Doubt Comes In

“But when you ask, you must believe and not doubt, for the one who doubts is like a wave of the sea, blown and tossed by the wind.”

James 1:6

This fall, our high school performed the musical, Hadestown, in which our middle son played the male lead role, Orpheus. The play is based on the Greek mythological story of Orpheus and Eurydice, and Hades and Persephone. If you aren’t familiar with the story (or the musical), and you don’t want to know the ending, you may want to stop reading now. But it’s an ancient powerful, aching story of love and tragedy.

The hero, Orpheus, goes to great lengths to save his love, Eurydice, from the grip of Hades, god of the underworld. After taking a stand and moving Hades’ heart, he has the chance to do what he’s come to do, rescue Eurydice and lead her to safety. But there’s a condition: he must lead the way, and she must follow. If at any time he turns around to make sure she is following, Eurydice will be pulled back to the underworld and will never again escape.

The two set out on the long journey to the surface, Orpheus leading by lantern-light. As they walk, the Fates (who, in true Greek mythological style, not only shape events, but stir up trouble for men) sing a chilling song, “Doubt Comes In.”

See, just before Orpheus sets out, a seed of doubt is planted, and it’s an age-old seed: “Who do you think you are to do this?”

As he navigates the dark passageways of the underworld, he sings his thoughts. Who am I to think I could do this? How could I ever defeat Hades? From behind him, Eurydice sings her encouragement, urging him on, promising to follow him to the ends of the earth and beyond. And then the Fates sing again, “Doubt comes in…” Orpheus begins to question whether he’s the right man to lead Eurydice. Why she would ever follow him? How could he have thought he was capable of rescuing her?

Just steps from the exit from the underworld, Orpheus’ doubts overcome him. He has literally done the impossible, leading his love out of hell. But he can no longer hear Eurydice’s voice. He turns around to make sure she is still following him… and she is pulled back into the underworld, lost forever.

I don’t have to tell you that the moment is chilling, and Orpheus’ grief and heartbreak in the moments that follow just about undid me (especially as a mother, watching my son portray his agony on stage). But in that moment, I heard echoes of another story.

Of Peter, who follows Jesus’ voice and steps out of the boat. Out onto the waves. Who literally does the impossible, walking across the water.

Then doubt comes in.

He looks around at the enormous waves. He feels the force of the wind. He doubts that he can do the thing he’s already doing. And he begins to sink.

Friends, isn’t that what so often happens to us?

Sometimes God calls us to do impossible things, things that are far too big for us. We aren’t capable of them, that much is true. But God is. And He enables us to “walk on the heights,” to go to the places of hell in others’ lives and set them free, to tread across the water. And we do it. We step out in faith and literally do the impossible.

Then doubt comes in.

We listen to the whispers telling us we’re too small. Too inadequate. Too incapable.

Who are we to do this thing? Who are we to face this giant? Who are we to lead these people? Who are we?

But, friends, it was never about us.

It was about the God who called us out onto the water. About the God who laid this mission on our hearts. Who promised to be with us, to strengthen us, to work through us. God, who does the impossible through us, and in spite of us.

Maybe you’re steps away from leading someone from hell. Maybe you’re out of the boat, walking across the water. Friend, you are already doing the impossible. You’re doing it.

Don’t let doubt come in. Don’t look at the darkness or the waves or your own inadequacy. Look instead to the God who does impossible things, and press on. He is able, and He is doing it.

And doubt has no place in it.