THE ROOM FULL OF MINISTERS hushed when I asked, “Is there anyone here who has never once doubted the reality and truth of Christianity?”
One minister raised his hand.
“Do you mean to tell me that you have never once,” I pressed, “in all of your life had at least one small doubt that Christianity might not be true?”
“That’s right,” he replied. “I have never had a single doubt—not one.”
I thought to myself that he was either a dullard or a liar but thought better of enunciating my thoughts. I gave some innocuous response and continued leading the prayer time. Later, as I reflected on his remark, I considered that a third option probably existed. Perhaps it was possible for someone to have such simple, childlike faith that doubts never occurred. I would not know. I am not one of those persons.
My wife, Julie, might be one.
“Why do you ask so many questions?” she often asks. “Why can’t you just accept the Bible at face value and believe it?”
“It is not that simple,” I reply.
Once upon a time it was. I became a Christian with childlike faith at the age of seven. Nary a doubt entered my mind. Questions regarding the validity of Christianity arose during my senior year in high school when a friend gave me a Roman Catholic Douay Version of the Bible. No other version, except the venerated and difficult-to-understand King James, had ever graced my fingertips. I now held in my hands the first easy-to-read English version I had seen. I decided to read it straight through before I graduated in May.
My struggles commenced with the opening chapters of Genesis. I suppose I had never before read Genesis carefully in the King James Version. My quandary began that night in bed when I realized God had not created the sun until day four. It bothered me that God made light and darkness on day one and separated the sky from the waters on day two and created dry land and vegetation on day three—but did not get around to the sun, moon, and the stars until day four. How could the earth have light before it had a sun?
Furthermore, it bothered me that chlorophyll-producing green plants thrived before a sun existed to power them. My racing mind slowed when I reasoned that new plants could surely live for twenty-four hours until God got around to making the sun. I read how God made the birds and the sea creatures on day five and fashioned land animals and man on day six. Then I went to sleep.
The next night I discovered a direct contradiction: Moses declared in Genesis 2 that no shrub existed and no plant had sprung up when God formed man out of dust and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life. Did Moses forget what he had just written? In chapter 1 he said that plants were created three days before man. In chapter 2, he emphatically declared that no plants existed when God scooped up dust to fashion a body for man. What gives? I thought.
Since my childhood faith was strong, it did not take much to settle my high school musings. Alfred Rehwinkel’s The Flood brought comfort that brilliant men had figured out explanations for all sorts of complex interfaces between the Bible and science.1
I could live off their faith.
Disillusioning discoveries
My faith held strong through college and into my early pastoral career. Then, while riding a bus on a high school mission tour from Arizona to Oregon, I read The Red Limit by Timothy Ferris.2 This astronomical survey of the universe from the Big Bang to the present was mind-boggling. During the first three minutes after Creation, hundreds of subatomic particles came into being, including protons, neutrons, and electrons, which coalesced into hydrogen, helium, and a few lithium nuclei. After three minutes, not enough heat energy remained to fuse any heavier elements.
Fcrris demonstrated how gravity coalesced large clouds of hydrogen and helium gas over long periods of time for the making of stars and galaxies. In short, Ferris’s intricate explanation of how every element heavier than helium is produced either during nuclear fusion inside a star or an explosion during the star’s demise had dramatic implications! The idea that the “dust of the earth” used by God to create Adam was cooked up inside an exploded star somewhere out in the universe conflicted dramatically with my youthful understanding that one day, about six thousand years ago, God created the heavens and the earth.
I was disillusioned to discover from Ferris that countless stars had burst into existence, lived a full life, and expired before our own sun was created about four-and-a-half billion years ago. I was shocked to discover how insignificant our sun is in the galaxy. We are four-fifths of the way out toward the edge of the Milky Way in a trough between the Sagittarius and Orion arms. My faith shook as it dawned on me that the physics of star formation demanded the creation of a solar system of planets around every star (now increasingly verified by astronomical observation). The very idea that life might exist on some planet elsewhere in the universe rocked my secure biblical foundations:
How would God relate to other life in the universe?
Could there be other fallen races?
Did Jesus die for people somewhere else, too?
Would “the Lamb slain before the foundation of the cosmos” take on more meaning than I ever imagined? (Much later I discovered that C. S. Lewis had considered all these issues in his Space Trilogy before I was born!)
The barren desert landscape outside the bus window just south of Las Vegas looked much like the inside of my heart. The more I read, the less I believed in a God who was big enough to oversee the whole universe. Maybe God really was a created figment of man’s hope-filled imagination. If he did exist, how could he be everywhere all the time in a universe so immense? Earth was not the center of anything. How could he have time for us? How could man be made of star dust?
My original doubts flooded back with a vengeance.
When we returned home, I decided to squelch my uncertainties and follow Asaph’s model in Psalm 73 for handling doubts. The poet almost lost his faith when he contemplated the apparent earthly success of the ungodly as compared to the godly. He concluded, “If I had said, ‘I will speak thus [of all my doubts],’ I would have betrayed … your children” (v. 15). Asaph determined that when there was a mist in the pulpit, there would surely be fog in the pews. I vowed to keep my reservations to myself. A doubting preacher can bring mass confusion to the flock.
Several pastors and I once discussed the fall from grace of a nationally known pastor. His ministry thrived up to the moment when his immoral actions were exposed.
“How could God bless this man’s work and ministry while he lived a life of hypocrisy and deceit?” we all wondered.
“God never promised to honor the preacher,” one friend reasoned; “but he has promised always to honor his Word.”
“We must never back down from preaching the Word just because we cannot live up to it all,” said another. “If we wait until we’ve mastered all the truths in a passage, many texts will remain forever unpreached.”
Trying to simplify the discussion, I added, “I can’t postpone preaching on gluttony until I control my weight. Gluttony is a sin no matter how much I weigh.”
Therefore, I vowed to preach God’s Word carefully and faithfully while I worked through my confusions.
Winding faith
But I couldn’t ignore my internal struggle. In my spare time, I resolved to study astral physics and quantum mechanics until I could reconcile the Bible and science. I started with Einstein’s theories and read books like Einstein’s Universe by Nigel Calder, Relativity Visualized by Lewis Epstein, and A Brief History of Time by Stephen Hawking, until I could explain in simple terms how massive bodies warp space-time, how the universe works, and why time stops at the event horizon of a black hole. The concept of eternity was easy to accept when I realized observable places exist in the universe where time actually does stand still.
I studied quantum mechanics and read books like Taking the Quantum Leap by Fred Wolf and The First Three Minutes by Steven Weinberg. I discovered that physics on the subatomic level determined the structure of everything on the macro level. I learned that the universe exists in multiple dimensions—most probably six small ones that rolled up at the moment of Creation and the four that we discern easily in everyday life: length, width, and height, plus time.
Since math is the language of physics, I studied several books on mathematics, like One Two Three—Infinity by George Gamow, and learned that the mathematical models of multidimensional space predict that everything in the universe becomes a single point when passing through eleven spatial dimensions. This revelation, plus the implications of warped space-time, forever settled my mind as to how God could be omnipresent in an enormous, expanding universe.
I resolved to study enough anthropology to get a feel for the creation of man. Lucy, by Donald Johanson and Maitland Edey, provided me with a broad, sweeping overview of the “emergence” of mankind on earth. Lucy is a fossilized, three-foot-tall female creature who walked the savannas of Africa 3 million years ago. Lucy was not human, nor was she ape, chimpanzee, or monkey. I understood how prehistoric Lucy might fit within the context of any of the Christian-based theories of Adamic creation.
My faith was bolstered in the biological arena when The Search for Eve by Michael Brown was published. This scholarly work, based on years of careful research on human mitochondria from people groups all over the world, demonstrated beyond the shadow of a doubt that every human being alive today had one common female ancestor. Scientific proof for the existence of Eve further sustained my faith.
I studied geology in order to satisfy my mind that geologists had valid reasons for dating rocks back into the millions and billions of years old. I also read the works of Christians who attempted to reconcile the apparent contradiction between science and Scripture by postulating a “mature earth” theory—that God created the universe with fossils and stars that just looked millions and billions of years old, when they were actually created just thousands of years prior. Though the idea that God played tricks in Creation was untenable to me, I admired the honest attempt to solve the apparent disharmony.
Preaching with doubt
But this long search—and long periods of unresolved doubt—stole my joy, sapped my strength, and affected the faith of those around me. I wish I had lived with more faith during those years. I remember preaching funerals while wondering if there was life after death. Preaching with power about the miracles in Scripture while pondering their validity produced guilt. However, I never dipped into unbelieving despair. I never preached things I did not believe.
Not surprisingly, relief came from the Bible. Whatever the Creation accounts in Genesis meant, there was no confusion as to the meaning of Hebrews 11:3: “By faith we understand that the universe was formed at God’s command, so that what is seen was not made out of what was visible.”
How did the writer to the Hebrews know in the first century what it took science nineteen hundred years more to discover? I concluded God must have told him.
While both twentieth-century science and the Bible agree that the universe exploded into existence at a single point out of absolutely nothing, I finally concluded that God did not reveal enough for us to solve all the riddles of science and the Bible. The truth probably lies somewhere on the compendium between the two extremes of naturalistic materialism, which hypothesizes that the universe and life evolved over time by chance because there is no God, and scientific creationism, which, in its most extreme form, maintains a strict belief in seven twenty-four-hour days of creation about six thousand years ago.
I made peace with my doubts when I concluded that the main issue of faith is not deciphering the facts of Creation but settling the issue of the resurrection of Jesus Christ. I could not reconcile Genesis 1 and 2 just yet, but I could trust my life to the One who cheated death and promised that if I believed in him, I, too, could cheat death and live forever. I concluded Paul had the right perspective. In an attempt to convert the Athenians in Acts 17:16-31, Paul mentioned the God who created heaven and earth, but he planted his arguments firmly in the fact that Jesus Christ was not in the tomb on Easter morning. I decided to anchor my faith likewise.
The answer to unbelief resided in a choice of my will. It was my choice to believe the Scriptures—or not. My faith could not rest on feelings or emotions. Faith could not depend on my ability to figure everything out. Mark Twain said, “It is not what I don’t understand about the Bible that bothers me, but what I do understand.” I understood enough to believe. The rest would have to take care of itself.
I never sensed that God punished me for my doubts. I never once had the impression that he was angry with my unbelief—disappointed perhaps, but not irate. I sensed all along that he lovingly supported my searching and stood unflinchingly by my side. Never once did I feel betrayed or deserted. He knew I would work through my struggles. Perhaps he considered my life and ministry worth saving.
I was living in faith when I encountered a little known book in the Christian community—The Meaning of Creation by Conrad Hyers.3 Hyers’ premise for unpacking the Genesis Creation is based on understanding Hebrew poetry.
English poets tend to rhyme words: “Hickory, dickory, dock, the mouse ran up the clock.” Hebrew poets rhymed thoughts by writing a phrase and then repeating it with a slight twist of wording or meaning. The poet says something and then recapitulates with other expressions—like I just did. This is why Hebrew wisdom literature is often redundant and occasionally confusing. For example, Jesus was not really riding three different animals on Palm Sunday, as Matthew indicates. Matthew was quoting verbatim Zechariah’s prophetical, poetical rhyming of “colt” with “donkey” and “ass.”
According to Hyers, Moses never intended Genesis to be a scientific dissertation on Creation. In fact, according to Hyers, Moses would be both startled and confused at the biblical debates that swirl around science today. The issue for Moses was not science and the Bible. He wanted to know: Who is the real God? Elohim of the Israelites? Or the myriad gods of the Egyptians? With each day of the Creation, Moses systematically declared, “My God is bigger than your god,” as he demonstrated that the Egyptian “gods” were not gods at all. They were all creations of Elohim! When he demonstrated the intricate rhyming schemes of Genesis 1, like how day one rhymes with day four, and two with five, and three with six, I was convinced!
Reading The Meaning of Creation strengthened my faith, which had already begun to grow, though I wish now I had read it in high school. Simple faith is preferable to raging doubts, but my protracted, intense struggles produced a stronger faith. Simple, unwavering childlike faith is lovely to behold. But so is complex, hard-earned faith that has taken years to formulate and resolve.
Santa Claus faith
I have worked for almost ten years to relocate our church from a small, landlocked corner to a much larger tract of land. The move will soon be completed, but not without a price. I understand now why nearly 50 percent of pastors change churches within two years after a major church building project. Nothing came in under budget. Change orders constantly increased the price. Plans were never ready on time. The subcontractors were late.
And then the kicker: Would the people keep giving? As we neared the end of the project, the finances got squeezed. We arranged to complete the project without selling our old site; however, we knew that if it sold, our financial stress would disappear.
One day, immersed in prayer, I sensed God speak deep within. Stop worrying, he said, the site will sell. I promise. All will be well. You need your strength for other things.
I recorded my prayer and God’s assurance in my journal and lived for several months in peace. Then a new round of cost increases shattered my well-being and faith. What if I just made all that up? I thought to myself. What if God never spoke to me and I am just deluding myself?
I began to worry again.
About this time, Julie and I were trying to sell a car. We didn’t really have to sell it, but it seemed like time for a change. Since we had gone three weeks without an offer, we were making plans to keep it. On Saturday morning, the twenty-first day the ad had been in the paper, I sat down with God to pray. I was rather stressed out concerning the relocation finances and told God so.
God spoke to me: Didn’t I tell you the old property would sell? Don’t you believe me? I told you to relax and stop worrying.
“But God, what if it really wasn’t you? I think I’m going to keep worrying because I am really stressed out about this.”
All will be fine. In fact, I will give you a sign to help you relax. Your car will sell today.
I had to be imagining this. There was no way the car would sell that day. I wasn’t even planning to be around all day. I was going to play golf, and then head to the mall to shop with the children. I would be at church the next day from seven until one; then I would leave for the airport at one-fifteen to catch a flight to Tulsa. The car could not sell this weekend.
“Oh, come on, God,” I said as I stood, “I am making all this up.”
That evening, at seven-thirty, I listened to our phone answering machine. A couple had called about the car. “I am returning your call about my car,” I said as they answered the phone.
“We want to come see it.”
“Well, it’s dark now … and … I really don’t have time to show it to you … and my wife and I have pretty much decided to keep it.”
“We really do want to come see it tonight.”
So, at eight-fifteen, the gentleman and his wife arrived from across town. “Is this the one?” he asked, peering at the car parked close to the street. He opened the door and slowly looked around inside. “The paper said you were asking $7,200. I’ll give you $7,000 right now, on the spot.”
“Wait a minute,” I said. “You can’t buy a car in the dark. You can’t even see the finish, or the tires; you haven’t even looked under the hood.”
“We have another car just like this one, and we love it. We’ll take it.”
I grew stubborn: “I am not going to sell you a car you haven’t even driven. I’ll tell you what, I’ll slip out of church a little early tomorrow and be here just before one o’clock. You be here, ready to go, and we’ll drive around the block. I have to leave for the airport at one-fifteen. If you still want it after you drive it, it’s yours.”
They were waiting in my driveway when I got home from church. Shortly before I left for the airport, we shook hands on the deal; my car was gone.
Five weeks later we shook hands on a deal to sell our old site, just as God had said.
I began asking myself how many burning bushes it was going to take? One should be enough. It was time I made a conscious choice of my will to believe.
Recently, by choice, I have resolved to believe in God like I used to believe in Santa Claus. Of course, Santa has nothing to substantiate his existence. God has given thousands of verifiable signs and proofs. I long ago put away my belief in Santa, but I have never forgotten the sense of complete, childlike, unquestioning abandonment of faith I had in him. Now that I am an adult, I want to enjoy that same sense of unquestioning belief in God.
Recently one of our church secretaries was having heart trouble. Irregular heartbeats had gone on too long. Neither electric shock nor medication restored sinus rhythm. Medical options were exhausted. One person requested prayer for her healing during our weekly Wednesday morning staff prayer meeting.
“God can handle this,” I said. “Let’s just believe God like when we were little children believing in Santa Claus. He loves simple, childlike faith. Let’s ask God to heal her heart and restore the right rhythms.” I was not at all surprised when, later that day, her heart returned to good rhythm. I believe with all of my heart in a Creator God who delights to honor the prayers and faith of those who believe him—whether they struggle or not.
Roger Barrier pastors Casas Adobes Baptist Church in Tucson, Arizona. He holds degrees from Baylor University, Southwestern Baptist Theological Seminary, and Golden Gate Seminary. Parents of three daughters, Roger and his wife live in Arizona.
Alfred Rehwinkel, The Flood (St. Louis, Mo.: Concordia Publishing House, 1966).
Timothy Ferris, The Red Limit (New York: Bantam Books, 1979).
Conrad Hyers, The Meaning of Creation (Atlanta: John Knox Press, 984).
Copyright © 1998 Roger Barrier
