When I was fifteen, I told my dad I didn’t want to go to church anymore. I very calmly explained to him that it wasn’t right for me at that time in my life. I never wanted to believe just because I was afraid not to, or because I was afraid of death. (And believe me, I am afraid of death.) I told him maybe one day– when I was ready– I would come back to the Church. I tried to explain my well-thought-out reasoning to him maturely…
And then I told him if he tried to make me go, I’d stop coming to his house for visits on weekends.
Needless to say, I didn’t have to go to church anymore. Maybe he understood…maybe I broke his heart a little. But since that time I have been searching, in my own way, for the answers.
For some people it’s simple. Some people were raised with a faith that they never felt the need or desire to question.
Some people are so immersed in their faith that they literally can not conceive of someone doubting God’s existence; they use rote faith as proof… ie. “How can you look around at this beautiful world and not see God everywhere?” Sort of solipsistic, isn’t it?
And then there are those who insist that faith is about believing in the absence of evidence. In other words, if you want to believe, you just believe.
I am none of these people. I have issues with organized religion. I’d love to believe there is a God, but I’m not sure I 100% like the Catholic God I was raised with. Or rather, the representation of him. Many, many Christians interpret sections of the bible in ways which suit them, latching on to certain ideas, rejecting or ignoring others. And then there is the question of how literal the bible is to be taken, and then how to interpret the contradicting ideas–
-Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live… but…
-Thou shalt not kill.
Only God is allowed to judge, yet we make judgments on our fellow man all the time, often based on our interpretation of “God’s word.”
Then there is the question of whose God is the “right” God.
Also, I have a very analytic mind. My majors in school were Psychology and Sociology, so I tend to approach the idea of religion and faith in the context of those disciplines.
But all of that’s academic. In other words, it’s not the real point of this post.
A couple of years ago, my husband and I went through a period of many losses. Jobs, family members, a miscarriage, our home… At four and a half months pregnant, hubby and I uprooted and moved 800 miles on three hours’ notice. We were going through a very financially and emotionally stressing time, my husband’s unemployment at one point being held for three months (three months with NO income and a baby on the way,) and my mother and I were in the worst fight of our lives. I actually worried the stress would harm my unborn baby.
My best friend, who is pretty much “born again,” only not in the annoying, bible-thumping way, urged me to come to church with her, and to put my trust in God and ask for his help. So I tried. I really did. I prayed, although my praying was stunted because I constantly over-thought everything even AS I prayed. I would tell God about my day, and then say, “But I guess you already knew all that…” and then chide myself for presuming to guess what God may or may not know. (Weird, I know, but I’m Obsessive-Compulsive, so what do you expect?) I found it hard to concentrate, and my mind would wander so I actually started keeping a prayer journal. I also did go to church with my best friend. My husband went once or twice, more to support me than out of any feelings of faith.
And the funny thing is…I actually did start to feel a measure of peace.
Fast-forward to after my daughter’s birth. Like most new mothers probably, I was overwhelmed with emotions, chiefly deep love and deep, deep fear. Becoming a mom changed me in many ways, some expected, some not… One key difference is that I became infinitely more sensitive to media reports of violence against children. Especially violence perpetrated by people the children are supposed to be able trust. Like their parents. The number of family annihilators, mothers murdering their infants, and children abused in horrific ways is staggering. And it was weighing very heavily on my soul.
The point is, at that important juncture of my life, when I should have been the most thankful to God, when I should have looked to God the most for guidance and peace, I could not– can not– reconcile myself with the idea that a “loving god” would allow such horrors to happen to innocent children. All the “God’s plan, mysterious ways, devil’s influence, sins of humans” platitudes in the world are not enough to make me alright with this.
It has been told to me more than once by people of faith that people in general tend to blame God when something bad happens, but often don’t give Him credit when things go their way. My question is this; conversely, then, why is it okay to give Him credit for the good, but not look to Him for a damn good reason for the bad (especially something as bad a the murder of a child?)
I know it may sound like I am preaching here, but really I am just trying to sort out my thoughts, and please forgive me if this blog entry is very stream-of-consciousness or seems to ramble.
These are the things I think about when I lay awake in bed at night.
I would love to believe we are not alone in the universe, and when I try to pray at night I can almost feel like I might be talking to someone… But when I step away from that isolated moment, I feel the sterile and empirical “alone-ness” of the human condition– that all life on this planet is the result of a coincidental series of optimal conditions. That when we die, we cease to exist. That there is no judgment for the wicked people who would harm their own babies, aside from that which we mete out here on earth (our “justice” could never be enough for these people, and some escape the law entirely.) That no amount of praying can protect my child.
I keep telling myself– hoping to myself– that by the time my death approaches, hopefully after a long life filled with love, that I will have found the answers. That I won’t be afraid anymore. Now, as any good mother would, I care more for my child’s health, life, and happiness than my own anyway. So I will continue to seek the answers, however passively, and hope that one day I will be at peace with whatever those answers are.
Maybe there is a God, but He is unlike anything written in the Quran, the Bible, or ancient mythologies. Maybe he is an observer. Maybe He is Love, or maybe He is completely ambivalent. Maybe He is infinitely more complex and inscrutable than we could ever conceive with our piddly human minds.
The only thing I can know for sure is that I have to do the best I can with this life, and the best way I know to combat the fear I feel is to fight it with love. I’ll make sure those dearest to me know how much I love them.
*This is an intensely personal entry for me. In some way I can’t define, I am uncomfortable with it, and even now hesitate to click the “publish” button. Maybe for that reason more than any other, I have to post this entry.