The Good Friday post concluded with the hope I find blossoming on the
cross. But why am I a Christian now? Why don’t I search for hope and joy
by other means?
One easy answer is I was raised in a Christian family and back in the
day, the country was more overtly a Christian
nation. Until I was 21, these familial
and cultural forces were the dominant reasons for my belief. I did question parts of my beliefs from time
to time, though never seriously. Then, during the Spring semester of my senior year in college, as I sat in Doug Geivett’s apologetics class, I
realized that the stuff I professed to believe wasn’t anything I had
experienced – especially joy. God seemed
more like a distant concept than a Heavenly parent. For the most part, I didn’t buy the
historical arguments for God’s existence, either, though I wanted to be able to
believe them.
Here began crisis of faith #1: was there a God at all and could I know
that he had any interest in me?
My questioning grew into a mild depression: I felt spiritually
despondent, confused by the lack of experience of God in my life. I confided in my parents that I had this
confusion, and they suggested that I come home for the weekend so we could talk
– they’re both excellent listeners and very empathetic – and that seemed like a
pretty good idea. They introduced me to
the practice of spiritual warfare praying, or the act of confronting evil and
destructive forces with the authority of Christ. I was open but fairly skeptical, until they
told me that they’d essentially done this sort of thing on my behalf when I was
15, a point to which I could point as a major demarcation in my attitude and
behavior. So, I followed their
lead. What followed involved no sparks,
nothing creepy, and it was really short – about 10 minutes or so. I
spent Saturday night at home and drove back to school on Sunday.
Within the week, I was hopeful again and noticed a sudden and very positive
attitude change. I felt joyful. I was dumbfounded. How could this be? Was it a purely psychosomatic reaction, or
was something else going on, some kind of spiritual experience for which I was
unprepared and of which I was ignorant?
Of course, I can’t prove in any physical or deductive way that it was
spiritual – the spiritual is a dimension inaccessible to objective
investigation in our primary, four-dimensional world. But, subjectively, I knew that something real
had happened, clearly for my betterment, and it happened in the name of Jesus
Christ.
Crisis of faith #2 was multi-phased, with troughs in the Summer of ’94,
the Winter of ’96, and finally the Summer of ’99.
After graduating from college, I spent some time with A Christian
Ministry in the National Parks, essentially as a chaplain in first Everglades
and then Grand Teton National Parks.
After this, I spent 10 months recruiting for the ministry. The time was spiritually formative for me,
and I experienced God’s presence, answers to prayer, and sudden and unexpected
provision. At the time I felt a clear
sense that I should go to seminary, which I ultimately did in the Fall of ’95. Before, during, and after that stretch, I
began to be plagued by questions again.
I had been studying the philosophy of religion and systematic theology and
grew especially concerned with the exclusive claims of Christ. Following Jesus, it seemed, was a good thing,
but was it really right, more so than
the other major World religions?
Then one night in February of 1996, as I drove along Half Day Road in
Deerfield, IL, I cried out: “God, I can’t figure this stuff out!” What happened this time also caught me off
guard: I heard directly and immediately from God. It wasn’t an audible voice, but a distinct
and clear impression of words; God said: “You don’t have to, just be faithful.” Once again, I cannot prove that my mind didn’t
create those words. What I can say is
that I have an undeniable personal experience that these words came from beyond
me.
Now I had a break – I simply had to try to continue living in faith, I didn’t
have to sort it all out. I also knew
that I couldn’t remain in seminary as long as I wasn’t sure about Jesus’ role
in relation to God. Through the next 3 ½
years, I lived in faith, sort of. In
reality, I was functioning as a deist: God was there, I couldn’t deny the reality
of my prior experiences, but I was twice shy about trusting God to live fully
in faith. During this stretch, my
girlfriend became my wife, maybe against her better judgment. I’ll always be grateful to her friend Dawn for encouraging her to stick
with me.
But Lisa knew that I couldn’t continue dwelling at the fork in the road
forever, that eventually I needed to resolve the doubts I had. In August of 1999, she bottom-lined me: “Steve,
you have to sort this out. Whatever you
conclude, I won’t leave you.” I knew she
was right, but until I had that relational freedom from her, I didn’t feel
strengthened to wrestle with the questions again. I’d been living in fear – not in faith – that
I might get the “wrong” answer. Now, I
could pursue my doubts honestly.
I sought out an elder in the church we were attending for a
conversation about my doubts. He was an
unusual guy: he was not a minister, but his adult Sunday school class attracted
about 80-100 people per week. He’d
earned a Ph.D. in Biochemistry from the University of Michigan and had taught
himself Greek so he could read the New Testament in its original written
form. I figured that if there were
answers to my questions, Phil would have them.
So, I called to make an appointment to see Phil, and then began writing
out my questions. When the evening came
to meet with him, I was prepared and skeptical that he could handle what I was
about to dish out. When we sat down,
Phil listened as I broadly described the questions I had for him. His response was interesting: “That’s great,
we’ll get to those, but first tell me who is Jesus Christ to you?” I could hardly believe my ears as I listened to my own response: he was a
great teacher, a moral leader, a wonderful example – how many times had I
earlier in life smirked proudly at those responses?! In the discussion that followed, Phil pointed
me back to the reality that I was avoiding: God was not an abstraction, about
which we could argue, limit, and define.
God was a person – immaterial, for sure – but very definitely a
person. And the proposal was this: was I
willing to trust that God wanted the best for me, that Jesus would lead me, and
that the Holy Spirit would grow me (taken together, this is what Christians
mean by a personal relationship with God)?
Phil said, pointing to a chair in his living room, “A relationship with
God is like your relationship with this chair: you can acknowledge its
existence, but unless you risk by sitting in it, there won’t be any chance you’ll
experience the support and rest it’s capable of providing.”
I was 29 when my doubts began to ebb: I prayed to have the faith – not a
gossamer hope, but living out my beliefs in spite of my questions – that month, and have been growing since.
I’ve been fortunate to have spiritual experiences like those above that
keep me anchored in my faith in Christ. They’re
sign posts and like Jesus' miracles, they’ve served to point me back in the
right direction. Most of the questions I
hoped Phil would answer that night 15 years ago are still with me, but they’ve
long since quit vexing me. I’m
buttressed by these spiritual experiences, motivated by relationship, and fueled
by spiritual growth.
Doubt isn’t a thing to fear and it’s unreasonable to imagine that
doubts will stop for the thoughtful Christ follower. The life of faith in
Christ works – it grows – not by obtaining answers to questions but through
continuing to sit in the chair even though the questions remain. My growing faith in Christ is belief in
action, leading to a changed character.
But what about Easter? What
exactly do I see in this day that moves me so much? Why is the story of the crucifixion and the
empty tomb so powerful for me? Why, as I
acknowledged in the prior post, even though I have questions about how Jesus' death pays for my sin do I continue to believe it?
Beauty.
And, in my mind, there’s simply nothing more beautiful than
self-sacrifice. When a person values
another to such an extent that he gives his life for them – a response
thoroughly inexplicable by Darwinian impulses – I know goodness exists. God knows the beauty in self-sacrifice, too,
and I think one way to look at Jesus’ death and resurrection and draw out joy
and hope is to focus on the beauty of God’s self-sacrifice via Jesus’
death. And then there’s the empty tomb:
a mystery, to be sure, but in my view, evidence that the story of Easter doesn’t
stop with the beauty of God’s self-sacrifice, but extends to include hope and
joy in God’s power and majesty.
If you’re reading this on Easter, you can know that I’ll be reveling in
God’s majesty, in the beauty of Jesus’ sacrifice, and in the joy of living a
life that’s being transformed, one that’s being turned slowly from selfishness to
God-focused. You can know that I don't have answers to all the mysteries but still enjoy their reality. I hope that’s your
experience today, too.