In order to fit within a certain time frame, the "Letter to God" I wrote had to be edited a good bit... here's the unedited version.
Dear God,
How in the Heavens are you, Lord?
I probably already know the answer to that. You’re feeling today exactly like you felt yesterday and the same as you’ll be feeling tomorrow, am I right?
I’m sure by now you’re accustomed to my asking silly questions. Lately it seems that asking questions is the only reason I write.
Of course, God, the truth is, I might have a few less inquiries if you’d write me back once in a while.
Whenever I email Oprah she at least sends me an automated response. Which might not sound like much, but honestly, it’s enough that I never question her existence.
God, I’m writing you again because I’m frustrated. I turned 35 last year, and for some reason, I was under the impression that, as I got older, the questions would get easier.
But that hasn’t been my experience.
For instance, I’m still trying to solve the theological word problem from last week’s small group. Maybe you know the answer: Grace and Judgment leave IHOP’s parking lot at 10 a.m. traveling in opposite directions. If Grace is a movement of the Holy Spirit and Judgment is traveling in a church van, which one of them is more likely to debate the doctrine of sanctification with a stranger?
I tried using my Bible’s concordance, but I couldn’t find the answer.
God, here’s the deal: I’ve been following you for a long time. I’m pretty certain that I became Christian as soon as I exited the birth canal. During my first 24 hours, I was born, born AGAIN, and because my parents wanted me to be exactly like Jesus, circumcised.
During those early years having faith in you was easy. Now, that’s partly because I went to a church where training up a child in the way he or she should go included flashcards to help us remember.
I had questions, of course. But they were the kind of questions my father could answer.
Except the one I had about the platypus. Dad had no idea why you decided to combine a rat with a duck, make it lay eggs, and for kicks, equip it with the ability to make poison with its hind legs.
“Maybe God had a bunch of spare parts lying around, Buck,” Dad said. “And decided to get creative. You know, like the people who invented the hot dog.”
I don’t know if Dad was right, but I still think of the platypus as the Oscar Meyer wiener of the Animal Kingdom.
When I was a kid all of my questions were pretty simple. And the answers my father gave me didn’t hurt anybody or push people out of your equation.
As a teenager I had very few questions. That’s because I was convinced that I knew everything there was to know about you. Not only could I say in order all 66 books of the Bible in less than 20 seconds, I could also recite all of your biblical surnames, reel off your top ten most-loved AND most-hated biblical figures in scripture according to Baptists, and I had become quite good at determining whether or not you would condemn a person to Hell based solely on which primetime televisions shows they watched.
My only question was in regards to puberty—more specifically, why I was the only teenager in my youth group who wasn’t going through it. It didn’t make sense, God. I had no problem believing that you parted the Red Sea or raised Jesus from the dead, but I did wonder whether or not you were capable of giving me armpit hair.
And then remember in college when you talked me into joining my first guy’s accountability group? Most of the time we sat around and debated questions about basic theology: Was speaking in tongues necessary in order to get into Heaven? Was the New International Version of the Bible really your word? Or was it published by Satan? Does believing in predestination make somebody a five-point Calvinist? And if so, were we born that way?
The rest of my twenties weren’t so much about asking questions, but more often fighting, debating, and voting for or against other people’s answers. For most of my life faith in you has been about having an answer, and then proving to everybody else that I have the correct answer.
But lately, God, my heart is weighted down with questions. Questions about how you do things. Questions about who and how and to what extent you redeem. Questions about justice and mercy. Questions about the little girl in China who is Buddhist and has never heard your name. Questions about the homeless men and women who walk up and down Charlotte Avenue all day long. Questions about plane crashes and natural disasters and cancer. Questions about politics and Global Warming and what it means to be holy. Questions about my friend who is gay and struggles to know whether or not your story is for him. Questions about my role as a husband, a father, a son, a brother, a friend, a citizen, and a Christian.
God, sometimes the questions overwhelm me. Sometimes I’m tempted to believe the people who seem to think that a person with so many questions is nothing more than cynical or weak or faithless.
I think about my grandmother a lot. When Mammom died she was 90 and the only question that overwhelmed her was when she would go to Heaven. She asked a lot of questions in her day. But she never let the questions define her opinions of you. At some point in her life she allowed the things that she didn’t understand about you to remain mysteries. She still asked questions. But they didn’t paralyze her or keep her from experiencing joy and peace.
That’s what I want, God, to be free enough to allow my faith in you to include questions. Scripture is full of stories about people who asked big questions. Moses asked if he was the right man. King David asked if you had forsaken him. Even Jesus asked if dying on the cross was necessary.
I guess I’m writing because I’m tempted to believe that, if I knew all of the answers to my questions, life would be a lot easier. Having all of the answers would allow my faith in you to transition from belief and mystery into a science—sort of like my faith in gravity, God. I could make a lot of money if I could turn you into a science.
Maybe that’s why you made faith to include a lot of questions, so we Christians wouldn’t try and make a whole bunch of money selling the answers.
I guess that’s why you call it faith.
Hope to hear back soon…
Sincerely, Matthew
PS: God, do you Twitter? Cuz if you do and you were to send me a Tweet, I would totally ReTweet you.
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