What is the basis of faith?
I’ve had a number of conversations and experiences recently that have caused me to wonder, “what is my faith based on?” If you’ve read any of my recent posts on faith, science, and systematic theology, you’ll know that I’ve become frustrated with systems of theology that have cropped up since the reformation. I’ve questioned whether belief in a system of belief is truly faith. I’ve observed how people build up walls around themselves with their beliefs and close themselves off to considering new ideas or new ways of thinking.
I began to think about my own journey of faith and the points along the way that form the bedrock of the faith I have today…
I was born in Guatemala as a missionary kid in the primitive Mam indian tribe. My first real memories, though, were in the San Diego area where my dad was a pastor for 20 years. You could say I was born into faith since I accepted that God exists and the message of Christianity since I can remember. I never really went through a period of rebellion from that belief. That’s because of a miracle that I experienced. When I was 14 I began to struggle with serious depression. Not many people knew that I suffered silently and deeply with thoughts that I was completely worthless and should consider ending my own life. About two years later, I was in the mountains and I could bare it no longer. I went for a hike and I ran to the top of the highest ridge around screaming at God. Finally I sat down on some rocks on a hillside and I gave up my anger and softly asked God, “if you can do anything with me, do it, I give up.”
Exhausted, I laid down. Using my Bible that I had pulled from my pocket as a pillow, I fell asleep. When I awoke, I opened my Bible to a random spot and I read the first words on the page:
I have been crucified with Christ and it is no longer I who lives, but Christ lives in me. The life I live in the body, I live by faith in the Son of God who loves me and delivered himself up for me. (Gal 2:20)
I’m sure I had read the verse dozens of times and even memorized it with a song. I understood it in a new way, though. That day, God was speaking to me telling me, “yes, you are right. In the eyes of humanity, you are not worth much. You are weak, small, poorly spoken, unathletic, and unattractive. But I have made you for other purposes and when you have died to yourself, you will live for me.” I received the same call that Peter received when he was on the shore with his boat and his nets — “follow me”, and I answered.
My depression was gone. I was to struggle with it from time to time in the next few years, but it never had a hold in me as it had before that day. Of course, I would love to say that I have been a saint since then, but it has been a cycle of following God and periods of disinterest in God. There have been long stretches of my life when I have largely ignored God. I have had a few experiences, though, since then that have deepened my faith.
The summer before I started college, I spent 6 weeks teaching English in Uzbekistan. While I was there, I was meeting students and building relationships with those who might have a deeper interest in God. After the soviet era, atheism is the norm there and freedom of religion is a foreign concept. Churches have to register with the state and get routinely shut down as soon as they grow to a hundred members or so. Our phones were tapped and KGB plants were students in our classes. We were even hauled in to the police station for questioning on one occasion. It was a very difficult time and I wondered if there was any point in my being there. Near the end of my time, a student pulled me aside and told me so much of her life story that it made me uncomfortable. She had been molested by a teacher when she was young and it drove her into a pattern of sleeping with older men. She was consumed by it and though she felt bad and had wanted to escape, she couldn’t. She told me that after seeing my faith, she completely gave up and asked God to rescue her. She told me that this had happened near the beginning of my time there and she had been freed from her self-loathing and addiction to sex. She has since focused her life on reaching out to atheistic students in a country that severely persecutes any form of proselytism.
A few years later I spent 4 months in France as an art student. I had been studying french for 8 years and it was a delight to finally learn to speak French in-context. I hadn’t anticipated how difficult it would be to live with the other students there, though. Everyone was there for different reasons, but most were escaping a life back home and were jaded and angry. Few of my classmates ever wanted to leave our building which had a restaurant inside. It was party-time for them. I was not going to waste the opportunity to dive into the art, culture, and language so I found myself largely alone most days. In my distress, I learned to pray in a way that I hadn’t before. I began to pray for 1/2 hour, one hour, sometimes two hours at a time. I began to converse with God — sharing my thoughts and struggles and then listening for His response.
One night after about 2 hours in prayer, I began to pray for the other students. There was one in particular that I avoided. I remember meeting her at orientation and sensing deep anger. I remember saying to myself that I wouldn’t be spending much time with her. As I prayed for practically every student but her, I heard God speak to me so clearly that it may as well have been an audible voice: “Talk to Amy about me.”
“No,” I said, “she’s too angry, she’ll never listen.”
“Talk to her”
“What am I supposed to say? I never talk to her?”
“Talk to her”
I got frustrated, said my “amen” and walked down to the cafe for some food. When I came back up to my room I couldn’t believe my eyes. Amy was sitting on the ground with her back leaning against my door smoking a cigarette. Of course I remembered my earlier conversation but I still had no idea what to do or say. What could I do? She was leaning against my door.
“How’s it going Amy?”
“You’re a christian right?”
“yyyeah.”
“What do you think happens to people when they die that never have a chance to hear anything about Jesus?”
We spoke for over an hour as Amy shared with me that she had gone to church when she was younger but was treated very badly by her parents. She told me that she had so much anger in her heart and she didn’t know what to do. I simply shared with her some of my story that I’m sharing in this post. Our conversation ended with her in tears thanking me for being open with her. A few days later, she told me that she had prayed for the first time in a long time and asked God to take her anger away and had felt rejuvenated.
The most significant faith-building experiences in the last several years have come during my trips to Nepal. My wife and I got involved there in early 2006 when we were headed to India, via Kathmandu. The government collapsed while we were there and the phones, internet, newspapers, television, and air-travel were shut down by the king who put all of the senators in prison. It was an opportunity to shift our attention to the plight of Nepal and we felt God asking us to stay there and come back there. Spending time with Christians there, I realized that the Christianity in America is lightweight. When we read about Jesus promising persecution, we take it to mean that our bank account might run a little thin at times or we may get some sneers at work if people find out we go to church. In Nepal, persecution means prison or death. Udaya, a man with whom I have become close friends, was imprisoned for his faith. I also found that, for some reason, God seems to work startling miracles there on a regular basis. I’ve met many Christians and only a few did not come to Christian faith by way of a miracle.
It was at a temple in Kathmandu that I saw a demon-possessed boy. I doubt I could even describe it well, but it was so clear that demons speaking through this boy. He was following a group of us around the temple, as we walked away from him. He was screaming the most agonizing, angry screams I have ever heard. Mid-scream he would switch to raucous laughter that made him double over and grab his stomach. Then, with no transition, he would switch back to angry screaming. I’ve never been someone who thinks much of any world but the physical world. I’m not someone who sees a demon behind every rock. That day, though, I knew that there was a spiritual realm apart from the physical realm.
On this trip, we had planned to help out an orphanage by planting a lawn in the front yard. I’ve put down sod before so I figured it would be a few hours and we would be on our way. I didn’t know that the soil is the most hard, clumpy, clay soil and the sod was really 1 ft x 1 ft tiles of grass. In order to make any kind of a decent lawn that these kids could play on, we were going to have to level and pulverize this field with no power tools. The Nepalis have a strange system of dual-shoveling where one person wields the shovel while the other pulls it down with a rope attached to the handle. A guy came to help that seemed to be in his early 20’s. I don’t speak the language so I didn’t really know what he was doing there, but I didn’t refuse the help. We tried to communicate through hand motions and smiles, but we gave that up after a while and worked for several hours in silence.
A year and a half later, on my third trip to Nepal, I met that young man again. He had, had a difficult life and knew Udaya, who runs the orphanage. Udaya was attempting to convince him to leave Hinduism and try Christianity. The man told me that after spending those few hours working with me and seeing the way that the other Christians and I treated each other, he decided to become a Christian. He had just taken his medical exams and was awaiting confirmation that he was a medical doctor. The prospects for doctors is pretty bad in Nepal and almost all doctors with training go to India or other countries to establish their practice. He, however, was going to go to the poorest tribes in Nepal to help with the squalid conditions. What had I done to influence this man but dig with a shovel?
I could share more stories from my life and I’m sure many others could add comments to this post (and I hope you do) with other stories of faith. My point is that faith is not built on head knowledge of Christianity or theology or some tract. Faith is built on experience with God.
I’ve also learned that God does what he wants. There is no recipe for finding him and no common path that all must walk. Our only path to God is walking the path of humanity and attempting to seek God out. When God chooses, he will reveal Himself to us.
When I begin to doubt things I believe or question the evils of the world, I have experience with God to fall back on. I have the faith of others who share their stories. I have the faith of my wife and the innocence of my Children to remind me that God is there. I don’t understand what he’s doing and I wrestle with injustices in the world but I believe in a merciful God who is mysterious and too complex to comprehend.
The skeptic or the over-thinking mind can call me foolish or tell me things to dissuade me from believing in God. I try to consider everything that is presented to me with an open mind. But I can’t imagine a fact or a theory so convincing that it would cause me to abandon the powerful experiences that I have had with God over my 32 years of life.