The Misery of Agnosticism

I made an attempt at atheism, influenced by a few different contributing factors. One was the circle of flavorful people I'd met who seemed apathetic if not incredulous toward the God I'd learned about in church. Then there were those in church who seemed equally apathetic, if not mean. Also, there is of course the persistent inundation of introductory level science that always left the impression that man has it all figured out, and complex life is not so complex, but sprouts like bread mold under the right conditions. At any rate, my attempt was short-lived. Atheism would be impossible to maintain without ample doses of misinformation and a strict adherence to daily rigorous exercises in closed-mindedness. The spiritual is simply too obvious, whether in order in the cosmos, beauty in creation, a miracle in a hospital or a timely word from a friend or stranger. And so I arrived at agnosticism, perhaps the most miserable of all religious points of view. Militant skepticism avails itself no pleasure, or at least rest for the mind, in the beauty of nature, or purpose in life, or faith in truth, lest one be deceived. Yet surely there would be more peace in being sincerely wrong than in the constant distrust of experience, emotions, or knowledge. While agnosticism feigns open-mindedness, it is actually a stubborn refusal to reach some informed conclusion. At last I'd indulged the nagging suspicion that God wasn't there, only to be confronted with the nagging dread that He was. I was haunted most by the empty tomb of Jesus of Nazareth. It loomed occasionally in my mind, inexplicable, indismissable, a reminder of a real and personal God, who was "pleased to have all His fullness dwell in (Jesus) and through Him to reconcile to Himself all things, by making peace through His blood, shed on the cross" Colossians 1:19-20.