In her splendiferous memoir, Traveling Mercies, Anne Lamott claims that there are only two prayers she ever prays: "Help me, Help me, Help me," and "Thank you, Thank you, Thank you." (This from a woman who recounts that she fought becoming a Christian for awhile, until she realized God wasn't going anywhere, so she said, "Alright, f*** it, you can come in.") I am, technically, at a seminary, but despite (or, because of) some of my theology classes, Lamott's take on addressing the Almighty is about all I can handle these days - on the days when I believe someone's listening.
Let's just say that somehow I am slowly learning to be OK being a person who harbors growing amounts of doubt alongside a still-deeply entrenched faith, and who realizes that it's a much better option to go learn how to go forward holding both than to sit still, waiting for one to finally win out over the other. Quite surprising for a person who has always considered consistency to be a primary virtue.
Becoming a therapist at a seminary will mess with your head. I came home one weekend, having been assigned a client suffering from PTSD, in his 5th foster placement, who had watched his mother burn and blind his sister when he was 7. I cried all weekend. The next Tuesday, I had to sit through a lecture on the finer points of the doctrine of the trinity and the difference between ontic and ontological. At that point, a much harsher form of the thought "who cares? Does this really matter?" goes through my head and probably comes out my mouth, and I want to swear off the triviality of theology forever (this from a person who had a year-long running discussion on the difference between hope and optimism, you remember). And yes, I realize there is a difference between faith and theology, but being surrounded by theology students will blur the distinction.
I know at this moment I sound like I'm on the down-side of faith. Actually, I'm not, really, although it fluctuates daily. Because on the flip side, even on the days when the whole Jesus story starts to sound a little absurd, the churches that have filled a role of "home" in my past are places where things that feel really deeply true to me are deeply valued. Where community (dysfunctional though it is) is formed around the (admittedly idealized) tenets of grace, generosity, mercy, gratitude, and justice. If following faith to its tangible ends produces these things, then must tracing these ends back to their roots lead me, necessarily, back to my faith? I want it to, although I don't know anymore. But in any case, I miss being part of a community that actively and intentionally holds onto those ideals, and I need to be part of one again, if they'll have me, doubts and all.
But even in the middle of two extremes, trying to figure out how to live with faith when doubts won't shut up these days, all of me resounds with Jon Krakauer, as he writes in the author's note to his book about the Fundamental Mormon church, Under the Banner of Heaven:
"I've come to terms with the fact that uncertainty is an inescapable corollary of life. An abundance of mystery is simply part of the bargain - which doesn't strike me as something to lament.... And if I remain in the dark about our purpose here, and the meaning of eternity, I have nevertheless arrived at an understanding of a few more modest truths: ... Most of us yearn to comprehend how we got here, and why - which is to say, most of us ache to know the love of our creator. And we will no doubt feel that ache, most of us, for as long as we happen to be alive."
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