I grew up in a home that took faith for granted. That my
sisters and I were or would be Christians was never a question. We went to
church, Sunday school and youth group regularly – read: weekly, without fail,
uphill both ways. We talked about theology and the church and the world at the
dinner table. We prayed before every meal. We prayed at bedtime. We prayed
after reading one of the Gospel Christmas stories, our stockings in our laps
waiting eagerly to be unwrapped.
The assumption was we
believed. Our theological formation mattered and our parents took great
care in helping us to grow into critical thinkers, to be kind and generous, to
love our neighbors as ourselves, to pray often. They tried to instill the habit
and rhythm of church attendance and participation. But the actual “if” of
believing was never addressed.
To be fair, I don’t think either of my sisters ever talked
to my parents about any doubts they may have had. I certainly didn’t. But by the
time I did begin wrestling with doubt I was in my early 20s and was fairly
certain it would upset my parents too much to know that I didn’t think I believed
any of it anymore. I felt like I had failed them. So I swallowed down the lump
of doubt that stuck in my throat and “talked the talk” I’d learned so well. It
was surprisingly easy to fake faith.
My first experiences with doubt were while I was a student
at Calvin College. It was particularly painful because I was surrounded by
comfortably certain peers – or, at least, they appeared happy and easy in the
certainty of their faith. I stopped going to church off campus or chapel on
because it hurt too much. I was sinking into what I now know was depression but
what I only then knew as darkness. I was scared. Everything I thought I knew
was suddenly gone, like the floor had been ripped out from under me and I couldn’t
find solid ground to stand on.
I was particularly stuck on the idea of “proof”. Science
could not prove God – no, it couldn’t disprove God either but that was much
less compelling at the time. It could, however, explain much of what we as
Christians like to attribute to God. When something was worrying me and I
prayed about it, psychology could explain the relief and calm I felt
afterwards, I reasoned. I had good friends who were atheists and Buddhists and
they were some of the kindest, most generous people I knew - Christians
certainly did not own the market on that. So, if we can’t prove God exists and Christians
aren’t notably different from others how
can any of this be true?
I became angry. I felt duped. I’d spent years believing this
set of ideas and living a certain way because of them and it was all a lie.
What a waste of time.
I couldn’t talk to my parents about it. I was sure my mom
would cry and my dad would shove theological essays and books at me, all about “doubt”
and “truth”. I couldn’t talk to my friends. They were all content to continue
to go to church and sing praise songs and be “Jesus freaks”.
After graduating I moved back to my hometown and started
going to my parent’s church. Not because I believed any of it but because it
was home, because I loved the people there deeply and longed for somewhere to
belong. For months I had to walk out after the sermon only to return just in
time to take communion – missing the Nicene Creed, the Prayers of the People
and the Eucharistic Prayer. I just couldn’t handle that part. I kept ducking
back in for Communion, though. I knelt at the altar rail and looked at the
other parishioners and loved them and envied them. I wanted to believe. I wanted to know
what the truth was.
As I continued to doubt and fret I began to wonder if I
needed to make a drastic lifestyle change. I was still living the way I had when
I was a Christian. If I didn’t believe any of it anymore why was I still acting
like it? I figured I should start sleeping around and shooting heroine and
generally being a jerk – it was a naïve and simplistic understanding of piety
and Christian living to say the least. The overhaul in my lifestyle never came,
which only served to frustrate me further.
The issue of Jesus never stopped nagging me. As much as I
had stopped believing much of what I’d been raised to accept as truth I could
not give up Jesus. It was easy
to accept his human, 30ish years on earth, but more than that, I couldn’t stop
believing in him as real today, as personal. I couldn’t stop believing in
him as the Son of God. I didn’t know what to do with that.
And then my dad asked me to teach middle school Sunday
school.
I am not entirely certain why I said yes – except that I felt
like to say no I’d have to also tell him about my doubt and fears and anger and
disappointment. Teaching the class felt safer and easier. It turned out to be
one of the most fun, life giving things I have ever done. I fell in love with
those middle schoolers and we had a blast doing Bible study and playing games
together. It also kept me coming back to church.
One Sunday, in late fall, as I knelt at the altar rail and
my mom sang a solo I started to cry. Something in me broke open. “Ok,” I said,
inwardly, “Fine. It can’t be proven. I will never know for sure. But I still want this. I choose to believe in all
this wild, irrational grace, forgiveness, love, justice, trinity stuff. I
choose to be a part of the church.” I walked home after church sort of in awe.
I felt so light and unburdened.
I cannot explain what changed. I truly do not know. Since
then I have had moments of doubt – I currently can hardly say “He will come
again” in the Nicene Creed – but I am grounded differently. Grounded in the
choosing and the opening up to the mystery of it all.
What I have come to realize is that in those years of doubt
what I needed was someone to say “It’s ok. Doubt is a normal and healthy part
of faith. I am here for you. You don’t need to do this alone.” And maybe, had I
given them the benefit of the doubt (pun intended?) my parents would have done
just that.
I appreciate the Episcopal church’s ability to do much of
this. We are eager to say “It’s ok! Doubt is ok!” And it is. My hope and
prayer, though, is that we can offer more. Let’s tell our own stories of doubt and faith, of the darkness and the light, of the uncertainty and
the choosing. Let’s acknowledge that even though doubt is ok, it can also be
lonely and scary. Let’s assure one another that this path does not need to be
walked alone. AND, let’s find ways to share Truth with one another that is not
alienating and isolating but instead affirming and inclusive.
