God Knows All Hearts

Sometimes I dream I'm late for a college math class. In this dream, I hustle out of bed, get dressed, rush across campus, and burst into the classroom. The professor at the board turns and gives me a cold look with "F" written all over it. When I wake up, I'm filled with anxiety and insecurity and a sense that, even before I've gotten out of bed, somehow I've already failed.

Such self-doubts came to mind recently when I got a letter from a young man who shared his own feelings of failure. Only, instead of failing at math, this man feels like he's failed at life -- and that God doesn't care one bit.

Tom is hurting over his inability to get legal relief for his convictions that have put him behind prison bars for life. His inability to get anyone to listen to his case has led him to doubt whether even God is listening. "God knows all hearts, right?" he writes. "Well, how can he allow me to suffer so much? This prison is like hell without the visible flames, but a torment all the same."

Even the Bible, once a source of comfort, gives him little solace "When Peter or Paul ... called out, Jesus answered," Tom writes. "Why won't he answer me?"

Reading this letter in the comfort of my suburban home, I struggle to reply. As a volunteer in the Kairos prison ministry, I know I'm one of Tom's few contacts on the outside. "I know there's a God" he writes, "but with all that's taken place; it just doesn't feel like He loves or cares for me anymore."

Trying to answer Tom's cry from the prison wilderness struck a chord deep within me. It also reminded me how often I struggle for assurance that God cares about me and is at work in my life.

It would be easy to respond to Tom with pat answers, play the rote of the expert and offer advice but no solace. It's easy to fall into the role of the "expert" at church, even if, deep down, we're struggling with the same issues as the person seeking answers. I could advise Tom to take advantage of some of the Kairos activities inside prison, since these do help nurture one's faith life. Yet, having been inside prison myself, I know how many forces are working against him -- the rules that make meetings difficult, if not impossible; the other prisoners who mock Christians and other people of faith, and, perhaps the strongest force of all, the deep-down doubt that chips away at one's self-esteem. It's a short hop from losing faith in oneself to losing faith in God.

Questioning God

Thinking of Tom makes me realize there are no simple answers to true issues of God's call in our lives. For me; it's been a year of ups and downs. In the spring, my father died after a long illness. It was a strain on my mother, my sister, my brother, and, yes, on me. But months later, what I most remember is the peace I felt the night I spent on the floor of Dad's hospital room, reading aloud the Psalms, sensing in a new way their immediate truth and power:

"Hear my prayer, 0 Lord,
let my cry come to you.
Do not hide your face from me
in the day of my distress." (Psalm 102)

Today, I sense more than ever the eternal qualities of courage and faith that marked my father's life, and try my best to live by them as I raise my own children. I also remember the little things about him -- like his love of grapefruit in the morning, pickles at lunch, and his absolute devotion to filet mignon at dinnertime. What a contrast to think of Tom, stuck in prison, with little chance of parole; and my father, a successful career Marine. Yet, I also find common ground in the lives of each, since both honestly asked themselves, "How is God calling me?"

(Re-reading Psalm 102 I notice that even the ancient Israelites faced their own mid-life crises: "'O my God,' I say, 'do not take me away at the mid-point of my life."' v. 24). God and I have been having similar discussions about my own walk through this emotional minefield called mid-life. (I'm reminded of the presumption here: You never know how long you have to live, since that's up to God).

But I quickly forget that ground rule, and start in on the questions and self-doubt. My God-queries aren't especially deep and I'm sure they're about as original as a McDonald's commercial. "Should I change jobs?" "Should I go back to school?" "Has my career been a bust?"

Mundane as my inner inquiries may be, I realize they need answering. Otherwise, I can feel the onset of the Psalmist's "loud groaning" that causes bones to "cling to my skin." Last summer, for instance; I attended a church conference featuring a gifted speaker who has written insightful books and touched many lives. Surely, this wise Christian woman would help me on my spiritual trek. But when I had a chance to speak to her, I found myself feeling anxious, as though I was back in my dream, late for my college math class, rushing into the classroom, facing that stern instructor.

Somehow, in the trap of my ego, I'd built up a list of "issues" to deliver to the conference speaker. As a result, when I met her, I was tongue-tied and choked on the congealed grease of my own emotions. I stewed in self-pitying silence. Later, after talking with my wife and my pastor, I managed to see how I'd boxed myself in. Only God could spring me from my self-made prison. I prayed, as I see now from my journal of that time, "for healing whatever holes remain in my heart."

In only a matter of hours, God answered my prayer. The conference was coming to a close with a Eucharist. I felt uplifted, but was resigned to not talking with the speaker. But after Communion, I happened to bump into her. Flush with embarrassment, I blurted out something about wanting to talk with her, and maybe send some things I'd written. "I would love to talk with you," she said kindly, "and send me some of your writing."

That moment of peace stands out as another example of God's grace working in my life. It taught me some basic lessons of how to work through my own issues so that I am open to sensing God's true call in my life: pray for help, and seek it from trusted friends; stay close to God through the sacraments; and trust that God really does love us and will show that love if we're open to it, and to each other.

The ups and downs of the past year have taught me to ease up a bit and quit trying to plot each step of my future. Obviously, my direction is in far more capable hands than mine. Not that my ego doesn't clamor for attention. On any given morning; I can awaken to a chorus of doubts. But lately, if I pay attention, I find God gently guiding me back on track.

Such reminders usually come in simple; almost hidden ways, such as a recent morning on a downtown street. Construction crews were tearing down a building, traffic was zipping by; and I was rushing into work. I noticed a stooped, elderly woman beside me at the street corner. She looked apprehensive, but I didn't know what to say. As the light turned, I began to cross. She reached out, and said, "Can I cross with you?"

I felt her soft hand in mine. Walking to the other side, she told me about her fractured vertebrae and her persistent pain. She wasn't complaining, really, but rather making conversation. When we parted at my office; she said, "Thank you, you've done your good deed for the day." Now I think of her as an angel sent to bring grace and gentleness into the heart of the busy city.

As I sit down to write my friend in prison, I think of the stooped angel on the street corner, of my late father in his hospital room, and the encouraging speaker at the conference. I also think of my wife, my pastor and so many people who have helped me cross the busy streets in my life. I only hope I can extend a hand to my friend in prison and say, "Can I cross with you?"

Chip Jones is a journalist in Richmond VA, where he attends St. Matthias' Episcopal Church with his wife, Deborah, and their three children.