I appreciate much more those poets who wrestle seriously with their doubts than those who assert belief with a calm certitude. For that reason, George Herbert is my favorite Christian poet, but Emily Dickinson ranks high with me as well. In today’s post I look at her skeptical response to (among other Biblical passages) Luke 11:1-13, today’s Gospel reading. That’s the one where he teaches the disciples the Lord’s Prayer and then follows it up with the following admonition:
And he said to them, “Suppose one of you has a friend, and you go to him at midnight and say to him, `Friend, lend me three loaves of bread; for a friend of mine has arrived, and I have nothing to set before him.’ And he answers from within, `Do not bother me; the door has already been locked, and my children are with me in bed; I cannot get up and give you anything.’ I tell you, even though he will not get up and give him anything because he is his friend, at least because of his persistence he will get up and give him whatever he needs.
“So I say to you, Ask, and it will be given you; search, and you will find; knock, and the door will be opened for you. For everyone who asks receives, and everyone who searches finds, and for everyone who knocks, the door will be opened. Is there anyone among you who, if your child asks for a fish, will give a snake instead of a fish? Or if the child asks for an egg, will give a scorpion? If you then, who are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will the heavenly Father give the Holy Spirit to those who ask him!”
In “Of Course—I prayed—“ Dickinson finds it difficult to accept Christ at his word She is no atheist, however, because she experiences a “smart misery.” She believes in God but cannot believe that God will open the door when she knocks.
Of Course—I prayed—
And did God Care?
He cared as much as on the Air
A Bird—had stamped her foot—
And cried “Give Me”—
I had not had—but for Yourself—
‘Twere better Charity
To leave me in the Atom’s Tomb—
Merry, and Nought, and gay, and numb—
Than this smart Misery.
Dickinson says angrily that it would be better to be a heedless materialist, a loose collection of atoms, than be wracked with her doubts. The image of someone throwing a temper tantrum and stamping her foot reminds me of George Herbert striking the table in “The Collar.” Of course, a bird stamping her foot in mid flight doesn’t make much of an impression.
The doubts never left Dickinson. One finds them in “This World is not Conclusion,” even though the poem appears to open with a confident assertion of life beyond the grave:
This World is not Conclusion.
A Species stands beyond –
Invisible, as Music –
But positive, as Sound –
It beckons, and it baffles –
Philosophy, don’t know –
And through a Riddle, at the last –
Sagacity, must go –
To guess it, puzzles scholars –
To gain it, Men have borne
Contempt of Generations
And Crucifixion, shown –
Faith slips – and laughs, and rallies –
Blushes, if any see –
Plucks at a twig of Evidence –
And asks a Vane, the way –
Much Gesture, from the Pulpit –
Strong Hallelujahs roll –
Narcotics cannot still the Tooth
That nibbles at the soul –
The first 12 lines—through the references to “Contempt of Generations” and the crucifixion—seem to signal that Dickinson is strong in her faith, despite how the Christian mystery defies empirical verification, philosophical reasoning, and common sense (sagacity). One could imagine Dickinson at this point quoting Hamlet’s observation to his good but unimaginative and literal friend: “There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, /Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”
But with line 13, one suddenly realizes that Dickinson has been describing an idealized belief, not her own. Her faith falters—slips, laughs self-consciously, is embarrassed—when confronted by Reason. It looks desperately around for evidence, no matter how small (“a twig”) or random (whichever way the wind is blowing). Preachers confidently delivering strong Hallelujahs are not enough to quiet Dickinson’s doubts. Instead, she regards such confidence as a narcotic and an ineffective one at that. The toothache of doubt till nibbles at her soul. She never rests easy in her belief.
I think of an Anne Lamott’s observation that the opposite of faith is not doubt but certainty. Too easy belief, she and Dickinson would say, is facile belief. True faith must be fought for.
After posting this essay, I came across the following description in Relevant Magazine of John Calvin. The article is about famous Christian doubters and includes C. S. Lewis, Mother Teresa, Charles Spurgeon, Luther, John Calvin, Pope Francis, and Lamott. Calvin, it notes, believed that
doubt wasn’t something Christians should fear—instead, it was something we should even expect, and not be surprised by when it creeps into our lives: “Surely, while we teach that faith ought to be certain and assured, we cannot imagine any certainty that is not tinged with doubt, or any assurance that is not assailed by some anxiety.”
Calvin understood that doubt was a part of the faith experience, because human nature itself finds ideas about God and His goodness so outside of what we can understand: “For unbelief is so deeply rooted in our hearts, and we are so inclined to it, that not without hard struggle is each one able to persuade himself of what all confess with the mouth: namely, that God is faithful.