Theologian-in-Chief

In the true spirit of “the Priesthood of all Believers,” the President entered the theological fray during his commencement address at Notre Dame last weekend. He posits an interesting thought:

The ultimate irony of faith is that it necessarily admits doubt. It is the belief in things not seen. It is beyond our capacity as human beings to know with certainty what God has planned for us or what He asks of us, and those of us who believe must trust that His wisdom is greater than our own. This doubt should not push us away from our faith. But it should humble us. It should temper our passions, and cause us to be wary of self-righteousness.

This comment was a precursor, of course, to the President’s exhortation to a humbler, gentler discourse on topics of all kinds and in particular the one over which he found himself at odds with so much of his audience. But it also gets to the heart of matters, which is probably why he drew criticism. Michael Sean Winters says, “it is not doubt that invites humility. It is faith itself …” Pardon the pun, but from a purely empirical point of view, Winters’ point seems doubtful to me.

I see people every day who are doubtless and assured in their faith. They are on my Television and Radio and they pen strongly worded diatribes in my local newspaper and on the internet. They gather at places like Westboro Baptist church and are so absolutely certain of their dogma that they hardly blink as they consign their neighbors to eternal damnation. They wave and shout and cry in the pews, impressed at the dynamic power of their faith. They have humility, yes, the certain and confident humility that they have chosen wisely in their faith, they are awed by that to which they belong and don’t understand why I’m not awed as well.

But I also meet people who have a different kind of faith, a courageous faith that sees bluntly the works of this world and the dark thoughts of their hearts and trembles at the implausibility of their salvation. They carry thoroughly searched and worn out Bibles, and they pray quietly crumpled in their pews, not sure if they belong in the presence of such a God, but desperately hopeful that they might end up there regardless. Doubt is their assurance – there is nowhere else to turn.

Paul Tillich wrote in Dynamics of Faith that “serious doubt is confirmation of faith. It indicates the seriousness of the concern …” For faith to be humbling, it must be overwhelming, far above us, beyond understanding and even beyond belief. It is that God who merits trust and worship, and it is that God who rewards meekness each time we open our mouths. We speak of what we do not know because we must. It is the miracle of the Gospel.

Which is where, with all due respect, the President and his critics are mistaken. The question of faith becomes necessarily misdirected when it becomes a question of our faith. But the Gospel reminds us that faith itself is the gift of the resurrection, that every self-endeavor dies on the cross, that all human striving, with or without doubt is insufficient. “I believe that I cannot by my own faith or effort believe in my Lord Jesus Christ or come to him …”

Winters asserts confidently that, “there is nothing ironic about faith.” Really? I find it amazingly ironic to glorify an ancient symbol of torture and death, to feast on a bit of bread and wine and dare to call them body and blood, to pray to the very creator of all and be promised that he counts even the hairs on my head. Ironic? Please. More like ridiculous. Foolish. Unbelievable.

For Jews demand signs and Greeks desire wisdom, but we proclaim Christ crucified, a stumbling block to Jews and foolishness to Gentiles, but to those who are the called, both Jews and Greeks, Christ the power of God and the wisdom of God. 1 Corinthians 1:22-24

a spring parable

In spring comes my nemesis.

They look innocent enough, to be sure, small golden wisps floating innocently to the warm spring earth. But, oh, how they float. By the thousands they come, a blizzard of debris that layers the ground with promises of yardwork, dirty fingernails and sore backs.

They are of course seeds, these falling helicopters from my wonderful maple tree, God’s clever plan to procreate acer saccharinum from generation to generation. And they are clever bits of biological engineering, wafting gently to the waiting ground, their slender fins atwirl, ensuring that they nose to the earth in such a way as to maximize their opportunity to find a fertile place waiting and stretch out their roots and make life.

One wonders about the farmer who sows his seeds so indiscriminately. For each that finds worthy ground, thousands end on roof and sidewalk. They fall millions by millions, but how many, really, might ever fulfill their purpose? One, or two? A handful at most. Small outcome for such great hope.

And as he sowed, some seed fell on the path, and the birds came and ate it up. Other seed fell on rocky ground, where it did not have much soil, and it sprang up quickly, since it had no depth of soil. And when the sun rose, it was scorched; and since it had no root, it withered away. Other seed fell among thorns, and the thorns grew up and choked it, and it yielded no grain. (Mark 4:4-7)

Too often we view life as such a mistake. It falls all around us and we treat it as so much litter. It is in our way. It is not pleasing by our standards. It does not fit into our landscape. We cannot perceive its higher purpose, so we disregard both its creative source and its creative aspiration. It is too easy to dehumanize the other, to devalue and dispose. It is as if we despise it.

But even more so, we fear it. It overwhelms us, this promise of Grace. For God is the sower in this parable, casting seeds far and wide in some unknown but insistent plan. This is the unseen value of life, that it comes so abundantly, so madly. Where it seems only one or two seeds might do, God sends millions. Where we might plant more cautiously, God sows everywhere. Each seed carries in it a divine purpose. Each has hope.

So when we take up violence so easily, when we casually label enemy and terrorist, when we justify torture and murder, we mock the creator, the untamed sower, the giver of life. When we are miserly with our regard for others, we are immoral and we reap unto such judgment. We neglect the divine nature, that each life is the same, that each is valuable as the next, that we all fall from the same place to the same earth and in the divine grace we are one.

That is his secret. The divine plan escapes us, but we cannot escape it. We are all part of it, wherever we land. That we would have such grace for others would be a fruitful work indeed.

Other seed fell into good soil and brought forth grain, growing up and increasing and yielding thirty and sixty and a hundredfold.” Mark 4:8