Mozart - a great way to start any morning...
I have never been a morning person. In fact, my mother
used to call me “Evil-ina” as a child when I reluctantly descended the
stairs. For me, morning was always the
time to shrink back underneath the covers and pretend that just a few more
minutes of closing your eyes in the darkness would do the trick. These days, mornings are my favorite – especially
days like today when I don’t have to be anywhere. I rather enjoy stumbling
around the house in my bathrobe searching for that first, elusive cup of
coffee, strains of “The Golden Girls” on the tv in other room as I stare
blankly out the window, ignoring the lawn that needs to be cut, reveling in all
the changing colors, but not the neighbors leaves on the grass…ah, fall.
I work from home most Wednesday, although
things seem to get scheduled on these days with annoying frequency. In theory, Wednesdays – at least the mornings
– are supposed to be all about me. It’s
not selfish. It’s survival.
At this morning’s brain feeding at the time-sucking
trough of Ye Facebook Oracle, I came across 2 articles – this one here about understanding and living with the things we feel like we’ve lost (even
though, perhaps, we haven’t lost them yet), and this one here about Millennials and high church. These
articles seemingly have nothing do with each other, but the combination of
the two unleashed some powerful stuff.
I had an immediate, irrepressible urge to write. For me, writing is much like music and the
need to get on the instrument - gotta have it, gotta have it now, when the
heart says it’s time. Screw the world
and its schedule. It’s not a need,
it’s a NEED. I opened up my blog
interface, was assaulted by that dark page with the red candles on it, and I
just couldn't do it. I clicked the “x”
and moved on to Word.
Under the Cassock.
A cassock that has been a suffocating, torturous presence – a reminder
of hurt and loss, of unanswered prayers.
A hurt that is deep, because it is mixed with joy and success and music
and life changing opportunities. I can’t
integrate these things together in my mind.
These feelings can’t possibly coexist.
I don’t want this cassock anymore.
I don’t believe in it
Or do I?
I have struggled mightily with my beliefs and with my
faith. Do I believe in God? Yes.
Probably. Most of the time. Probably all of the time, but sometimes I don’t
want to – not always because of God, but because of all the ‘stuff” that comes
with God, even though it really has no place there. “They” – you know, those
people - say that “God’s presence is with us through the people around us.” Really?
Even when those you love and to whom you are closest disappoint you and
fail you in massively destructive ways? What
a cruel joke. Some other “they” will
probably say, “Well, Nicole, if your faith was stronger you would accept that
this is God’s path for you, and would just bow your head lower and pray for
Jesus to take all your pain away.”
I think “they” are full of it.
God doesn't promise that to take all our pain away – not in
this lifetime. God promises to be a
presence in our lives through EVERY time, difficult and joyful. And guess what – his presence mostly comes
through those people up there who, at times, fail and disappoint us. See?
Here I am making arguments for God in the midst of doubting him. Perhaps I was just well indoctrinated as a
child. Or, perhaps faith is a living,
breathing, organic being that can never tolerate being static. <Sigh> Sometimes the truth is annoying.
Do I believe in The Church? No.
Absolutely not. It’s a dream that
will never become a reality. Too many
people posturing, hurting, hiding, making it all about themselves instead of about
God. “But, Nicole,” you may say, “don’t you
‘work’ in a church? Doesn't your ‘work’ require
you to fill a pastoral and educational role that, if you really don’t believe
in The Church, would make you a hypocrite?”
Why yes, yes it does.
Well, in a way. I work in that
little community because I love those people.
Some of us have been through quite a bit together, and some of us are
making new, awesome memories as we speak. And throughout all these things, we
come and worship together every week, even when we don’t want to be there. There are times when I cannot wrap my mind
around these things coexisting together; times when all that hurt, loss and
unanswered prayer seems insurmountable, and the best thing to do is turn your
back on it and walk slowly and deliberately towards something else. But then those NEW things come bouncing along
and for just a few minutes, I can forget about the hurt. And the hurt drifts farther, and farther away. Don’t get me wrong – it's still
there. Just in a fuzzy, indiscernible
shape on the horizon. Some wise person might
say, “Well, duh, Nicole, that is The Church.”
Wish I could see it.
I used to have a lot of interesting conversation with friends
and colleagues about faith and church. I
used to enjoy them. Now they just make my
head hurt. I learned a lot about God as a
child – hard to avoid it as a Preacher's Kid, but we tried our best. I also heard a lot of people talk about their
relationships with God. Most of this
talk happened on Sundays mornings in some liturgical or teaching context. What I never really learned is that doubt is
ok. Doubt about anything, really. How else can we really learn what is truth to
us if we don’t explore every side of that truth? That would have been a nice little nugget to
pack away as a child – ignored at first, like every other seemingly unimportant
parental teaching, but then discovered later on like your favorite piece of
candy in your pocket when lunch is still an hour away and you skipped breakfast.
I suppose the beauty in all this is that different people
see different things, and THAT is the beauty of life, the very life of what is
beauty. I can love it, you can hate it,
and yet “it” is still there for someone else to interpret and breathe in. I think, perhaps, there is a wee bit of The Church in that thought.
