This is Father Jared Cramer from St. John’s Episcopal Church in Grand Haven, Michigan, here with today’s edition of Christian Mythbusters, a regular segment I offer to counter some common misconceptions about the Christian faith.

A few years ago, a parent stopped into my study to talk to me, feeling a bit anxious.

“Father Jared,” she said, “my child told me they’re not sure they believe in God. I don’t know what to do.”

I smiled and said, “You know what? Sometimes, I don’t know if I believe in God either.”

She laughed nervously. “Father Jared, you cannot tell me that!” But I explained that this is simply part of the life of faith. Every one of us—including clergy—sometimes struggles with doubt. Because doubt isn’t a defect in the Christian life; it’s built into it.

We’ve sometimes been taught to treat doubt like a disease to cure, but maybe it’s more like a companion on the journey—one that keeps faith from growing rigid or self-satisfied. Any faith that can’t survive questioning probably isn’t faith at all—its fear dressed up in religious clothes.

So, when someone tells me they’re not sure what they believe, I don’t hear a problem to solve. I hear an invitation—to conversation, to honesty, to relationship. That’s why atheists and agnostics are welcome at my church. Because what matters most isn’t whether you can recite the Creed without crossing your fingers; it’s whether you’re willing to wrestle with the divine, to be open to wonder, to build community around love and truth.

John’s Gospel gives us two of my favorite examples of this: Nicodemus and Joseph of Arimathea.

Some scholars divide John’s Gospel into believers and unbelievers—and say only the believers are invited into the kingdom. But that’s not what the story shows. Nicodemus, who first came to Jesus under cover of night, and Joseph, who followed in secret for fear of the crowds, are the only disciples who appear when Jesus dies. When all the “faithful” have fled, it’s the half-believers who come. They carry his body, wash it, anoint it, wrap it lovingly in cloth, and place it in the tomb.

They don’t proclaim the resurrection. They don’t yet understand it. It is beyond what they can hope for in this world, given their experience of it perhaps. But they love. And that love, John seems to say, is enough for now—because love is the ground in which faith and hope can grow again.

That’s what I find so moving about these stories. They remind us that God doesn’t wait for perfect belief before showing up. The honesty of the doubter, the humility of the half-believer, the persistence of the one who loves even when they don’t understand—these are all holy things. Sometimes the most faithful act isn’t confident preaching, but quiet care for what feels lost.

So, if your faith feels thin, if your prayers come out more as questions than answers, don’t give up. Keep showing up. Keep tending to love. Because when we dare to love, even through our uncertainty, God has a way of turning that fragile love into resurrection life.

And if you need a place to practice that kind of love (no matter what or if you believe), find a community that makes room for folks like you. I’d naturally suggest the nearest Episcopal Church, but there are certainly other open communities and traditions around you. Here at St. John’s Episcopal Church in Grand Haven, we don’t ask for perfect belief—we invite open hearts and curious faith. We pray together, sing together, wrestle together, and try—however imperfectly at times—to love God and to love our neighbor. 

Some weeks your faith may feel like fire; other weeks, like smoke. Either way, you still belong and you always belong. Because in the end, the Church isn’t a club for the certain—it’s a home for the searching.

Thanks for being with me. To find out more about my parish, you can go to sjegh.com. Until next time, remember: protest like Jesus, love recklessly, and live your faith out in a community that accepts you but also challenges you to be better tomorrow than you are today.