An Honest Faith: Am I a Christian?

 

Contemporary discourse around religious belief often polarises faith and doubt, casting them as oppositional rather than companionate forces. This binary is particularly pronounced in liturgical contexts, where formal creeds such as the Nicene Creed are recited by congregations weekly, sometimes with conviction, sometimes with quiet uncertainty.

Drawing on Gospel narratives—especially the stories of Peter, Thomas, Zacchaeus, the prodigal son, the road to Emmaus, the tax collector in the temple, and the parable of the sower—this essay presents a faith that is not literalist or propositional but symbolic, ethical, and open. It also offers a lens on Paul—often seen as the first systematic theologian, confident and categorical. But his letters do not conceal his wrestling. They display it.

This essay argues that such participation need not be performative or dishonest. Rather, for those engaging in intelligent, morally serious forms of faith, it is possible to say the Creed with integrity by reframing its language as theological poetry, mythic storytelling, and communal vision. This essay intends to offer hope to those who have felt rebuked by the church for not fitting its mould.

You do not have to fake certainty. You do not have to agree with every doctrine. If your heart still aches for justice, if you still long for love, if you still believe there might be more—then you are already part of this story. The result is a version of Christianity that may well be agnostic in the most reverent sense—not as absence of belief, but as resistance to false certainty. It is a faith rooted not in dogma, but in humility, imagination, and moral hope.

The Creed as Sacred Story

The Creed is not only a theological document, but a window into the hearts of the early apostles. It captures the awe, memory, and longing of a community trying to articulate the transformative experience they had of Jesus. Like the Bible itself, it is not a neutral chronicle, but a sacred story—shaped by encounter, suffering, courage, and hope.

The Nicene Creed, formulated in the fourth century to address theological disputes within the early church, has endured not merely as a doctrinal summary but as a liturgical act. It is a spoken affirmation of belonging, identity, and hope. Yet for modern minds shaped by empirical standards, the Creed can be difficult to reconcile with contemporary understanding.

Importantly, the Creed also belongs to a wider genre of its time: public statements designed to bind communities through shared language, identity, and allegiance. Across the ancient world, such declarations were common—from the Jewish Shema, to Roman imperial oaths, to philosophical maxims in Stoic and Epicurean schools. These creedal forms were not private musings but communal affirmations, often recited aloud as acts of belonging. In adopting this genre, the early Church did not invent a form; it repurposed a familiar one, placing the crucified and risen Jesus at its centre

To say that Jesus “rose again on the third day” or was “born of the Virgin Mary” can appear, on the surface, to demand belief in supernatural interventions. However, this assumes that the primary purpose of the Creed is factual reporting. A more generous reading understands the Creed as theological myth—myth not in the sense of falsehood, but in the sense of profound, poetic truth told through narrative.

In this view, the Creed becomes less a test of orthodoxy and more a language of longing and belonging. Resurrection becomes a declaration that cruelty is not final. Virgin birth becomes a metaphor for the unexpected irruption of the sacred. Judgement becomes a longing for restorative justice, not cosmic punishment.

Distinguishing Performance from Participation

A recurring concern—raised by believers and sceptics alike—is the question of authenticity. How can one say words they do not fully believe? The answer lies in the distinction between performative faith and participatory faith. Performative faith seeks validation or approval. It is the domain of the Pharisee who recites prayers “to be seen by others.” Participatory faith, by contrast, is honest engagement. It acknowledges doubt, but chooses to join the ritual, to speak the story, and to live the question.

To say the Creed in this way is not to lie. It is to say: “I may not believe this empirically, but I believe in what it represents. I believe in the values it expresses, the community it sustains, and the healing it hopes for.”

This is the posture of the tax collector in the temple, who simply says, “God, be merciful to me, a sinner,” and goes home justified—not because of doctrinal clarity but because of humble truth.

The Bible as Sacred Story

Like the Creed, the Bible itself is not merely a set of rules or recorded events. It is a sacred narrative, written by people struggling to make sense of their experiences of the divine. The psalmist shows this openly—rage, despair, abandonment, awe, and joy often sit side by side in the same song. Psalm 13, for example, begins with anguish—"How long, O Lord? Will you forget me forever?"—but ends with fragile hope: "I will sing to the Lord, for he has been good to me." These are not sanitised expressions; they are raw and unresolved, echoing the real emotional landscapes of faith. It contains contradictions, arguments, poems, songs, letters, visions. It is raw, layered, and human. To read it faithfully is not to extract a system, but to enter a conversation—and through that conversation, the divine warmth can be felt. Not always loudly, not always clearly, but truly. The whole point is not to master the text, but to be met by it.

The earliest apostles were not systematic theologians—they were witnesses. Their testimony was not cool and detached, but urgent, imaginative, shaped by the risen Christ whose presence overwhelmed categories. The stories they told—of healings, meals, storms calmed, bodies broken and raised—were not intended as neat proofs but as invitations to transformation.

Gospel Models of Faith and Doubt

The Gospels themselves give us precedent for this kind of complex, courageous faith. Two disciples in particular—Peter and Thomas—embody a dynamic relationship between belief and doubt.

Peter, the impulsive believer, is bold in proclamation: “You are the Christ.” Yet he rebukes Jesus, falls asleep in Gethsemane, and denies him three times. Jesus’ response is not condemnation but restoration. “Do you love me?” he asks—not, “Do you understand everything?” This is faith as persistence, not perfection.

And here we see the clearest example of performative certainty. Peter's insistence—“Even if all fall away, I will not”—is bold, public, and emotionally intense. But it is ultimately hollow. It is not rooted in endurance but in image. And it collapses under pressure. Yet Jesus does not reject Peter for this. Instead, he restores him—not on the basis of doctrinal mastery, but relational honesty: “Do you love me?”

Thomas, often labelled the doubter, is better understood as the honest seeker. He does not accept the resurrection based on hearsay. He wants to touch the wounds. And when he does, his response is the most theologically complete in the Gospels: “My Lord and my God!” Jesus meets him where he is. There is no shame in doubt.

Later, Jesus tells him, "Because you have seen me, you have believed; blessed are those who have not seen and yet have believed." It is easy to read this as a rebuke, but it is not. Jesus does not scold Thomas. He offers his hands, his wounds, and his love. The blessing extends beyond Thomas—not to diminish him, but to affirm that faith will take many forms. Some will believe without sight. Others, like Thomas, need to touch the scarred places. Both are welcome.

Zacchaeus, a tax collector compromised by empire and greed, does not offer theological repentance. Jesus simply sees him, calls him by name, and eats with him. It is the experience of grace, not doctrinal agreement, that transforms Zacchaeus.

The prodigal son returns out of desperation, not piety. He doesn’t even finish his apology before the father runs to him, embraces him, and celebrates him. This parable teaches that mercy precedes repentance. Grace arrives first.

The road to Emmaus presents a third kind of narrative: slow, unknowing faith. Two disciples walk in grief and disillusionment. Jesus walks beside them unrecognised. He listens. He teaches. Only when bread is broken do their eyes open. Resurrection is not always immediate; sometimes it is recognised in hindsight, in companionship, in shared meals.

The parable of the sower is perhaps the most difficult. Seeds fall on different soils. Some grow, some wither. Jesus seems to acknowledge that faith is not equally accessible. That some people will struggle more than others. And yet the sower scatters widely, generously. Grace is not rationed. It is offered to all, even if not all can receive it the same way. The story is not about blame—it is about the mystery of response.

Even Jesus himself is rebuked in the Gospels—by his mother at Cana, by the Syrophoenician woman who challenges his assumptions, by the disciples who do not understand him, and by those who question his choices. These rebukes are not edited out. They are held in the text. They show that divine love does not retreat from challenge, but is deepened by it. If Jesus can be questioned, we too can ask, doubt, wrestle, and still be found in the story.

This also poses a challenge to modern evangelical movements that place high value on doctrinal certainty, sin-lists, and in/out categories. When those who raise questions or express doubts are shunned, silenced, or labelled as rebellious, something vital is lost—not only for the doubters, but for the church itself. The Gospels offer a Jesus who listens, who is interrupted, who changes his response. A church that cannot be interrupted, cannot be challenged, cannot hold the space for the hurting and the uncertain, risks misrepresenting the very Christ it seeks to serve.

What About Paul? The Voice of Conviction

Paul is often read as the first systematic theologian of the Christian tradition—logical, confident, insistent. He writes with certainty. He declares truth. He structures arguments. And he does not hesitate to say, “I know.”

At first glance, Paul seems the opposite of the faith explored in this essay: a faith that dwells in mystery, that honours doubt, that resists closure. But perhaps that is a misreading. Paul’s certainty does not come from detachment; it comes from rupture. He is not writing as a man who studied his way to doctrine, but as one who was blinded, broken, and utterly reoriented. His theology is born of experience—violent, disorienting, transformative.

Even so, Paul is not above contradiction or emotion. He weeps. He pleads. He lashes out. He sometimes changes his mind. He speaks of “seeing through a glass darkly,” of “groaning with creation,” of “working out salvation with fear and trembling.” This is not shallow certainty—it is conviction forged in struggle.

Paul does present a challenge. He is not afraid to draw lines, to name sin, to declare judgement. And yet, even in this, we find the same wrestling heart that pulses through the psalms and prophets. His confidence does not negate mystery—it reveals how mystery might settle in a particular soul.

Perhaps the question, then, is not “Was Paul performative?” but “Was Paul real?” And the answer is yes—undeniably so. His letters do not conceal his wrestling. They display it. In Romans 7, he cries out, “I do not do the good I want, but the evil I do not want is what I do.” In 2 Corinthians, he speaks of a thorn in the flesh, of weakness, of pleading with God. Paul is certain, but not serene. His certainty is born not of ease, but of encounter—an experience that blinded him, broke him, and changed his entire direction. His theology is not cold theory, but scar tissue woven into scripture.

Certainty is not always a mask. Sometimes it is a refuge.

For modern readers, Paul may feel distant—too assured, too binary. But even Paul insists that the greatest of all things is love. Not knowledge. Not certainty. Love.

Beyond Certainty: Salvation and the Shape of Grace

Among the most difficult lines in Scripture is this: "I am the way, the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me." At first glance, this seems to assert religious exclusivity. But what if this is not a narrowing of grace, but an invitation to see Jesus as the pattern of divine love?

Jesus does not say that a specific religion is the way. He says he is the way—and he lives this way as a person of mercy, inclusion, compassion, and justice. If we believe all are saved through him, then it is not necessary to insist that all must know him explicitly. His way may be wider than our categories.

To say "I am saved" often feels too final, too self-assured. The better question might be, "Am I being changed? Am I learning to love?" Salvation is not a possession. It is a posture. A willingness to live into the grace that Jesus shows: grace that embraces the stranger, heals the broken, and eats with the excluded.

This view resists any faith that declares victory while others are excluded. Instead, Jesus proclaims that “truth is known by its fruit”: justice, mercy, and humility. If others live by these fruits, might they not also be walking the way of Christ, whether or not they name it so?

Jesus' life and teaching resist the very certainties many try to build on his words. He continually unsettles easy distinctions, and shows that the divine presence meets people where they are. The Creed, in this light, is not a border fence but a beacon—an ancient affirmation of the kind of life we are called to participate in.

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Doubt as the Heart of Faith

Faith, in this sense, is not the opposite of doubt—it is made meaningful by it. Biblical faith (pistis) is not certainty. It is trust. It is allegiance. It is leaning toward a truth one cannot grasp fully.

Certainty ends the conversation. Doubt keeps it open.
Certainty says “I know.” Doubt says “I hope.”
Certainty performs. Doubt participates.

Jesus never praises those who are sure of themselves. He praises those who are humble, hungry, and open. The disciples "worshipped him, but some doubted"—and yet they were still commissioned. The problem isn’t doubt. The problem is faking certainty. The danger isn’t questioning—it’s pretending not to.

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Myth and Meaning: A Hermeneutic for Creedal Language

When read through this lens, the Creed becomes an act of interpretive fidelity rather than literal assent. Terms like “resurrection,” “incarnation,” and “judgement” are not to be flattened into biological or juridical facts. They are icons of spiritual reality.

Resurrection is not corpse reanimation. It is the claim that love is stronger than death, that hope is justified, that trauma is not the end.

Judgement is not damnation. It is the possibility that truth will be known, that victims will be vindicated, that lies will not have the last word.

Incarnation is not about gynecology. It is about divinity showing up in humanity—in flesh, in weakness, in unexpected places.

To speak these words mythically is not to cheapen them. It is to deepen them. It is to place them in the realm of meaning, not mere mechanics.

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Living with Doubt as Faithful Practice

Doubt, in this framework, is not an obstacle to faith but part of its anatomy. It is the space between seeing and understanding, between experience and interpretation. Doubt is not unbelief. It is refusal to fake belief. It is a kind of reverence.

Jesus never demands doctrinal clarity. He asks for honesty. He honours the mustard seed of faith. He welcomes those who seek, stumble, or stay silent.

Paul, too, speaks into this: in 1 Corinthians 12, he names faith, knowledge, and wisdom as distinct but Spirit-given gifts. Not everyone possesses them equally or constantly. Faith, then, is not a test of merit but a gift among gifts — one that may rise and fall, not unlike breath.

The courage to say the Creed with doubts is not performative. It is participatory poetics. It is choosing to stand in the liturgy not because one has mastered theology, but because one hopes to be mastered by love.

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Conclusion

To say the Nicene Creed in the twenty-first century with intellectual honesty and spiritual depth is to reclaim it from both dogmatic rigidity and dismissive literalism. It is to speak ancient words with new ears — to receive them not as empirical propositions, but as moral commitments, symbolic affirmations, and expressions of communal longing. This is not a dilution of faith but a deepening. Ironically, these “new ears” may be closer in spirit to those of the Creed’s original authors than to minds shaped by post-Enlightenment rationalism, which redefined belief as assent to provable facts.

For the early Church, the Creed was never intended as a checklist of certainties, but as a poetic liturgy of allegiance and hope. It functioned as a boundary marker for belonging and a defiant affirmation of meaning in the face of imperial power. It was public truth told in the form of sacred story — a unifying narrative through which the early Christian community sang its resistance, trust, and hope. To recite the Creed today, amid doubt, is to join that same defiant choir. It is to stand not because one has mastered theology, but because one hopes to be mastered by love.

To say the Creed with scar tissue is to stand not because one is unbroken, but because one still hopes — is not weakness. It is grace We do not say the Creed to declare empirical certainty. We say it to declare allegiance to hope. We say it not to perform belief, but to participate in the story that has shaped the lives of saints, sinners, doubters, poets, and prophets alike.

Faith need not be neat. It must only be honest.

To stand and speak ancient words that do not always sit easily on the tongue is not hypocrisy. It is courage. It is pilgrimage. And perhaps that is enough.