Doubt

They come without warning, these twinges of doubt, these moments where the possibility that I am a fool, in the company of fools, flickers to the surface of my consciousness and steals my breath away.

The last one came last Sunday, sitting in church, as our pastor spoke of the immensity of the universe.

300 billion stars in our galaxy alone...

The largest galaxy we're aware of is more than 1 billion light years across...

As he spoke, I found myself wondering, "The 'Creator' squeezed himself into a tiny speck on some other random tiny speck in the midst of all that?"

Are we kidding ourselves...?

In the past, those waves of doubt would crest into self-condemnation and guilt, followed either by arguing myself into silence or summoning up all kinds of things to do in order to (a) atone for the doubt itself or (b) try to insulate myself against its recurrence. 

This time, however, as I sat there, twirling that little plastic cup of juice in my hands, my mind was suddenly flooded with instance after instance where the people whose stories fill our scriptures must have felt themselves trapped in this same... absurdity... and it occurred to me: 

What if that's the point?

~-@-~

It must have seemed so ridiculous, as she stood in front of that tree -- a tree -- and turned God's words over in her mind. It didn't look any different than any other tree in the garden, it's fruit the same as their fruit, and yet, out of all the others, this one had been singled out as the one to avoid. 

Didn't God make that tree? Wasn't it good like everything else he'd made? If it was so dangerous, why put it here? Are we not good enough?  Is there something he's keeping from us?

Am I being played for a fool?

Isn't that the essence of the serpent's temptation? We give Eve a hard time, but don't we resonate with that fear?

Or what about Abraham, father Abraham, tying one strap and then another, binding his son to a pile of wood?

Do we really believe, through it all -- as his son asked where they'll find a lamb for the sacrifice, as he felt the weight of the dagger beating against his hip while they hiked the mountain, as he uttered the terrible command for Isaac, his Isaac, to lie down -- is it even possible he never had a moment where he asked himself, "What the hell am I doing?"

~-@-~

"No, daddy, I can't!" my son shouted at me from the edge of the pool last summer, as I pleaded with him to jump to me. Teeth clenched, visibly shaking from a mixture of cold and fear, he stomped his resolve on the concrete.

In that moment, as a dad, I knew I couldn't give in, but not because it was of life and death importance that he should be able to jump into a pool, not even because of some belief that he should obey. 

Rather, it was important that he jump because it was an opportunity for my son to learn to trust. 

We have moments like this all the time. The other day, I asked him to put down a toy, in close proximity to his sister, so he could come and take some medicine and the protest came fast and furious, "But, but, but, if I put it down, she'll take it!"

Trust me, son. I will make sure she doesn't.

He's learning to swim now, and a couple of weeks ago I asked him to swim from me to a set of stairs almost the full width of the pool away. Terrified, he wrapped himself around me and begged to move closer. As I reasoned with him, I remember pulling him away from my neck, far enough to make eye-contact, and asking:

"Have I ever done anything to hurt you, buddy? Do you think I would ever let anything happen to you?"

Growing up, the only way I knew how to define the word faith was "believing in God." As a father, I have learned that faith -- real faith -- means believing that he's good, that he has my best in mind, even when he asks things of me that are uncomfortable or impossible to understand.

The thing is, the only way to know that goodness is to experience it, to put it to the test, to stand open and vulnerable upon the promise of goodness and then find out whether things are, in fact, as advertised. 

The only way my son can know, truly know, that I will catch him is to leap -- to leap out into water that would surely mean his death without me -- and find out. 

In the same way, the only way for me to know -- truly know -- that God is good, is to stand in the midst of this absurdity and lean in to that promise, to taste and see, as it were. 

And let's be clear here: the danger is just as real for me as it is for my son.

The depth of the demand that Christ puts upon my life (namely, all of it) will not allow for Pascal's famous wager (that is, that it is better to believe and find there is no god, than to refuse and find that he exists). Rather, we must, with Paul, admit that, if we've missed our guess -- if god either is not good, or simply doesn't exist -- then we of all people "are to be most pitied" (1 Cor 15).

~-@-~

As I sat in church last Sunday, caught up in the absurdity that an infinite God would care even one tiny bit about a miniscule speck awash in this vast and incalculable expanse we call the universe, I suddenly realized I was simply rehearsing the struggle that echoes through all of scripture:

 You want me to leave my home and successful life in a vibrant city and move to Canaan, the most backwoods area of this region?

Trust me, I am good.

 

You want me to try to break down these vast and impenetrable walls... by playing music?

Trust me, I am good.

You want me to go, by myself, to proclaim your judgement on a nation known throughout the world for its brutality and ruthlessness?

Trust me, I am good.

You want us to live in rubble so we can haphazardly rebuild a wall while all our enemies are threatening to destroy us? 

Trust me, I am good.

You want me to be pregnant but not with the child of the man who will be my husband?

Trust me, I am good.

 

In my own doubts, in those moments where I feel myself at the edge of the water, so to speak, afraid and unsure, the story of my own life resonates with those who have gone before me, and I am given the same terrifying but ultimately glorious opportunity as they:

Trust me, I am good.

Without the doubt, without the absurdity, would that even be possible?