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I wrote this in response to a growing number of articles I have recently come across that question the truth and validity of the precious Word of God.

I do not wish to bash anyone’s beliefs. I don’t believe that is what Christ Himself calls us to do. Rather, I would like to share a little of my own journey, in the hope that my story may offer a small defense of the faith.

Painting by Rembrandt: The Return of the Prodigal Son 1669

When the Word is Questioned

I do not often step outside of the realm of fiction. 

Stories are usually where I feel most at home. They allow me to explore truth without arguing for it. To show instead of explain.

But today I felt the need to write plainly.

Today, I stumbled upon a slew of articles that were presented to me as nourishing food that would strengthen my soul, but that turned out not to be wholesome at all. After only a few bites, I could only conclude that these articles undermined everything I hold so dear.

What am I talking about?

Articles about the apostle Paul, for example. Claiming he was a fraud. 

Or an essay about the resurrection of Jesus, that claimed it never happened. 

The Bible the Word of God? Nonsense. How can a book be the Word of God if the existence of God itself remains a question? And on and on it went. 

A thousand swelling words of worldly wisdom that somehow claimed to understand the meaning of life. Mind you, these articles were well written. Polished to the core with a swarm of footnotes and yet, they didn’t feed me.

Perhaps, you argue that I am just afraid to have my faith questioned. I think not. It is not wrong to have your faith questioned at times. Questions cause us to seek the validity of our worldview. Questions can make us stronger. 

But not all questions are asked with a sincere desire to find the truth. Some questions leave a bad taste in the mouth. When an egg is rotten, you don’t need to eat the whole thing to know it is rotten. But then again, who am I to make such a judgment? I hold no degrees. No, not even one. 

In fact, I even flunked high school and didn’t do much better in my next career move, which was the academy of fine arts. Not because I lacked the talents, but because I got involved with the wrong crowd. I began a questionable journey through the world of drugs in search of the truth. Not a good time. Not at all.

Living at the end of the line, in a squatted house, I came to a gate. Not a physical gate. But real enough.

A dark gate, it was. A gaping hole of black nothingness, if you’d like. I could jump in and somehow I knew it would be the end. Darkness. No more light. Never.

But something whispered not to enter. Perhaps, it was no more than a flutter, but there was a voice that claimed there was more to life than an end in the dark.

So I turned my back on the hole and walked away. Still confused, with fear in my heart. Until, in the distance, I saw light. A pinprick at first, but as I walked on, the light grew larger and wider, and so did an unexplainable peace. And there, in the midst of the light, was a cross. Just a cross on a hill. And on the cross hung a man. Bleeding and suffering. And yet, in spite of his pain, his eyes were bright and tender. His lips moved and he spoke. 

“My son, I died for you. Trust in Me.”

Someone died for me? 

I cried a thousand tears as I began to grasp what I had just seen. 

There hung Jesus, and He had died… for me. The gaping abyss of nothingness no longer held any power.  For there was that cross.

There was the revelation that I had a Father. There was light. No condemnation, but tender forgiveness for all I had done wrong. Hope for eternity.

I realized that up to that point, my life had been a search to know, to understand, but truly, it had been nothing more than a desire to control my own life. To prove I was the Master of my own fate who needed to bow to no one.

That happened over 50 years ago.

I am still no scholar. I still hold not a single degree. I am just a simple person. Nobody special, and I would probably lose every debate with people who are smarter and better educated than I am.  But… I am a child of God. I wasn’t made for debates. I was made for Jesus.

My faith was built in the storms of life when I stared death in the face and Jesus showed up. Countless times. He never left me. His Word was always true and He always pulled me through. And so my faith grew. My thought patterns changed, my desires for the world became less important, and heaven became real.

Scripture was not just information. It was alive in a way I could not quite explain.

That’s why I reject those articles. They could not shake what I have come to know.  To be clear, I too have questioned things at times. I don’t understand it all, and I too have wrestled with Scripture. But after all those years, I can only conclude, Jesus has been faithful. Always and at every turn. 

When I truly look to my Father, I see Him smile, and I know that all is in His hands. I hear Him say: “Remember? Trust is the name of the game.”  

So… am I afraid to discuss other worldviews? Not at all. I respect people. I know where they are coming from. I was once among those who mocked the cross and claimed to know the better road. And yet, that better road led me to an awful place.

But then, there was the cross. Always the cross. And it set me straight. 

That’s why I write about it. Stories of light and beauty. Mostly fictional stories of the truth I have come to know. And sometimes, like today, I step outside the realm of fiction and simply tell the story of what happened to me, and about the One who died on that cross and who rose again three days later. He taught me that unless I become like a little child, I will never enter the Kingdom of Heaven. 

And that, my friend, would be a crying shame. 

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