To Wrestle with Angels: On Doubt

Here is what I mean by doubt.

I don't think doubt is a virtue or a vice. I think it is a real thing that happens to humans.

I'm not advocating wallowing in a pit of doubt forever because you have given up believing in anything.

I think it's good to be honest about the parts of Christianity (or any faith) that you wrestle with. And I'm using that word, "wrestle," very intentionally. I think of Jacob physically wrestling with God in the OT; that is the picture that comes to mind. Note that Jacob doesn't let go. He holds on. I affirm every single thing in the Apostles' Creed, and I affirm it without much trouble. I believe the Bible is God's word, and I affirm that without much trouble, too.

Wrestling is how the blessing gets in. It's saying, "Perhaps there are things I don't know." Or "Perhaps, the things I know have more facets to them than I previously thought." Or "Perhaps this thing I know is much bigger than I thought." Or "I thought this was smooth, but it has jagged edges." Or "I thought it was soft, but I'm discovering some hard parts." Or "Perhaps I was wrong completely." It takes courage and humility to admit you don't have all the answers all the time.

What I mean is, some days it's hard to believe things, and some days it's not. I want to be honest, and I want people to be honest with me, about what's going on in our lives. I want to live authentically, which to me means being able to say, "God's word says x. I believe that God's word is true. But today, it's hard for me to hold to the truth of x, to a strong, specific belief in x. Ask me again tomorrow."

Or maybe belief is a sliding scale, and it's OK if on Tuesday I 70% believe God and on Friday I 100% believe him. Maybe the Thursday after next I'll be down to 20%. The point is that I'm still somewhere on the scale, that I haven't thrown up my hands and said "Can anything be known? Is anything even true? Does it matter at all?"

Doubt means that sometimes I have to be in a place where I have more questions than answers. Or it means that the answers and questions appear to be mortal enemies. Or they slide off one another like oil and water, and I can't hold them together in one hand. On those days I can hold them in separate hands and say "Lord, I believe. Help thou mine unbelief." Or even, "Jesus, I really don't get this at all. Help me, please." And then I get up and go to work and come home and watch Netflix and wash the dishes. And then I go to bed to wake up and do it again.

It's real and human and OK to not be 100% certain about everything 100% of the time. Jesus is compassionate: he knows our frame, remembers that we're dust.

Different communities of people who love Jesus fall on different sides of this issue. I'm falling on the side of believing that doubt can be a helpful and a healthy tool. The author Kathleen Norris, in her book Amazing Grace, writes “Doubt is merely the seed of faith, a sign that faith is alive and ready to grow.” I actually believe that doubt is a means of engaging with God.

I'm not saying let's all put on berets and smoke cigarettes and talk languidly about our collective ennui and put stones in our pockets and walk into the river to drown ourselves. I'm saying I intend to live in communities where we can admit to faults and failings and uncertainties and let each other sit in those spaces for as long as it takes.

Also, I believe that it's good and OK to say that you're thinking through something, that you're still deciding and don't know where you'll land. I think it's right to say, "I've been told this is true, and I'm still deciding about that. I don't know if I believe it yet." The head and the heart must work together.

I affirm that it's OK to be uncertain. I affirm that it's good to be honest with yourself and with others about your uncertainty. I affirm that I want to leave space for my doubt and the doubt of others.

I affirm that Christianity is a story worth wrestling with.

That's it.

Open Thou Our Lips: On Detachment

Detachment:

"Being free from wanting certain things to happen, and remaining so trusting of God that what is happening will be the thing you want and you will be at peace with all."
 --Kathleen Norris and Dorotheus of Gaza

I want to contemplate the virtue of detachment. A few weeks ago, a friend read me the chapter on detachment from Kathleen Norris' book Amazing Grace. This topic strikes me as appropriate not only for Lent, but also for the season of life I'm entering. My current roommate, who is one of the best and most beloved roommates I have ever had, got married about a month ago. Because all the other women I know are married or live with their parents, I could not find a roommate to share my lovely, comfortable, quiet hermitage. So, even though I had just reached the stage of early adult life where I owned furniture, had utility bills in my name, and could throw dinner parties with real dishes and silverware, I had to pack up and leave.

I'm not just sad because my dear roommate is moving over lands and seas, but also because I am giving up the place that has been my only home for the last two years. During the seven years I spent in college, I longed for a space of my own. I kept boxes of pretty dishes and table linens given to me by family friends, waiting for the time I would be able to use them. I glory in domesticity. I love having my own kitchen. I love deciding what color of paint goes on the wall, and not having to resign myself to an ugly wall-hanging because everyone else thinks it looks lovely in the living room.

It's hard to give up something that you are actually grateful for. I've prayed about this move many, many times, mostly using words like "Jesus, please, please, please, can I stay?" But even while I prayed for this, I knew that I really needed to pray that my heart would be aligned to the will of God. It's scary to feel desire clutching your heart in its fingers, controlling the rhythm of its pulse. I made a thorough search for anyone female, Jesus-following, and non-crazy. I did not find a roommate. I did not, do not, feel "free from wanting certain things to happen."
 
Instead of finding one roommate, I found five. On Saturday, I moved into an intentional community house. Most of the women who have lived there left behind piles of belongings: stacks of books, mattresses, luggage, mismatched dishes, and shabby furniture, so there is no room for my treasured belongings. I'm ashamed to admit how much this upsets me, but that is the case. The women are all wonderful people, lovers of God, and so good to me. The house has a lovely quirky charm, with odd cupboards and cabinets, a white picket fence, and a well-kept lawn. My little attic bedroom is painted in a lovely shade of grey, with walls that slant upward at about five feet, and a window that overlooks the front yard. Nonetheless, I am having a hard time with this transition, because I am confused about what my life is supposed to look like, who I am supposed to be, and what I am supposed to strive for. A spirit of detachment is wanting. I am trying hard to step away from my constant desire to read the tidy narrative of my life, as though I can stand in the place of God, observing the unfolding of the universe in time, and holding my existence in my own hands. I wish I could see inside the mind of God, because it feels like I'm regressing, going back to my life as a college student, shoved into a small space with a lot of women, unsure of where I am going or why.

 Kathleen Norris writes about a monastic understanding of detachment. As Christians, the point is not to be free of all desire, but rather our aim is to "not [allow] either worldly values or self-centeredness to distract us from what is most essential in our relationship with God, and with each other." Community is more precious than cups, and faithfulness more treasured than furniture. I believe, O Lord, help my unbelief. 

I'm still planning to store my dishes and furniture, but I want to do so with my heart believing in God's constant loving-kindness, with hands that are open to give and receive, and a mouth that is ready to sing worship and shout praise. It's nearly Good Friday after all: "Not my will, but yours, be done."

Hitherto thy love has blessed me,

 thou hast brought me to this place, 

and I know thy hand will lead me, 

safely home by thy good grace.

Amen.

"O Lord, open thou our lips, and our mouths shall show forth thy praise."