“To make the poem of our faith, we must learn not to settle for a false certitude but to embrace ambiguity and mystery.” — Kathleen Norris, The Cloister Walk
Doubt has been a theme of my writing for a while now. At first it was subconscious, a growing inkling of courage to write about hard truths that were terrifying to voice. About a year ago when I began writing with more intention, I decided there was no point (for me) to write unless I dared go deep, though I knew it would come at a cost. To write is a vulnerable action. The writer has the potential to open wounds, discomfort readers, disturb universes. To write, especially when a writer is serving the work (as Madeleine L’Engle calls it), can be deeply prophetic.
In the past few months I’ve realized much of the working out of my faith is done through writing. I may not have intended to dig into tough conversations or controversial topics, but it happened anyway. Perhaps because the questions were already swirling in my mind. The lockdown, the isolation, the extended time alone provided ample opportunity for more thinking, more consideration leading to eventual writing.
Years ago, when I was younger and still regurgitating the words of others, I was more of a clanging gong than prophetic voice. I tickled the ears of those who thought similarly. But I didn’t add anything new to any conversations. I wasn’t asking provocative questions or reexamining secondary or tertiary issues. My words were mere echoes, the essence of my own faith was far more rooted in fear than belief.
My early years were formed and influenced by Bible stories and Sunday School. Like all children, I was a sponge that soaked up the ideologies of those around me, all the while never considering my own beliefs or disbeliefs. Even then I knew there wasn’t really a place to ask the hard questions that might reveal deeper doubts.
It wasn’t until my late 20’s the doubt began bubbling up towards the surface, no longer easily ignored or pushed back down into the recesses of my soul. It wasn’t a matter of doubting Divinity. I’ve always believed. But doubt comes in many forms, compounded by church hurts and many little disappointments adding up, from evangelical political allegiances, to the doubling down on certain stances and beliefs that didn’t seem (to me) to align at all with the teachings of Jesus. Christianity (especially for those of us raised Evangelical) wasn’t just belief, but culture. And culture touches everything.
Acknowledging the existence of doubt was actually a leap of faith for me, as ironic as that might sound. Because in many churches and evangelical communities, doubt is rarely acknowledged or spoken of. And what if I found myself in a place of actual disbelief? I didn’t think I was there but I didn’t know for sure. I lacked much spiritual formation in any direction. I knew the Bible, but didn’t really know the Bible in a deeper sense, had no understanding of translations of original words, contexts, or ancient cultures. I was exhausted, burnt out on religion, wounded from years of elevating legalism as the standard for righteous living.
When non-essentials are upheld as requirements for devoutness, it’s only a matter of time for the whole system to collapse. Perhaps it’s the reason it took me years to begin questioning what I’d been taught about “women’s roles,” headship, authority, and submission (for example). The rigid conditions for masculinity and femininity felt more about power than love to me, but to question that seemed to unravel the entire standard of living and family structures under the umbrella of being. To question pokes holes in an ontological understanding of what it means to be a “Biblical” man or woman. And so something that shouldn’t be an essential for true belief becomes essentially foundational.
‘Viable Sense of the Sacred’
Kathleen Norris writes in “The Cloister Walk” about her own journey of doubt and faith, finding beauty and hope in creative expression and Benedictine traditions. She reflects on the human propensity for extremism in either direction (rigid fundamentalism vs. New Age otherworldliness). “Religious institutions—I’ll speak here of the Christian churches, because they are what I know—often manifest themselves as anything but Christ’s humble body on earth. What gets lost in all of this is any viable sense of the sacred that gives both imagination and reason room to play.”
“A viable sense of the sacred” was deeply lacking in much of my understanding of a life of faith, or faithful life. Even with the affirmation that we’re justified by faith, I still felt the burden of policing my own actions and judging the actions of others. In such a cycle of self-loathing I didn’t know if I believed in a loving God—how could I when the rhetoric was reminder after reminder of our own wretchedness and depravity (don’t even get me started on “Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God”).
Brennan Manning writes in “The Ragamuffin Gospel,”
“The tendency in legalistic religion is to mistrust God, to mistrust others, and consequently to mistrust ourselves.” Manning says even some of the most studied, Biblically-read folks get uncomfortable speaking of love and grace. But “if we maintain the open-mindedness of children, we challenge fixed ideas and established structures, including our own. We listen to people in other denominations and religions. We don’t find demons in those with whom we disagree. We don’t cozy up to people who mouth our jargon. If we are open, we rarely resort to either/or—either creation or evolution, liberty or law, sacred or secular, Beethoven or Madonna. We focus on both/and, fully aware that God’s truth cannot be imprisoned in a small definition.”
A few weeks ago I shared Wendell Berry’s quote: “there are no unsacred places.” Everything has been touched by the Creator, in humanity we share common ground even if we disagree on everything. Madeleine L’Engle says all art is religious because all art is created by man and man is created by God. In slowly breaking free from “small definitions,” I’m learning to pay attention to the sacred. And I believe voicing and honestly discussing doubt is sacred work. In considering the perspectives of others (those I may have once cast aside for their differing opinions) I’ve gleaned wisdom from other seekers, creative souls doing hard soul work.
I asked on Instagram: “In what ways have you encountered doubt in your own faith?” I heard from so many who expressed sobering and difficult realities that led to eventual doubt: suffering, spiritual abuse, hypocrisy, the increasing rise of Christian nationalism, despair, disbelief in God’s divine love, verses taken out of context and used to build entirely toxic theologies, damaging purity culture, studying the dark, evils of ecclesiastical history, etc.
Many of us raised in the evangelical realm are doubting certain tenets of the faith, recovering from the strongholds of legalism and “sin management.” We grew up policing our behaviors to the point we looked good, but knew very little about divine love or wonder, the realities of grief, disbelief, and doubt. And when doubt comes knocking, it’s the loneliest place in the world, especially for those lacking a safe place to land. We don’t doubt because it’s “trendy” or easier than a religious life. It’s not easy at all. As I wrote a few weeks ago (quoting Brennan Manning), for some it’s “a long January.”
Receptive Hospitality
The call of the writer (I believe) is to cultivate and invite conversations, to provide the kind of hospitality Henri Nouwen says should be motivated by learning from rather than trying to change, receiving the other on their terms instead of ours.
Kathleen Norris writes, “the opposite of faith is not doubt but fear.” I think many are fearful of doubt, that it will lead to mass exodus from the church and Christianity entirely. But I wonder how many are willing to enter into the suffering of doubters, to befriend the wounded without defending the wounders, and give safe haven for the voicing of uncomfortable questions even if it means some may wander for a long while.
In the hospitality of the monastery, Kathleen found deeply spiritual and faithful people who offered hospitality instead of argument. She sat in on daily liturgy and lectio, absorbed the beauty of poetry and song. She gleaned from their actions a true faith, not imposed on her but extended in kindness. Come and be, take and eat.
I asked on Instagram: “What’s helped you work through [your doubt]?” And once again, I received an abundance of thoughtful replies including: reading more widely, life experiences, honest believers who aren’t afraid to talk about doubt, prayer and contemplation, reading the Psalms, lament, using doubt as a catalyst for deeper study, spiritual disciplines, etc.
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To write on doubt is challenging. There’s no good argument to defend doubt or prove divine love, rather, we need a better “sense of the sacred,” “poetry of the soul.” We need affirmation of the “long Januaries” we may get stuck in, safe communities with those who have felt similarly, and aren’t afraid of conversations that may shake, bend, disrupt.
Congrats to the winner of my first Substack giveaway (you should have an e-mail in your inbox)! I drew names this morning and picked a lucky winner! Unfortunately, Substack doesn’t always tell me the first name of my subscribers, and I don’t want to share an e-mail address here. But just wanted to let you all know that I did pick a winner! Once again, thanks for being here, for reading and subscribing. It means so, so much.
“When non-essentials are upheld as requirements for devoutness, it’s only a matter of time for the whole system to collapse.” 👏🏻👏🏻👏🏻
So glad to know that there are other "Doubters" out there. In the circles I run in, the subject of "doubt" hardly ever comes up, and if it does, I'm usually the one who brings it up...and I'm an Ordained Minister.