I have a good friend from high school named Julie. During those formative years we shared many classes, a trip to Spain, and even a stint as lab partners during which we were required to dissect a cat. (And let me tell you, few things in life will bond a couple of teenage girls like that sort of thing...)
A few years ago we happened to reconnect on Facebook, and I was struck by how similar we still are. We both share a passion for organic gardening and healthy cooking. (And the occasional high-fat, high-calorie dessert.) We both love canning the food we harvest and sharing it with others. We both are very interested in fitness and participate in triathlons, road races, and the like. We're both in the process of obtaining our CFT (certified fitness trainer) certification. We share a love of science and analytical thought. We are both mothers. We both have even been known to watch episodes of
The Backyardigans with (or without!) our young children.
But with all of these similarities, there is one distinct difference between the two of us.
Julie is an atheist.
And me... well, clearly I'm not.
However, another characteristic that we share is an interest in of the beliefs systems of others, and so over the years we've been able to share thoughts and ideas with tolerance on both ends.
Through our friendship I've been challenged often to examine my testimony of the Gospel from a somewhat different perspective. You see, scientific thought is largely based upon empirical evidence--information gained by means of observation or experimentation. For many if not most scientists, this data is acquired by outside observation. The scientists do not insert themselves into their experiments. Medical researchers clearly do not try out new medications on themselves. Anthropologists do not generally interject themselves into the cultures they are studying, because to do so would alter the data. So on the outside, I can theoretically understand how--from a scientific standpoint-- religious belief can appear to some to be somewhat of a psychological delusion, or to paraphrase Karl Marx, "the opiate of the people."
The problem with relying on outside observation when it comes to matters of a spiritual nature is that there are no hard data to be found. Things are easy to write off as coincidence and psychosomatic phenomenon when one is examining religion from the outside. There is no burden of proof to be discovered, no smoking gun.
Through my experience I've discovered that this is entirely the wrong approach to take when it comes to spiritual knowledge. Fervent testimonies are gained through experiential learning-- that is, one must learn by doing. Christ Himself described this process when He explained, "If any man will do his will, he shall know of the doctrine, whether it be of God, or whether I speak of myself." (
John 7:17) We learn by doing. It really is that simple.
If we approach our study of the Gospel as we would approach the scientific method, we must be prepared to make some modifications. The most important of which would be a willingness to let go of pride; to proceed with an intended approach that is full of humility and a sincere desire to learn. Step by step, line upon line, as we study and open our hearts we gain insights and knowledge through experience. It does not come quickly for most. Sometimes we must press forward in the dark before the way is illuminated. This is often not easy, and can be discouraging. I know, for I have been there. But if we continue persevering and pressing onward eventually the light will come-- just as the sunrise gradually lightens the darkness to brightest day.
To illustrate, one of the most exquisite experiences of my life took place a few years ago when I ran as part of a relay team for the Ragnar Wasatch Back. This nearly 200 mile relay meanders through the back country of Utah over a two-day time period. Relay legs are run throughout the day-- and night-- until all teams have made the journey from Logan to Park City. For my second leg of the race, I had a moderately long run that took me around Rockport Lake and into the small town of Oakley.
When I began this leg, it was pitch black outside. Aside from my headlamp, the only thing lighting my way was the moon and its reflection in the lake below. It was extremely dark, and the only sound I could hear was my own breath as I pressed forward in the night.
And then something breathtaking happened.
As I continued down the road, I became aware that the sky was starting to lighten. It all occurred so gradually, that I did not even notice it was happening until it was well underway. The dark of night transformed before my eyes as the black changed to shades of purple, blue, and pink. The scenery of the mountain lake surrounding me became more clear to my vision, and soon the full glory of a pristine country sunrise illuminated the landscape in breathtaking fashion.
The night did not transform to day in an instant. It was gradual, almost imperceptible. In fact, if it
had turned in an instant, I would probably have been momentarily blinded and unable to see at all. Instead, steadily and gradually the way was lit before me-- even when I didn't perceive what was happening.
So it is with faith. We decide to experiment upon the word and we press forward in the dark, seeking enlightenment. When we do not receive our Sacred Grove or Sinai-like experience sometimes we falter. But we must remember that the Lord does not often work that way. Most of us would be blinded by that type of spiritual experience. Instead we must persevere onward, steadily accumulating light and knowledge along the way, until we can look back and see with clarity how the way was lit before us.
This process may never make much sense to an empiricist, and that's okay.
I may be thought of as delusional or misguided, and that's okay too.
But one thing I can say with certainty.
Once you've experienced the sunrise for yourself, it's something you will never forget.
