Losing my religion...

... yet looking for faith. 

That seems to sum up where I am these days.  A strange place indeed, strange for me anyway.

The last 3 weeks or so have been tough, too tough I'm afraid to say.  Insecurity and uncertainty are things I'm not accustomed to having to deal with, and both have been thrust in my face of late, and frankly, I'm not dealing with it all that well.

The bright side?  I'm down to my lowest weight in years.  I'm 23 lbs. lighter than my recorded high.  I wonder how much of that weight loss is religious tonnage? 

Heh.

Of course the bigger issue is that for probably the first time since my coming to Christ in 1991, I'm dealing with the possibility that my faith is no where near as strong as I thought it might've been.  The flip side or perhaps the same side, I guess, of the insecurity/uncertainty problem.

Today, as I found some comfort in reading Tom's latest poetic jabs at the theology  of the times (here and here) and as I nod my head in agreement with Gerard's Sunday meditation (so aptly described in the picture below), I also find myself cringing at the memories of my most recent outings to conservative churches, where salvation is emphasized ad nauseum, where money is asked for week in and week out, and where I seem to no longer be fed.

So I ask the question, where does this leave me?

I have no real answers.  I don't like not having real answers.  It means more insecurity, more uncertainty.  I've had all I can take of either.

In Gerard's Sunday meditation, he links to this disturbing article (at least I found it disturbing) that speaks to those cultural forces that hold sway over so many of us today.  It's well worth sitting down and pondering. 

But what I found most interesting was the closing prose taken from St. John of the Cross.  It speaks to me, to my situation, to my mindset:

Verses of the Soul That Pines to See God Not in myself do I live but in such great hope, that I die of longing to die. I no longer live in me; lacking God, from life I'm driven; lacking God or self to live in, what, then, can this living be? True life must come, by and by. A thousand deaths is the fee, since life must come, by and by, and I die, longing to die. This life that I now endure is not life but its denial; a continuous death, my trial till I dwell with you secure. Gather, my Lord, with what sure contempt from this life I fly and I die, longing to die. Absent, as I am, from you, what life can I have but death who suffer, in drawing breath, what the greatest death can do? I regard my fate with rue; my misfortunes multiply; I die with longing to die. The fish that's pulled from the wave finds balm of a certain sort: the death he suffers is short and brings the rest he may crave. But what death could be as grave as mine, who in life must sigh, and live more, the more to die? What comfort I taste is brief finding you in bread and wine: to know you cannot be mine recalls me to greater grief. I sorrow without relief for the sight that you deny, and die, for I long to die. My joy, Lord, is to believe that I shall behold you clear; but doubting you will appear causes me doubly to grieve when such terror I conceive, and harbor a hope so high, that I die, longing to die.

-St. John of the Cross (1542-1591) translated from the Spanish by Rhina P. Espaillat

Comments

[Jeff H]

What you're going through is one of those maddening, paradoxical "seasons of darkness". In order for our faith to grow, it must occasionally molt: shed its former skin and break out anew. It is a painful experience--like childbirth--yet ultimately both necessary and, in hindsight admittedly, fulfilling.

Our faith must be challenged, it must be tested, it must be exercised. Otherwise, it will wither on the vine. And unfortunately, the challenge, the test, the circumstances of its exercise, are not of our making/choosing/timing. For we are not the authors of our own stories, but rather the protagonist.

Remember: to get to the Promised Land, the children of Israel had to wander through the desert for 40 years.

Keep the faith--and give some of it away. You'll be OK, and are in my prayers.

[Feeble Knees]

Hey Rick, I am sorry to hear things are difficult for you right now. I'll spare you the plattitudes - they're not all that useful some days. "Religion" is not necessarily a bad thing to lose; faith is another matter.

I have no real answers. I don't like not having real answers. It's means more insecurity, more uncertainty. I've had all I can take of either.

Ah, but this is fertile ground for great faith. Have patience, and let patience have her perfect work. (James 1:3-4)

A comforting read at this time might be In My Father's Vineyard. It has one of the most insightful and comforting descriptions of winter that I've ever read, it comforted me greatly in a difficult time.

I pray that God visits you in your time of need, and provides all that you have need of physicially, mentally, emotionally and spiritually.

Hang in there brother,
Feeble