The opposite of faith is not doubt, but certainty. Certainty is missing the point entirely. Faith includes noticing the mess, the emptiness and discomfort, and letting it be there until some light returns.
—Anne Lamott
My friend James remembers the day that he began to reckon with the concept of uncertainty. James is a gastroenterologist—a medical doctor who specializes in treating conditions affecting digestion and nutrition. Think of your esophagus, stomach, intestines, liver, and pancreas. In effect, it means he deals with some gross (to me!) and amazing (to him!) stuff every day. Given his specific areas of expertise, he is a man of many stories—some funny, some tragic, some triumphant, some humbling. I’ve known him for a while, but when he speaks of how he came to be who he is as a physician—the failures, the questioning of purpose, and the discovery of meaning in the profound relationships he gets to build with people who are hurting—I understand him, and myself, better.
When James was in his third year of medical school and beginning his clinical work, he wrestled with the reality that when he left the classroom, the things that once seemed very black and white on a test or in a paper were now much more nuanced. Now that he was seeing actual patients, there was so much more uncertainty. It made him feel, perhaps for the first time in his life, like he was stupid. In a moment of overwhelming discouragement, he confessed how he felt to an attending, a senior physician. He asked this attending, “Is it normal to feel stupid? Because I feel stupid all the time.”
The doctor paused for a moment before answering, and in the ensuing silence James thought for a moment he had really blown it by being so honest. “I’ve just ruined my career before it’s started!” the voice in his head bemoaned.
In the midst of his wallowing, he noticed a sense of profound empathy in the attending’s eyes, and the doctor said something that James would never forget. “If you ever stop feeling stupid, you are at a moment in your career where you are going to truly hurt a patient.”
With tears in his eyes, the doctor went on to share about how each time he got “too big for his britches,” there was a complicated case or a difficult outcome that brought him back to earth. Having to share with a patient or their family that something didn’t go according to plan was humbling. Those experiences reminded him that feeling stupid, and being honest about where he was at, was better than thinking he had it all figured out. James said that was the day that he realized that uncertainty was always going to be a part of his work as well as all other aspects of his life.
As a physician, James actually risks danger to others if he tries to force certainty. Similarly, in our lives of faith, our obsession with certainty can lead us to dangerous spaces. And the most dangerous space is one that says faith equals certainty. In reality, certainty and faith cannot coexist. To be certain is to know for sure, making faith unnecessary. Writer Anne Lamott is often quoted explaining, “The opposite of faith is not doubt, but certainty.” I define faith as putting your trust and hope in something in spite of the fact that you can’t be certain. It’s a willingness to commit without knowing all you’d like to know. And that means risk.
There is always more to know and to learn, but at some point we reach the edge of our knowledge or ability to understand. It’s there on that cliff you have to choose if you will jump into uncertainty or try to convince yourself of the myth of certainty. This is the decision that James faces every day. Despite all the uncertainty that exists in medicine, James strives to partner with his patient as they commit to a plan of treatment, a course through the unknown. In his words, “I share the burden of uncertainty with them, so that neither of us feel alone.” Every day is a new challenge full of new questions. So it is in the life of faith.
When I was in college, there was a professor named Daniel Taylor, and he had written a book called The Myth of Certainty. He was beloved by his students and had the reputation for being the kind of mentor who would listen to you and help you process your questions about life, relationships, and faith. He always resisted giving easy answers. Most people would leave his office with more questions than they came in with. But it was precisely the excitement and intrigue of having their minds opened to deeper questions that drew students to him. He cultivated the curiosity within these budding young adults. Sometimes it was difficult and frustrating, but it helped them feel more alive. And that is a feeling everyone is drawn to.
The line from Professor Taylor’s book that has stuck with me is this, “The demand for certainty inevitably creates its opposite—doubt. Doubt derives its strength from those who fear it most.”[1] Taylor suggests that our attitude toward doubt and uncertainty is more important than eliminating doubt. This was a profound realization for me in college. I always felt that doubt was something to be feared, combated, squelched, or avoided at all costs. Doubt meant you weren’t a good Christian—or worse, weren’t a Christian at all! Much of this is rooted in bad exegesis of some classic doubt passages in Scripture (which we will talk more about in part 2). But Taylor suggests the opposite! That doubt is a natural, normal part of a life of faith, and complete certainty is a myth.
Taylor shows us that doubt shouldn’t be something we try to crush or demolish, because it can be made to serve our faith. Instead of seeing doubt as something “sapping faith’s strength,” the very presence of doubt gives faith its reason for being. Taylor says, “Clearly faith is not needed where certainty supposedly exists, but only in situations where doubt is possible, even present.”[2]
I think faith is something that we fear, because faith means accepting the role of doubt and uncertainty. It means that we can no longer pretend that certainty is real and attainable. We have to admit that we are finite humans pursuing an infinite God. We have limitations. Every day we have the choice to commit and to step out in faith or not. This happens in big ways (like choosing to believe in God at all) and small ways (like trusting the sense you have that God is leading you to make a particular decision). We are afraid to act based on faith because those steps of faith never come with certainty. But if we choose faith, we must accept the reality of uncertainty.
Greg Boyd, a pastor in my city, wrote a book called The Benefit of the Doubt. He uses the phrase “certainty-seeking faith” to describe people whose main objective in their life of faith is to pursue certainty. Of course we should pursue truth, but the idea that we can reach complete certainty has devastating consequences for Christians and people who are trying to follow and trust Jesus. First of all, it lacks any sense of humility or an acknowledgment that we could be wrong. It keeps us from continuing to wonder. Finally, it keeps us from engaging with people who are different from us and who may have a different perspective. Most importantly, Boyd suggests that “certainty-seeking faith” has led many to “mistakenly interpret the doctrine that we’re ‘saved by faith’ to mean we’re ‘saved by feeling certain about particular beliefs.’”[3] This is dangerous because it means certainty becomes the object of worship rather than God.
For instance, someone could agree intellectually with the statement: “Jesus is Savior and Lord.” But intellectual assent is not equivalent to faith. Faith comes with all kinds of questions: If Jesus is Savior, what is he saving you from? What is he saving you for? If he is Lord, that means he is a leader. If Jesus is your leader, how is he leading you currently? What direction are you going with Jesus as your leader rather than someone else, or rather than only trusting your own leadership? It is possible to believe that a statement is certain and true without it having any practical impact on how you live your life. But true faith will always deeply impact our lives.
The early Christians viewed the world quite differently than we do in our modern context. The definition of belief as an “intellectual agreement” with some sort of fact or proposition would be lost on them. They saw the mind, body, and spirit as working holistically. Beliefs impacted a person’s way of life, not just their way of thinking.
When faith becomes merely intellectual agreement, it becomes separated from our way of life. One way I see this dichotomy manifesting itself in the world is the rise of Moralistic Therapeutic Deism (MTD). MTD is perhaps the most dominant worldview held by millennials and generation Z, according to some recent research.[4] MTD consists of five core beliefs: (1) A god exists who created and ordered the world and who watches over human life on earth. (2) God wants people to be good, nice, and fair to each other, as taught in the Bible and by most world religions. (3) The central goal of life is to be happy and to feel good about oneself. (4) God does not need to be particularly involved in one’s life except when God is needed to resolve a problem. (5) Good people go to heaven when they die.[5]
Upon first glance, this worldview sounds appealing, but my experience coming alongside others is that the MTD paradigm isn’t a very sturdy base for facing life’s challenges. I think that younger people are embracing MTD because it allows you to avoid the work that comes with overcoming the fears associated with faith. It’s easier to have a loose sense of the Divine and call on God when you are “in need” than to choose to wonder, discover, and be curious about God. This way of thinking leads to an experience of a god that is more like a cosmic vending machine than a relationship—push B3 for a peace that passes understanding, or C5 for a really hot spouse, or A2 for kids who don’t struggle in school. A relationship like that with another human would never fly. So is it realistic to relate to God this way? Apparently, many people in America think so, enough that some sociologists are calling MTD “the new American religion.” I see MTD as an unfortunate barrier that keeps someone from truly staying curious.
So back to my definition of faith: “putting your trust and hope in something in spite of the fact that you can’t be certain.” For the writers of the Bible, for those who lived at the time of Jesus, for the early church, and for Jesus himself, faith was a verb, not a noun. We typically see both faith and hope as nouns. But if faith and belief, as we read about them in the Bible, are active, then they really are actions of trusting and hoping. Faith in Jesus means trusting Jesus by taking actions that might be risky when God leads you. Faith in God means actively hoping that life will offer peace, or shalom—a peace that passes all understanding—even when our reason, logic, and certainty hit their limits. When Jesus speaks with Nicodemus at night in John 3, the word believe is used seven times in just a few verses. Every time, including the infamous John 3:16, it is used as a verb in the Greek, not a noun.[6]
Faith is a verb because it causes you to live differently, even when you are unsure! It’s not that you have figured out the right set of beliefs in order to be “saved”; nor are those who have not figured it out “damned.” If we think faith means getting it right and being certain, it’s no wonder faith terrifies us! It’s impossible to be fully certain. This fear of faith can be paralyzing. It can leave us deserted in the wilderness, frozen at the base of the wall (something I want us to unpack in the next chapter). In an honest moment, we know if we start to press into this deeper understanding of faith, it will mean accepting uncertainty, and that can be scary.
So we have a choice to make. Just like James as a physician needed to decide if he could continue to practice medicine when total certainty wasn’t an option, we have to decide if we will keep exploring our faith even though we can’t reach complete certainty. Sometimes we find ourselves immobilized by fear, but we don’t have to stay there. Part 2 of this book will explore the various wilderness experiences we face in life and offer steps to get unstuck. I agree with Taylor that certainty is a myth. But “commitment to faith is a risk worth taking.”[7] It’s the reason I’m pouring out my heart to you in this book. Just because I think it’s worth it doesn’t mean risk is easy. But everything worth doing comes with some degree of challenge.
People often ask me, “Are you afraid of people in your church doubting their faith or questioning God or the Bible?” My honest reply is that I am more afraid that they won’t.
I’m afraid that those I lead won’t stay curious.
I’m convinced that stepping toward questions and doubts rather than running from them leads to a life of curiosity. And people who stay curious are more likely to live a holistic, verb-based faith, one that is life changing—vibrant and full of reflection, wonder, and complexity. When people are stuck, paralyzed by fear, their faith appears dull and lacks connection to the rest of their life. I’d rather people take the risk—knowing that they might end up walking away from faith for a while or altogether—because what I see on the other side has such great potential for their well-being.
I’d rather lead the question askers and the stone turners than the apathetic and unengaged. I get excited to be in community with the wrestlers and the explorers, not the certainty seekers and truth defenders. Martin Luther King Jr. said that “courage is an inner resolution to go forward despite obstacles.”[8] Notice he didn’t say that courage is the absence of fear. In fact, fear is a common obstacle. And it’s not the only one.
Even though you might be afraid of what may be under the stones you will overturn or what may lie at the other end of the wilderness, courage means making an “inner resolution” to start taking steps anyway.