Doubt and Revelation
"I have some doubts," Ma told us the day before her 90th birthday party.
"What kind of doubts?" my mom asked.
"About the resurrection. About whether we'll really be resurrected, whether our bodies will really be resurrected." Ma considered the momentous promise of eternal life, the implausibility of her ailing body carrying her heavenward when it begged earthbound for help moving, breathing, carrying on.
My mom, eager to save who she can and always despising silence, quickly interjected—a question hiding an assertion or a statement laced with inquiry—"But you do believe that we're saved?"
"Yes, yes. I do. I do," Ma said. "It's just... a few months ago, they showed us a video about the Book of Revelation, about the end times. The narrator said we might be shocked by what we learned. And we never finished it. I asked if they'd show us the rest but they haven't."
I was about to ask whether the movie had shocked Ma, what had stuck with her, what she was still hoping to learn from the rest; but someone walked in with a gift basket for Ma and the conversation shifted: a ranking of desserts, a decision about the trash, a presentation of birthday cards, a recollection of Pa, a headcount for the party. I wasn't able to steer the discussion back to her doubts, doubts I've shared.
Later that night, Ma couldn't sleep because the podcast I set up for her—Bible in a Year—wouldn't stop playing. Over and over again she heard of the desert wanderings of the Jewish people, walking the divide between faith and doubt as they sought the promised land.
At the party the next day, family, fried chicken, and cake all came together perfectly. As the child of Midwestern exiles, I spent as much time as I could catching up with family I have always been too distant from.
Many of them I hadn't seen since Pa's funeral—almost seven years ago now—so the party served as an unlikely icebreaker focused on basic biographical facts. "Where do you work?" I'd ask to someone who shared ancestors with me more numerous than the stars in the sky—at least stars visible from a relatively dense city.
I joked and bantered and quipped and never once tried to steer a conversation toward something serious or real. I sat by Ma for hours and thought to ask more about her doubts, but it was a party, so instead I asked her how the cake was.
At the start of the party, we had all sung together a few verses from "Abide With Me," Ma's favorite hymn. Susan thought the song was a bit funereal, but it was Ma's party after all, so Susan picked out the verses that seemed least about death—quite a challenge if you look at the lyrics:
Abide with me, fast falls the eventide
The darkness deepens Lord, with me abide
When other helpers fail and comforts flee
Help of the helpless, oh, abide with meSwift to its close ebbs out life's little day
Earth's joys grow dim, its glories pass away
Change and decay in all around I see
O Thou who changest not, abide with meI fear no foe, with Thee at hand to bless
Ills have no weight, and tears no bitterness
Where is death's sting? Where, grave, thy victory?
I triumph still, if Thou abide with meHold Thou Thy cross before my closing eyes
Shine through the gloom and point me to the skies
Heaven's morning breaks, and earth's vain shadows flee
In life, in death, o Lord, abide with me
Abide with me, abide with me
Most sung cautiously, some boisterously; others could not see the small text of the lyrics sheet at all; many found the tune a beat after Jacob presented it; though in a few short verses the motley choir carried together what none of its members could have carried alone, and the hymn was a perfect accumulation of somber joy and hopeful fear—a happier birthday one can hardly imagine than to be surrounded by family, love, peace, and hope amidst life's fast falling eventide.
The next day, Ma collapsed.
It was a stroke, or maybe not. She was confused—or maybe entirely unconscious?—and no one was quite sure how long she'd been out before she was discovered. It was possible, someone said, that she was simply overtired from the party.
My mom and I had been at the airport arguing over how to connect to the internet as San Francisco's QB had his elbow smashed on a nearby television. We rushed to the hospital with the hurry-up-and-wait energy that defined my family's approach to everything from dentist appointments to Disneyland vacations. There was nothing to do but be there, so we went to be there.
The sparse waiting room offered no sense of the situation's gravity. Anonymous blue chairs carried the weight of different grieving bodies each hour of the day, sanitized regularly to remove germs but not the memories of interminable waiting, waiting, waiting: for news, good or ill, to at least remove doubt and provide certainty.
Ma's five children sat in a row while I stood nearby anesthetizing myself with chess puzzles and Mentos as the 49ers were getting absolutely slaughtered on one television while two others played discordantly the audio of a Gordon Ramsay cooking show and the video of an animated children's movie.
The doctor came out to unwind us all from our ruminations about Ma. His assessment came out like Maimonides' understanding of God: We can't very well say what he is, but we have a pretty good idea what he isn't. Medicine, like metaphysics, is the art of exclusion, a process of ruling out, a science of what's left behind when every other possibility has been tried and left wanting.
Ma had good vitals, normal bloodwork, clean imaging—so what was left? The MRI doesn't diagnose brainstem strokes very well at all, so. And that kind of stroke? Well, it wouldn't be good, he said. We shouldn't call a pastor yet, but if he's right about the stroke, there isn't a lot of hope for someone like Ma.
My mom and I sat on each side of Ma's bed. She was breathing well and looked perfectly at peace, but she would not respond. My mom held Ma's hand and hid a plea in a question as she repeated, "Can you wake up, mom?" Soon her requests turned to consolations: "I love you, mom. I'm so sorry you're here. I'm so glad you're going to see dad again."
Sensing that Ma might soon leave this earth, I quietly prayed for the repose of her soul:
In your hands, O Lord, we humbly entrust Ma.
In this life you embraced her with your tender love;
deliver her now from every evil and bid her eternal rest.
I couldn't think what else to do for her. I had no salve or secret cure. So I played "Abide With Me" quietly on my phone, set it next to her ear, and cried.
Neil drove me back from the hospital and we watched the Chiefs whittle away at Joe Burrow, distracting ourselves from what we did not know and could not change. I tried to sleep, but woke to texts with minor updates and stayed up to read, look out the window at the accumulating ice, and pray.
Early the next morning, Ma woke up. She didn't remember anything about collapsing, wanted to know how in the world she'd ended up in the hospital and could someone please bring her something to eat. All of us had largely accepted that we were waiting for Ma to die, so our joy was braided with caution as we celebrated a miracle. But caution melted as the snow floated down and Ma breathed with new life.
The eventide of life's little day stretched out a bit longer as the orange burnt sun seemed to hang on to the horizon's edge pushing back against what must be but was not yet.
Paradoxes pile up for anyone who takes the Christian life seriously. To live, you must die. In poverty there is wealth. Mortal flesh is a vessel for eternal divinity. What is unseen is more true than what is seen.
Also: Faith is strengthened by doubt. No serious Christian can avoid doubt—and not doubt on a small scale. Indeed, the question each of us is confronted with is: "What if I'm wrong about everything?" The Christian ought not fear such a question, but rather pursue the truth lifelong.
And of course, every non-believer ought to do the same. Have you ever asked yourself if you're sure that you know the truth? Do you know what it is you don't believe? Do you have answers to the questions that plague all of us? About purpose and meaning and suffering and anguish and death and morality and loss and origin and creation and everything we can't see but sense must be more real than what we do, like love and spirit and grace. Confront doubt. Embrace revelation.
None of us should seek phony solace or make-believe comfort. Everyone, though, should long to know the truth. If you think there's nothing more than what you see and your only proof is that you can't see it, you may never experience the peace that passes all understanding. On your deathbed, will you be confident that you have it right?
In memory of Jerry White (1933-2023).