I have never been a skeptic. And what an undeserving grace.
When I was a baby, I was told that the Bible was true, and when I was old enough to comprehend such a concept, I believed it. I never thought the Bible was “just man-made.” I never wondered if it was flawed. It never crossed my mind to question its ability to shape my thinking and to change the course of my life.
Yet the heart-wrenching road of doubt and distrust and questioning and unbelief is a familiar one for many. Like the young girl who asked, “How do I know the Bible is trustworthy”? And the young man who said, “I believe the Bible is true, but I’m not convinced it has any meaning for my life.”
Two different conversations in one week’s time that leave me grieving for those in this perpetual, sometimes inactive quest for truth.
They long for answers. For assurance. For a settling of the soul. And what am I supposed to do? How can I help when my default answers come from the Scriptures they find questionable?
I can direct them to outside facts and history, but those do not wield heart-opening powers.
I can hold up many proofs, but even proofs are not enough for the soul that is searching.
I can oh so lovingly feed them Scripture itself. But who’s going to convince them to trust it?
Thankfully, not I.
I must listen with my heart and sympathize with their emptiness. I must speak the Truth over and over again as the Spirit would give me utterance. And I must cry.
Oh I must cry on their behalf to the God who rescues skeptics. That he might be the only convincing proof their weary eyes will accept, and that he might grant them the longing of their souls and give them welcome, long-awaited faith to believe.
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