Why do men believe they can land a 747? Why does nothing ever happen? To know why we must understand faith and to understand faith, we should look at Kierkegaard's Fear and Trembling. His essay on Abraham's sacrifice of Isaac. Faith is impossible, faith is absurd, but that's why it works. Human impossibility is divine possibility, and divine possibility is a certainty. Therefore, nothing impossible is impossible. Everything impossible is certain. Kierkegaard has a great anecdote about this, about a man walking through town, who even if he is broke is sure that he'll have a good meal. And when he walks past the building and he sees it getting built by a man, they have a conversation. And even though he knows nothing, he leaves thinking to himself, if I had to, I'm sure I could manage that. I'm sure it'll be fine. That is the message of faith. Consider Abraham, who had no child for 100 years or whatever, finally gets Isaac, who's supposed to be the patriarch of the nations. And after all this praying, he receives the gift and what does God do? He says, okay, now kill it. He does what he is told, not out of resignation, not because he thinks God doesn't want me to have what I want. But because the entire way he's thinking to himself, I'm sure it'll be fine. There's something I don't understand here. He's in the same predicament as Agamemnon, left to Iphigenia, but he tells himself, I'm sure it'll be all right. Nothing ever happens. Nothing ever happens, bros win once more. It makes no sense, but that's why the story of Abraham and Isaac is so good. Because here, it's not like William Tell. It's not like Aeneas where if he's skilled enough he can save the one he loves. No, kill him. William Tell has to shoot an apple off his son's head with skill to save his son. For Abraham to save his son, he has to kill him. Aeneas to save his son and preserve his nation has to be skilled at seafaring and combat. But faith requires no skill. For Aeneas, his journey is not a test of faith, it's a test of competence and piety. But not faith. A leap of faith is not a long jump. It's an impossibility. If you encounter a leap of faith and you start wondering to yourself, how much force can my life produce? Do I have enough electrolytes? You're faithless. Your own energy is not enough. Your own understanding is not enough. And you only understand this by wrestling in the infinite. By becoming exhausted like Jacob wrestles with Elohim. Faith is a fist fight with God. It's like wrestling a fish. If the fish stops moving and you can let go, the fish is dead. The faith is dead. Faith is a constant wrangling. It is a constant battle. But when you exhaust yourself wrestling with the infinite and you realize how finite that you are, human impossibility becomes divine possibility and the impossible becomes certain. That is the power of faith. Faith in oneself lets a man think he can land a 747. But faith in God lets a man think that he could nose-dive it into the turf and still be fine afterwards. A man named Jack told me in the park one time. The third person of I Am that I Am is, it is what it is. These are the three slogans of the man of faith. I'm sure it'll be okay. Nothing ever happens. It is what it is. The leap of faith is not hard. It's impossible. To keep your dream, you'll have to kill it first. But it's absurd. It makes no sense. Yeah, no shit.
Miller reframes faith through Kierkegaard's Fear and Trembling to answer why delusional confidence like "I can land a 747" persists. Faith, he argues, is not a longer jump requiring more skill or electrolytes — it's an impossibility made operative because human impossibility is divine possibility, and divine possibility is certain ("everything impossible is certain"). Via Kierkegaard's broke man who is sure he'll eat and who, knowing nothing about building, leaves a construction site thinking "I'm sure I could manage that," and Abraham who receives Isaac after 100 years only to be told "now kill it," he contrasts faith with skill-moral tests (William Tell's apple-shot, Aeneas' seamanship). Tell and Aeneas succeed by competence; Abraham succeeds by not understanding and still acting — his inner slogan the whole walk is "I'm sure it'll be fine / nothing ever happens / it is what it is." Faith is thus not resignation or a calculation of force, but exhaustion through wrestling the infinite (Jacob with Elohim) — a fistfight where you only learn your finitude when you tire, and at that exhaustion human impossibility flips to divine certainty. The punchline: faith in self lets you imagine landing a 747; faith in God lets you imagine nose-diving it into turf and still being fine — because the leap is not hard, it's absurd, and you keep your dream only by being willing to kill it first.
Kierkegaard/Miller's celebration of absurd faith risks sanctifying recklessness — "I'm sure it'll be fine" is also how 747s do crash, and why Tell practiced for years before shooting. Not every impossibility should be endured as faith; some impossibilities are simply no — closed doors, not Abrahamic tests. The missing discernment is which impossibility is yours to wrestle: Abraham had a specific word ("kill Isaac"), not a vague vibe. Without a word, community, and time-test, "embrace the absurd" becomes spiritual bypass — the fish you're wrestling may not be God, but your own ego refusing to do the skilled, boring work that is required (Tell did need skill). Faith without competence is as dead as competence without faith.