I have a confession to make: I’m still a Michael W. Smith fan. If you were a teenager in the 90s, you probably were, too. But if you’re too young (or old) to know who he is, he was a popular Christian music act with radio-friendly melodies and more than his share of clichéd lyrics.
In fact, good ol’ Michael W. sang what may be the most overplayed song in the history of Christian radio: “Friends Are Friends Forever.” You’ve probably heard it: let’s all raise our cell phones and lighters while we dim the lights and sing along. “And friends are friends forever, if the Lord’s the Lord of them, And a friend will not say never, ‘cause his welcome will not end …”
But I digress. Here’s the point: Now that you know who Michael W. Smith is, I want to read you something I wrote that has a connection to him. I penned this piece when I was about to graduate from Bible college, and it has a lot to do with our topic for this morning: Doubt.
I admit it—I’m still a Michael W. Smith fan. But I can’t help it: you see, I spent the better part of high school listening to Michael W. Smith, Point of Grace, 4 Him, and whatever one-hit wonders were on the local Christian radio station in 1995. And really, that’s why I still like the venerable Mr. Smith. He reminds me of a simpler time in life, when the phrase “big problem” meant getting a C minus on my chemistry test, and “life crisis” referred to breaking up with my girlfriend of two months.
Now, as I finish my senior year at Moody, I’m discussing marriage with my girlfriend, mailing out resumes, and wondering whether all those dreams I had while listening to the one-hit wonders will come to pass. At least those artists with a single hit song had their chance. Will I ever have the courage, talent, and sheer luck to get that close to my greatest ambitions?
But then, talking about “luck” at Moody will quickly get you lambasted by your More-Spiritual-Than-Thou friends: “How can you believe in luck?I only believe in the sovereign hand of God.” And I suppose that’s the real reason I can’t tear myself away from the artists of yesteryear. In the days when I grew to love those songs, it was okay to say “luck.” It was okay not to know what “sovereign” meant. In short, Christianity was much simpler.
Back then, Godliness didn’t require so much thought. When I had doubts about my faith, the youth pastor had a ready supply of answers. Bible interpretation was as easy as looking up a chapter in my brand-new study Bible. Being a Christian meant I didn’t smoke, swear, or sleep around. Whether God answered more quickly then or whether I generated God’s answers to satisfy my impatience, I’m not entirely sure, but prayer seemed to work faster.
Then I came to Moody. I knew I wanted to grow closer to God and serve him. But I didn’t want to learn how sinful humans really are, and how even big Christian institutions like Moody can make big mistakes. I didn’t want to find out that some things in the Christian faith have no easy answers, or that even theologians disagree on thousands of things in Scripture. I didn’t want to know that maintaining the spiritual disciplines were the hardest part of the Christian life—even at Bible college.
Most of all, I would have preferred to live without the discovery that sometimes, God is silent, and a Believer of 15 years can doubt his existence.
Now, I think God called me to Moody four years ago, and I don’t regret spending my time (not to mention 25 grand) on a Bible college education. But at the same time, I can’t quite figure out how the wide-eyed freshman who thought Moody was the greatest, most spiritual place on earth became the cynical senior who wants to leave behind the trappings of bureaucracy, hypocrisy … and sometimes, Christianity in general. How did God become a subject, Bible reading a chore, and chapel a daily grind?
It seems only fitting to quote one of Michael W. Smith’s later songs, because apparently, I’m not the only one who’s looked back over the past few years to discover a loss of juvenile idealism and faith. The author of “Friends,” that sentimental little ditty with the hummable pop chorus, sings lyrics that are a bit more thoughtful these days. He says in his song “Missing Person”:
There was a boy who had the faith to move a mountain,
And like a child he would believe without a reason.
Without a trace he’s disappeared into the void and,
I’m still searching for that Missing Person.He used to want to try and walk the straight and narrow,
He had a fire and he could feel it in the marrow.
It’s been a long time and I haven’t seen him lately but,
I’m still searching for that missing person.I’ll let you know if I find him.
* * *
I have another confession to make—a much darker one than my Michael W. fandom. Ten years ago this spring, only months away from graduating from Bible college, there was a secret I couldn’t share with anyone: I wasn’t sure God existed anymore.
That column I read to you, which was published in our student newspaper, was actually a very sanitized version of my experience. I couldn’t tell anyone what was really going on in my heart: that I thought God might not be there, and what sane person could believe someone actually rose from the dead, and why did we believe this Bible anyway?
I’m what some describe as a “congenital doubter”—skepticism seems to be hardwired into my soul, and it’s hard for me to trust ANYTHING. I can remember doubting ever since I was in middle school: was I really saved? Did God answer prayer? Why didn’t he do miracles anymore if he was powerful?
But you can’t talk about those things at Moody Bible Institute. I tried once, with one of the guys on my dorm floor, and I got was a deer-in-the-headlights stare in return that seemed to mean, “You leper, get away from me!” Really, I felt like I was living a lie: attending classes about the Bible while I was wondering if I could trust the words in the book.
Of course, my doubt also had other contributing factors. It usually does. I was clinically depressed, though I refused to call it name. Life seemed like nothing but a dreary slog towards emptiness. I slept too much; prayed too little; worked too hard. If you’ve been depressed, you might agree with me that the worst part is not the sadness—it’s the emptiness. You’d give anything even to feel agonizing pain; anything besides being left numb. And numb is precisely what I felt most of the time.
Then I was surrounded by hypocrisy, or at least it felt like it. There was this RA in my dorm who had one class with me. To the best of my recollection, the only time he spoke to me beyond a “hello” is when he was busting me for being out of dress code, like wearing sneakers instead of dress shoes to class (God forbid). So far as I can tell, he cared far more about rules than people.
I was leading the drama ministry at a church in the suburbs, and I’d just about had it. I got called on the carpet by the elder board because they didn’t like the script. I can still say it was quite possibly the best thing I’d written and directed up to that time, but it was “controversial,” and they didn’t like it. I had been busting my butt to serve God, and what thanks did I get?
I was also living in sin, which is always a lousy way to find God—let’s just say I was doing everything-but-sex with my girlfriend. Of course, I told myself that was okay because we were getting married anyway, and I tried to stop because I knew it still wasn’t a good plan while I was studying for ministry … but it seemed like the only pleasure I could wring out of an empty slog through a meaningless life. I’m not sure how I expected to find God when I think subconsciously I was wishing he wasn’t there, so I could just stop feeling guilty for what I knew was wrong.
In short: All of those forces combined with honest intellectual doubts to make me utterly miserable.
* * *
Now, some people in this room—perhaps the ones with an extraordinary gift of faith—may not know what it’s like to doubt. You’ve never really wondered if God loves you or answers prayer—or is really up there at all.
But my guess would be that others of us know far too well what I’m talking about. The horrible feeling that comes on days when you wake up and feel like you’re praying to the wall, and wonder if you’re staking your life and eternity on a lie. Or those days when you can’t stand the secrecy anymore, because there’s no one you can tell what you’re really thinking without (so you think) sacrificing every friend you’ve got. Or those days when you have a desperate prayer request and you offer it up to Jesus, and you think he’s up there somewhere, but you wonder if you believe enough, and whether he ever answers prayers from doubters anyway. Or those times when something reminds you of your own mortality—and you realize you’re not quite sure about that whole “heaven” thing.
A man who we’ll call Jacob—the man from our Bible reading today with the demon-possessed son—he understood doubt. His story is the story of every closet questioner; every person who’s ever wondered if God really cares about their piddly little lives, or if he’s even up there at all. So I resonate far more than I’d like with his story.
* * *
For Jacob, it wasn’t so much an act of faith as an act of desperation. He’d tried everything to find a cure for his son; his only boy. He would have sacrificed his own life to have some assurance his child could be normal; could grow up like the other children and become a man to be proud of.
But nothing worked. He tried showering his son with love and punishing him with angry words—even blows. He spent thousands on quack doctors and fly-by-night exorcists with mumbled incantations. But it was as useless as chasing the wind. His son still couldn’t speak—in fact, he couldn’t do more than rock back and forth as he groaned and foamed at the mouth.
And that wasn’t the worst of it. Every time Jacob dared to hope his son might be getting better, it happened again—worse than before. Like two nights ago. His son had another attack—a fit, a seizure, whatever you want to call it. Jacob still felt the overwhelming horror and despair just thinking about it.
His boy writhed on the ground and foamed at the mouth, like usual. He stiffened up—firm as a board, muscles tighter than knots. That was nothing new, it had been happening since his now-grown son was a toddler. But then the new thing happened. He was sitting outside by a fire with the rest of the family, and as he thrashed around, he almost rolled into the flames to be burned alive. Jacob had to stamp on burning wood and coals while his wife frantically tried to restrain their senseless son; to pull his body away from danger.
In spite of their best efforts, Jacob’s son still came away with burn blisters up and down his legs. His face was burned on one side so badly it would never look the same again.
Not that it mattered, of course. Not that anybody cared what the child looked like; they all stayed far away from the twenty-year-old who couldn’t speak a single word and stared blankly at the gaping world.
Jacob just didn’t know what to think any more. Was it epilepsy? Autism? Schizophrenia? Demon possession? It could have been all four and then some. And Jacob just couldn’t bring himself to hope anymore; to believe his son would ever be well again.
That’s why it wasn’t really faith that took him to the healing service. It was desperation and hopelessness; one last attempt that wouldn’t work any better than the ones before. But why not? What was one more disappointment after all this time?
* * *
We don’t know from Scripture if this man’s name was Jacob—but we do know he took his grown child to the disciples of Jesus. And sure enough, the disappointment he’d expected was waiting: they couldn’t do it. They couldn’t heal his son any more than the charlatans and exorcists before.
But that was when Jesus stepped onto the scene. He asked, in that powerful voice that could not be disobeyed, even by wind and waves: “What’s going on here? What are you arguing about?”
Jacob told the alleged Healer what had just transpired with the disciples. Once again, had been failed by someone who claimed to have a cure. Once again, the God Jacob sometimes worshiped had failed him. And then Jacob said the dangerous words we remember him for, the phrase that most of us wouldn’t so much as whisper to God in our most private prayers, but some of us feel in our hearts: “Have mercy on us and help us … if you can.”
“IF.” That tiny, two-letter word is full of meaning. IF this guy Jesus—and Jacob had only heard secondhand—had really walked on water, of course he could handle a mere demon. IF he was really the Messiah, a little healing would be no problem. IF he fed 5000 people—that was one of the rumors around town—maybe he could finally cure the poor boy.
But IF was the crux of the matter. Jacob was not there because he had rock-solid faith. He was simply there because nothing else worked! The disciples’ lack of power only confirmed what he already thought—this guy was just another TV preacher who faked his miracles; another one of Oprah’s pop psychology quacks dispensing useless advice.
Certainly, this Jesus was like all the rest—a hypocrite. Any moment now, after Jacob’s fateful utterance—“IF you can”—the man was sure to condemn him, just like those exorcists. He would tell Jacob it was his lack of faith that kept anything from happening. And sure enough, Jesus brought it up: “IF you can?” he said. “Anything is possible if a person believes.”
But somehow, this comment awakened the dormant hope inside Jacob’s soul. Somehow, it made him believe, with a tiny part of his cynical heart. Somehow, he made a statement so remarkable for its honesty that it should still give us pause.
He did not start protesting that Jesus misunderstood him; that actually, he had a strong, undying trust in God. No, in his desperation, he cried out more in agonized longing that in faith: “I do believe, but help me overcome my unbelief!”
And then he waited, hoping against hope, to see what would happen.
* * *
In the spring of 1999, a few months before I graduated, my girlfriend Sara asked me to go to the cemetery with her. Her Dad passed away when she was in middle school, and she hadn’t been back to the cemetery since the funeral. Now, she wanted me to keep her company on a memorial pilgrimage.
We drove out to the place where her father was buried—towards the back of the cemetery, where there were rows upon rows of small stone markers set in the ground. They seemed to march all the way to the horizon, each one representing a human soul who had once walked and breathed; thought and dreamed. Now, there was nothing left of them but decaying bones and this insignificant slab of granite.
I knew she’d want some time with her memories, so I wandered off to sit on a sun-warmed rock next to a little stream that ran near the gravestones. And a thought hit me that I don’t think I’d ever really contemplated before: “One day, I’ll be here, too.” One day, I was also going to rot in the ground with nothing left behind but a few memories in the minds of friends and one stone marker in an endless row.
I thought about the legacy of Sara’s father, who’d spent his life as a welder to raise three girls. He loved the little house he bought for his family in a Chicago suburb, maintaining it carefully—adding a treehouse for his girls; putting up Muppet wallpaper in their bedrooms. But now, the house was falling into disrepair and the treehouse was an unsafe wreck and the wallpaper was peeling. Sara had turned out pretty well, but so what? It wasn’t as though her father was around to see it.
And when I joined him six feet under, then what would my life mean? Would it matter whether I’d gotten a degree or published articles—or even gotten married and raised a family? It was all meaningless, a chasing after the wind. I realized that only 60 years hence (if I was particularly lucky), nothing would be left of me but bones and memories.
I might as well eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we die. If this life is all we get, either absolute pleasure-seeking hedonism or simply committing suicide in despair were my only options. They were the only two ways, it seemed, to spend my life that made any sense at all.
Unless, of course … it was true. Unless Jesus really conquered the grave. Unless this life was less than a sentence on the page of eternity. Unless God was able to do more than we ask or imagine, and “the resurrection and the life” was more than an empty phrase. Because if it was true, then suddenly, everything was worth it and more than worth it. Then relationships were forever and life had meaning there was a reason to get up tomorrow morning and eternity could grow even now within my heart … IF.
IF it was true. But on the other hand, it could be nothing more than wishful thinking.
* * *
That realization in the cemetery was the beginning of my journey back from doubt. But of course, the skeptic might say—in other words, sometimes I say—that pondering death is not a good enough reason to believe. Choosing to follow Jesus because you saw no other hope at the end of your endurance? Wouldn’t it be more courageous to stoically accept that God was not there and death was the end?
Perhaps. I only know that for me, there is no fullness of life—no purpose or passion or freedom—apart from God. And perhaps there would be no life at all, because I found myself long ago in the existential dilemma: Why should I go on living; what’s the point? If life is a brief and painful affair ending with nothing but a trip to the boneyard where nothing you ever did really matters anymore, I might as well distract myself from my own untimely demise, or just reach out and embrace death now.
So is God a crutch; an empty conceit that keeps me from suicide or absolute hedonism? In one sense—yes. And I’m honest enough to admit I’m a lame, blind beggar who can do nothing without Him.
We have this idea as Americans—I suppose because we’ve made the pursuit of happiness the chief end of life—that we see things most clearly when life is good. When we’re happy and we know it, when the sky is cloudlessly blue and life is a cabaret, old chum, when it seems like nothing could ever go wrong again and life will never pull me down, somehow we think that is when we can see life and eternity most clearly.
But it’s strange that when life is good, we’re most likely to ignore relationships and our legacy and finding a reason to live. It’s when we have no place else to turn; when everything is empty is despair is our only faithful companion and we realize our lives are nothing but dust that we recognize the truly important things in life: our families. Our friends. Using our gifts to change lives.
And that is also when we are most likely to encounter God in a profound way, because we’ve spent the rest of our lives avoiding him. As C. S. Lewis points out, our God is so extraordinarily humble that he will accept us not only when we’re at our best, but when we’re at our worst—when we’ve tried everything else but him and he is our very last hope.
The atheist argues that I shouldn’t believe in a God when I only look for him in the last extremity. I say, why should I believe in something that I found at any other time? It’s only when my life seems to be over that I can see it clearly.
* * *
I would like to tell you that day was the end of my doubts. I would like to tell you that every morning of my life, I wake up with the assurance that there is a God in heaven. But I don’t—some days, I still struggle and prayer feels like talking to the ceiling.
It was a long road back from spring 1999. I read books that defended the faith, showing me there were good, logical reasons to believe. I broke my silence and shared the doubts plaguing me with compassionate friends. I learned to enjoy beautiful sunsets and long walks and music that lifted me right over the pain-filled world. On a different but perhaps more important note, I stopped shacking up with my girlfriend.
Yet it all had to begin with a choice:was I going to dare to believe? Would I decide with my will, not my empty numb feelings, that there had to be something beyond this life? Was I going to continue wishing faintly that perhaps there was no God because in the good times, it was much better without him, thank you very much? OR believe that when you seek God you’ll find him if you seek with your whole heart?
That was the decision before me; the point where my Christianity would live or die. That was the point when I decided perhaps my longing for purpose and eternity were themselves proof of a God who made me. That’s when I cried out with Jacob, “I do believe, but help me overcome my unbelief!”
* * *
Sometimes in the days after his encounter with the Rabbi, Jacob still found it hard to believe what had happened. Sometimes he wanted to think his son had just always been a happy, bubbly, talkative young man. Sometimes, he thought it must have all been in his head. Surely a complete, spontaneous healing was impossible. Things like that simply didn’t happen in real life.
Other times—in his nightmares—he was certain that his son would go back to his old ways. One day, the demon that had lived inside him for 20 years would come back to reclaim his old haunts.
But when he forced his mind to consider nothing but the indisputable facts, he knew this much: He had cried out more in desperation than faith in those fateful words, “Take pity on us and help us … IF YOU CAN.” And Jesus had given him just enough faith in return to see it through.
In fact, Jesus gave him just enough faith to see a healing take place right before his eyes. And the happy loving man that Jacob was now proud to call son had never been the same since.
* * *
Next week I’ll talk about ways to overcome some different kinds of doubt. Then towards the end of July, Pastor Nelson Martin will try to address the God-questions you’ve asked on the Connect Cards. But for this week, I want to end with a simple question: Will you dare to believe?
Perhaps you’re sitting here in church this morning as a closet doubter. Maybe you’re a good Christian on the outside who’s crying daily on the inside. Maybe you’re a sinner who can’t quite bring yourself to believe enough in God to leave your lifestyle. Perhaps you’ve been sitting here this morning singing the songs and smiling at the good Christians around you—but inside what’s left of your soul, you’re wondering if there is a God in heaven to hear your desperation.
If that is you, dare to join Jacob this morning in a cry to the God you hope exists: “I do believe, but help me overcome my unbelief!”
You probably noticed that you have a blank sheet of paper in the center of your program. If you are wrestling with doubts—if you’re wondering if God is powerful enough to give you hope, or you’re wondering whether he’s there at all—I invite you to use this card. Write down your doubts, then bring them up and leave them at the cross of the one who loves you so much that he became human, who came down to heal the sick and broken and doubting, who cared so much he suffered on the cross for us all. While you stand by the cross, I invite you to pray simply what Jacob did: “I do believe, help me overcome my unbelief.” If you need someone else’s faith to help, there will be people at the front to pray with you.
If you’re in the midst of questioning, you may not be able to believe this right now. But I believe that as you dare to pursue God through doubt, he will respond as he did with Jacob. He will give you just enough faith for you to see a healing right before your eyes. And it may be the most miraculous kind of healing of all—the healing of your own soul from doubt.
As the music plays, come leave your doubts at the foot of the cross … and pray to the God who can heal you.
Copyright © 2009 George Halitzka. All rights reserved. Originally presented at the Highland Vineyard Church on July 5, 2009. This manuscript was written to be used for oral delivery. Therefore, it reflects the unique strengths and limitations of that medium. Scripture quotations are taken (or adapted) from the Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright 1996, 2004. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Wheaton, Illinois 60189. All rights reserved. The song “Missing Person” was written by Michael W. Smith and Wayne Kirkpatrick. © 1998 Milene Music, Inc./ Deer Valley Music (admin. by Milene Music, Inc.)/ ASCAP/ Warner-Tamerlane Publishing Corp./ Sell the Cow Music/ BMI. “Friends (Are Friends Forever)” was written by Michael W. Smith and Deborah D. Smith. © 1982 Meadowgreen Music Co. (ASCAP). Lyrics are reproduced herein under the Fair Use provision of U.S. copyright law.
