When I was English professor and chaplain at Kalamazoo College, a philosophy professor cornered me at a dinner. “You seem like an intelligent person. How can you believe in God?” Before I could answer, he went on, “If someone could give me proof, incontrovertible proof,” he said. “But no one ever can.”
I told him about a couple of things I had witnessed that were hard to explain without the divine, incidents that were pretty compelling of belief.
But looking back, I realize I shouldn’t have bothered. I was echoing my early days as a born again Christian when I tried to evangelize people through convincing evidence of the resurrection or clear Bible verses proving Jesus’ imminent return.
No, I shouldn’t have bothered. Faith cannot be proved, because God chooses not to compel belief.
We squirm at relationships where love is under compulsion. We name “love” that compels controlling, even abusive. And it is the same for the love of God. God doesn’t force belief, but offers love and grace, often in glimmers. We look back, “Yes, there was something going on there,” or “That was pretty amazing. It might have just been a coincidence, but I don’t think so.”
Faith cannot be proved, but over the years, those glimmers provide a lovely web of assurance.
I sat with a woman who has been a dear friend (and a person of faith) for almost 25 years. We’ve walked through some tough stuff together, but these last two years have been hell for her—her husband diagnosed with a brain tumor, a detached retina, her father’s death and then her daughter’s death in a freak accident.
“You know it’s strange,” she said. “With all I’ve gone through, I feel less clarity about God. But I sense God’s presence more. In small glimmers—people who care, moments of love, tiny coincidences….”
I feel the same way, I told her. My faith feels less defined, but I have a deeper trust in this glimmer-ous God.
I’m not sure, but I suspect that we need to let go of other gods, to reach this glimmer-ous one.
Letting go of my magical god was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. But when promises had broken down and betrayal seemed to triumph, my old magical god didn’t fit. The god from whom I could claim answers to any prayer according to his will—that god died. It’s hard to let go of a simple god: one who responds to you being a good boy or girl by blessing you. There are times I miss that magical god.
That god is dead. And from the ashes another God appeared. This one can hold all fear and doubt, is closer than close, and yet, somehow, everywhere. Instead of ease or success this God promises only presence and even that presence is often unseen. This God appears in a hundred glimmers—in the love of friends, in the beauty of nature, the eyes of a great dog, a fine painting.
Don’t get me wrong: I pray and I worship. I need the rhythm of sacrament. I love hymns, liturgy, and scripture. I think Jesus is the best. But what once seemed like a simple oneto one correspondence between words and the divine, between my belief and truth, is way more mysterious and complicated— and wonderful. (One of the gifts of a faith community is that it offers a place for us to share our God glimmers. And then we may become more open to them. )
Glimmers are like the sounds too low for us to hear, the light our eyes can’t fully see. These are where this God lives—not in realms of certainty or of proofs. Glimmers don’t compel, they don’t even exactly add up, but they become, slowly, gracefully, artfully, a lovely weaving which inspires, and tends toward belief in a glimmer ful, glimmer-ous God.
Each month a member of the Cook County Ministerium will offer Spiritual Reflections. This month’s contributor is Mary Ellen Ashcroft, Vicar of Spirit of the Wilderness Episcopal Church.
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