Wobbly Faith

I would like to say that the untimely death of my nephew on May 1st found me standing firmly in my faith. I would like to say that, but I won’t because that would be a lie. If I’m being honest, my faith has been a little wobbly.

Because my nephew’s visitation was anticipated to be so large (and it was–well over 350 people lined up to grieve with our family), the funeral home decided the larger, more open church would be the better place for both the visitation and the funeral. So, for 5 or 6 hours last Tuesday, and for 3-3.5 hours last Wednesday, I sat, paced, cried, laughed, and hugged others in a house of faith. This was the same house of faith, mind you, in which I had witnessed my nephew be baptized, have his first communion, and get confirmed. So many happy memories there and, now, this horribly sad one–all commingled in one space.

As I sat and paced and cried and laughed and hugged others, I wondered about faith–my faith, your faith, my nephew’s faith. I wondered if my faith was any good for such a time as this–if it was any good for anything anymore at all. I marveled at how horribly inadequate the answers I thought my faith provided seemed to be at a time like this, and contemplated if those answers had really been answers at all or just things I told myself were solid and true because life was going smoothly. To say that I had questions was an understatement and–even though I preach that God is in the questions–I was beginning to wonder if I actually thought that was true now?

In her book “Plan B:  Further Thoughts on Faith,” author Anne Lamott writes, “I have a lot of faith. But I am also afraid a lot, and have no real certainty about anything. I remembered something Father Tom had told me--that the opposite of faith is not doubt, but certainty. Certainty is missing the point entirely. Faith includes noticing the mess, the emptiness and discomfort, and letting it be there until some light returns.” 

It seems that my uncertainty and my questions have not been faithless, they have been faith-FULL. Filled with pain and questions and doubt and black holes and the physical and emotional messiness of tears. Filled with times when I was so tired that I didn’t even know what day it was. Filled with only the goings on of life in the “grief bubble” that made it seem like no outside world existed. Filled with almost nothing that I could control or bend to my will, and yet letting it all be there without trying to stuff it down or suck it up or soldier on or put some positive spin on it–hoping, believing, waiting for even the tiniest shred of light to find its way through the darkness once more.

One thing I know for sure is that this, unfortunately, will not be the last time I feel shaken to my core. Nor will you, dear reader, somehow escape such moments while on this side of heaven. Faith is not some insurance policy for a “good vibes only” kind of existence. It is not a set of biblical absolutes that feel cold and empty in the face of tragedy, or that offer answers that somehow ring hollow when rung in the face of the inexplicable. It is not always smiling and always looking on the bright side of everything. 

Faith is the holy wafer of comfort that we are offered again and again in the midst of all the spirit-shaking situations of our lives. It is what feeds our will to keep moving forward when every step feels like it is being taken in cement shoes. It is the sustenance that offers us our daily bread–exactly what we need to keep breathing for the next minute, the next hour, the next day. Faith understands what we sometimes do not:  That everything doesn’t happen for a reason, but everything does happen. AND even the longest streaks of rainy days eventually come to an end. Even the most uncomfortable moments do not last forever. Even the darkest of the darkness is eventually met with light.

I don’t know about you, but for me, that’s a faith that matters. That is a faith that is relevant to the messiness of my everyday life–that is useful to what I really deal with–not what some cleaned up version of myself deals with. It is a faith that may not hold many answers, but one that makes space for all of my questions and doubts and musings all the same.

So I guess I’ll let others “stand firm” and be certain. I choose to keep cultivating the kind of faith that’s big enough for my questions--that's wide enough for all that I cannot explain. I choose the kind of faith that leaves enough room for me to wobble a bit.

Growing in a wobbly faith with you,
Pr. Melissa

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