Week Two: Stories of Doubt (2.1)
I was nine years old the first time I tried to read what would become one of my favorite books: The Horse and His Boy, by C.S. Lewis. I remember sitting in my little desk in the fourth grade, “free reading” because all my work was finished, and the book bored me so badly I could not get through the first chapter. I was a great lover of “The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe,” but this one was a whole new breed. I stood up, and replaced the book on the shelf. However, upon my second read at age 23, I fared a bit better. At least I know my attention span has improved at least a little since the fourth grade.
This book is about, as the title suggests, a horse, Bree, and his boy, Shasta. Shasta is an orphan, on the run, and Bree is too, which naturally leads to a series of frightening adventures. I’m going to spoil the story now, so if you care, skip to the next section. Shasta encounters Aslan the Lion (who represents God) late in the book, and confronts him about all the perils he has been through, demanding to know why Aslan would have abandoned him so. In this season of crying hearts, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about Shasta’s question, the same question my heart is longing to know this Christmastide: where were you, all this time? Aslan’s answer- and God’s- consistently brings me to tears. In her song written about this book, the songwriter, Sarah Sparks, summarizes their conversation so beautifully. (Follow the link to listen and read along!) The lyrics are as follows:
Waves that beat upon the shore, they brought no peace Somewhere else I must belong, somewhere for me Who was it left me there, a boy scared and alone? No, I don’t think you heard me calling, always thought, He must not know. Surely he would never leave me, he wouldn’t leave me here alone. You tell me now that I was never on my own? Well pardon me, I don’t remember you at all Cause with my back against the tomb, I called you out But I don’t think I heard your answer, I don’t think I heard a sound I don’t recall you in my anger, I don’t remember you around But he answered, “Who are you to question me? Do you command the mountains or calm the raging sea? For I am the current, I was there to save your life A man may find his eye deceiving, a fool holds on to trust his sight A wise man knows that his own feeling may not with the truth align And you think you have never seen my face? But every moment you’re alive, you know my grace For only death in this cruel world is justly deserved And you say that I don’t answer, just because you have not heard But you don’t know yet how to listen or to understand my words My love, I cared for you I was the comfort You felt in the house of the dead I drove from you Beasts in the night All of this I have done while you slept All of this by my design Every chapter and word I’ve written every line
Aslan had been there, in the midst of Shasta’s story, all along. Invisibly guiding him, loving him, comforting him. Walking between Shasta and the edge of the cliff. One of the things I find profound about the Bible is that it includes what I like to call, “stories of doubt.” These are the stories in which the characters don’t act like the perfect saints picture books and preachers paint them out to be. Stories where, in my opinion, the characters seem to have life breathed into them, and they suddenly grow legs and fingernails and eyebrows and are human standing in front of us. I love that these stories were not excluded from the biblical text even though they present what some might see as “weakness,” because it is in these stories specifically that we are given permission to be honest with God, to ask the questions of our hearts without shame, and ultimately to move forward in our own story. The doubt- and in turn, the belief- is essential to our humanness, and is its own kind of wilderness.
I’m not sure when, perhaps at a point in my early twenties during a period of extreme self doubt and discontentment at the way my life was unfolding, that I started writing that phrase, “stories of doubt,” in my Bible, alongside passages that felt really human to me. As soon as my eyes were opened to it, I saw them everywhere. They are scattered throughout the Psalms (specifically the psalms of Asaph,) in the stories of Elijah battling depression in the desert, Moses begging God to choose someone else to deliver the Israelites, Joseph despairing in the Egyptian jail, and Gideon repeatedly asking for a sign that he is doing the right thing. We see doubt in the Lamentations of Jeremiah, Ezekiel in the valley of dry bones, and in Naomi’s distress in her response to the death of her husband and sons. We see it in Mary of Bethany, who many remember for the story of her sitting at Jesus’ feet while her anxious sister prepares dinner, but forget she also hid from Jesus after her brother’s death, and then bitterly yelled at him: “if you had been here, my brother would not have died.” There is the story of Thomas, labelled “doubting” by history, but whom you can’t blame; would you have believed it if your friends told you the man you loved, your dear friend, whom you saw die, was suddenly alive again? There are the disciples, losing their minds in a storm on the Sea of Galilee while Jesus slept in their boat. The story of Zechariah the priest, made mute for nine months as consequence for doubting the angel of the Lord, doubting because it was an unexpected answer to a long unanswered prayer. His legacy of doubt was passed down to his own son-the answer to his prayer- John the Baptist, as he sat in jail for his radical message.
See what I mean? The stories of being human are everywhere.
But it doesn’t stop there. The other side of the coin, the thing that makes these stories all the more wonderful, is God’s response. God doesn’t shame the person bearing their soul, the vulnerable. God just loves them. God finds them by the well in their own personal wilderness of doubt and just sits with them in it. And in doing so, God reminds us not to give up.
God sends Elijah food, taking care of the immediate bodily needs. God asks Moses’ brother to partner with him, and provides the requested sign for Gideon. God sends Naomi’s daughter-in-law to accompany her through her grief. God encourages Jeremiah, weeps with Mary, and affirms the work John the Baptist had done, telling everyone John was the best of them. Jesus appears to Thomas specifically, telling him to touch his side and hands- answering the exact questions Thomas asked. Jesus wakes up and calms the sea, and the hearts of his friends. Simply put, God enters our story and draws near. Not the opposite. He comes into our fear and calms the water. The problem is not always solved, but we can know that we are deeply loved in the middle of our season of depression and doubt. He brings the peace of himself into our storm.
Stories of doubt are included because God values them. Your story, my story is valid. And good. And important, even if you are having a hard time believing.
Sometimes you are in the wilderness so long, you forget what it felt like when you weren’t.
Sometimes you’ve been praying for something for ten years, and nothing happens, so you give up.
Sometimes things are so awful, you can’t believe God actually cares even a little bit.
Sometimes, even though the sharp pain is gone, the dull ache remains. Constant, and exhausting, and total, and seemingly permanent.
Sometimes it feels like the stars have fallen out of the sky and all that’s left is burning ground and the pitch black expanse of eternity.
But along with the stars came Jesus, down from heaven to walk with us, to walk between us and the edge of the cliff. To cry with us. And to ask us to not lose heart. He is in our boat, even as we are crying “Wake up! Don’t you care that we are perishing?”
I don’t know why so many bad things have happened. What I do know is that we worship the same God who only responded to honest doubts with kindness. Who invites our longings and holds us. Who sits in our pain and reminds us by his presence to believe. Who reminds us to turn aside from what’s in front of us and see him standing there, arms open, near.
In this season of advent, know that the one who loves the doubters- the humans- is faithful to draw near to the brokenhearted and bind up their wounds. He was born to live in our boat. To weather the storm along with us. He became human to listen to our questions and to love us in our doubting. The weight of our world is not too heavy for him.
Courage, dear hearts, and shout his name into the night.
-alyssa
