Is God ashamed to be called my God?

          The writer of the New Testament book of Hebrews begins chapter eleven with words that have become very familiar to most people who identify as Christian: “Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen.” (NRSV). The writer then proceeds to describe the faith of four notable characters from the Hebrew scriptures (which we Christians commonly call the Old Testament): Abel, who offered a sacrifice to God that was more acceptable than his brother Cain’s sacrifice and thus fell victim to fratricide; Enoch, who was rewarded for pleasing God by being taken directly into God’s presence without experiencing death; Noah, whose faith in God resulted in the almost universally known story of the ark and the flood; and Abraham, who followed God’s direction to leave his homeland and move himself and all he owned to an unfamiliar land and re-establish himself as the progenitor of a vast number of descendants.

          In verse sixteen, the writer continues: “But as it is, they [Abel, Enoch, Noah, Abraham, and others who act by faith] desire a better country, that is, a heavenly one. Therefore God is not ashamed to be called their God; indeed, he has prepared a city for them.”

          At this point, I have to re-emphasize that I do not adhere to a literalistic interpretation of scriptures. When I read verse sixteen, I do not assume that a heavenly country refers to a place somewhere in the distant cosmos to which dead souls ascend, nor do I envision a literal city with buildings and walls and streets and such. Actually, I’ve always thought of God as more of a nature-lover myself, but I digress. The intended audience of the writer of Hebrews would have understood “country” and “city” differently from me, not so much as geographic entities and feats of civil engineering, but perhaps instead as places of identity and refuge, of safety and provision—places to which they could relate in their here and now.

          Rather, I believe verse sixteen refers to a state of being—more in this life than the next, really—that results from a life of faith. And in my experience, faith often contradicts belief. Consider this: Do we know what belief system Abel, Enoch, Noah, or even Abraham adhered to? It certainly wasn’t Christianity or Judaism. Neither one of those existed in the time of the aforementioned individuals. Did they follow other religions? Were these men even monotheistic? I don’t know if monotheism even existed in the places and times of those men (ask a historian of ancient religions). It’s unclear to us how they understood God, if they even understood that the one with whom they were dealing was God. However, they must have been known in the time of the writer of Hebrews as icons of faith, otherwise why would the writer have chosen to use them as examples? Isn’t it interesting that the examples chosen were not notable contemporary Jewish or Christian leaders of the writer’s time? Hmmm…

          In my viewpoint, faith is not based on fast, hard evidence gathered through the senses, but rather it is discerned from within. Indeed, I experience the world with my senses—either directly with my own, or indirectly through the stories of others whom I trust as credible—but I process my experiences on an intellectual, emotional, and spiritual level. And then I act on my faith. It drives what I do and how I interact with the world in which I live. My actions are the evidence of my faith (James 2:14-26). Faith motivates from within, even perhaps when the one being motivated—the enactor of actions that result from faith—may not fully understand the source of that motivation. Consider Abram (whose name was later changed to Abraham). We’ve already discussed how we’re not sure what religion or belief system he adhered to, if any. All we know is God spoke to him, he listened, and responded. And thus began his epic relationship with God.

          Faith is not to be confused with beliefs. Beliefs are based on what one has experienced with the senses, either directly or indirectly: I believe XYZ because I have seen/heard/smelled/tasted/felt XYZ, or someone I trust has—or that someone knows someone who knows someone who knows someone who… You get the picture. There’s not much internal processing that goes on with beliefs.

          While faith expresses itself in actions, belief expresses itself in doctrine, which leads to sets of rules—usually more don’ts than do’s—and demands conformity and obedience. This legalism tends to close minds and harden hearts, which doesn’t leave much room for faith to inhabit. It motivates from without because the rules are written by people and published in books, both of which can become objects of worship rather than tools for building faith.

Doctrine builds walls, creating an “us” vs “them” mentality, and throws up barriers, dividing and restricting and excluding people. Its goal becomes to correct what is wrong in people, setting them right, putting them on “the straight and narrow” and making sure they follow all the rules. The icons of faith described by the writer of Hebrews apparently had no doctrine that we know of. Only faith in a mysterious monotheistic deity who related to them all on a very personal level.

The writer of 1 John stated “Whoever does not love does not know God, for God is love.” (4:8) If our faith is in God, and if God is love, and if our actions are driven by our faith, then shouldn’t our actions manifest in those things that are evidence of love? Compassion, mercy, tolerance, inclusivity, protection, acceptance—all those things that make us feel loved and wanted? But what if our actions do not demonstrate our faith? Are we not responsible to each other, as members of a community of faith, to hold each other accountable for such inconsistencies? Aren’t we, as Christians, to emulate the one whose name we adopt, who demonstrated for us what faith in God is really all about?

Yet how far we fall short of that emulation. Our words proclaim our faith, yet so often our actions don’t show it. We lionize politicians who advocate policies of violence, oppression, exclusion, and environmental destruction. We glorify the rich and vilify the poor. We most certainly do not treat the aliens among us as our own. We complain about sharing the burden to heal the sick, calling it socialism. We capitalize off of war and weapons when Jesus clearly said “Those who live by the sword will die by the sword.” (Matthew 26:52) We neglect children because they do not look or speak like us, or because their families do not make as much money as we do, when Jesus commanded “Let the little children come to me, and do not stop them; for it is to such as these that the kingdom of heaven belongs.” Jesus identified his family as his disciples and those who do the will of God (Matthew 12:49-50), yet so many Christians want to legislate how individuals build their own families, even when those individuals feel that God has built that family through love.

Which brings us now to the title of this blog: Is God ashamed to be called my God? Are my actions congruent with my faith? Will others know God through what I do? Or am I obsessed with doctrine, with having the right set of beliefs? Am I motivated from within—by my own, personal experience of God—or from without, by rules and regulations and peer pressure and intellectual interpretations of words written on a page thousands of years ago in languages I do not understand and in places foreign to me?

The Christian belief system holds that one day I will stand before God—as if I don’t already every day?—and give an account of my life, and thereafter receive God’s judgment. If in the end it all comes down to that literal scenario, more than anything I can imagine, I would want to hear God say, “Mark, you may not have had the belief system worked out quite correctly, but you sure did your best to act nice and loving toward me, and toward others, and toward my creation. Welcome!” I don’t want God to be ashamed to be called my God. How about you?