Halfway into Lent it occurs to me that somewhere along the way I rationalized so much, reinvented such a great deal, that I has ceased to believe. I didn’t mean to stop believing, I just learned a lot, added a lot, got used to a lot, separated myself from a lot. I remembered grudges as well and now I have to admit I also held back a lot, afraid to be taken in.
Prayer is presence I think. I mean presenting yourself to whatever. The whatever is God regardless if you want to admit it or not, no matter how many things you slap on it. And, after a time, the Whatever is also the story you grew up in, the story you may have walked away from, the story you’ve been walking away from gradually without knowing it. You give it a chance again, afraid, disappointed, you dare to engage it. Well, this is what I’ve done.
Time is like a Mobius strip and faith exists in time. Getting dressed this morning for Mass, after morning prayer I take the comb through my hair and in a moment I am taken back to being six years old at Saint Nicholas, watching the priests and the altar boys come up the aisle. One thing links to another. All the moments of what could be called belief, but I think are better called encounter, encounter with the terrible wonder of a first Communion, of the first time I heard the text for today, the story of Lazarus. The wonder of doing one good thing, touch someone and them looking into your eyes and you—both of you seeing yourselves in the other. The discovery of love—messy love--on the edge of everything that works well and fits together. They are all linked and as I get dressed comes the proposition: why not believe?
Not believe what comes out of the book or every little thing the pastor, the priest and the Vatican tell you. Not letting go of everything that means anything, not forsaking my penchant for gay rights, Women’s rights and Lurianic Kabbalah, not letting go of everything I’ve learned. But letting go of the resentment, of the fear, that’s believing.
Why not believe?
<< Home