Napkin 1: To Matthew

"I spoke of things I did not understand..." - Job 42:3a (NIV)

37,000 feet. 10:47 PM.

The flight attendant gave me seven napkins when I asked for something to write on. "For dinner, Professor?" she smiled. I nodded.

I didn't tell her I'm writing my last will.

Dear Matthew,

I'm on a plane taking me toward my last chance at living, and the only thing I can think about is that evening when you were fifteen and you came into my study crying.

"Dad, does God really exist?"

Do you remember what I told you? I closed the book I was writing - "The Irrefutable Proofs of God's Existence" - and for twenty minutes, I bombarded you with arguments. The cosmological argument. Intelligent design. Fulfilled prophecies.

I gave you everything except what you were looking for.

You didn't want proof, Matthew. You wanted someone to hold you and tell you that he was afraid of the dark, too. That he also sometimes woke up at night and whispered "Are you there?" into the silence.

But I was Professor Miller. The man who had written books about God. How could I tell you that sometimes I doubted too?

How could I confess that the night before every conference I desperately prayed that God would give me signs of His presence because I too, deep down, was afraid we were talking to emptiness?

That evening, you got up from my chair with your eyes still wet and told me, "Thanks, Dad," with a voice I knew wasn't sincere.

From that moment, you stopped asking me questions.

And I, fool that I was, thought I had convinced you.

Only years later did I understand that you hadn't stopped doubting. You had stopped trusting someone who had prepackaged answers for the truest pain of your life.

Now, at 37,000 feet, with cancer eating through my insides and three months of life ahead, I'm writing on this coffee-stained napkin the truth that will change everything between us if I have the courage to tell it when I return:

Matthew, I've learned to doubt.

And in doubt, I've found a God infinitely greater than the one I taught you about. A God who isn't offended by our questions but would be offended if we stopped asking them. A God who prefers a child who cries "why?" to a child who stays silent out of politeness.**

If I should die on this plane - and it could happen, with these chest pains getting worse - I want you to know this:

Your doubt that evening was purer prayer than my certainty. Your question was more sincere worship than my answers. And if I could go back, instead of quoting Thomas Aquinas, I would hold you tight and tell you that I'm scared too.**

But also that this fear doesn't separate us from God, it brings us into His heart. Because even Jesus on the cross cried out, "My God, why?" And that cry wasn't loss of faith. It was faith that trusted enough to scream the truth.**

Maybe faith - and I write "maybe" because now I've learned that it's the only honest word I know - isn't having answers but having the courage to ask questions together.

Maybe God doesn't love us because we understand everything about Him. Maybe He loves us because we're brave enough to love Him without understanding Him. To trust even in the darkness. To cry "why?" knowing that He isn't offended but is moved by our courage.

The napkin is tearing. The ink is mixing with something that tastes like freedom.

But for the first time in fifty years, I'm not afraid of questions without answers. Because I've discovered that questions without answers are often the most beautiful prayers.**

I love you, Matthew.

And now I know what it means to love without understanding everything. What it means to believe without having proof. What it means to be a father, not because I have all the answers, but because I have the courage to search together with you.**

If we see each other again - and I pray we will - I won't give you answers anymore. I'll ask you questions. I won't explain God to you anymore. We'll search together to let God explain His love to us.**

Dad, who is learning that doubting together is more beautiful than being certain alone

The napkin is stained and almost illegible. Outside the window, only night and stars that seem so far away they hurt.