Faith must be structured in the bright light of truth as we see it
THERE IS a joke which tells of God’s decision to grant a personal interview to one member of the world press. The duly elected representative departs, and all the luminaries of church, state, and the communications media gather to await his return. Finally, he reappears. “Tell us, tell us,” the mob clamors, “what was God like? What did He say?”
Manifestly uneasy, the reporter hesitates, then clears his throat. “Well,” he says, “to begin with. . .She’s black.”
I have been saddened when, in analyzing this story, I realized that it is funny because of the consternation which would follow this disclosure–the enraged renouncement of God by those who would refuse to acknowledge a Deity who was female or black or Jewish or Gentile or long-haired or short-haired or anything else which did not fit their prejudices.
It seems to me that many of us in AA are in this same position. We have repudiated God because He–or It–did not suit our preconceptions. He was not a celestial bellhop who would subserviently bring whatever we called for. He did not wave His magic wand and turn us into social drinkers. He did not erase the consequences of our actions when drunk, and He didn’t do a thing for our hangovers. So, when our maudlin tears and self-pitying whines went unheeded, we did one of two things. Either we decided that there was no God, because surely no God could refuse to heed such pathetic, humble moans as ours, or we decided that there probably was some sort of Deity–but we wanted no part of Him!
For many of my drinking years, I wanted as little to do with God as possible. My attitude, as I used to tell anyone who would listen, was strictly a matter of “Don’t call me, I’ll call You.” My approach was that of a spoiled ten-year-old who yells, “I don’t want to play in your yard. I’m going to take my dishes and go home!”‘ And did. Then, like other babies, when I got home, angry and self-pitying, I reached for a bottle to suck.
We repudiate our puerile faith in a Big Fairy Godmother in the Sky with furious howls and determine never to trust God again. And in this state of mind many of us come into AA and dedicate ourselves to sobriety and growth. How often all of us have heard members say in discussion meetings,” I’ve been working on the Third Step for a year now, and just can’t get it” or “I’ve never been able to take the Third Step, so I just skipped it and went on to the others–and I’ve been sober seven (or ten or twelve) years now.” And he has. And often the quality of his sobriety is good.
It is my own conviction that it is totally possible to have good, life long sobriety without any belief in an orthodox deity. But I am equally convinced that it is impossible to maintain sobriety, good or bad, without faith in something more than oneself.
I believe it is faith that keeps us sober, but our faith must rest on a solid foundation. For years, as practicing alcoholics, we had tremendous (and ill-founded) faith in alcohol. We trusted it to give us enjoyment, self-confidence, surcease from pain, or oblivion. For years, it did. And for a long time, the price we paid for these things did not seem high. Then, as we continued drinking and our disease progressed, everything seemed to go sour. Often, we found crying jags had replaced enjoyment, guilt had replaced self-confidence, pain had replaced surcease, and insomnia had replaced oblivion. Yet we continued to bolster our tottering faith in alcohol. Where would we go, what would we do, how would we live without it? For months and often years, we went our sodden, terrified way, because we could not give up our outworn faith in booze. Until we did, there was no room for faith in a better solution.
Human beings fear disillusionment above most things. Seriously threaten a man’s religious convictions, for example, and immediately Dr. Jekyll becomes Mr. Hyde. Threaten an adoring and dependent wife with evidence of her husband’s chronic philandering (which she knows about, but manages to ignore), and listen to her enraged denials. Faith is so precious to most of us that we willfully blind ourselves to anything that raises doubts.
And yet Jesus said, “Ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.”
Most of us could not accept sobriety until we accepted the truth that we couldn’t handle drinking, that our faith of so many years had proven false. Then disillusionment, which we had fought for so long, became disillusion–loss of illusion–and that opened up room for us to find the truth that made us free.
Unfortunately, because the process of giving up a strongly–and wrongly–held faith is so painful, many of us resolved never to trust again. This is understandable but sad, because a life without faith in something positive is so unutterably lonely. I believe there is no such thing as life without faith of some sort. Life and faith are concomitant.
An atheist, for example, is a man of great faith, however heatedly he may deny it. The essential aspect of faith is that it is not knowing. It is simply an educated guess, which must then be tested before it. becomes knowledge. Since there is no irrefutable evidence of the existence or nonexistence of God, any position rests solely on faith. And I would rather hold a faith that comforts than a faith that desolates.
However, I am convinced that structuring my own faith must be done ruthlessly and in the light of the truth as I see it now. There can be no room for wishful thinking or for sweeping bits of unwanted evidence under the rug. I made a false god of alcohol, and the process of disillusion was long, costly, and agonizing, I want no more false idols.
I feel that I must believe in something, but I also feel that the object of my faith must be examined in the brightest light of truth I can find today and that any illogicalities must be firmly rejected. Faith is a gamble, but any gamble on which I intend to stake my life had better be at least an educated one! Then I muster the courage to commit myself to proving my faith, to take what Kierkegaard called “the leap of faith.”
This is never easy, and it is not helped by the knowledge that it is only one of many leaps I will have to take. The way of growth encounters many an abyss, and few of them are bridged. The leap of faith must be taken again and again over greater and greater distances. But unless it is taken, one must stagnate forever, cut off from life and progress.
It would be easier if I could put my faith in a Construction Boss Up There, magically throwing up bridges as I amble toward Him. I cannot. I can, however, accept the promise of the Twenty-Third Psalm, which says, “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for Thou art with me.” It does not say that there will be no valley of the shadow.
It says, “Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies.” It offers no promise that enemies will not lie in wait, but only that I shall be provided for when we meet.
I choose to believe–and belief is always a matter of choice–that there is in the universe an existential Harmony to which I can attune myself. If I examine myself honestly and find no vestige of self-will run riot, no evidence that I have clenched my emotional fists and teeth and determined, “Iam going to do this–or else!,” then I feel that I can safely entrust myself to this Harmony. In other words, if I stop rowing against the current, stop determining my destination in advance, I can let this cosmic river carry me to where I am meant to go.
And that is my goal–to realize my unknown potential, whatever it may be–to move in harmony with What Is. I no longer have a need to spell it out beyond that. Whether God is a personal, loving Father or lovingness, whether His eye is on the sparrow, as Christianity says, or whether He is pure, impersonated Being, as Hinduism implies–these things don’t matter. I have faith. More than that, I know there is growth and there is love and there is joy. The measure and manner and matter of them are not necessary for me to know. I believe that, by definition, God’s will is being done; that, whether I like it or not, I cannot change it; and that it is a good will. Today, that is all I need.