Missing Faith

Our investigator Stanly folded his blue copy of the Book of Mormon in half slowly until the corners touched. As he stared down and to the left, he shook his head. It was the tenth lesson we had with him, and I was exhausted from having to visit this brick wall once again. We were in a small corner room of a church in Sammamish, WA when I first rejected the gospel.

I asked him again, “Stanly, will you pray to know if the Book of Mormon is true?” I waited.

We were already uncomfortably close, our knees almost touching. He looked up. His eyes were bottomless; too much was going on inside that I could not understand.

“How am I supposed to know that what I feel comes from God?” he asked.

“You will know the same way you know that God is real; it will feel right, and it will make sense,” I answered.

He hesitated. “The Pope felt it made sense when he sanctioned the Crusades. I have met with other pastors and they tell me the same thing about their doctrine.” Suddenly it seemed as if the stacked chairs grew as the walls shrank.

Stanly continued, “What if I think it’s true only because I want it to be true?” My tie was too tight, and I felt as though my suit was soaked with water.

How will he know? How do I know?

I began twisting the ring I wore on my right hand. I asked myself his questions before, more than once. But this time, I heard my doubts voiced through another, and it thrust me into a private pool of questions. My thoughts were interrupted by Elder Rademacher’s reminder of curfew. He ended the lesson, and we walked to the apartment. As we walked home I tried to push away my doubts by counting the scrapes that the rock stuck in the sole of my shoe made against the pavement.

Seven days later I sat at our kitchen table grasping the phone to tell President Ashton I was going home. The breeze oscillating from the fan was not making my clammy hands any less nervous. I dialed the number to the mission office: he wasn’t there. I dialed the number to the mission home: he wasn’t there. Why should I expect an answer from my mission president? I hadn’t even heard from God. God would not answer because God was not there. I received no answer from God, and neither did Joseph Smith.

Elder Rademacher, who was literally twiddling his thumbs as I slumped over the table, noticed that something was bothering me. He put his arm around my shoulder and offered me his standard answers: read the scriptures and pray. I stood up and sulked into my room closing the door behind me. My knees slammed into the ground, my head burrowed into my hands, and my fingers dug into my scalp. How could this be? Why can I not believe? For the past twenty-one months, I have helped others build faith. Where is mine?

I was on my knees praying to a God who did not exist.

Did I even have faith in the first place? I thought I did. When I was seventeen years-old, I decided to serve a mission because of Brother Wheeler. I felt I first understood the Plan of Salvation when he drew a mural of it on his living room wall for a youth fireside. I always admired his family, they never hesitated to help dig a ditch or build a shed. My faith was founded by how the gospel was able to produce such good people. Yet, in Sedro-Woolley, I met the Tovar Family whom I admired just as much as the Wheelers. They were ardent Catholics who would never hesitate to help dig a ditch or build a shed. However, they remained Catholic despite the prayers, the lessons, and the tears.

I decided to stay and finish the last three months of my mission. I kept trying to justify it because I really did know that, despite my faith in this religion, it still helped people live a happier, more tolerant life. However, that only masked the real reason; I would not be able to face my parents, my bishop, my friends, or even the people who I don’t know. “Three months early” would loom over me for the rest of my life, and it simply was not worth it. So I stayed.

It has been a year since I met with Stanly, and still God has not answered. Even now I struggle to know the gospel is real. I wish I had the same conviction as the freshman girl who bore her testimony in my Book of Mormon class last semester. I do not doubt her conviction, but I wonder if her experience matches her tears. Why does God give her so much faith, but leaves me void? Is it not in His best interest to answer me? If my Father really is Heavenly, he has an obligation to answer.

I sneak out of the chapel and linger in the hall, hugging the wall hoping to avoid an invitation to class. I slip slowly outside to skip priesthood and make a grilled cheese sandwich to dip into my chicken ramen. I perform my responsibilities in church like a surgeon detached from the patient. I place the bread in my mouth and the water moistens my lips, but I feel nothing more.

I hesitate to talk about my lack of faith, or even to write about it. A few months ago I confided in Meg, the girl I was dating at the time. I placed my doubts on what ended up being a cold examination table.

“I don’t even like going to sacrament meeting, Sunday school, or priesthood. It’s the same thing I have heard over and over and over again,” I explained.

Meg leaned back in her chair. “I think you need to pray that God will change your heart. Have you even asked Him for help?”

I was not sure what to expect when I exposed myself. Without any attempt to probe, she diagnosed my struggle like a sickness to be cured. She scribbled a prescribed scripture on a piece of paper, tore it off, and sent me on my way. I felt dismissed.

I cover my eyes with my right arm as I lie in bed and hope God hears me. I want Him to hear me. I feel like Naaman expecting a great manifestation from an angel saying, “Eric, God is real. He does love you, and wants you to be whole.” I know the things I should do in order to gain my faith, but I can’t. I would have to expose myself again and hear the answers I already know. I wish I really was like Naaman and had the courage to ask for help, but I can’t because I won’t.