I could tell my eight-year-old’s spirit was heavy as he approached me while I tended the glowing embers. The mesmerizing flames of the backyard fire often create opportunities for deep conversations with my sons. This occasion proved no exception when my son asked, “Dad, what if we’re wrong about God?”
I pressed Hayden to explain what he meant. “What if we’re wrong about Jesus and the one true God?” he asked again. “What if I never get to meet Uncle Tyler in heaven?”
Tears welled in his eyes. “What if we just die, and then we’re gone?”
That thought comes blacking in my mind more often than I admit. It’s much easier to mask my doubts than confront them. My son didn’t leave me much of an option. He rightly concluded that what we believe about God is indeed extraordinary. Set aside creation, miracles, healings, and exorcisms throughout the Bible. The central claim of the gospel itself reads like a plot from a Marvel movie.
The God of the universe loved sinful people so much that he sent his son to redeem humanity through a brutal death on a cross. If that weren’t enough, anyone who believes that God raised his son, Jesus, from the dead will enjoy eternal life.
My youngest son’s struggle has been my own for much of my life. When I was Hayden’s age, I was terrified of heaven. I imagined being stuck in the worship part of a church service for eternity. On one occasion, my great grandmother told me that Jesus appeared by her bed and talked to her. That hasn’t ever happened to me, and I suspected her medication might be a bit strong. As I grew older, I vividly remember staring at the ceiling in my bedroom wondering what it would be like to simply stop existing.
Over the years, I’ve endeavored to know God through the doubts. The tears in Hayden’s eyes are familiar. My son should think critically about his faith. He must also seek God and keep his commandments. Hopefully, Hayden will engage both priorities for the rest of his life.
Doubt isn’t anything new for people who follow Jesus. We weren’t there when God laid the foundation of the Earth. We weren’t on the Ark as the flood waters subsided. Unlike Thomas, we haven’t seen the nail marks in Jesus’s hands and the wound on his side.
Hayden and I discussed how God reveals himself through creation. We considered whether the robins nesting in our fig tree were more likely the product of intelligent design or the happy accident of billions of years of evolution. He needed space to think, so I let him weigh opposing considerations as I listened.
For years, I’ve done the same. From Richard Dawkins to Peter Singer to Daniel Dennett, I chewed through arguments from those who view God as little more than a social tool to help us deal with our cosmically insignificant lives. We should wrestle with competing existential ideas, but philosophical debate isn’t a universal balm for our doubts.
Hayden wasn’t looking for me to empower him with great apologetic skills to defend his faith. Standing by the fire, he needed his father to meet him in his doubt. He needed to know that he wasn’t alone. At that moment, a verse came to mind: “I believe, Lord. Help my unbelief!”
The words from the Gospel of Mark came from a father whose son was beset by demons thousands of years ago. Hayden understood what they meant.
I let Hayden know that father’s plea was about the best I could do some days. I was honest. Then I asked him what he’d do differently if he knew we were both wrong about God. “Would you treat people differently?” I asked. “Would you love them less?” As the fire died down, we both resolved to continue following Jesus’s example.
Doubt does not render us useless vessels for God’s work. We simply carry a great treasure in fragile jars of clay. Those doubts remind me that salvation comes from God and not my intellect. When I question what will happen as I take my last breath, I’m humbled that God entrusts the greatest love story ever told to people like me. I believe even as I struggle to do so.
That night my family read in Acts about a young Apostle Paul who persecuted God’s people. God met him on the road to Damascus and radically changed his life. His letters encouraging early Christians are the same ones guiding my family today. Only God could change Paul. Only God could make him believe. I’m praying that God will meet Hayden on his own road to Damascus. I’m also grateful that my son’s journey included a fireside chat with me.
