To be spiritually whole, we don't overcome doubt--we integrate it. Overcoming doubt is more like repressing something than solving something. Doubt is still 'down there' somewhere, lurking, niggling, threatening some cherished belief--some cherished belief perhaps in need of an update.
One of the ways we recognize where doubt has been repressed is by the way we react and respond to doubters. They must be repressed too, walled out--or run off. If somebody else's 'faith' of 'lack of it' is making us edgy, it may be less about the specks in their eyes and more about the planks in ours.
Doubt is usually a sign that we've glimpsed an inconvient truth. Inconvenient because it seems to contradict cherished notions. But as we learn and grow, we can begin to see that doubt is a conversation partner with 'faith-thus-far.' And the conversation is letting us know that 'thus far' is never the end of faith--and that 'thus far' we've left something out.
Though it usually seems counter-intuitive, doubt is one of faith's most faithful friends. It often points to the very place faith needs (and is ready) to grow. Doubt is often a sign of faith gone stagnant--a clue that 'faith' itself needs literally to 'repent,' to turn, to reorient toward the soul's true north. In this sense, doubt is also a harbinger of progress ahead.
I remember in my mid-thirties feeling some real queasiness about where faith and life seemed to be colliding. What I believed, or had believed, seemed at odds with what life was teaching me. It felt like I either had to let go of faith or stop letting life teach me. Neither option seemed wise--and yet something in me felt I had to do one or the other. I wrestled with this consciously (and mostly openly) for a long time.
And one night I had a dream.
I was standing at the entrance of a vast valley--huge round mountains like you see in Yosemite stretching on and on and on. Going into the valley felt both daunting and somehow attractive.
I turned to one side of the valley and looked up. There was a ladder. And where the ladder gave out, steps were carved into the granite. Farther up, much farther, another ladder led up to something that looked like a Pueblo dwelling--part natural shape of the mountain and part wood.
I began to climb. Dicey. But doable.
The top of the last ladder ended at the bottom of the floor of the dwelling. There was a hatch. I pushed it open and climbed far enough to poke my head in. It seemed like a charming little house. Two woman, short, round, skin the color of tea with a little milk, were smiling and saying something I didn't understand and yet understood by their animated gesturing that they were saying "Come in! Come In."
I did. They kept smiling. One held out a basket. In it was some sort of wholegrain bread, not quite flat, not quite round. They were saying, "Chabura! Chabura!" I understood, despite the language barrier, that they wanted me to eat, to share their bread.
I took some; broke off a piece and ate it. Tasted like-fresh-out-of-the-oven wholewheat bread. Yum.
As I was chewing I noticed windows and went over to one. This high up you could see much more of the valley. The mountains looked even bigger. The valley even longer--it went on and on and on, bending gently one way and then another. And the whole of it was bathed in rich, diffuse light--the quality of light that comes just after sunrise.
Suddenly I was awash in a mixture of hope and trust and gratitude. The possibility of exploring the valley ahead became decidedly more attractive than daunting.
Then I woke up.
Several days later, thinking about the dream, hearing those dear women saying "Chabura! Chabura!" and tasting that bread and feeling grateful all over again I suddenly realized I had come across chabura before. In the Bible. The upper room. The last supper. The Jewish word for the meal that Jesus was sharing (and had shared many times) with his friends was xabura, or anglicized chabura.
The bread those lovely women gave me was bread for the journey. And more.
Chabura is not the bread itself, but the meal itself--the bread of fellowship, good company, spiritual friends, many counselors, community, transformation, wisdom, energy--the sacred meal.
I knew at once I could let go of my niggling doubt and trust the journey ahead.
Often, very often, whenever faith and doubt interact in a way that makes me queasy, I remember and re-collect this dream. Chabura!
I've never had another dream like it. I guess once was enough.
This whole experience--the collision of faith and doubt, the queasiness, the dream--continue to be sacramental for me: a sign that doubt is sometimes the right yeast to make just the bread we need for the next part of the journey.
