Doubt

I question a lot of things. I question my faith—the parts I was raised in and the parts I’ve come to believe for myself. What if we just tell ourselves all these pretty little things like “God is still God, on his throne” and “Jesus loves me exactly where I am” so that we don’t feel the intensity of pain and hurt and loss that forever threatens on the brink of our peripheries?

My heart physically hurts, my stomach is tumultuous, I can’t eat, but when I listen to music that proclaims “I believe that you’re my Healer; nothing is impossible” and “how deep the Father’s love for us”—when I hear those words, something of the burden lifts. No, not all of it, not nearly all of it, but a very precious bit. Enough so I think maybe, maybe it won’t be so bad, maybe this will be better for me in the end.

I sat in a book group last night—we’re discussing C.J. Mahaney’s The Cross-Centered Life— and I felt like everything we were telling ourselves about focusing on Christ and what the Christian life looks like was nothing but words. Words we’ve always said but when it comes down to it what do they mean? I feel so cynical. I kept silent because most people don’t want to hear these questions out loud. Most people don’t want to doubt. I can’t blame them; it is ever so much easier for me to tell myself that if I praise God now, even when I don’t feel like it, I’ll feel the effects later. It is oddly comforting to even hear that with the smallest bit of belief in it.

So then, is it the power of my own words to myself, or are the words true and that is why they comfort?

Wouldn’t it be great if I had all the answers?!