Belief, In a Dying World

Liminal Spaces, Issue 1, Volume 3

This will be my last Liminal Spaces entry on Future Thief. I’ve enjoyed sharing experiences from my life and family, but it has served its purpose — to examine personal transitional states under a microscope. This entry will be no less personal, an examination of my faith, an exercise inspired by Mills Baker and countless others before him. I would like for you to read this with the same mindset as my previous Liminal Spaces entries, since it’s not an attempt to proselytize. Nor is it philosophical or apologetic. It’s about my relationship with the Creator of the universe.

To most of you who are regular readers, you know, or at least suspected, that I’m a Christian, a label that arrives with baggage and stays beyond its welcome. In my About page, I state that I’m a believer and follower of Jesus, a romantic notion that aligns more with how I feel than what is true. Labels or semantics matter little here because in either case if you’re offended by the mention of Christianity or Jesus, then nothing I could say would ever change your mind. That would require a spiritual awakening beyond my capacity.

But if you require context in order to frame your opinion, then I do believe the Holy Bible is the ultimate source of objective moral truth. To most it’s a strange claim for a man who writes fantasy and science fiction that often contradicts a biblical view of the world. I can’t deny that, but if I can accept some of the outlandish claims in the Bible, then it’s not a far leap to invent fantastic stories with aliens, creatures and cultures that exist only in our imaginations. And that’s about all the context I can offer.

If you’re insatiably curious, there are plenty of scientists and scholars who can help you digest a more comprehensive view. You can read about the process of translating the modern Bible, ask questions about social and religious topics, or examine the science of creation and the universe. I’ve found these helpful in my own personal journey, but what solidifies my belief, making it tangible, is a personal testimony and its alignment with the testimony of Jesus Christ. What follows is not exhaustive. It’s a slice of a forty-eight-year-old pie.

A History of Suffering

I grew up in the Lutheran church (Missouri Synod), the son of at least one parent who grew up in the Lutheran church, and whose grandparents grew up in the Lutheran church, who took catechism in German and descended from a long line of German Lutherans. I attended a Lutheran K-8 private school and a Lutheran high school. My sister is a teacher of special needs children at a Lutheran school and our family is rooted in this denomination. I grew up in that Christian tradition, although I am no longer Lutheran.

My first struggle with faith stemmed from the realization there was an Indian or Japanese boy my age, halfway around the world, who grew up Hindu or Buddhist, never knowing of Lutheranism. If what I was taught was true, then why were they born into a falsehood? This is an unfairness that should lead Christians toward spreading the hope we cling to, but it doesn’t make the reality any less harsh. People are born into circumstances by an apparent happenstance, some to abusive families, in poverty, surrounded by war, without food or clean drinking water.

While we were not rich, to grow up as a child in middle class America during the 1980s, a nation still dominated by the Christian religion, was to experience a measure of freedom and security unparalleled by current generations. It was a distinct contrast to children in Russia, cold war mortal enemies from the same era, who stood in long bread lines to eat. For many years, I acknowledged my “luck” openly, while my thoughts drifted to those other children and a God who placed them randomly as points on a map. Suffering was completely foreign, meant for citizens in faraway lands, until it wasn’t, when my mother was diagnosed with cancer.

Mom’s cancer, her sickness and subsequent death provided a balance to the scales, in which I recognized all people suffer. This is how humans often measure God’s goodness and our badness in a broad karmic sense. His finger is on the scales. Whether it’s in our favor depends on our faith, capacity to believe and our observance of rights and rituals. In my immaturity, I did see it that way briefly, since I was only thirteen when she died. While I never thought I would or should receive special protection for my religious beliefs, we were taught a distinction between “us” and “them” that led me to a flawed discernment.

Thankfully I’ve grown to appreciate and embrace the magnitude of suffering’s inclusive significance as a mature Christian. In Matthew 5:44-45, Jesus addresses a crowd and says, “But I say to you, love your enemies, bless those who curse you, do good to those who hate you, and pray for those who spitefully use you and persecute you, that you may be sons of your Father in heaven; for He makes His sun rise on the evil and on the good, and sends rain on the just and on the unjust.”

In ancient times, this statement would be in direct defiance of religious leaders who taught our suffering was a result of our obedience to the religious law. Jesus contradicts them by stating our prosperity or fortunes, the good and bad, can be used to benefit God. Suffering is not a result of where we’re born, or the family we’re born into, since in this life, all will suffer to some measure. As sadistic as it sounds, this provides me comfort, not to revel in the suffering of another, but ultimately to understand my own suffering or lack thereof, is not solely dependent on my obedience. This is a fair and just God I wanted to serve.

An appropriate illustration can be found through a comical interaction in John 9, when Jesus heals a blind man. It begins with the disciples asking if a man born blind from birth is the result of his sin or his parent’s sin. Jesus answers that his blindness is so others can see God’s work in the midst of brokenness and proceeds to give him sight. But it doesn’t end there. Pharisees, those esteemed religious leaders of the day, were dumbfounded, because Jesus healed on the Sabbath and therefore must be a sinner. No sinner can be healed, and no sinner can heal, in their interpretation, an ironic commentary on their own spiritual blindness.

The Pharisees badger the blind man about his interaction with Jesus, and he replies to their incessant questioning by stating, “Whether He is a sinner or not I do not know. One thing I know: that though I was blind, now I see.” Again, I’m comforted knowing spiritual sight, and the unveiling of God’s revelations in the midst of life’s trials, is available to everyone. I am blind, but now I see, because I choose to see. I’m fully aware that others will choose to see something else entirely. This is the nature of belief.

Free will or choice is a debate among all flavors of religion, and those without any formal religion. What leads me to Christianity is God’s openness about this choice, always presented as a divine invitation. I can’t be forced or coerced, there is no magic formula or works that must be performed; there is no cleansing ceremony, rites or rituals giving me an audience with the King. I only need to recognize I’m incapable of entering His eternal presence by my own power. I repent for thinking and living otherwise and then accept His provision on my behalf — faith in Jesus' death, burial and resurrection. This missive is unique to Christianity.

A Misdirected Conclusion

I would love to tell you these realizations resulted in a joyous, obedient life of servitude out of gratitude. However, the revelations arrived not in a flash, delivered on the wings of angels, but methodically slow, like molasses dripping from a gallon jug. In the subsequent years after my mother’s death, through high school and college especially, I responded with cosmic fatalism, embracing the futility without understanding God’s intended outcomes. I lived as many aim to live, seeking out pleasure without forethought, intent on avoiding pain at all costs when possible.

It’s odd that humans respond in this fashion, as if we are better suited to obligations, subjugated to laws, so that we can compare our righteousness to one another. We want gold stars for the assignments we complete, to be praised for making the right decision. Some still seek out this adoration, a major problem we face internally in the church. I traveled the alternative route, because if God will do as He pleases, regardless of my choices, why not choose to enjoy all that is offered for personal benefit? After all, if the requirement for salvation is a free gift, why not accept it, and then exercise my free will to do as I please? This is a major argument within atheism.

My penchant toward hedonism would not subside until I got married. I was forced to contend with the idea that my commitment to my wife and the well-being of my children would be harder, but more rewarding. Giving fully, as the Bible contends I should give fully as husband and father, would ultimately require sacrifice. I would need to love them, all while recognizing the growing love would make their potential loss even greater. But it would also make God’s presence more apparent, if I were to allow it. That’s the dichotomy of faith. Believing in something better leads us toward the source of true goodness, but it also means taking undeniable risks in the process.

If the connection isn’t clear, losing someone who was loved dearly (like my mother), can make it impossible to dearly love anyone (like my wife and kids). One of the most difficult lessons I’ve struggled to learn, or I should say put into practice, is that my dependence on God’s provision and love can only grow if I’m willing to love others. Not just those I love with ease, but those who are not easily lovable. Those attachments are difficult. They bond us to others. When the bonds are broken, in this world or in death, the healing needs to begin all over again.

The autonomy and liberty I held sacred became less attractive as I learned to distinguish between the pleasure I desired, and the goodness God offered. While not unique to Christianity in a philosophical sense, I have found that Jesus’ teachings about love and His goodness stand in contrast to the demands of the world in exchange for temporary pleasures. I’ve experienced both and it leads me to believe the loneliness on our planet is a deficiency in divine goodness. We’re oversaturated with pleasures that no longer satisfy.

Authorization Required

All of this required relinquishing control to a divine sovereign authority. I’m not sure from what portion of my deep subconscious it was birthed, but I never valued authority. Generation X was fiercely independent, allowed to wonder, wander and discover our own boundaries without the need for direction. Especially as the youngest among four siblings, the last living at home with a single parent, I was allowed to grow up faster than my peers. Nobody told me what to do. I figured it out on my own.

Allowing God to steer my thoughts and actions took a considerable change, again much of that occurring after marriage. And yet I’ve learned my independence, decisiveness and confidence to lead my family could work in perfect union with the guidance I received from a Higher Power. It’s an interesting dynamic that can be frightening to people who are spiritually inclined, but unwilling to place their trust in anything outside themselves. It requires a drastic shift, affecting relationships with spouses, children, friends and coworkers. There is nothing easy about it, yet it remains an unwavering truth in my own faith.

When I act alone, there are limits to my power, a human with an ill-defined purpose who is unable to fulfill his potential. This is not so with God’s assistance. Only by listening to God’s counsel have I gained knowledge and wisdom regarding the universe and a grand plan. If it sounds hokey, I get it, but I firmly believe in the metaphysical, a spiritual realm that can instruct for good or even manipulate for evil our behaviors. Left to our own devices, the world is unable to heal, selfish and destructive. I’m suggesting an alternative.

I’m unsure if this perspective offers hope to anyone other than me. There are happy, successful, wealthy individuals who are content in their absence of belief, or even with a malleable, less concrete spirituality. I can’t deny it. All I can give you is a simple testimony. I was blind and now I see.