Skeptical Faith Part 1

The majority of my blog readers (two to be exact) recently contacted me to ask what has become of my blog. Honestly, I was embarassed to return to my site, wipe off the thick layer of dust, and discover that it's almost been a year since my last post. I read with some amusement my last post, "Unintelligent Deception", and realized with some discomfiture that it read much like an Ann Coulter* column wannabe, penned by a Pat Robertson intern. OK I admit, it wasn't that bad, but I reviewed it with considerable curiosity, suddenly very aware of how much my views have ... ummm... evolved in the past year. Never lacking introspection, I've pondered these personal changes many times in the past months. Am I losing my faith? Am I what many in my christian denomonation would call a "backsilider"? I can say with some faith (no pun intended) that the answer is no. Far from losing my faith, I've developed a skeptical faith.

Faith is not blind. Faith is not shackled by ignorance. To the contrary, the apostle Paul stated in his letter to the Hebrews:

Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen. (Heb 11:1 KJV)

As I was growing up, this passage was often used to say that when we need to believe something badly enough; when we can't find or understand an explanation, faith substitutes for evidence, for substance. Of course, this would work well in the absence of any evidence which contradicts traditionally held beliefs. But what is a Christian's response when overwhelming evidence does contradict these traditions?

The recent national discourse on Intelligent Design, if I may revisit my earlier topic, presents one such challenge to the Christian creation tradition. Darwin notwithstanding, in earlier days, before geological and genetic evidence surfaced to challenge the traditional view, Christians posessed a certain legitimacy in attributing creation and human origins to the realm of pauline "faith". Indeed, the body of knowledge at the time offered little substance or scientific evidence, and so faith became the evidence of what people knew to be true.

Evidence, though, has a pesky way of tugging on the twine that holds together the neat parcel of the earlier creation traditions. Evidence first of an exceedingly old earth, and then of an observed progression in the development of species began an erosion in the popular Christian view of young earth with its specially created species, "each after their own kind" (Gen 1:12). The twentieth century brought cosmological discovery of an even more ancient universe, and realization of the unfathomable complexity of life contained in the DNA lifecode. It would seem that the earlier "faith" employed by so many previous generations is in danger from such overwhelming contradictory evidence. That is, of course, if one mistakes faith for fantasy.

I have since come to read Paul's definition of faith to be one of humility, and not of arrogance. Faith requires the faithful to accept that "(God's) ways are not your ways" (Is. 55:8). Evidence contradicting my traditional beliefs does not challenge my faith, it frees my faith. Having evidence to explain a little bit more of the mystery of creation provides the substance that my mind needs to understand a little more about God. My faith is liberated, answered in a manner of speaking; freed to help me move on to the next great mystery of an eternal God.

C.S. Lewis once wrote:

We must not encourage in ourselves or others any tendency to work up a subjective state which, if we succeeded, we should describe as "faith"... The state of mind which desperate desire working on a strong imagination can manufacture is not faith in the Christian sense. It is a feat of psychological gymnastics.

I'm thankful to be released from my psychological gymnastics. I am grateful to have a mind which is blessed with the capacity to understand an iota more about the wonders of Creator.

Powerlessness

After a being stewed in self pity and anxiousness in life’s crock pot this past week, I find myself savoring my existence in a fresh way tonight. I can’t say anything has really changed; my anxieties are still stacked on my desk at work, hanging from the blueprint racks, and heaped in the hard drives and in-boxes of my computer. My home continues to suffer from a profound lack of order, and I still lack the impetus to take any action to order my world (although I can find the mental energy to conduct hours of mental interrogation with others in my household, indicting them for sloth while absolving myself of the same). I hear the same cacophony that accompanies teenage sons, the same chaotic flurry that I experience almost every moment I live in this house. And yet on this night, I am experiencing a renewed, refreshing peace in the midst of my otherwise mundane domestic existence.

I have become powerless.

My twelve-year-old, Dan, has a friend here tonight. His name is Mikey, and he is an unassuming boy, small for his age and, from every observation, introverted. I reached this conclusion when I met him tonight and did my usual gag of getting his name wrong every time I spoke to him.

“So, Ricky, how do you like the sixth grade?”

Dan rolls his eyes. Mikey isn’t sure if I know his name, but is too polite to correct my conscious error.

“Mitch, it’s time to come downstairs and eat”

More orbs shifting upward. More confused silence from our young guest. I’m sure now that he either thinks I’m a nutjob, or is quietly un-amused.

One thing I have observed though: Dan and Mikey shared our “bonus room” (our family room over the garage), and yet were each engaged in their own activities, Mikey on the PC (watching JibJab flash videos over and over on the internet), and Dan on the Xbox. I encouraged them to turn off the screens and do something fun together. Resistant, blank stares provided only the briefest respite from their digital coma.

Now, two hours later, I’m watching them as they delightfully interact. Fifteen minutes hip-to-hip on the piano, sometimes playing the same song, sometimes not. For a moment, they play Beethoven: Mikey playing the Fifth in the lower register, Dan playing Fur Elise in the upper. It’s surprisingly harmonic. Now its on to some unidentifiable, polyrhythmic dance number, and then on to the great duet stand-by “Heart and Soul”, complete with knuckle solo.

Then it’s off to sword battles, accompanied by exquisitely chatty narratives of fantasy and dragons. They’re both talking at the same time. Floorboards creak; some unknowable item crashes to the floor. It’s off to a card game now, and then to a puzzle. Back to the swords, then on to scrabble (they call it “scabble” because, they say, they can’t find the “R’s”)

This remarkable resurrection of the CRT zombies was spontaneous, and delightful to behold. They, too, have become powerless.

Mike, my sixteen-year-old, although not visited this evening by the teenage angst which often takes residence in whatever room he occupies, still did not wander far from the television or Gamecube. Right now, he’s off to Walmart to buy some high-bulk food (“gotta gain six ponds by tomorrow, Dad….I need to wrestle at 119 ‘cause I think I can take that kid tomorrow”). He also took (GASP) his OWN MONEY to fill up his tank. Maybe he’ll stop by Blockbuster to get that video. This flurry of activity outside our humble domicile is not typical of Mike. But then again, he too has become powerless.

My lovely wife, Diane, went upstairs some time ago to put our bedroom in order. She emerged just now, accompanied by Dan and Herbie (errr...I mean Mikey) with black Glad bags full of clothes for good will. I would help her, but I’ve suddenly felt the return of contentment in my life during this brief moment, and finally found the inspiration to post my first full blog entry. Life is good when you’re powerless.

The electric company says the power may not come back on until midnight. They can leave it off until Monday for all I care – I’m just glad to have my family back.