on doubt

What would it look like to walk towards God with our questions, rather than hiding them from view? What if we talked about our doubts with God and each other, instead of minimizing them?

But then, in the middle of this gray world of arguments and dogma, the Kingdom of Heaven slips in, in spurts and starts and one tiny step at a time. The kingdom of God is spacious and has soft edges, as the presence of God breaks in with light and color, reminding us that in this particular kingdom there is room. Room for those questions that feel too big to utter. Room for honest doubt. 

One of the things I find profound about the Bible is that it includes (and features!) stories of doubt. Stories where 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. 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. 



These stories are 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 we often 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, labeled “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, questioning if Jesus was actually the Messiah, or if he should keep looking for someone else. 

Yes, it is evident that God cares and values our authentic, humble honesty over our blind acceptance of truths we are told to believe, and it is in this place that God draws us close, that every time God responds with generous patience, kindness and grace. 

So what does it mean, for us, in this moment, to invite ourselves to this honest place with God? What does it mean to allow the soft edges of God's kingdom to soften the edges of our own heart, as we consider our own doubts and the doubts of those around us? 

Perhaps it looks like sitting in silence and allowing a question you've been harboring to float to the surface without shame, speaking kindly to yourself as a loving parent speaks to a small child. Perhaps it means practicing holding the doubt in one hand, and your identity as a beloved child of God in the other. Perhaps it is a conversation with people you trust, naming your questions and holding space for the questions of others, without demanding a clear cut answer. Perhaps it is listening more than we speak and leaning into what we hear, even if it feels unexpected and scary. 

In the paradoxical way of the kingdom of God, there is room for questions and hope at the same time. Even (especially) as we hold them and name them before our Maker, may we feel the truth of our identity as beloved children of God. 

No question is too big for God. What might happen if we actually asked?