I am digging deep to find strength for the living of these days. Certainly, I am dealing with health issues and aging, enough to wrap a comforting cloak of depression around my self. I am deeply concerned about a dear family member who is working through sorrow. I am sad that people come to the abyss of life feeling that the only answer for them is to take their own lives.
My faith is filled with questions . . . How does faith really work? How can I place myself in God’s comforting presence? How do I pray, for myself, for my family and friends, for this nation, for the world? And most of all my question is simply “Why?”
I hear news reports that cause me sadness. I see photos of parentless immigrant children that break my heart. I hear the voices of individuals who still demean women. I watch senior adults in our nation trying to live without adequate healthcare. I share the shame of homeless veterans who placed their lives in harm’s way for this country. I hear the ringing of gunshots echoing from past school shootings, a sound in my spirit that I cannot silence.
I listen to the voices of young school children who say they are afraid to go to school, and Imsee their anxious parents who just want to hold their children close, far away from danger. And I hear the loud, clear and confident voices of teenagers marching to Washington to demand change. That is the best sound of all, one that should give us all hope.
And then there are the things I don’t see or hear — like the voices of congressional leaders that prefer comfortable complacency over uncomfortable confrontation. Where are their voices of reason? Where is their collective wisdom that could well ease some of our nation’s unease?
That’s it. I’m a bit down about it all. And the honest truth is this: my religious rituals don’t really help. My faith, held for so many years and through so much turbulence, is faltering. My prayers seem to float into the unknown, unheard and unanswered. My laments are in vain. I fight with the demons that tell me my faith will not hold and I wrestle with the angels that whisper, “There is yet a quiet hope that does hold you in holy, gentle hands.”
That’s what I bank on.
Often, I am comforted and inspired by the writing of Bishop Steven Charleston. In this brief writing, he eloquently expresses the difficultly in finding a way to faith.
I am a thinking being not a religious robot,
And I often find my way to faith,
Finding the holy in questions,
Seeking the sacred in lament;
Wrestling with angels before the dawn finds me . . .
— Bishop Steven Charleston
If we are honest, we will admit that we find the holy in our questioning and we stumble upon the sacred in our laments. Perhaps that is faith’s true path, not the easy path we expected. In the end of all things that bring despondency, we still find our way to faith. We find the holy again and again. We find the sacred over and over even through our laments.
Faith begins to live in us while we are drowning in sorrow. No, we do not get to the very center of our faith by acting as religious robots. We get there when we stand courageously against our demons and wrestle with the angels that have the power to lift us from the depths.