Velvet Elvis: Repainting the Christian Faith. Rob Bell

God. If they ever become the point, something has gone seriously wrong. Doctrine is a wonderful servant and a horrible master.

      The springs are huge—they hold up the mat—but they aren’t God. They aren’t Jesus.

      Bricks

      Somebody recently gave me a videotape of a lecture given by a man who travels around speaking about the creation of the world. At one point in his lecture, he said if you deny that God created the world in six literal twenty-four-hour days, then you are denying that Jesus ever died on the cross.10 It’s a bizarre leap of logic to make, I would say.

      But he was serious.

      It hit me while I was watching that for him faith isn’t a trampoline; it’s a wall of bricks. Each of the core doctrines for him is like an individual brick that stacks on top of the others. If you pull one out, the whole wall starts to crumble. It appears quite strong and rigid, but if you begin to rethink or discuss even one brick, the whole thing is in danger. Like he said, no six-day creation equals no cross. Remove one, and the whole wall wobbles.

      What if tomorrow someone digs up definitive proof that Jesus had a real, earthly, biological father named Larry, and archaeologists find Larry’s tomb and do DNA samples and prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that the virgin birth was really just a bit of mythologizing the Gospel writers threw in to appeal to the followers of the Mithra and Dionysian religious cults that were hugely popular at the time of Jesus, whose gods had virgin births? But what if as you study the origin of the word virgin, you discover that the word virgin in the gospel of Matthew actually comes from the book of Isaiah, and then you find out that in the Hebrew language at that time, the word virgin could mean several things. And what if you discover that in the first century being “born of a virgin” also referred to a child whose mother became pregnant the first time she had intercourse?

      What if that spring was seriously questioned?

      Could a person keep jumping? Could a person still love God? Could you still be a Christian?

      Is the way of Jesus still the best possible way to live?

      Or does the whole thing fall apart?

      I affirm the historic Christian faith, which includes the virgin birth and the Trinity and the inspiration of the Bible and much more. I’m a part of it, and I want to pass it on to the next generation. I believe that God created everything and that Jesus is Lord and that God has plans to restore everything.11

      But if the whole faith falls apart when we reexamine and rethink one spring, then it wasn’t that strong in the first place, was it?

      This is because a brick is fixed in size. It can’t flex or change size, because if it does, then it can’t fit into the wall. What happens then is that the wall becomes the sum total of the beliefs, and God becomes as big as the wall. But God is bigger than any wall. God is bigger than any religion. God is bigger than any worldview. God is bigger than the Christian faith.

      This truth clicked for me last Friday in a new way. Somebody showed me a letter from the president of a large seminary who is raising money to help him train leaders who will defend Christianity. The letter went on about the desperate need for defense of the true faith. What disturbed me was the defensive posture of the letter, which reflects one of the things that happens in brickworld: you spend a lot of time talking about how right you are. Which of course leads to how wrong everybody else is. Which then leads to defending the wall. It struck me reading the letter that you rarely defend a trampoline. You invite people to jump on it with you.

      I am far more interested in jumping than I am in arguing about whose trampoline is better. You rarely defend the things you love. You enjoy them and tell others about them and invite others to enjoy them with you.

      Have you ever seen someone pull a photo out of their wallet and argue about the supremacy of this particular loved one? Of course not. They show you the picture and give you the opportunity to see what they see.

      The first Christians announced this way of Jesus as “the good news.” That tells me the invitation is for everybody. The problem with brickianity is that walls inevitably keep people out. Often it appears as though you have to agree with all of the bricks exactly as they are or you can’t join. Maybe you have been outside the wall before. You know exactly what I’m talking about.

      Jesus talks about this “in and out” a lot in his teachings. He keeps insisting that the people who assume they are in may not be in and the ones who everybody thinks are out for whatever reason may in fact be in. In one parable, he has the Judge of Everything telling some religious people, “Depart from me, for I never knew you.”12 Stunning. And in another parable, a man has a feast and none of his invited guests come, so he sends word to all the marginalized, disgusting, unclean people who are “out” that they are invited to come “in” and celebrate with him.13 Again, stunning.

      Jesus invites everybody to jump.

      And saying yes to the invitation doesn’t mean we have to have it all figured out. This is an important thing to remember: I can jump and still have questions and doubts. I often meet people who are waiting to follow God until they have all their questions answered. They will be waiting for a long time, because if we knew everything, we’d be . . . God. So the invitation to jump is an invitation to follow Jesus with all of our doubts and questions right there with us.

      Questions

      A Christian doesn’t avoid the questions; a Christian embraces them. In fact, to truly pursue the living God, we have to see the need for questions.

      Questions are not scary.

      What is scary is when people don’t have any.

      What is tragic is faith that has no room for them.

      We sponsored a Doubt Night at our church awhile back. People were encouraged to write down whatever questions or doubts they had about God and Jesus and the Bible and faith and church. We had to get a large box to hold all of the scraps of paper. The first question was from a woman who had been raped and didn’t press charges because she was told that doing so wasn’t “the Christian thing to do.” The man then raped several other girls, and this woman wanted to know if God would still forgive her even if she hadn’t forgiven the man who raped her.

      Did I mention that this was the first question? Here are a few more asked that night:

      “Why does God let people die . . . so young?”

      “Why does it seem that mean people get the most money?”

      “Why does the killer go free and the honest man die of cancer?”

      “Sometimes I doubt God’s presence in starving Africa.”

      “If we can ask God for forgiveness at our last breath, why strive for a godly life in the present?”

      “Either God is in control of everything and so all the crap we see today is part of his plan (which I don’t want to accept), or it’s all out of control (which sucks too). What’s up?”

      This is just a random sampling. I have page after page of questions on my desk. Heaven and hell and suicide and the devil and God and love and rape—some very personal, some angry, some desperate, some very deep and philosophical.

      Most of my responses were about how we need others to carry our burdens and how our real needs in life are not for more information but for loving community with other people on the journey. But what was so powerful for those I spoke with was that they were free to voice what was deepest in their hearts and minds. Questions, doubts, struggles. It wasn’t the information that helped them—it was simply being in an environment in which they were free to voice what was inside.

      And this is why questions are so central to faith. A question by its very nature acknowledges that the person asking the question does not have all of the answers. And because the person does not