By Tom Lange
Special to The Washington Post
Monday, December 24, 2007
I knelt on the carpeted floor next to the twin bed in my darkened bedroom and prayed. It was a simple prayer, asking God to officially become a part of my life.
At the age of 6, after years of hearing stories about Jesus during Sunday school at Grace Community Chapel in St. Charles, Mo., I wanted to sign up. I wanted Jesus to "come into my heart," as we were told in church He needed to do if we were to receive salvation. I wanted it so badly that I prayed to become a Christian for three straight nights before my parents convinced me that once was enough. I still made them pray with me on the third night, just to be sure I did it right.
I have my parents to thank for my early religious devotions. Their faith was not a formality. While attending church was mandatory, I could see a desire to serve God in their daily lives, whether through the daily devotions my dad held before leaving for work, or their genuine displays of love for others.
As a young child I was very secure in my salvation. My parents told me that Jesus was the son of God and that was enough for me. Their word was as legitimate as the Gospels; I needed no other proof. But as I grew older, I had my doubts.
I was 13 the first time I questioned God's existence. It happened during a visit to a water park while in church camp. While taking a breather with a trip down the park's lazy river, my mind began to drift. Out of nowhere the thought hit: What if there isn't really a God?
As quickly as it struck I sought to block it. I'd never questioned my spiritual beliefs before, and I didn't see a need to start now. Things were complicated enough thanks to the hell that was life at Barnwell Middle School, and this was not the time to have God smiting me for questioning his existence. I spoke with a minister at the camp about the issue. He was helpful and encouraging, despite never actually answering any of my questions.
Throughout the next few years I lived a kind of halfhearted faith. I went to church; I didn't drink, didn't smoke, didn't commit any "big" sins. There was my language, which grew saltier as I grew older, though I blamed this largely on marching band camp. Anyone spending 13 hours on a football field in Missouri during July, trucking around a 50-pound sousaphone, is at risk for developing a vocabulary that would make a construction worker blush.
Despite my doubts, I still believed in God and prayed to Him. Granted, some nights I was praying for Him to command Angela, the mellophone player in a neighboring band, to find me irresistible, though I soon realized that either He didn't or she didn't listen to Him. But the way I saw it, a prayer was a prayer.
As far as I was concerned, the little things didn't matter. I didn't need to spend hours reading the Bible or in prayer. I had prayed to become a Christian when I was 6, and everything that happened after that was simply a formality. My ticket was punched and I was Heaven-bound.
One day during my senior year of high school it hit me that within a year I would be hours away from friends and family, attending Southeast Missouri State University -- cut off from everything I knew except God.
The notion of leaving home was exciting but scary, and I soon found an intense desire to know God beyond the standard Sunday morning meetings and quick weeknight exchanges before bed. If God was going to be with me in Cape Girardeau, I wanted -- needed -- to get better acquainted with Him.
I began to spend more time in prayer and cracked open my Bible. Soon two things happened: I realized how little I had been invested in my faith up to that point. And my doubts came flooding back.
How can 2,000-year-old Scripture be accurate?
How can a loving God allow so much suffering on Earth?
How do I know Jesus is really the son of God?
These weren't small questions; they undermined the cornerstone of my faith. And while I knew that I no longer wanted to believe halfheartedly, I was terrified of what I might find as I searched for answers.
What if I discovered the God I believed in didn't exist?
I soon proved to be my own worst enemy. I have always liked certainty, at times to the point of obsession -- I'm the guy who double-checks where his flash drive is before going to bed to make sure it didn't vanish -- and now I was trying to make palpable my faith in a God who requires belief in what is unseen.
Instead of soul-searching, I researched. The next six months involved lots of reading. I read books on Christian theology and devoured scripture. During freshman orientation, while others toured fraternities and socialized at the university's casino night, I sat alone in my dorm room, hunched over the Bible in my lap, poring over verses in the book of Hebrews with a highlighter.
Chapter 11 told me God rewards those who earnestly seek Him. I was earnestly seeking, and so I expected if I read enough I would find a line or two that contained incontrovertible proof that God was who He said He was and that his message was true. I didn't care if it spoke to the rest of the world as long as it brought me back to the unshakable faith of my youth.
It seemed like a reasonable enough expectation at the time.
As I continued my search I began to find answers. I read "The Case for Christ" and "The Case for Faith" by Lee Strobel, who examined some of the questions I had been asking. Strobel provided adequate explanations to such issues as biblical accuracy, suffering and whether Jesus could be God's son. But ultimately I wondered how I could trust Strobel or anyone else. It now seemed that no one's word was good enough for me.
I soon realized God's existence is not a matter of fact. Scripture, theology and personal testimonies provide plenty of evidence to support Christianity, but it could all be explained away if I looked hard enough. I needed to decide if I was willing to accept the evidence as true, even in the face of reasonable doubt. I had been a Christian for more than a decade, but I was just now learning what having faith really meant.
Finally I made my decision. After a restless Sunday afternoon spent reading and staring at the ceiling, I leapt from my upper bunk and with my head lowered to the carpeted floor, prayed. I admitted to God there was no way for me to understand everything about Him. But while I would continue to ask hard questions and seek answers, I would also choose to accept the evidence and believe.
Relief began to wash over me, and that night I slept as soundly as a 6-year-old.
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