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I Have a Question

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I've had to write more articles in the last few weeks than I normally do. Usually, I have enough time to decompress from the last article-writing cycle before I start up again — but not this time. I'm just not ready to identify another problem in the world, convince you it's one that needs to be solved and then feed you the solution. I don't have that kind of energy right now, you know? Which is why I'm not a freelancer.

This time around I'm not trying to provide any answers. Instead, I'm introduciong you to a few of the questions that have been swimming around in my head. Some are new and pesky, like a four-year-old obsessed with Why?; others have been letting themselves in and taking naps on my futon for so long I've just decided to make friends with them. I can't guarantee you'll truly like all of the questions. Just promise you'll play nice.

So: Reader, meet questions. Questions, meet reader.

The Questions

How do we navigate the paradoxes of the Christian faith? I am at once mesmerized and perplexed by the seeming contradictions in the Bible. And they are many: I am made of physical stuff and I am a spiritual being. My course is predestined, clearly, yet I'm free to choose as I will. I'm subject to my sin-nature yet redeemed by Christ’s death. I lose my life by pursuing it; I gain my life by giving it up for Christ. I could go on.

These paradoxes defy logic — which is why, I suppose, people feel the need to support one side over another. We don’t deal so well with the gray areas. Black and white, please. So we act like pendulums, swinging from one extreme to the other, right past the balance where we ought to reside. And by "we" I mean "I." I'm like a schoolboy at recess. So how do I not instinctively run to that swing set?

If I cannot reconcile the paradoxes of the faith, then I can at least take comfort in these words from Parker J. Palmer's book The Promise of Paradox: "Perhaps one need not resolve life's contradictions single-handedly. … Perhaps contradictions are not impediments to the spiritual life but an integral part of it."¹

At least I'm not the only one.

What are legitimate uses of my money? I've been thinking of this question off and on for the last year or so, but it knocked on my door recently when a friend from Alaska asked me if I would be interested in going on a mountain climbing expedition.

The climb would be risky; the mountain he has in mind is known for its poor weather. But I think I'm willing to take the physical risks — I trust myself not to do something stupid. As for money, I could save enough of my income — several thousand dollars — over the next few years to finance the trip.

But "my income" is a misnomer — every penny I earn and every dollar sitting in my bank account is God's. In that case, is spending thousands to conquer a mountain a worthy use of God's money? That question is even more abrasive when I consider the millions of people around the world who wouldn't even think of climbing a mountain because they're saving their steps for their daily bare-footed trip to the water well. I recognize that, on a global scale, I lead a life of privilege. As Jesus Himself says in Luke 12:48b (NIV), "From everyone who has been given much, much will be demanded; and from the one who has been entrusted with much, much more will be asked."

I believe I should enjoy the life God has given me. I don't think I'm called to denounce modern conveniences or even novelties like mountain climbing. But neither do I think money is a tool for my entertainment.

Where do I draw the line?

How do I participate in the political process without selling my soul? I have a love-hate relationship with politics. I love knowing what’s going on. But I hate what’s going on. As far as I can tell, the ways to get ahead in politics include lying and spinning the facts and degrading your ideological opponents. Sadly, I see Christians doing the same sort of stuff — acting like winning a political battle is more important than pointing people toward the Cross. We forget that those we're fighting against are real people whom God loves. It's as if we check the second great commandment — to love our neighbor — at the door.

I’m tempted to think the political process, as it is, is irredeemable.

But I haven’t completely given up on the political process, at least not yet. I will be voting in the elections coming up this November — something inside me tells me I would be irresponsible not to.

Still, I am troubled. This question plagues me.

What is my role in the Great Commission? For the longest time I've told myself that Christ's charge to His disciples in Matthew 28:18-20 isn't just about making converts — that disciple-making involves not just evangelists evangelizing in stadiums and on street corners, but also people like me who disciple those who are already Christians.

I'm pretty sure I don't have the gift of evangelism. I think I am more effective in helping other Christians get along in their faith. … But I'm beginning to wonder if I'm making excuses for my not being meaningfully involved in any non-Christians' lives. Does helping other Christians grow in their faith really count?

The Great Commission means, as singer-songwriter Sara Groves puts it, "loving a person just the way they are."² And that takes a conspicuous amount of effort. The rewards for doing so aren't immediate — or even guaranteed. I find the prospect of caring for people who don't have Christ in their lives to be a frightening one.

Yet I'm left with Jesus' commands to love everyone. How, then, based on how God has made me and the circumstances He's put me in, do I point people to the Kingdom?

Looking at Questions for What They Are

"I know nothing except the fact of my own ignorance." So said Socrates, one of the foremost philosophers in Western history. I know how that guy felt — the more I learn, the more I realize I know so little.

C O F F E E  S H O P

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I have settled on one thing, though: Questions, both the merely unanswered and stubborn, unanswerable ones, are, in actuality, beneficial. Because, as the aforementioned Parmer J. Parker says of paradoxes, "[t]hrough them we may learn that the power for life comes from God, not from us."³ If I had the answers to all my questions, I'd be tempted to believe I'm God. And I struggle with that temptation enough as it is. In the long run, my questions remind me of God's power and my finitude.

So the next time a question hammers on my skull from the inside, I'll consider it an invitation from God, not so much to find the answer to the question, but to recognize my need for — and rest I can find in — Him.

Thank God for questions.