Author Archives: Jenna

Are there hard truths about God?

A question

Yesterday I got a thoughtful response to this post about wrestling with truth from my Uncle Brian (an actual white, male, evangelical, conservative pastor, hee hee–and one whom I love and respect very much!):

Hey Jenna, great thoughts. God, i believe, always welcomes honest questions. So I agree. We should never be afraid to engage hard and uncomfortable questions. But equally we should never be afraid to affirm hard and uncomfortable truth. 
Sincerely,
A pastor in your head

After having a little giggle because Uncle Brian is most definitely not the argumentative pastor in my head, this got me thinking. His words rang over and over in my head.

We should never be afraid to affirm hard and uncomfortable truth.

Something about that phrase was bothering me. Why? I offered a short response on Facebook, but in my heart I kept mulling it over. And over. And over.

Deceitful heart

Off the bat, I’m sure the phrase was bothering me, in part, because I’m a rebel. I don’t want to accept things I don’t buy into just because someone–especially an authority figure–tells me to. I want that inner confirmation. I want my heart to be on board. And yet, I know my heart is deceitful. I’ve been wrong about more things that I can count before, even things to which my heart clamored its affirmation.

Lies disguised as truth

The second reason for my discomfort is that some of those “hard truths” that church leaders tout end up being lies. I’m sure slaves in America were told to accept their position because of the “hard truth” that God had approved the authority of their master over them. This is a horrible misuse of the Bible that sullies the very word “truth,” and only one example of countless showing how the church can swing a rock-hard baseball bat of lies while calling it a “hard truth.” The results are devastating.

The blood-stained historical record of church atrocities is always, always a good reason to question the biblical interpretation offered by those in power. The Bible is always good and true. Church leaders and their handling of the Bible, we can all agree, are a different story.

But of course, this isn’t what my wonderful Uncle Brian was talking about in his gentle challenge to me. So leaving aside lies disguised as truth, and the deceptions of my heart, the question of hard truth at face-value was well worth chewing on.

The question at face value

I thought as I lay in bed at night, and I thought this morning as I drank my coffee and drove to work. Are there “hard truths” about God? Which ones? If so, why are they hard? And does that mean something about God, or the truth? Or does it perhaps mean something about me instead? What have the “hard truths” in my personal walk with Christ been?

First, a distinguishing fact: hard experiences or realities don’t necessarily correlate with hard truths. For example, I have always believed and continue to believe that God’s plan for sex is within the bounds of a committed marriage. Thusly, Adam and I waited to have sex until after we were married. Was this hard? Um . . . YES. But did this hard experience of waiting represent a hard truth? For me, no. It was a good truth. I knew it was right to wait, and I trusted God knew best. There was no conflict in my heart over the truth–just the day-to-day practical difficulty in carrying it out.

Second, a practical, non-religious example.

As kids, there are lots of hard truths. One of them is responsibility. We have to clean up our messes. Another is humility. We have to apologize for our failures. Another is generosity. We have to share our toys. We don’t like this. At times, we even declare “it’s not fair.” I certainly did.

But guess what? As we grow up and mature, that perception of hard truth melts away. We start to realize that apologizing when we hurt someone is the right and healing thing. That sharing what we have is a joyful expression of love, and that generosity is not just painful sacrifice, but has a boomerang effect. Sure, all these things may still be hard to execute at times. But we wouldn’t call them hard truths. We’d call them beautiful truths that we struggle to live out.

In this quick scenario, the “hard” part of these truths is a direct cause of immaturity. As we mature, we see the loveliness.

So what are these hard truths in a spiritual context?

Let’s go to the Bible

The example that leaped to my mind is in John 6. To give a quick and dirty recap, Jesus has been preaching about himself, saying that he is the bread of life and that you have to eat of his flesh to have life. Here’s the specific set of verses (bold emphasis mine):

60 When many of his disciples heard it, they said, “This teaching is difficult; who can accept it?” 61 But Jesus, being aware that his disciples were complaining about it, said to them, “Does this offend you? 62 Then what if you were to see the Son of Man ascending to where he was before? 63 It is the spirit that gives life; the flesh is useless. The words that I have spoken to you are spirit and life. 64 But among you there are some who do not believe.”

Jesus recognized that the truth he was teaching them offended them. I think we can safely call this a “hard truth” for the disciples. But then Jesus says, “The words that I have spoken to you are spirit and life.” To me, Jesus seems to be saying something like, “Guys, I can see you’re having trouble with all of this. But seriously, this is a good truth. It’s about life. You’re feeling offended, but in reality this is good news. Your faith is just lacking right now.”

So is this truth about Jesus hard, in its essence? No. It’s beautiful. It’s spirit and life. It only appears hard (or offensive) to those whose faith is weak (or not present).

I’m sure an in-depth study could be done on all of this. But, for now, what I’ve got is this:

I believe God is holy. Perfect. His plan is perfect. Everything he does is glorious. Everything about him is good. There is no darkness in him. Therefore, I don’t see how any truth about God could be hard in its nature.

I’m starting to think that when we’re experiencing a “hard truth,” it has more to say about us than about God. It says, perhaps, that we don’t get the full picture. That our faith is imperfect.

Dad’s invisible friend

Let’s talk about my dad. He’s been a Christian, well . . . forever. He’s in his sixties now. And for the past couple years, he’s been working through what he might call a hard truth.

To put it simply, the fact that God is invisible was bothering my dad. Why? An invisible God can sound kind of silly. Like maybe we’re a kid with an invisible friend, making up his own reality while the adults look on in amusement. Why is God invisible? Is that really the best way to do it? What’s the purpose? Where is God’s invisibility addressed in Scripture?

And Dad went for it. And, to my knowledge, is still going for it.

This, to me, is a perfect example of how to handle hard truth. By digging in. Studying. Praying and reading. Turning it over and over. I think the closer my dad gets to God, the more the “hardness” of this truth will melt away to reveal the beauty and purpose underneath. And I’ve already heard the beginnings of this as Dad talks about what he’s learning.

A matter of perspective

Let me use another example. For non-Christians, I can safely say that Christians’ claim to exclusive truth is a hard truth. People don’t like this. Why can’t there be more than one way? What an arrogant claim! They think they know better. Christians are so close-minded. In fact, it’s a truth that seems so hard that some simply reject it.

However, for those of us who are walking with Christ (or at least many of us), this is not a hard truth. I rejoice that through the chaos and darkness and pain of the world, God has cut through one shining, glorious path. I love that truth is not a smorgasbord of options and theories and ideas, but a single man–Jesus: the way, the truth, and the life. This is not a hard truth for me. It may be hard to explain to those who don’t believe, but my heart clamors a joyful response to this truth.

Perhaps when a truth is hard, it highlights a part of our heart that is not like God, but that can become more like him as we draw near. Perhaps it represents us, in our humanity, not understanding, even rebelling. Perhaps the antidote to hard truth is not to beat ourselves with a stick and say “accept it because you have to,” but to take the next few steps towards God and let him shed light on it.

The slave or the child?

The pastor in my head? (yes, that one) He’s saying, You’re forgetting about submission, Jenna. Instead of seeing acceptance of hard truth as “beating yourself with a stick,” perhaps you could simply submit to God’s authority, and find beauty there.

And I say, yes. Submission to God’s authority is great. But I am also not like a slave, bent to the ground, eyes cast down. I am a daughter. Making eye contact with my father. Approaching the throne boldly, and with confidence. Always welcome, and unafraid.

So when we talk about “submitting to God’ authority,” which I of course agree is right and even beautiful, let us remember that this need not be a silent, crushed act of humiliation in which we bite our tongues against all the questions we want to ask. That it could, perhaps, be the wrestling match I so fondly think of when I envision my Christian walk. A wrestling match I engage in knowing that God will win. Knowing that if my heart is rebelling, God can conquer and soothe and teach it. That he is stronger. And that through engaging with him, and not letting the things that are bothering me simply lie, I will somehow walk more closely with him than I would by casting my eyes down, keeping my distance and holding my tongue, because I have confused him with a master when he’s my dad.

The beautiful mystery

Will there be things we can’t understand in this life? Truths that will always seem hard to us? Maybe yes. And sure, to Uncle Brian’s point, maybe God will call us to affirm things we don’t like at the moment. God is so much bigger, I will never be able to grasp everything about him. But the more we get to know his character and trust his goodness, perhaps the hard truths that we don’t get to fully understand in this life could simply become mysterious truths. Perhaps our faith can transform our experience of truth so that, even when we don’t understand, it is no longer hard, but a motivator to run towards Him, because we are convinced that everything about Him is beautiful, and if it doesn’t seem that way, we must not be close enough.

Are there truths about God that seem hard to you? Think of it as a trigger telling you: Draw closer, because you’re not yet like him. Draw closer, because his truth is not hard at all, but beautiful and perfect and glorious. You may not get it yet, and that’s okay, because the light is coming. Keep walking. It’s right there. Can you feel it, just up ahead?

 

Dear conservative, white, male, evangelical pastor in my head

Some of you have a voice in their head. Like your mother’s voice. I have that one too. She says things like, When you fall off the horse, the best thing you can do is get right back on. And Your bra straps are showing. At least mine does. (What does yours say??) Sometimes the voices are two–like the angel and the demon sitting on your right and left shoulder. Sometimes they go back and forth about whether you should eat that second serving of Doritos (and who’s to say which is right? Not I. Because seriously, Doritos).

Confession: I have a white male conservative evangelical pastor in my head. He says things I’ve heard from countless other (mostly male, mostly white, mostly conservative) leaders in my life. I argue with him frequently. And he argues with me.

These days, as I read Rachel Held Evans’ blog and pour over a book on the biblical case for gay marriage, I’ve been hearing this pastor say, Watch out, Jenna. The truth must be handled with care.

And I say . . . really?

Is the truth that fragile, that it might break if I take a couple swings at it? If I have myself a little wrestling match? If I go for a few rounds to see who is standing at the end … and if certain truths might not be truths at all but impostors?

I’m wondering about things. You probably are too, and they may be very different things than mine. Maybe while I’m working through gay marriage and the Bible, you’re working through what it means to love your church when they’ve hurt you. Or why there’s so much violence in the Old Testament. Or if you are called to adopt.

But I’d just like to say, to the pastor in my head who wants to caution me, who sees my raised fists and tells me to sit down: the truth I believe in is strong. Unbreakable. It need not be handled with kid gloves, or with any particular kind of carefulness. In fact, I think that handling it with so much care that we dare not give it a good shake actually shows we may not really respect it as much as we think.

Are we perhaps afraid that if we confront it, it might crack? That if we’re a bit too rough, it might tumble down around us? That our truth, in fact, is a house of cards?

If it’s the truth, it will stand up to questioning. If it’s the truth, it will stand up to doubt. If it’s the truth, you can pretty much hit it with your hardest question, your angriest feeling, your cuss words and your rage and your disappointment, and it will stand. It will rise up to meet us where we are, and prove to be made of the hardiest and strongest stuff.

Do I respect the truth? I suppose I do . . . but I prefer to think of it as loving the truth. Do I want to stay in line with the truth? I do . . . but I prefer to think of it as grabbing hold of it. Yanking it close to my face to give it a good look. Hugging it to my chest in a passion of tears when I’ve bottomed out and I’m reaching out blindly–and there it is. Not a precept, or a rule, or a theology–but a set of arms. Arms that were spread out on the cross for me and now close around me in the fiercest embrace.

Ultimately, the truth is not a cold set of facts. The truth is a being. God. And did you know he can be wrestled with? Jacob did it. And I will too. I can’t break truth–and I can’t break God–but by drawing close and taking hold of it (him!) and turning it over and inside out, I will only grow to understand him more. Love him more. Taste him more keenly.

Do you question? Do you doubt? Don’t be afraid. Don’t shy away. I leave you with the words of Captain Jean Luc Picard . . .