I’ve been thinking quite a bit about the relationship between how we see God and how we actually believe Him.
It seems to me that faith is never stronger than the vision of God that undergirds it. We often speak about “having more faith,” but rarely stop to ask whether the issue is not the amount of faith, but the object of it. If the God we trust is small in our understanding, then even sincere faith will feel fragile.

Scripture consistently draws this connection.

In Epistle to the Hebrews 11:6, faith is described as drawing near to God with the conviction that He is and that He rewards those who seek Him. That already tells us something profound — faith begins not with our inner state, but with God’s reality and character. It is anchored there. Faith assumes ontology (God is real) and moral consistency (God is faithful). If either collapses, faith becomes irrational.

When Paul reflects on Abraham in Epistle to the Romans 4, he says Abraham was “fully convinced that God was able to do what He had promised.” What strikes me is that Abraham’s faith is not presented as blind resolve, but as clarity about God and God’s resolve. He believed because he had come to a settled conclusion about who God is — powerful, faithful, and trustworthy.

And then you have passages like Book of Isaiah 40, where the prophet doesn’t begin by addressing Israel’s weakness directly. Instead, he lifts their eyes: “To whom will you compare Me?” It’s as though God strengthens faith by first expanding their vision of Him. Their weariness is real, but the solution is not introspection — it is revelation.

That pattern seems consistent throughout the history of the Church as well.

Augustine of Hippo described the human condition as the soul curved inward on itself. I can’t help but think that a diminished view of God reinforces that inward curve. But when God is seen as supremely glorious, faith becomes an outward movement — a reorientation of the entire person toward Him.

Thomas Aquinas adds another layer by grounding faith in the authority of God Himself. In other words, faith stands or falls on who God is. If our understanding of Him is unstable, then our faith will inevitably reflect that instability.

And then John Calvin reminds us that we never truly know ourselves until we have first looked upon God.“Woe is me! For I am lost; for I am a man of unclean lips, and I dwell in the midst of a people of unclean lips; for my eyes have seen the King, the LORD of hosts!” Isaiah 6:5.  I think this is where the connection becomes very practical: when God is diminished, we tend to overestimate our own strength. Faith then quietly shifts from trust in God to reliance on self — even if we still use religious language.

What I find especially helpful is how Jonathan Edwards speaks about faith not only as understanding truth, but as sensing the beauty and glory of God. That suggests that a high view of God does more than stabilize faith intellectually — it deepens it emotionally. We trust more readily what we truly see as glorious.

This also explains much of what we observe today.

When God is subtly reduced to a therapeutic presence — something David Wells critiques so strongly — faith tends to become situational. It holds when life is manageable, but struggles when life becomes overwhelming. A God who exists mainly to support us cannot sustain us when everything gives way.

By contrast, when God is seen in His holiness and sovereignty, as R. C. Sproul so often emphasized, faith gains weight. It becomes less about managing outcomes and more about trusting the One who governs them.

I would even go a step further and say this: a high view of God doesn’t just strengthen faith — it defines its very nature.

If God is sovereign, faith means surrender.
If God is holy, faith means repentance.
If God is faithful, faith means endurance.
If God is glorious, faith means worship.

And perhaps this is where the real pastoral significance lies.
When someone is struggling in faith, the instinct is often to encourage them to “believe more.” But Scripture seems to take a different approach — it reveals more of God. Because when God is seen as He truly is — sovereign, faithful, inexhaustible — faith is not forced; it is drawn out – A bridge is not strong because the traveler is brave. It is strong because the structure can bear weight. A trembling believer standing on a granite God is safer than a confident believer standing on a fragile one.

It’s almost as if faith rises naturally in the presence of a great God.
So I’m increasingly convinced that the call to cultivate faith is, at its core, a call to recover a high view of God. Not as an abstract theological exercise, but as a lived reality — one that shapes how we pray, how we endure, and how we hope.
And in a world that constantly pulls us inward, that upward reorientation might be one of the most necessary recoveries for the Church today.