Gay Culture: The Mouse that Keeps on Roaring

I confess to having been a sinner my entire life, revealed by my own actions, always in danger of being smashed like a gnat by someone big enough to demand retribution . . . but always in hope of being picked up and set free again by someone big enough to forgive. I've often perched on the top of a magnificent peak, foreboding with the potential for destruction, but dazzling with its view of hoped-for restoration. Better there, though, than down in the valley where those who refuse to acknowledge their own worldly shortcomings mingle with those who don't believe they can ever be forgiven and lifted out of the chilly shadows of darker days. All of their energy goes into trying really hard not to bump into each other in the limited space such ignorance allows, so they slowly drift into motionlessness.

I would rather need rest from the drain of repeated bouts of attempting to conquer than from the weariness of aimless wandering.

When I was about 10, I remember walking into the living room where my stepfather had fallen asleep with a cigarette in his hand, his limp wrist a few inches from the amber-colored ashtray on the end table. Ashes had already fallen onto the table and onto the carpet, both of which bore burn marks from past days of dangerous dozing. I took the cigarette from his hand and placed it in the tray and he didn't so much as move a finger or release a grunt. Perhaps I saved an apartment building, or even a life. His perhaps.

That was a good thing.

Before I turned away, I noticed his wallet sitting on the table. Contemplating the alcohol-aided deepness of his breathing, I saw an opportunity. With the insight of a pre-teen sinner, I plucked the wallet from the table, took a few steps away and sifted through it. Mainly one-dollar bills, but plenty of them, and some bigger bills too. I took only what I needed for the moment, knowing he would never notice, or if he did, he would only wonder if perhaps he had stopped at the corner bar on the way home and had one more drink than he could remember.

So, I stole a few bucks, hopped on the bike, headed to the U-Totem a few blocks away and bought an ICEE for myself and a friend.

That was not a good thing.

I've never confessed that before. I've justified it, of course. He was mean and stingy, self-absorbed and really bad at parenting. He never understood me. He was extremely sporadic with weekly allowances. He always had money for a shot of whiskey but never for an ICEE. And I think he just didn't like me very much. So . . . there you go. I couldn't help it. It was all "he's" fault.

Really, the only justification now that seems even slightly acceptable is that I was simply 10, wishing I had a normal dad and a normal life and a pocket full of change to share with friends who would never ask where it came from.  I saw a temptation that could be fulfilled easily and with little chance of discovery due to the ignorance of the one being perpetrated, one who was fast asleep while the world moved on around him.

Here's the big leap of the week: gay culture is like the 10-year-old who perceives he has not much, but has easy access to a whole lot and will take full advantage of the ignorance of those who sleep, robbing them blind as they drop their ashes on the floor in silent slumber. Gay culture glides into the room, leaves the wallet of life as we know it a little bit lighter and we think we did it to ourselves somehow. Which is, in a sense, the truth.

And gay culture's list is endless as they point fingers of justification at the less-enlightened: They don't understand us.  They are mean and stingy. They don't want us to be happy. They are ignorant, Bible-toting scaremongers. They are homophobic. They are behind the times, rebelling against reality. They like power and want to keep us down. Bless their little-bitty backward souls, they just don't know no better.

I've been writing about "sexual brokenness" for a couple of years now, focusing on the sin nature that causes many of us to stray from what God intended for us sexually, finding ourselves lusting for same-sex encounters, or transfixed in pornographic fantasy, or lusting after a co-worker or "friend" into full-blown adultery.  I've also focused on the truth that God can restore us and put us on paths to righteousness. With His help -- and way-too-often with His help only -- we can maneuver that path, ignoring the spring-loaded temptations that pop up like wildflowers in the median, preening to be plucked if you dare to dash through the lanes of oncoming traffic.

The righteousness of the redeemed should be roaring like a mighty waterfall and the echoes of the healed should be reverberating in our churches and our homes, celebrated as proof that God does indeed love us all, each and every one, never gives up, holds us in the palm of His hand and gives truth to all the words we sing and pray.

That would be good.

But the little pipsqueak roar of the mouse that is gay culture is drowning us out while the ignorant sleeping church just finds a more comfortable position in the worn and cozy recliner. Most Christians wont take the time to arm themselves with the truth of scripture nor acquaint themselves with the truth of culture. So, we snooze while the world as we know it reshapes itself to quiet the mouse.

A recent study by the National Center for Health Statistics and the Center for Disease Control and Prevention  shows that only about 1.4% of the U.S. population actually consider themselves to be homosexual. Another study from UCLA put the figure at about 1.7%.  Though it's a small number, we know and believe as Christians that there is not one soul unworthy of Christ's death on the cross. God bless the 1.4.

The issue is not whether to love those who identify themselves as gay. We should, just as much as we love our own grandmother who probably conforms a little more closely in our minds to what we think God created His people to be. But, loving someone does not mean we conform to their world, which is what is happening.

Christians are way too much like the cowardly lion whose courage vanishes in the presence of a louder voice. We've become the "let's just not go there," bunch. Pretty soon, we won't have much choice . . . or actually, we'll have to make a lot of choices to remain untouched by the cultural backwash.

Instead of fortifying our faith, we're fortifying our walls.

Instead of seeing the homosexual as one of God's children who needs to hear the truth in a compassionate way, we turn all shrill and say "they're after our children" and we turn away.

Instead of seeing the homosexual as one who needs to be beside us, we mutter beneath our breath, "get thee behind me."

And then we turn on the TV and watch young women liplock after singing songs of broken love. And we turn on a legal drama and find ourselves observing lady lawyers discussing legal options while sharing a pillow. We re-define marriage, re-manufacture the military, re-shape anti-bullying to focus on sexual identity, re-phrase references to avoid bring re-painted as intolerant, refrain from sharing the truth because if we keep our thoughts to ourselves we can avoid being regarded as uncool. We cower in the shadow of the mouse.

Homosexuality is not the real enemy here. It is sexual brokenness, rising out of empty or abandoned relationships, broken homes, unprotected children, disregarded vows, weak wills, ever-better-presented temptations. The apple is even more polished now than when it was in the perfect garden and we are frenzied in our efforts to take a bite.

In his craftiness, Satan has made homosexuality both a jewel and a demon. Those who embrace it will give their lives for it. Those who bedevil it will spend their lives running from it.

And those who are broken -- not gay, but so wanting for a good relationship with someone of the same sex or so fearful of one with the opposite -- move closer to disaster while we marvel at the decibel level of the mighty mouse that keeps on roaring. And our daughters pose provocatively, seduced by emptiness and longing, while our sons invest their souls in pornography like a temporary sedative for an unsatisfied and distorted desire. And our marriages fail as we fall into others' beds.

As I wrote in Surviving Sexual Brokenness: What Grace Can Do:  "Honestly . . . would it hurt that bad for us to just be honest with each other? Sexual brokenness -- whether it manifests itself as homosexuality, sexual addiction, pornography, idolatry, adultery, self-satisfaction through masturbation or another form -- hurts. It wreaks havoc. It can destroy the broken one and devastate the lives of those who are close enough to feel the impact of the personal implosion. In the meantime, while we debate whether it is too painful to be truthful, we let culture administer so much anesthetic that all affected become numb."

If we take our naps and leave our treasures unguarded, we will lose our hearts as well. Without our hearts, we fail to love. And without love, we fail at everything. The mouse's roar cannot be drowned out by a clanging cymbal.

Gay culture is a mighty mouse . . . and it has not come to save the day.

Wake up.

God Bless,

Thom

Chutes and Ladders: Extreme Edition

"I don't want to play anymore."

I remember when my grandchildren used to come to the house. In warmer weather they wanted to be outside to pick the garden of still-green fruit or pluck the flowers or maybe just pick up rocks. Wandering around the yard like little ducks, stopping here and there to point and stare at wondrous things so often overlooked by the rest of us on our way to somewhere. Little ones are just . . . there. Where they are is the somewhere that matters.

On colder days, my grandchildren would dash down the hall and head for the toy room, a place that still held the baby bed in which all five of our children had slept and in which some of our grandchildren had risen from their own naps to stand and point at games and dolls and briefly-wanted things beyond their reach. Help was always on the way.

"Anyone want to play?"

And, if not answered quickly enough and affirmatively enough?

"Play with me."

And two little hands would hold a box and look above it to gauge the expression of the bigger one who is being roped in and will soon sit creaked and cross-legged on the floor and unfold the board and place the plastic markers to begin the game. With patience, toss the dice and move the player pieces when they reach a point on the board too distant for the little arms to reach. Put them back in place when a tiny sneaker kicks and skews the game, sending pieces flying. Set it right again and go on.

Patience. Someone will win. Or someone will get hungry. Or distracted. Or called away.

My grandson loved the idea of chutes and ladders -- climbing and sliding -- but he also was pretty clued in on winning. When he learned that the chutes (slides) would take him back where he'd been, he would try to skip them and head for the next ladder, falling back on the can't-count-good excuse that sometimes works for children. Enforce the rules and a few chutes more . . . and you see a little face slowly turn serious.

"I don't want to play anymore."

A lot of times, no one won "Chutes and Ladders." There were always other games to play. Or cookies.

Who can blame him for wanting to win? When you think about it, embracing the ladders, the hard climb up, should make you a winner. Who puts those dumb chutes in the way, sending us sliding back down, starring at empty spaces . . . and more ladders? Life gets tiring and the finish line -- the victory -- seems to just slide away, so close and yet so far.

During the long, long struggle to find victory over sexual addictions -- unwanted same-sex attraction, pornography, lust, idolatry -- we long for ladders that will take us up and out to higher places and clearer views. Who puts those dumb chutes in the way?

Two steps off the ladder and you're skimming down the loneliness slide. "Where did everyone go?" becomes "where is someone?" Anyone? And there you are, searching and seeking, not where the ladders lead, but in the pits at the base of the slide where what looks like love and feels like love will do for love for now. Yippee . . . the wind from the wild slide blowing through your hair as you glide into the mud at the base. Well . . . that was fun, as they say, for a season.

Crawl to a ladder.  Hold on, rung by rung, eyes straight ahead, resisting the impulse to slip over to the slide nearby and go for another ride. Remember . . . those things only go down.

I rarely see God as a grandfatherly being. I have always pictured him as benevolent, willing to reward richly those who try and those who cry and those who need and those who want and those who seek and those who speak . . . to Him. He's the Master of the ladder. "Know my Son? Take a rung."

Like me with my grandson, God occasionally just has to enforce the rules. You roll the dice and there you are standing at the edge of a chute and God says . . . go. There will be a ladder down there when you land, and if you get up and climb again, you will eventually finish this . . . game?  It's not a game at all. It's just the way. And it does take a will. Conformed to His.

What really often happens is we decide -- from weariness or loneliness or hopelessness -- we can just change the rules . . . and all those ladder-defectors say Amen.

Life gets easier under the new rules. The mud gets cushy and familiar. We want chutes of grace and slides of glory, but no ladders of righteousness or steps of repentance. Before long, we forget to even look up. Who knew there was a way out of here? Who wants to leave anyway? This is culture at its coolest. After all, aren't we supposed to love each other?

It's very dark at the base of the chutes and before long the light at the top of the ladder looks like the farthest star. How cozy. How choking.

Climb.

You can do this. Keep your eyes focused on that distant light which comes closer with each rung you put behind you. Ignore -- it's not cruel to do so -- the calls of culture coming from those who want to re-write your journey as they slide by you on the chutes, hip-hollering and smiling all the way down, trying to make you feel dumb for all your exertion.

You've heard all the arguments and they really do have it wrong, no matter how self-revealed they may be. Some of them know, deep inside, that they're wrong, and are prolonging the inevitable climb from the mud. Others may never know . . . unless perhaps those of us who scale the last rung, call down, lean over and extend the hand that makes the climb more likely for others.

Focus and you will find that God does not ever lead us into meandering. Every step along His path is progress. He even told us how to stay on course. THINK.

Finally, brothers and sisters, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things. -- Philippians 4:8

Focus on whatever is true.  (Step on the ladder.)

Focus on whatever is noble.  (Take another rung.)

Focus on whatever is right.  (And another.)

Focus on whatever is pure.  (And another.)

Focus on whatever is lovely.  (And another.)

Focus on whatever is admirable.  (And another.)

Focus on on whatever is excellent.  (And another.)

Focus on whatever is praiseworthy. (You're there.)

Think. When you find yourself in the deepest pit of sexual out-of-controlness, or listening to the voices that try to convince you you are on an impossible chase en route to an inevitable self-acceptance that collides with every description of God's desire for you, what are you thinking? Of the truth . . . or in desperate search for a palatable lie?  Of something noble . . . or something passable?  Of something really right . . . or something someone just tells you is? Of something pure . . . or putrid?  Something lovely . . . or something self-satisfying? Something admirable . . . or some place to hide? Something excellent . . . or something barely mediocre? Something praiseworthy . . . or something that separates you from the One worthy of praise?

So kick the board with your sneakers and send the pieces flailing and get that serious look on your face and look up from your cross-legged position on the floor.

Just tell God . . . "I don't want to play anymore."

Maybe it's finally time to leave the toy room behind and go outside.

God Bless,

Thom

Stronger Than Hell

I can't remember ever doubting the existence of hell. As much as I believe "there is a God," I believe "there is a hell."  I don't think I ever had an issue with the idea that "there is a judgment" either and that God decides who goes to hell, no matter how many times we may hear people throughout our lives telling others to "go to" or "burn in," or see someone wiping the sweat from their brows or the tears from their eyes, struggling to pick themselves back up after, saying "this is."

No, it's not.

I don't really like the idea of hell, but I accept it as part of God's plan . . . something not so much to be afraid of as to be freed from. It's not like He disguises it with camouflage bushes so we just skip along happily and suddenly tumble in. No, there are warning signs and a clearly marked exit ramp. 

My real father joked about hell. He said he was too mean for hell. I think he believed in and feared it. I wish I could say for certainty he will never be there. I hope that at some point in his up-and-down life he stepped off the roller coaster and met Jesus face to face. Again . . . I wish I knew for sure. I remember that when my dad left my life, when I was just a little boy, I might have thought -- but never said -- "this is hell." It wasn't, and, frankly, as sad as those days were, there would be more much worse. I think, in truth, hell is just hell. It doesn't get better; it doesn't get worse. It's just . . . hell.

My stepfather used to talk of hell too. To him, it was only an obscenity, to be uttered following "Oh," when he couldn't get a jar open or someone left a door ajar. If he was mad at something or someone, he would say "d*** it to hell," like he had some decision-making authority. I think he probably knows by now that he did not. He did make me pretty uptight about the word "hell" though. I put it on the list of things I could not say, along with other choice words from his vocabulary. It took me a long time to say "hell," and I only do it when talking about the real . . . hell, like I did in a chapter in Surviving Sexual Brokenness, called "If You're Going through Hell, Don't Stop at the Gift Shop."

I remember, about the time I became a teenager, older guys, primarily college-age, were marching and chanting "Hell no, we won't go!" when President Lyndon Johnson escalated the war in Vietnam. But what I really remember is that my older brother didn't chant; he went. I think it was pretty close to hell for Mike, but it was the right thing for him to have gone . . . so it definitely was not hell, even if it felt like it.

My oldest son, Zach, participated in a bike race called Hotter'N Hell 100 in Wichita Falls. He endured rattlesnakes, dusty dry earth, perilous rocks and scorching sun and a really nasty injury in a wreck. It was hot, and I definitely don't want to go there, but it wasn't really hell. Or hotter than.

Though I pledged to not use the word, there have been plenty of times in my life when I should have looked around at where my sins had led me and said "Where in the hell am I?" It seems an appropriate question, for is there any place more lost than hell?

Of course, according to Rob Bell, maybe there is no hell at all? Hmmm . . . I know a lot of theologians have taken that claim to the highest levels of refutation already. As for me, I just believe there is a hell because the Bible tells me so. And, I think clearly that if Jesus went to the trouble to tell us there were a lot of rooms in a mansion in heaven, He would have gone on to tell us that the non-mansion in hell was just a myth. He didn't.

Well . . . that's probably enough about hell, except to explain why I chose to write about it anyway.  Why? Because I know some people who are putting themselves through a personal hell, fenced in by shame and guilt, the breath of living sucked out of them by the weight of self-judgment, magnified by the imposed judgement of others. Their spirits starve in hopelessness and they live in fear of the next fall as they see temptations swarming around them like, well . . . bats out of hell.

Who are they? 

Porn addicts drifting further away from reality in darkened rooms behind computer screens, immersed in ever-elusive self-satisfaction. ("I'm not hurting anyone.") 

Christians battling unwanted same-sex attraction while sifting through culture-driven justification as a potential way out of the raging inner storm. ("You were born this way." "God wants you to be happy." "Christians are backward and narrow-minded.") 

Men and women giving in to lustful thoughts and slowly drifting into adulterous affairs. ("No one else understands me." "I'm going to stop this as soon as I can do it without hurting her . . . or him.")

Maybe what they are going through is not technically hell, but it falls far short of heaven on earth. Maybe it is not real hell, but it feels like pure hell.

The sins are so easy to identify: fantasizing with porn, engaging in homosexuality, committing adultery. Fantasize. Engage. Commit. Not bad words on their own, but suffocating when paired with sexual sin. Nearly as suffocating as the words that often precede the giving in:  lonely, rejected, abused, confused, longing, wanting, self-destructive.

These weak and wounded sinners are left by many to die. "We did our best to help. Now God will sort it out." Impatient at the sexually-broken's self-satisfying, fun-for-a-season descent into darkness, the also weak-and-wounded-in-other-ways watcher says . . . what?  "Go to hell?" Or, maybe not. What if, aware of our own weaknesses, we pause, breathe, and say, with meaning that goes beyond all triteness: "God loves you and so do I," and extend the hand of grace and the embrace of love that is not like the love that the addicted seeks -- not a fantasy love -- but the love that heals, that is patient and kind and enduring. Christ-like love. No condoning, just compassion.

Can we love people when they have done wrong?

Can we not?

It takes energy to love someone who is draining all the life out of you through their embracing of sin. An embrace that is, perhaps, in reality, more like an entanglement from which the sexual sinner exhausts himself fighting for freedom and then soothes the exhaustion with further strangling.

Jesus replied, “Blessed are you, Simon son of Jonah, for this was not revealed to you by flesh and blood, but by My Father in heaven. And I tell you that you are Peter, and on this rock I will build My church, and the gates of Hades will not overcome it." -- Matthew 16:17-18

I would like to have lived the kind of life where Jesus -- or anyone else, for that matter -- would refer to me as a rock . . . and not as a wayward pebble rolling down a slimy hill into the murky banks of a stagnant river going no-where.

I myself am not stronger than hell, but Jesus is.  He's been there and done that. And the church is. You and me, if we will just be . . . the church.  Jesus said so.

Next time you see a lonely life-lost hitchhiker, perhaps in the pew beside you, or in the room down the hall, or the house down the street, with his thumb out and a life-sign that says "The Gates of Hell," pick him  -- or her -- up. They may think they know where they're going because they or someone told them so. Help them toss their burdens in the trunk. Offer them truth to quench the thirst and give plenty of compassion to rest the soul. This truly is the long and winding road which seems to have no end when traveled alone. It's a no-passing zone and a lot of people are stuck in traffic.

The sexual sinner will suffer consequences . . . as will all who sin . . . you and I and everyone we know, but there is no sin beyond forgiveness. And I don't recall Jesus ever telling anyone "forget about it," when they truly sought His healing. The sexual sinner who knows the Lord is no more in danger of hell than the most near-perfect among us, so why not extend grace to each other and be busy at the work of plucking the pebbles from the brink?

What is hell on earth? 

Really? 

It is a place beyond grace.

Don't go there.

Why Let Truth Get in Your Way?

"We just want to offer a positive message that being gay is not something you have to apologize for. It's simply one of the great and diverse ways that God has created us.”

"Being gay is a gift from God." 

-- Dan Rutt, Central United Methodist Church, Toledo, Ohio

Our local Cane's Chicken is my favorite place to hit and grab a quick meal on a busy Saturday when I'm not in the mood to make decisions of delectability. (Another of those non-words I like so well.)

"Three-finger combo please."

The sign says chicken, the menu says chicken, the box contains chicken. Yes, you can have fries with that, but not much else; maybe some delicious buttery bread and an ice cold drink . . . with a little too much ice. Eat, enjoy, toss and get on with the to-do-list. Cane's allows a little leeway for those who believe coleslaw makes a suitable non-fried side, but . . . basically . . . it's all about the chicken.

I like that. Sometimes I just want to know that there really is a real meaning for the word "is." I like to sit down, get comfortable, open the box and say, this is chicken.

Truth in a booth.

I'm confused, which is a problem when it comes to the truth, as to why we are becoming so dissatisfied with the truth. Are we just bored? Are we so enamored with ourselves personally that we have to one-up God somehow and reinterpret the "The Way, the Truth and the Life," by removing each "the" and replacing it with a "my?"

My way? My truth? My life?

If, according to Rob Bell, there is no real hell, and if, according to Dan Rutt, being gay is just another gift from God -- which He apparently forgot to list with the other ones in the Bible, by the way -- then why should we be troubled with the truth at all?

Truth? You show me yours and I'll show you mine.

I realize Rob will sell a lot more books debunking the existence of hell then I will encouraging the acceptance of truth. And Dan's interpretations of blessed affirmation may tickle some ears that shy away from divine grace and Biblical truth, but I think we need to realize that people's lives are more important than a popularity contest. Compassion and affirmation are not the same thing.

And that's the truth.

In light of all the purveyors of deceit --by intention or ignorance -- I thought this might be a good time to remind everyone that discernment really is a gift from God.

Perhaps we could settle all this gay stuff right now by just marking off fifty paces between the Westboro Baptist Church-cult people ("God Hates Fags") and the Central United Methodist Church-misled people ("Being Gay is a Gift.") and let them fight it out. Wouldn't that settle it?

I doubt it.

So, with all this swirling around us, it seems the perfect time for a reminder that it is okay that we doubt and wonder, but unless we turn to the God of Wonders, we always will. No doubt you already bought my book and read chapter three. No?  Well then, here it is, from Surviving Sexual Brokenness: What Grace Can Do.

The chapter is titled . . . .

Where Would We Be Without Doubt?

One of the hardest things anyone with a significant struggle — such as same-sex attraction, pornography addiction, heterosexual lust or any addictive temptation — deals with, is doubt. Self-doubt, sure. But, also the doubt others have in his or her ability to change . . . or even doubt that the person really wants to change. Sometimes this doubt is not truly expressed, but is instead hidden behind the “we’re with you” smiles, which can so quickly become “we knew it” frowns at the very first sign of a fall. How nice it would be for all involved if this battle were but a minor skirmish with a certain outcome, instead of one of those “well, I had my doubts all along” battlefields, littered with the wounded, some doubting they can get themselves back up again to move forward, some doubting if anyone even cares anymore.

I had a friend in college who lived with no doubts. His was always sure his project would be the best. He would sing the song just fine. His parents would, of course, send the money. His car would run. His jokes would always be funny and people would laugh. He would always be understood. His friends would ever be loyal and everything would complete itself perfectly, right on time. He was never timid or understated because he never doubted. But, he was also pretty much tied up in secret knots of frustration. He’d exchanged doubt for denial. When he didn’t win first place or his joke fell flat or the check didn’t arrive or the tire went flat or a friend let him down, he would bottle up inside and close down. What most of us might have lived through as dashed hope he died to as devastation. His forced-open eyes would fill with tears of anguish. He definitely needed some doubt.

I haven’t seen him in many years, but I “doubt” he is as certain of everything as he used to be.

Some might say my friend had faith. But the presence of faith is not the absence of doubt. Faith is based on a belief in hope. It involves assurance . . . and trust. This friend lived on assumption, not assurance. A little too much “it’ll be all right,” and a little too little “what will be will be.” He had no faith to test because he allowed no doubt.

But what if we have a lot of doubt? Does that mean we have little faith?

I remember I used to sit on the curb in front of our house on Saturdays when I was a little boy. I doubted my dad would show, but I had faith that he would. Could the measure of each — doubt or faith — be determined by how long I sat with my chin on my knees looking to the left and right to see if he might come walking up the street?

I have no doubt God clearly knows the difference between doubt and faith. I’m not sure we always do. On our own, we usually reward our doubt with our deepest fears. Our faith, on the other hand, is usually God-tested and leads us to our greatest joy. “A little while” of testing can feel like a long time . . . and produce an awful lot of doubt.

In this you greatly rejoice, though now for a little while you may have had to suffer grief in all kinds of trials. These have come so that your faith—of greater worth than gold, which perishes even though refined by fire—may be proved genuine and may result in praise, glory and honor when Jesus Christ is revealed. — I Peter 1:6-7

It used to bother me that, of all the Biblical characters, I was named Thomas. The doubter. I know my mother did not really name me Thomas because she was debating which Biblical character I would be like. After all, my brother’s name is Mike, and my sisters’ names are Deb and Sue. Mother was merely reflecting the popular name choices of the decade in which we were born. We could have as easily been Bob and Gary and Judy and Peggy. But I was Thomas, the doubter.

I think God loves those who doubt. In dealing with our sincere doubt, He demonstrates the truth that He is patient and kind. It is a wonderful truth that the greatest doubters often become the greatest believers. Our honest doubts can become the bedrock of our faith. Truth that comes rampaging in to dispel doubt is sweet and strong.

Maybe we should think less about what doubt is . . . and less about who doubts us . . . and instead think about what doubt may do. How does it motivate us? Does our doubt send us searching or hiding? Revealing or masking?

Doubt is like looking out the window and seeing the sun go down for the gazillionth time, knowing once again that the darkness will follow, mimicking the darkness inside us. We might forget momentarily that the sun is only gone for a while. It does not yield its place to darkness in God’s creative balance. Through grace, the light comes back around to overwhelm the darkness . . . lest anyone doubt. We strive hard to resist letting our sexual sin define us; let’s not let our doubt do it either. You’ve read the Bible. Yes, people wander, but they are never beyond the gaze of God.

But what of those who doubt us or the sincerity of our quest for freedom? I say, let each doubter bear his own. Sometimes we expend so much energy trying to dispel the doubts of others that we have too little energy left to put on the armor for our own battles. Let them doubt. God can deal with that. And, if they want someday to put their hands in your scars, scarcely believing this new you is . . . you . . . then let them do so and forgive their doubt as you forgive your own.

Some may tell us we’ve used up all our chances. They’ve moved beyond doubting to knowing. “You can’t change.” Well . . . life is not a game of chance; it is a reality of faith. Let them keep their assumption; you have your assurance.

I am thankful for doubt. Anyone who struggles with temptation knows that doubt is a glimpse of freedom. If we can doubt, we can seek.

Doubt leads us to the door. That door where you knock. Where you ask. That door that opens. Behind which no despair lingers. Where doubt no longer dwells.

“Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you. For everyone who asks receives; he who seeks finds; and to him who knocks, the door will be opened. — Matthew 7: 7-8

And if for some unfounded reason you doubt that the word “everyone” includes you, then let that doubt lead you to the door. It will open . . . no doubt.

God Bless,

Thom

(Do you know someone who is dealing with sexual brokenness? Surviving Sexual Brokenness: What Grace Can Do provides help and encouragement, truth with compassion. You just might like the other 32 chapters.)