Step 2, Believe:
“Bless the Lord, O my soul, and forget not all his benefits, who forgives all your iniquity, who heals all your diseases, who redeems your life from the pit, who crowns you with steadfast love and mercy, who satisfies you with good so that your youth is renewed like the eagle’s,” (Psalm 103:2-5).
Doubts about what? Him? I have none. He is God. And if I could have doubts about Him, He could not be God. And in that case, the failure would be in my imagination, or in my experience, but not with Him. Surely, if I have, by grace through faith, believed in God as reality, any shortcoming I conceive of in Him is merely a reflection of a shortcoming in myself. God cannot be God except that He is able to do all things well, and better than well, perfectly. Even then He does not boast, for He only called His own works “very good.” Meanwhile, the French toast you posted on socials this morning was “Amazeballs!” Death to hyperbole; the dopamine overdose has translated into a societal neurosis of speech. It is “very bad.”
But Him, no, I do not doubt. His arm has not waxed short, nor His eye dim. He is the Almighty, the only true and wise God and Father of all things living. And the architect and maker of all things unliving. But let’s be honest, even the rocks are alive. “So called science,” Paul calls it. Whether I can prove it or not, whether I agree with it or not, I always side with God’s Word. His is the earth and the fulness of it, and all things that exist in it, upon it, under it, and over it are His and were made by Him, through Him, and for Him whom He has given all power and authority, His only begotten, Jesus Christ the Righteous. I’m more certain of Him than I am of my fingers typing these words right now. If not for Him, I’d most certainly be a madman and a lunatic, after all the fifths of brandy I’ve swallowed and all the marijuana and Black & Milds I’ve smoked and all the prescription pills without labels I’ve shoveled into my guts. Maybe I am a lunatic. And yet, this living Word still renews my mind to think rightly. The law of the Lord is perfect, converting the soul. The testimony of the Lord is sure, making wise the simple. The statutes of the Lord are right, rejoicing the heart. The commandment of the Lord is pure, enlightening the eyes. The fear of the Lord is clean, enduring forever. The judgments of the Lord are true and righteous altogether. More to be desired are they than gold, yea, than much fine gold, and sweeter, also, than honey from the honeycomb. No, I have no doubt of Him at all. The doubt is all of me.
I heard the preacher say once, “We don’t question whether or not God is able. That’s not our problem. We know that He is able. We don’t know that He’s willing.”
That’s my problem, right there. My faith wanes. And that’s the real fight, the fight of faith. He says that it’s His good pleasure to give us the kingdom. He’s more eager to answer than we are to ask; more eager to give than we are to receive from Him. He’s a good, good father; it’s who He is. And I’m loved by Him; it’s who I am. But I don’t know a Father’s love. My own father has called me a “dog” and a “mistake” and the “dumbest smart person he’s ever met in his life.” I’ve been a “m****f****,” an “idiot,” and an “a**h***” to the one who is responsible for bringing me here (If you think that’s bad, you should hear what he’s said to his daughters). I love my father. I don’t know that he loves me. Sure, he’s been proud of me in moments, but that pride has always been conditional. Or an effusive rise of the liquor speaking, like when he used to wake me at two in the morning to recite the presidents to his drunken friends. I don’t even like America. Truth is, I don’t like anywhere. I’m just passing through. So, fatherly acceptance and unconditional love isn’t something I know anything about.
I know about learning what I can from whom I can while I can. I know about borrowing and mimicking. I know about performance. I know about the love of women, because I know the love of my mother. I don’t know about the love of men, because I don’t know the love of my father. Ergo, I don’t know the love of God. I don’t even know the love of self. I know pride. I know arrogance. I know sternness and rebuke and how not to trust praise and flattery. I know work, but I don’t know rest. I know attempting to earn what I will never acquire, so that I can fall in love with the attempting and so stay occupied until death do us part. I know not ownership but debtorship. I know not grace, but works.
But God, I know, in Word, is not like my earthly father. But Godspeed getting my heart to know that.
theblackdostoyevsky 
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