Let’s back up to this summer, specifically late July. I was reading the Gospels and opening myself to convert to Christianity. I even had an idea about where and when I would make my final determination: at The Hermitage.
I like making plans. I like to know what to expect. And I felt like I had done all the right things. I had thought everything through carefully. I had prayed about it. I had relied on my spiritual impressions of my experiences and tried to be open to them. I figured this decision was in my hands and that I was fully capable of making an informed choice about the direction of my religious life. Oh, the best laid plans of mice and men…
So, I was on vacation with Hubby and my mother in late July. An evangelical Southern Baptist friend had loaned me a book. Actually, it was two books in one: The Case for Christ and The Case for Faith by Lee Strobel. Our friend was just trying to be helpful. Everyone is. Hubby and I had visited his church with him on a day he was preaching and I enjoyed the sermon very much. Plenty of talk about sin.
Now, I don’t mind a service on sin. I don’t bat an eye when a devout Baptist tells me, for my own good, that I’m a sinner who must repent. And I ask forgiveness of God each time I pray. But the thing of it is, I don’t believe the Prophet Jesus died for my sins, or that he can redeem me. There’s the rub.
In any case, I read about 300 pages of this book. And as I read, I grew more and more disillusioned. With Jesus. Strobel was absolutely positive of his views. There was no room for alternative thinking, no room for doubts, only room for the Prophet Jesus as the sole answer to every question.
I try to be uber positive in this blog. I’m not here to diss any religion. In my worst moments, I remain silent.
But that book was really disheartening. And to be honest, my readings of the Gospels weren’t going well, either. I didn’t feel inspired. I didn’t feel convinced. I was reading companions to each of the Gospels by a Jesuit Father named Paul Mccaron. He was very gentle, but his methods weren’t working for me either. I thought to myself: “If this is what it means to be a Christian, I will never be a Christian. And if I can’t believe the core tenets of Christianity, I don’t think I can attend a Christian church.”
I went home, confirmed with Marie that the Quakers were not solely a Christian congregation, and attended some Friends services over the summer.
I was afraid to get to know anyone for fear I’d learn they didn’t believe in God. If you’ll recall, that was my base-bottom requirement for any church I attended. That was ultimately the reason I left the Unitarian Universalist Church, despite liking so much about it: the services, the singing, the people, the religious ed, the volunteer opportunities. But there was a lack of religious conviction about the existence of God.
So, there hasn’t been much in the way of community with the Friends. Every third Sunday there’s a potluck and rather than attend, I run (in a semi-panic). “Please don’t disappoint me!” I want to say, “I have no objection to what you want to believe, but what I want most right now is to find like-minded people.”
With the silent worship itself there’s very little opportunity to be disappointed. And plenty of time to worship God in my own way. More than once, though, I’d driven all the way over to the meeting hall only to pull out of my parking spot and return home without going inside. A couple of times I’d become so frustrated, I’d left halfway through. A lack of trust. Of faith in my fellows. Of a willingness on my part to toss in my lot with this group of seekers and set aside my doubts about particular points of belief, even for an hour. I was getting cranky.
In the meantime, my religiosity ebbed in other ways. I quit praying when I was alone. Gradually, I started eating pork again. I wasn’t volunteering or doing service work in any capacity. I knew God was there. I knew He always would be. I hadn’t lost my connection to God. I was just taking a break from an intensive, two-year odyssey that had ended in a gentle but unmistakable fizzle. Clearly, I had done something wrong.
I had tried to be honest with myself and everyone else involved in my search. To be faithful to God. To do the right things. My plans hadn’t worked out, and if you have plans with God and they don’t work out, who is there to blame? In the constellation I live under, you don’t blame God.
But I didn’t know what to think, or do about it. I was confused and irritable.
I had been planning to go to The Hermitage since the spring but for a couple of months I didn’t make any moves toward that goal. It seemed pointless. I’d lost my feel for prayer. What would three days of silence be like for someone who wasn’t in a praying frame of mind?
Finally, I just decided to do it. I didn’t pray about it. It wasn’t an inspired choice. I was looking at a hectic work schedule and realized that if I didn’t make a reservation soon, I might not have a spot by the time my work situation let me breathe again.
So I made the reservation. But right up until the weekend before I left, I doubted what good it would do me, and I considered not going.
I’m so glad I did.
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