Doubtstorms

Doubtstorms

Immediately after this, Jesus insisted that his disciples get back into the boat and cross to the other side of the lake, while he sent the people home. After sending them home, he went up into the hills by himself to pray. Night fell while he was there alone.

Meanwhile, the disciples were in trouble far away from land, for a strong wind had risen, and they were fighting heavy waves. About three o’clock in the morning Jesus came toward them, walking on the water. When the disciples saw him walking on the water, they were terrified. In their fear, they cried out, “It’s a ghost!”

But Jesus spoke to them at once. “Don’t be afraid,” he said. “Take courage. The I Am is here!” (Luke 14:22-27)

There are snowstorms. There are hailstorms. There are rainstorms. And there are doubtstorms. You know the ones I’m talking about, don’t you? Those storms of doubt that every so often roll into our lives, bringing with them a flurry of questions and gale-force winds of fear. And then, almost as soon as they’ve come, a light shines through the doubtstorm and it leaves – at least for a while.

For instance, sometimes the storm comes just after the evening news. Some nights I truly wonder why I watch the news because some nights it’s … well … it’s just too much. From the steps of the Supreme Court to the steps of South Africa, the news is usually gloomy. Thirty minutes of bite-sized tragedies where a handsome man in a nice suit with a warm voice gives you bad news. They call him the anchorman. Good title. We need an anchor in today’s tempestuous waters, don’t we?

Sometimes I wonder, “How can our world get so chaotic?” Sometimes the storm comes when I’m at church. Maybe it’s happened to you, too. You know, story after story of homes that won’t heal and hearts that won’t melt? Always more hunger than food, more needs than money, and more questions than answers. On Sundays, I teach a church with a three-point outline in my hand, thirty minutes on the clock, and a prayer on my lips. I do my best to say something that will convince the gathered that an unseen God still hears. But I’m not sure that I always connect because I’ve left worship a few times wondering if I even connected with myself.

And I sometimes wonder why so many hearts have to hurt. Do you ever get those doubtstorms? Some of you don’t, I know. I’ve talked to you. Some of you have a “Davidish” optimism that defies any Goliath that comes across your path. I used to think that you were naive at best, and, unfortunately, phony at worst. But I don’t think that anymore.

I think you’re gifted. You’re gifted with faith. You can see the rainbow before the clouds part. And if you have this gift, then you can skip the rest of this message because, frankly, I won’t say anything you need to hear. But others of you may wonder . . . . You wonder what others know that you don’t. You wonder if you are blind, or if they are. You wonder why some proclaim “Eureka,” before the gold is even found. You wonder why some shout “Land ho,” before the fog has cleared. You wonder how some people believe so confidently, while you believe so reluctantly.

As a result, you’re a bit uncomfortable on the padded pew of blind belief. Your Bible hero is Thomas. Your middle name is Caution. Your queries are the bane of every Sunday school teacher. “If God is so good, why do I sometimes feel so bad?” “If God’s message is so clear, why do I get so confused?” “If the Father is in control, why do good people have gut-wrenching problems?” You wonder if it’s a blessing or a curse to have a mind that never rests. But you would rather be a cynic than a hypocrite, so you continue to pray with one eye open, all the while continuing to wonder about starving children, the power of prayer, the depths of grace, Christians in cancer wards, and about who you are to ask such questions anyway.

Tough questions. Throw-in-the-towel questions. Questions the disciples must have asked in the storm.

All they could see were black skies as they bounced in the battered boat. Swirling clouds. Wind-driven white caps. Pessimism that buried the coastline. Gloom that swamped the bow. What could have been a pleasant trip became a white-knuckled ride through a sea of fear. Their question? What hope do we have of surviving a stormy night? My question? Where is God when his world is stormy? Doubtstorms: turbulent days when the enemy’s too big, the task’s too great, the future’s too bleak, and the answers too few. Every so often a storm will come, and I’ll look up into the blackening sky and say, “God, a little light here, please?”

The light came for the disciples. A figure came to them walking on the water. It wasn’t what they expected, of course. Perhaps they were looking for angels to descend, or the heavens to open. Maybe they were listening for a divine proclamation to still the storm. We don’t know what they were looking for. But one thing’s for sure – they weren’t looking for Jesus to come walking on the water. “‘It’s a ghost!” (Matt. 14:26). And since Jesus came in a way they didn’t expect, they almost missed seeing the answer to their prayers.

And unless we look and listen closely, we risk making the same mistake. God’s lights in our dark nights are as numerous as the stars, if we’ll only look for them.

A client and I sat in my office and we talked about his legal dilemma. His chief customer pulled out on him, leaving him big bills and few solutions. What the customer did wasn’t right, but he did it anyway. The customer’s company was big and my friend’s was small, and there wasn’t a whole lot he could do. My friend was left with a den of hungry lions wanting six figures’ worth of satisfaction.

“I called my uncle and told him what had happened. I told him I was thinking of filing for bankruptcy.” “What did he say?” I asked. “He didn’t say anything,” my friend responded. “After he was silent for a long time, I said it for him: ‘We don’t do it like that, do we?”’ “‘No, we don’t,’ he told me. So I’ll pay the bills. If I have to sell my house, I’ll pay my bills.”

I was encouraged. Somebody still believed that if he did what was right, God would do what was best. There was still some we-don’t-do-it-like-that faith in the world. The sky began to clear.

Light number two came from a cancer ward. “We will celebrate forty-four years tomorrow,” Jack said, feeding his wife, as I read from Fox News. She was bald. Her eyes were sunken, and her speech was slurred. She looked straight ahead, only opening her mouth when he brought the fork near. He wiped her cheek. He wiped his brow. “She’s been sick for five years,” he told me. “She can’t walk. She can’t take care of herself. She can’t even feed herself, but I love her. And,” he spoke louder so she could hear, “we are going to beat this thing, aren’t we, Honey?”

He fed her a few bites and spoke again, “We don’t have insurance. When I could afford it, I thought I wouldn’t need it. Now, I owe this hospital more than $50,000.” He was quiet for a few moments as he gave her a drink. Then he continued. “But they don’t pester me. They know I can’t pay, but they admitted us with no questions asked. The doctors treat us like we are their best-paying patients. Who would’ve imagined such kindness?”

I had to agree with what I read. Who would’ve imagined such kindness? In a thorny world of high-tech, expensive, often criticized healthcare, it was reassuring to find professionals who would serve two who had nothing to give in return. After reading the article, I thanked God that once again a sinew of light reminded me of the sun behind the clouds.

Then, a few days later, another light – this time an old issue of Sports Illustrated. Larry Brown, former head coach of the Spurs, the Lakers, the Knicks, the Pistons and the Charlotte Bobcats (and now head coach of the Southern Methodist University Mustangs), had spent an afternoon at a local men’s store, signing autographs. He was scheduled to spend two hours, but ended up spending three. Pencil-and-pad-toting kids had apparently besieged the place, asking him questions and shaking his hand. When he was finally able to slip out, he climbed into his car, only to notice a touching sight.

A late-arriving youngster pedaled up, jumped off his bike, and ran to the window to see if the coach was still in the store. When he saw he wasn’t, he turned slowly and sadly, walked over to his bike, and began to ride off. Apparently, Coach Brown turned off the ignition, climbed out of the car, and walked over to the boy. They chatted a few minutes, went next door to a drugstore, sat down at a table, and had a soft drink. No reporters were near. No cameras were on. As far as these two knew, no one knew.

I’m sure Larry Brown had other things to do that afternoon. No doubt he had other appointments to keep. But it’s doubtful that anything he might have done that afternoon was more important than what he did. In a world of big-bucked, high-glossed professional sports, it was good to read about a coach who is still a coach at heart. Hearing what he did was enough to blow away any lingering clouds of doubt and to leave me warmed by God’s light . . . his gentle light.

Gentle lights. God’s solutions for doubtstorms. Gold-flecked glows that amber hope into blackness. Not thunderbolts. Not explosions of light. Just gentle lights. A business-man choosing integrity. A hospital choosing compassion. A celebrity choosing kindness. Visible evidence of the invisible hand. Soft reminders that optimism is not just for fools.

Funny. None of these events were “religious.” None of the encounters occurred in a ceremony or a church service. None will make the six o’clock news. But that’s just the case with gentle lights.

When the disciples saw Jesus in the middle of their stormy night, they called him a ghost. A phantom. A hallucination. To them, the glow was anything but God. When we see gentle lights on the horizon, we often have the same reaction. We dismiss occasional kindness as apparitions, accidents, or anomalies. Anything but God.

“When Jesus comes,” the disciples in the boat may have thought, “he’ll split the sky. The sea will be calm. The clouds will disperse.” “When God comes,” we doubters think, “all pain will flee. Life will be tranquil. No questions will remain.” And because we look for the bonfire, we miss the candle. Because we listen for the shout, we miss the whisper.

But it is in burnished candles that God comes, and through whispered promises he speaks: “When you doubt, look around; I’m closer than you think.”

Grace,

Randy