Do you have doubts and questions? I do. Lots. I’ve always struggled with various aspects of Christian doctrine, and I find any form of fundamentalism, or even narrow conservatism, simply impossible to understand. How can we not find it hard to reconcile much in the history of the Church, or much of the suffering in the world, with the idea of a loving, caring God? I wrestle with that, and a host of other things, every day. Yet, like the father of the epileptic boy in the Gospel of Mark, which forms the subject of the following meditation from my book No Ordinary Man 2, I do believe, despite the difficulty I sometimes have in doing so. And like him again, I echo that short but heartfelt prayer, ‘Help deal with my unbelief!’
Read
They brought the child to him. Seeing him, the spirit immediately convulsed the boy, and he fell to the ground, rolling about and foaming at the mouth. Jesus asked the father, ‘How long has this been happening to him?’ And he said, ‘From infancy. Many times it has hurled him into flames or water, to destroy him, so if there is anything you can do, for pity’s sake help us.’ Jesus said to him, ‘The question is, can you do anything – all things are possible for the one who believes.’ And immediately the father of the child cried out, ‘I do believe; help deal with my unbelief!’ Mark 9:20-24
The meditation of the father of the epileptic boy
Lord, I do believe,
truly.
Despite my doubts,
despite my questions,
I do believe.
Not that my faith is perfect, I’m not saying that –
there’s still much that puzzles me,
much I’d like to ask you about further, given the chance.
But I believe you’re different,
that you can change lives in a way others can’t,
that you can bring hope where there’s despair,
joy where there’s sorrow,
peace where there’s turmoil,
love where there’s hate.
And I need those things now as never before,
not for myself, but for my son.
He’s suffering, you see,
troubled in body and mind,
day after day thrown into terrible convulsions.
And, Lord, I’m afraid of what might happen,
what he might do to himself when the fits come upon him.
It’s breaking my heart seeing him like this,
having to stand by helpless as he writhes and groans.
Yet I’ve tried everything –
every doctor,
every healer,
even your own disciples,
all to no avail.
Not one has been able to help,
none able to provide the answer I long to find.
So I’ve come finally to you,
my last throw of the dice,
and I’m begging you, Lord:
help!
Oh, I know I don’t deserve it –
I’m not pretending otherwise.
I have my doubts, all too many –
barely understanding half of what you teach,
and even what does make sense is hard to accept.
I don’t have the makings of a disciple, I realise that,
all kinds of things wrong in my life –
ask anyone.
And though I want to change,
to become the person you would have me be,
I’m not sure I can come anywhere near it.
In fact, though I say I believe,
I’m not even certain of that,
for I’m torn in two,
half of me sure, half of me not,
my faith and doubt warring together,
each battling for the upper hand,
each ebbing and flowing as the mood takes me.
Yet I’ve seen what you’ve been able to do for others,
I’ve heard about the wonders you perform,
and I’m sure that if anyone can help me, then it’s you.
So you see, I do believe a little,
not as much as I’d like,
not as much as I should,
but I do believe,
and I’m trying so hard to believe more.
In the meantime, I’m begging you, Lord,
on bended knee, I’m begging you:
help my unbelief.
Pray
Lord,
you know our faith isn’t perfect.
There is much that we don’t understand,
much that we question,
and much that is not all it ought to be.
Despite our love for you,
we find it difficult to trust as we know we should,
the things we don’t believe
triumphing over the things we do.
Yet, for all its weakness,
you know that our faith is real,
and you know that we long to serve you better.
Take, then, what we are and what we offer,
and, through your grace, provide what we lack
until the faith we profess with our lips
may be echoed in our lives,
and our faith be made complete.
Amen.