Hide and Seek

Sometime after all this started I met with my friend Shane at a Taco Bell to discuss why he didn’t believe in God. He was only a few years younger than me, and there was something familiar in the way he couldn’t quite look up when he said God didn’t make any sense.

He asked me how I knew God was real. I asked him who else he’d talked to.

“Adam. Steve. Pastor.” I turned to stare out the window, stalling. If those guys couldn’t change his mind then what did I know? Through the glass I saw my car in the parking lot where half an hour before I had been praying out loud with my forehead on the steering wheel that this kid would hear God when so many other’s couldn’t. I saw the cars parked next to it, all bigger than mine and past the street I saw chimneys, then steeples and cellphone towers all built for people who never talked to each other.

Beyond all of that the sun was starting to set. The clouds were orange and pink in a way I’m convinced they can only be in Texas. It all looked like if you drank it up it would taste a lot like citrus.

“What did those guys say?”

“Adam said something about prophecies coming true, and Steve just said it felt right.”

“And Pastor?”

He didn’t answer, he just looked at the burrito still on his tray. I knew exactly what the Pastor said: everything he could. No one in this city could have said it better, but his whole argument fell apart when the hard-sell got to the last line. When you’re eighteen the last thing you want to hear is that it’s a matter of faith. He asked me again how I knew.

“I don’t know how I know, man.”

“Then why are you here?”

I was there because he looked just like I used to, angry and hopeless and scared wondering why anyone would want to believe something so foolish. I was there because I had been that sad before and that was why I prayed more for him in the last few months than anyone else I could think of.

“Do you want God to exist?” I asked. He paused.

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t like the idea of nothing after I’m dead.”

“So why don’t you believe it?”

“How can I believe in a God that won’t talk to me?”

I told him that God was trying to talk, that if he really listened he would hear but I knew as the words were coming out of my mouth that he’d heard it all before. His hands were resting on his knees, far away from each other. It’d been a long time since those fingers had come together.

“I want to hear his voice. He could do that, right? A big booming voice in my bedroom. He could do that if he’s really God.”

“Yeah, I mean he’s done it before.”

“Then why not for me?”

“I don’t think it works like that anymore.”

“Then how does it work, Chase? I need to know he’s there.”

I saw in him then a bit of Thomas, and in that I saw myself not long ago demanding the bloody palms on the table in front of me where I would poke my fingers through. And when I’d touched the wood on the other side I’d start for his ribs, then wave my hands around in the air checking for the fish wires just trying to find some reason to quit all of this so I could get on with my own life.

When I was younger I used to tell God that if he was what he said he was then he should just write a flaming message in the sky. Not anything poetic (a psalm would have been overkill), just a pragmatic “I’m here” in a serif font burning right over the tops of all the houses. Best around the time people get off work.

But now I wonder what we would really do if, in those moments, he did actually speak. What if we saw the pillar of fire or heard the booming subwoofer voice in our bedrooms? Would we fall to our knees and tremble or would we be like the men in the Bible who heard His voice and said, surely not. It must have only been thunder.

The thing about God is that He hides himself. And if God is hiding then we are playing seek, but not in a way that makes us lonely more in a way like children: laughing because we know our friend is out there somewhere, maybe curled up in the yard or buried beneath the towels in the cupboard. We’ll spend a whole afternoon searching every familiar hole and corner until we finally find the spot then explode with delight already counting with our hands over our eyes again so that the game can keep on going.

And this isn’t trivial. I think God knows this is something we enjoy--in fact He made us to enjoy it. Think about it. Isn’t there something really profound in the way a child never wants to stop playing the same old game? It’s only when we try to act like grownups that we lose that sense of joy and instead get frustrated at the effort involved in playing, or maybe the discrepancies in the rules. It’s when we think ourselves too mature that we get mad at a God who is hidden. Maybe that’s why Jesus told us to come to him like children.

But even still--if we’re really being honest--with every sleepless night and every shout of anger at a God who’s just out of sight I think we see the truth at least in glimpses. We see the perfect in His nature even if we can’t see His face: If God didn’t hide then men would call Him a tyrant.

God never did write anything with fire back then, but as I sat there with my friend and told him that story of my doubt, I looked out the window one more time and saw the sun still setting.

“That’s how I know.” I said, nodding at a horizon so bright you could barely keep looking. Then he got it.