Am I an agnostic? Maybe I am and maybe I’m not.
Over the last few years, I’ve examined every element of my faith and I no longer have that rock solid, don’t-confuse-me-with-the-facts conviction that our Sunday school teachers told us we should have.
I really want to believe in mystical things. Sometimes I do. I love the thought of angels. I long for the presence of the Holy Spirit. But if they’re there, I haven’t seen them, or felt them. I wanted to believe they were there. I tried to talk myself into thinking I had experienced them.
I think about how disciples down through history would deny themselves food and wander in the desert, then speak of the visions they’d received. Well of course they saw things that weren’t there. Go without food or sleep and you’re going to have hallucinations—there’s nothing magical about that.
I don’t view scriptures like I was taught—inerrant scribbling by people who took dictation from a God who whispered into their ear. I still study them and teach about them. I see their literary and cultural value. In fact, I love them more than when I viewed them superstitiously.
Please don’t tell me that God is so big that I can’t see him. If God is that powerful and wants to communicate himself to us, then he could find a way. Also, I’m tired of analogies and metaphors—they don’t prove anything.
Don’t tell me to have faith. I show my faith in my service. I show it in my prayers to a God who does not answer back. I show it by listening constantly for the smallest voice. And I haven’t stopped
What keeps me going? There is this aching need that has never been filled. The vacancy is a kind of witness, isn’t it?
The Bible promises fullness, companionship, a slaking of my spiritual thirst. When does that happen?