Got Doubts?

Philosophy, art and poetry have always welcomed doubters. Take the bestselling poet of all time, Shakespeare, who wrote, “Mmodest doubt is called the beacon of the wise.” However, unlike poets, the religious have mostly been suspicious of doubt—and doubters. One of the most notorious religious doubters in history is Thomas. In the Christian New Testament, we read about Thomas in the Gospel according to John.  In this gospel, Thomas declares to his buddies who have recently seen the resurrected Jesus, “Unless I see…. I will not believe.” One week later Jesus appears to Thomas. In most English translations, Jesus says to him (rather dryly, I imagine), “Do not doubt but believe.”                                    

                                                                                                                                      

It’s time to set the record straight. I want to clear Thomas’ name. I want to clarify and redeem that odious title, “Doubting Thomas,” which is a mistranslation.         In the original Greek of the phrase I quoted earlier, Jesus does not say, “Do not doubt but believe.” A more accurate, though admittedly clumsy translation is “Do not be unbelieving but believing.”                                                                                                         

This is an important distinction between the usual reading of this verse and the literal rendering of the phrase. This distinction is important because, in my book, there is major difference between unbelief and doubt.                                                                                                                                                                                             

What I mean to suggest is this: doubt presumes belief—for you cannot doubt that which you do not believe (however meagerly the case may be). You must believe something in order to doubt that same something. Thomas, according to the original language of the text, did not believe Jesus had been resurrected—so he could not have doubted the resurrection.                                                                                                          

You may wonder if I have gone off the deep end…why else get so nit-picky about a couple of words? The choice of words makes all the difference in my Christian faith. And here’s why: my experience suggests that religious belief is a two sided coin. On one side is faith. On the other is doubt. Faith and doubt are companions to religious belief. They are spiritual siblings. It’s like Khalil Gibran, the third bestselling poet of all time declared, “Doubt is a pain too lonely to know that faith is his twin brother.”                                                                                                                                                                                  

Were it not for doubt, which is nothing more than curiosity or inquisitiveness, we would not grow in belief.  Faith does not increase belief (conviction), nor does belief (conviction) increase faith. Like a knife in need of sharpening, faith, too, needs a whetstone to hone its edge. Doubt, dear readers, is the whetstone of faith.                                                                                                                                                                                          

Doubt is a gift from God. Doubt is not to be feared but embraced: for God is greater than our doubts—indeed, God uses our doubts to lead us deeper into the mystery of our belief. And if you don’t believe me, just ask Thomas.

When We are Weak

I can’t think of one successful Hollywood action film that celebrates weakness. I mean, can you imagine Bruce Willis or Matt Damon boasting about being powerless? No way. Can you imagine doing a status update on Facebook that goes something like this: “Hunter Camp… rejoices in his aching left knee that keeps him from winning a foot race against his son.”             

No way. We Americans celebrate strength—we love the strong and powerful; as a culture, we have little abiding sympathy for the weak and powerless. In American culture, just like the ancient Greco-Roman culture, power is not made perfect in weakness.                               

When Paul wrote, "My grace is sufficient for you, for power is made perfect in weakness," Paul was sending a counter cultural message. The church in Corinth would have been shocked to hear Paul boast about his limitations. And yet, something in my experience suggests that Paul may be right. Strength can be found in powerlessness. God’s kindness and grace can become our muscles when the circumstances in life beat us down.                                                               

On Tuesday, April 3 of 2010 I was diagnosed with a large tumor in my left deltoid. The tumor was very deep. It was wrapped around my humerus. My doctors at the Mayo Clinic thought the tumor, because of the depth and position, was malignant. In fact, one radiologist, a friend, confided in me and said, “It doesn’t look good, Hunter.”

After surgery and spending the night at Mayo, I was discharged with a sling and a long incision down my shoulder. My instructions were to rest, do physical therapy, and wait for the pathology, which is a miracle story for another day.  

Anyhow, the Sunday after my surgery I decided I was fit enough to lead worship and help serve Communion. With one hand I held the chalice as people came forward. As my parishioners dipped their wafer into the cup they looked at me with great love and gentleness. They exuded God’s kindness.                                                                                                  

It was during that Holy Communion that I came to understand Paul’s words: “The Lord said to me, "My grace is sufficient for you, for power is made perfect in weakness."       

In the faces of those people, young and old, I came to see the all sufficient benevolence of God—the God we know in Jesus Christ. I came to see that suffering can be a crucible for personal-transformation. I came to see that during the struggles of life, in the times of suffering, this is where we often encounter God’s presence. For when we are weak God’s strength becomes evident.

Anxiety

In his book, “The Concept of Anxiety,” the 19th century Danish philosopher Soren Kierkegaard penned, “No Grand Inquisitor has such terrible tortures as anxiety.”

More truthful words have never been written.

I first read Kierkegaard as a philosophy major at Flagler College. In hindsight, it’s rather humorous that a healthy 20-year-old kid whose father paid for tuition, room, board, a late model car and insurance (and on top of this, a monthly stipend for pizza and beer) studied the topic of angst. Truly, I knew nothing of Kierkegaard’s Grand Inquisitor. I knew nothing of anxiety’s power.

But — today, at the ripe old age of 42, I am quite familiar with the Grand Inquisitor. I have also learned the wisdom of Aesop, who wrote, “A crust eaten in peace is better than a banquet in anxiety.”

Some philosophers and evolutionary biologists argue that anxiety is a natural state for human beings. These professionals posit that we needed the impetus of anxiety to survive the wilds of pre-history; and we continue to need this survival tool to brave jungles like Wal-Mart.

Nevertheless, I have decided to kiss this tool of evolutionary survival goodbye. I’m tired of anxiety having her way with me; I have grown weary of her tyranny (I use the pronoun “her,” not because I’m overtly sexist but because the word anxiety comes from the Latin word anxietas, which is feminine).

But how does one live without anxiety? More than 40 million Americans suffer from anxiety disorders — more than any other mental illness. If you happen to suffer from this dis-ease, then you know there are numerous suggested antidotes.

Jimmy Buffet‘s answer to the issue of anxiety is, “It’s 5 o’clock somewhere.” Pfizer suggests Xanax. And Jesus, in his Sermon on the Mount, tells his followers that God will take care of them — so not to worry. Though I am acquainted with the former two prescriptions, the latter corrective is what sustains me.

From the Buddhist tradition, the current Dali Lama gives this advice: “If you have fear of pain or suffering, you should examine whether there is anything you can do about it. If you can, there is no need to worry about it; if you cannot do anything, then there is also no need to worry.” True — but easier said than done.

Recently, I have employed two pieces of counsel for dealing with anxiety. The first piece of advice is the very old saying, wrongly attributed to the Bible, which probably originated with Persian Sufi poets: “This too shall pass.” The second prescription that I find helpful hangs in my study at Memorial Presbyterian Church. Inscribed on a piece of painted drift wood are these words, “The Tide Always Changes.”

Armed with these two grains wisdom, along with faith in God (the size of a mustard seed) I am challenging the Grand Inquisitor. True, sometimes I feel like David fighting Goliath, but, in the end, things turned out pretty well for the shepherd boy.