, repeated doubts, even where belief is held all the tighter.

I took in doubt in a larger measure and managed to lose belief as well. I did not take in enough doubt, have not yet taken in enough doubt, to find faith. But I recognize faith when I see it. I have just read a case study about a district in Afghanistan where the people practiced - successfully - a form of non-violent civil disobedience against the Taliban. A fascinating story in so many ways, but the reason I bring it up is that the people talked about how the Taliban worked very hard to introduce corruption into the governance of the district: once someone paid a bribe, they had to keep paying or be exposed. The Taliban, those warriors of faith, those cynical believers in the corrupt heart of man, in fact had no true faith at all.

Contradiction and paradox. Holding two (or more) opposed ideas or concepts or emotions together, reconciling them, understanding that they lead to a greater whole is an essential building block of faith. The crucifixion of Jesus should be accompanied by a response of joyous grief. That the Son of God should be killed is terrible; that he should die so all others may live is glorious. The worship on Easter Weekend should encourage people to hold together two contradictory emotions: joy and grief. It isn't easy, but success can lead to a powerful faith.

Passover, also just past, has a similar component. The holiday commemorates the freedom of the Israelites from slavery in Egypt, a joyous event. But on Passover there is sorrow as well, sorrow for the bitterness of that and all subsequent oppression suffered by the Jewish people, and also sorrow for Egypt itself. Egypt had welcomed the Israelites at first, given them a home when they had none, raised up Joseph and offered hospitality to Jacob. The friendship changed over time and twisted and became chains. The People of Israel desperately needed their freedom and God provided it, but the cost of that freedom was terrible: all the first-born in the land of Egypt. The innocent paid for the sins of the guilty and Israel became a free nation. To hold both that ultimate joy while acknowledging that deep well of sorrow, to have a heart uplifted and weighted at the same time, is to understand just how precious life is and to know that it consists of hard, hard choices.

My grandmother, as I described her, was alerting the children at her feet that by speaking the truth to power, you will surely be punished, perhaps killed. But if death, or the threat of death, cannot stop you from acting in life, then you are in fact free to speak the truth - whatever the cost. And your grandchildren will someday thank you.