Civil War | Sometimes “I Don’t Know” Is the Best Answer

Jesus said the Holy Spirit would guide us into all truth (John 16:13). But that doesn’t mean we’ll get the whole story, especially on the first pass. If you live honestly, you’ll ask yourself a lot of questions—and the deeper you dig, the more you realize how threadbare the platitudes are.

Ever since my faith was blown up 53 months ago, I’ve been asking a ton of questions. Whenever I’ve looked for answers, I’ve quickly realized things were more complicated than I thought. Even after all my thinking and studying, my most basic questions remain unanswered: Why did I dream about lions? Why was my faith shattered by Narnia and the Bible? Why did this crisis have to go on so long?

I don’t know. I don’t even have a clue.

And oh, what a liberating thing it is to say.

Civil War | The End of Reason

One of the best pieces of writing advice I’ve ever heard is short, sweet, and to the point: Read. To be a good writer, you need to read. You need to read often, and you need to read a lot. Why? Because reading shows you different story ideas, different characters, different writing styles, different worldviews. Reading doesn’t give you a toolbox—it gives you a whole tool shop of things you can use. Put another way, others’ words are the fertilizer that makes your own words grow.

To excel in writing, you need to let your walls down and get outside your head.

I think we can say that of ourselves, too.

Civil War | The Way It Is

When I started this series of posts, I said my heart was in a civil war. Now, I’m starting to think that was premature.

Is my heart at war?

Or is something worse going on?

Civil War | Faith and Doubt

Deep inside, I believe there’s a god. The God of the Bible remains the best explanation for the story of my life. He remains someone I ought to follow, someone I ought to believe enough to obey.

But would I give my life for Him?

I wouldn’t go that far.

Civil War | Echoes

Feelings. That’s one of the many things I’m trying to sort out. If there were a button I could push and I could see everything through the lens of reason and evidence, I would have pushed it years ago. But no such button exists. Anytime I encounter something, I not only think about it—I feel it deeply.

Right now, my feelings toward God and faith are bad. When I read the Bible, I feel afraid and uneasy. When I listen to Christian music, I feel nauseated. When I hear atheists’ opinions, I feel vindicated. When I hear bad arguments for God and faith, I feel irritated.

But why?

Why do I feel this way?

Am I just bitter and angry?

Am I dissatisfied with Christianity?

Am I blinded by hate and fear?

Feelings are echoes. They’re responses to stimuli. If we’re poked by a needle, we feel pain. If we stick our hand out an open door into the cold winter air, we feel chilled.

But feelings aren’t always that simple. They don’t always come in action-reaction pairs. For example, suppose you had an abusive father who’s no longer in your life. One day, you see someone who speaks and looks like your father, and a battle breaks out in your heart. You want to hate this person, but you know he doesn’t deserve it—he didn’t do anything but stir up bad memories. It’s your father who hurt you, and it’s this other person who just reminded you of your father.

I wonder if that’s what’s happening with me. Are my negative feelings toward God and faith justified? Or are they echoes of something else? Could it be that I’m not really angry at God and Christianity—I’m just blinkered by His bad representatives and annoyed by the music? Could it be that I don’t really think God sucks—I’m just disappointed that He’s not what I want Him to be?

Either way, how can I tell?

That’s what I’m trying to figure out.

Civil War

Right now, a battle is going on between my head and my heart. My heart wants to believe in God, but my head is full of doubts. To make matters worse, my heart is in a civil war: Half believes in God, and the other hates what it sees in Him.

And, like the genius I am, I’ve been fighting it all wrong.

Scratch that—I haven’t been fighting it at all.

A Faith in Recovery | Crossroads

Too many questions, not enough answers: That’s been the story of my life for the past 48 months. Ever since my faith was blown up, I’ve been questioning just about everything I believe. But I’ve been avoiding some big questions because I’m afraid of the answers. I’ve caught myself thinking that if I follow the trails all the way to the end, I could wind up an atheist. (That still sounds awful to me—no surprise, considering how badly I was indoctrinated.)

I didn’t want to ask these questions. I’ve been avoiding them. But this week, I’ve asked them, anyway. Since I’ve been confronting things head-on in the last few posts, I want to confront some of the many questions inside my head.

A Faith in Recovery | Surfacing

In the spirit of my last post, I’m still in hot pursuit. Now that I know what I’ve been avoiding, I need to talk about what I want.

And if you think that’s going to be easy, you must be new to this blog.

A Faith in Recovery | In Hot Pursuit

Last time, I wrote that my heart is in a civil war: I want to believe in God, but I’m also looking for an exit. The closest door leads to atheism, which makes atheism look pretty appealing. Frankly, though, I think that’s a royal cop-out. Something else is making my faith and life messier than ever, and atheism won’t get rid of the problem.

Fortunately, I’m starting to realize what’s going on. Instead of fighting this battle of faith vs. unbelief—a battle that has kept me from dealing head-on with my biggest weaknesses—I’m now tackling the weaknesses head-on. I’m now understanding why my faith looks like a nightmare and why my closest relationships continue to suffer:

I’m afraid.

A Faith in Recovery | The Cost

Honesty is the most valuable writing tool I have—more than grammar, punctuation, and a decent level of eloquence. Everything I write comes from my head and my heart, flowing downstream from what I think and feel deep inside.

At least, it should.