So I decided to do something about it. I picked up Francis S. Collins' book The Language of God and began reading through the introduction. I found his statements both alarming and exhilarating.
Collins would say that his own upbringing was not entirely bereft of the knowledge of some form of formal deity, but that he was discouraged from participating in any practices associated with the worship of, or relationship with, said discouraged deity--save for singing in the local Episcopal church's choir, but only for the music lesson it accompanied.
Collins entered college at age 16 and pursued chemistry. After completing his degree, he pursued physical chemistry at Yale. Two years into his Ph.D., he left and pursued medicine at the University of North Carolina. His driving passions were the "mathematical elegance" of physics and its direct application to helping people in the realm of biochemistry. These goals seemed in line with his adopted atheistic viewpoint.
But it was at the bedside of a dying woman that Collin's life would be forever changed. He was a practicing atheist, sure. But she was a devout southern Christ-follower. The way in which she embraced her fate haunted Collins in a way that mirrored his feelings toward the question she left him with:
"What do you believe?"
He choked. All that knowledge he attained could have developed a perfectly rational response to her innocent question. And he choked. He didn't know. And so he began his search to find an answer to that very question.
In a remarkable turn of events, thus far into my reading, it seems as though it was not a profoundly emotional experience that lead him to turn from atheist into a believer in a benevolent God. Rather, it was a purely logical one. And Collins' studies were not limited to the Christian understanding of God as Christ, but to all world religions. He was drowning in a sea of questions that, to him, were monumental; and, self-assuredly, he felt as though he were the first human being in all of history to ask such questions. But in an ironical turn of events, it took the posthumous mentoring of a once and recanted atheist—celebrated author and Oxford professor C. S. Lewis—to bring logical harmony to Collins' scientific, reductionist mind.
I have found in my personal spiritual journey a remarkable thing: I had once relied solely on my experiences with God and my "personal relationship" with Him as my only touchstone for truth, a sense of growth and development, and a feeling of purpose in an otherwise chaotic existence. My story is quite the opposite of Collins, but not quite to the degree that I'd consider myself sojourning from "saved" to confirmed atheist. I am merely arriving at the same questioning landmarks that Collins found himself in. And interestingly, as my path converges with his, I find that my journey is one of an intellectual reconciliation between personal truth and universal absolutes where my only docents left pieces of the map scattered throughout time and place.
As for my prayer life with the Christian God or "Jesus" or "Christ" or whatever you will. . . I am woefully aware of my wretchedness. It seems that I have fallen into a logical fallacy; I know from experience that I ought to simply receive God's grace, as it is a free gift that affords humanity many benefits; I also do not wish to abuse such a rare and precious gift; yet I am in constant need of said gift; and I continue to behave in ways that are antithetical to my aim, that is, to live a life worthy of the good news of Jesus Christ. And there are still these questions. . . Am I really hearing from God? Were all of my experiences conjured by some deep longing within me that craves meaning and acceptance? Are those miraculous experiences easily downplayed and explained by the scientific method? And what sort of response can I give to a God whom I still love more than life itself? To use a metaphor, is it enough to mumble through the words hoping to learn the melody?
I don't know. At this point, I am firmly aware of two things: Yahweh is love. And love hurts. The hope, one must assume, lies in the belief that God is not harmed by questions, as He already possesses all the answers. At present, I guess I'm just a confused little kid wanting his Dad to help sift through the sandbox with him.
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