I was a freshman in high school the first time I considered the possibility that there might not be a God. I’d been having lots of conversations with a friend of mine about the origin of life on earth (creation vs. evolution). There were more holes in her understanding of creation than mine and there were plenty of holes in the theory of evolution. I argued confidently on the side of creation every time we talked. But there was one moment when I paused to see how opening my mind to the other idea felt. I remember I wasn’t with her. I was sitting at home. I was all alone, but the thought of no God immediately left me feeling more alone still. It was darkness to me: no loving Father in heaven, no one hearing my prayers, no reason for my existence, no real purpose to life except what pleased me. I had to analyze my core beliefs, and it was not easy.
Faith is a journey. Everyone, even those raised from their childhood close to God (raised feeling His love, eager to listen, learn and obey) at some point must decide if they will believe, if it makes sense to them, if it is good, if it is really true.
But ours is a journey of healing, not necessarily of faith. My hope is that anyone might find healing here, even those who don’t believe in God, or don’t know if they believe in God, or don’t know if they believe in a God that knows and cares about them.
Think of a complicated machine made up of dozens of metal parts. In order for the machine to function properly each part must be an exact size and shape. If two pieces get too hot and melt together, or if a piece gets dirty or grimy or starts to corrode such that its size and shape changes, the machine will scrape and whine and eventually stop moving. Imagine trying to repair that machine. How would you know if a replacement part was a true fit? It would look right. It would fit into place. When the machine started, it would sound right—no whining, no scraping….it would ring true. And the machine would do again what it was created to do.
It’s a similar process when we try to use our left-brain logic and reasoning to discern for ourselves if something is true or not. We have to make an examination. We have to consider its place and purpose, how it looks, how it fits, how it feels, how it sounds. When something is true, it rings true. It makes sense to the left side of our brain, and, I will add, it resounds in the right side of our brain, as something beautiful in its true fit.
We are like those complicated machines. We need truth. We must lead ourselves in finding it. Anything false is a part that must be replaced, if we are to function properly. We can identify true principles (choices of how we will live) because they lead us to satisfaction, happiness, growth. We can identify foolish or false principles because they lead us nowhere; we’ll experience stagnation, discontent, even personal destruction. We are designed to analyze our options and choose wisely.
Obviously, we make mistakes. We need healing because something is broken. That means we need to work to remove those parts that are false or damaging in our belief system; we need to replace that which is in error with that which will truly benefit us.
Determining truth requires courage. When a choice looks like a really good thing, we’ll have to test that choice, to see if it rings true. Determining truth requires facing our fears rather than giving in to them. Determining truth requires us to loosen our grip on ill-fitting parts of our machine that we’ve stubbornly, or ignorantly chosen over true-fitting parts.
Healing cannot happen outside of the truth. What is false doesn’t fit, it doesn’t work, and it causes damage. Healing not only can happen, it will happen as we find and embrace truth, one piece at a time. No one has to be confident, at this point, about what is false and what is true. We simply have to be seeking the truth.
Are there good things you know you should be doing? (Of course!) Are you stubbornly holding on to negative/harmful habits or beliefs? (Probably and you likely know what they are; you probably mention them often in passing.) Are there fears to which you give in regularly? (Think about good things you habitually avoid.) What are they?
Whatever your answer to those questions might be, they are a little bit of truth you need to acknowledge. Remember, determining truth does require courage. Wounds get older and deeper because we avoid these kinds of questions. Remember, determining truth requires facing our fears. So, take courage. Write just a few things down. Be honest and, especially, be compassionate with yourself.
