students of jesus

I grew up in suburban Chicago among the stray dogs of Evangelicalism. Since 1970, I’ve not attended a traditional Evangelical church, right up until I became a Vineyard pastor. Reading the Bible and walking with God involved daily exercises in doubt because my friends and I would read a passage and say, "Huh—I wonder what that means?" No one ever told me I had to swallow everything at once in order to be in the club. Doubt kept me from indigestion because I had to take things one bite at a time.

Still, the Scriptures have been my standard for living since the beginning of my walk with God, but one of the benefits of congregating with misfits was I never had to endure other people insisting what the Bible meant. My grasp of the Bible is like my marriage: I love my wife very much, but after 33 years together I still don’t pretend to understand her. That’s true in marriage, and it’s been true in my walk with God: clueless, committed and willing to live with occasional tension when my limited intellect bumps up against the most revered document in Western history. So perhaps it will come as no surprise that on the subject of doubt, I’ve found what I think is a biblical model for doubt.

It will score no points for originality, but in my model for doubt in the big leather book is that guy named Thomas. Since I never had a Sunday school teacher wiggle her finger in my face and warn me not to be like "Doubting Thomas," I just figured he was one of the gang, like Puddleglum in C.S. Lewis’ Narnia series: a real buzz-kill, but still part of the team.

Thomas taught me that there are worse things than doubt. He taught me it’s OK to be the downer in the group, and if the group doesn’t like it, that’s mostly their problem. Thomas taught me that my doubts belonged to me, and I had no business trying to sell other people my doubt any more than I should try to sell people my favorite doctrines. Thomas taught me it’s OK to be myself, as long I as I wasn’t a jerk. Most of all Thomas taught me you can be unflinchingly honest and still get face-time with Jesus.

Here are four things Thomas taught me about doubt:

Thomas put courage above faith: In the first half of Jesus’ ministry, the religious people had attempted to kill Jesus at least twice (Luke 4 and John 10). Then Jesus got word that His good friend Lazarus was sick, along with the request to go heal him. The only problem was Lazarus lived within sight of Jerusalem, and Jesus had already told His friends that Jerusalem meant death. While guys like Peter tried to say they would never allow that to happen to Jesus, Thomas simply said, "Let us also go, that we may die with Him." I want courage like that. Eeyore for grown-ups: ready to face death.

Thomas put honesty above faith: Thomas wasn’t there when the other guys on the team saw the resurrected Jesus. Yet when he heard them talk about this insane idea that Jesus was physically alive, he stood his ground: "Unless I see the nail marks in his hands and put my finger where the nails were, and put my hand into his side, I will not believe." I understand church-people use this as an example of what not to do, but I admire his honesty. We’ve all met people who lie about their faith just to go along with the crowd and end up with neither honesty nor faith.

Thomas put relationship above faith: Thomas didn’t separate himself from his friends because of their differences. And to their credit, the other guys didn’t kick him out. The standard church model runs like this: you have to believe in order to belong. The Gospel model says, you can belong before you believe. I’ve seen people on both sides of the divide walk away from relationships over disagreements about faith. Too bad—some of my best friends are pain-in-the-butt "unbelievers." But what can I do? They’re still my friends.

Thomas got the ultimate creepy experience: I think the resurrected Jesus creeped everyone out: Appearing. Disappearing. Cooking. Eating. Floating away. But one offer Jesus made only to Thomas: "Reach out your hand and put it into my side." That’s right, "stick your hand into a spear-sized hole in my ribs, all while I’m living, standing and talking to you." Thomas’ doubt didn’t offend the Lord. Jesus simply called his bluff and freaked him out. It’s true, Jesus said "stop doubting," but only after pushing all the chips to the center of the table. In a way, his doubt opened the door to a unique experience with Jesus.

Thomas teaches me that there are worse things to be called than "doubter." His interactions with Jesus also teach me that Jesus is secure enough in His identity to display grace and patience with people who don’t have it all worked out—which, it turns out, is everyone.

Goodness is a fruit of the Spirit, the by-product of a gentle, godly nurturing, years in the making. Yet, Jesus carefully separated himself from a human, earthbound idea of goodness. A careful reading of the scripture hints that when we expect to automatically carry our own earthbound ideas of goodness into our everyday life with Jesus, we are actually expecting his ways to conform to ours.

When a young man of substance and power tried to address Jesus politely, addressing him as “Good Teacher,” the Lord shot back, “Why do you call me good? No one is good—except God alone.” Certainly the young man was correct, Jesus was (and is) the Good Teacher, yet Jesus immediately drew a distinction between an earth-bound view of goodness and a godly one.

Who could be against goodness? I’m totally in favor of goodness—right up until goodness sits on the throne and demands worship. Beware the goodness that takes the crown from the King of kings. Beware the goodness of this age, and the wisdom of this age that tries to present a goodness divorced from the humility of worship, instruction, or servanthood. In short, beware when goodness masquerades as God.

The living God is dangerously good. We have made our own ideas of goodness safe and comfortable. The dangerous goodness of God cuts across our culturally based versions of “good.” It’s not about your version of good, or mine. The wisdom of this age wants to fashion a goodness after its own image, a safe goodness of which we are the judge. Our ideas of goodness may lead us to our doom. When we demand a god who conforms to our view of good and evil, we have made him over in our image.

We are, in fact, afraid of Absolute Goodness. When humankind saw True Goodness among us, we nailed him to the cross. We employed the powers of government and religion in a vain attempt to muzzle him and continue ordering the world after our own ideas of what is right.

But what is right? What is good? Pilate asked Jesus “What is truth?” In the last hundred years the wisdom of this age has answered that question by concluding there is no such thing. We have moved beyond the question of truth, and we are stuck today on “What is good?” Each of us should tremble if we reach the same result as we did with truth—that we should be be left to choose our own ideas of good. The goodness of this world is the promise that we will become like God—all we need is the knowledge of good and evil (never mind what shortcuts we take, or the source of this knowledge).

Jesus demonstrates goodness through his humility: that the human mind should bow before the glory of God. Goodness is the fruit of walking with the Master of Life, of learning his heart, gaining his mind, and making room for his Spirit. We would be wise to give up our definitions of goodness until his work takes root in us.

And this is just the start, because the same is true for each fruit of the Spirit. If we let him, the Spirit will redefine love, joy, peace, forbearance, kindness, (and goodness) faithfulness, gentleness and self-control. We will discover heaven’s definitions of each good thing.