The Circle of Believing

My pilgrimage of believing is circling back to where it all began—almost.

When I was a child, my parents and my teachers at our small, rural church in Tallapoosa, Missouri, told me what Christians believed and, therefore, what I believed; and I did.  As a teen, I began to question if all I had been told was right.  There were some pretty fantastic events in what “they” said I should believe.

As a young adult, I began to find my own way along the faith journey.  Well, I found my own way as much as one can ever find his own way.  (We are never as independent as we want to believe and sometimes behave.)  So much of it seemed so unbelievable: Noah and his ark of animals two-by-two . . . Moses and the burning bush and the staff turned snake and the parting of the Red Sea . . . God sending His Son . . . a crucified, dead man rising to life . . . men and women risking their lives to tell such stories.  Could this stuff all be true?  My inquiring mind wanted to know . . . needed to know . . . was determined to know.

Throughout most of my adulthood, the questions have continued to surface and swirl.  The intensity of my struggle has, at times, been more intense, made so by the reality that my faith was no longer just my faith.  I was actually spending my life inviting others to believe these fantastic stories and to stake their lives on them.

Today finds me in what is surely the last third of my life, and I am almost back where I began.  I believe, but I no longer believe because others told me that I should.  Nor do I believe because I have been able to prove all that I believe.  I believe because I cannot do otherwise.  The stories and the events they record have become part of my being.  They have become my stories.

I believe the story of Noah’s rescue and of God’s promise because I have experienced rescue and renewed promises.  I believe Moses’ call and his daring deeds because the same God has called me; and, empowered by God, I have done some amazing things.  Oh, I’ve not parted the Red Sea, but I’ve crossed some treacherous waters and lived to tell.  I believe the story of the Son sent by God because I know the Son and through the Son, I’m getting to know God.  I believe the story of men and women who risked their lives to tell such stories because I know what believing those stories has led me to do. 

My pilgrimage of believing is circling back to where it all began—almost.  The difference is that the believing is now mine.

What is it that brought me home again?  The same thing that sent those early disciples out from the security they sought behind locked doors into the streets, cities, provinces, and nations of their day.  The Son of God has breathed on me.  I live.  It has not been instantaneous and it has not ended.  His breath continues to blow; and with each breath, I come a bit more alive.

Like Thomas, I have seen and I believe.  Having seen and having believed, I can tell you what to believe, but it will be necessary for you to live toward your own believing before you can say with assurance: He lives, and because He lives I live.