This is part 3 of a story in five parts. Catch up here:
Part 1: Waiting for a sign
Part 2: A sinking feeling
I resolved that nothing was more important than my inquiry into the reality of Christianity. I was going to dig deep.
Part 1: Waiting for a sign
Part 2: A sinking feeling
I resolved that nothing was more important than my inquiry into the reality of Christianity. I was going to dig deep.
After some internal debate, I went to the registrar on the
last drop/add day and dropped Professor Stansell’s Old Testament class. I’d
never quit anything before and feared I was copping out to avoid challenges. But
when I went by his office to ask him to sign my drop/add slip and said goodbye,
I felt free to pursue the questions in my own way, on my own timeline.
I walked across the prairie with my boyfriend and told him I
needed a lot of space. We decided to take a break. For me this was going to be
a solitary journey.
I e-mailed the mentors of my childhood. I checked out of the
library a stack of books on theology and faith I couldn’t carry. I drilled my roommate
with questions she couldn’t answer.
My father typed up a summary of his own winding path to God,
and sent it to me by e-mail. It comforted me for a moment, but I woke up the
next morning afraid that I, as my father, would have to stray for years, to let
go of God completely for a season, in order to truly return.
I canceled my spring break plans and went
home to Maryland .
I lay on the couch all week, discovering my mom’s 1960s folk LPs and sleeping.
I didn’t visit my friends.
Natasha, my old youth minister, called and
told me to come over.
When I walked in, we didn’t sit down, just
stood in the foyer. “What’s up?” she asked.
“Well I guess
I still believe in God.” I hung on the railing, not wanting to look in her eyes,
yet wanting desperately for her to know my pain. I rambled about the latest
fears.
“You are hearing a lot of voices, Katie,” she
told me. “Mostly voices that are telling you God is distant. Give yourself time
to hear the voices that speak for
God, too.”
“I can’t run away from it,” I told her.
“You don’t have to run,” she said. “Don’t be
afraid. Just listen.”
While I was home, my mother took me to the
National Zoo. We walked around in chilly April air and saw the sea otters
playing, carefree on their stone waterslides. We stood in line to see the new
baby panda, black and white and fuzzy. At the elephant house, the zookeepers
were giving the elephant a bath. I fell in love with the elephant as he
gently stretched his trunk into a perfect loop and stuffed a tree in his mouth.
How beautiful the giant grey folds in his skin, the slow, deliberate swinging
of his trunk and tilting of his head.
As I watched him, I thought, yes, he evolved through natural selection, and I thought, yes, he was created by God.
*
Back in Minnesota , I went to church on Good
Friday, wary of hearing canned statements about Jesus dying on the cross. I was
broken. Why should I ask for pardon and atonement?
I sat in the hard wooden pew while a short pastor told a
different Good Friday story. He spoke of a group of people who gave their whole
lives to their friend, because they believed in him. One day they turned around
and saw him stabbed and hanging on a tree to die. From the tree, they heard
their friend cry out, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”
These words hit me anew. Was the Christian story from its
beginning a story of doubt? Was even Jesus himself not immune to it?
I stayed up all night that night, sitting in the lounge with
my roommate and another friend, nothing important to say, just that we didn’t
want to turn out the light. Something in me began to open. In recounting her
own journey, Simone Weil writes in Waiting for God:
If still persevering
in our love, we fall to the point where the soul cannot keep back the cry ‘My
God, why hast thou forsaken me?’, if we remain at this point without ceasing to
love, we end by touching something…that is the central essence, necessary and
pure, something not of the senses, common to joy and sorrow: the very love of
God.
Was it possible that in stripping away everything, I would
still find something left?
On Easter, two days later, I heard of quiet, fearful women
unable to find Jesus’ body; whispers that something strange and frightening and
wonderful was happening. A story I couldn’t touch. I liked it.
I began to amble back slowly. In quiet moments walking on
the trails, a blooming pink bud reached a part deep inside me that still felt
God. As I opened my Bible again, I skipped over certain books and stayed on the
gospel accounts. When I accidentally opened to a confusing passage or heard a
pastor say something contradictory, I felt my heart miss a beat. So I flipped
back to the gospel of Mark, again and again, where the women wake up early on
the first day of the week, go to weep over Jesus’ body and find an empty tomb,
and don’t know what to think.
There are hiccups on every journey. I skipped a girls night with my friends one weekend, sat in my room feeling disconnected and misunderstood. I waded alone again into the library. Why should I put my
heart through the dangerous business of hope once again? When I still had not
answered the logical questions?
I called and told Ellen, the director of my Christian camp, that I would have to back out of my summer contract as a counselor. I couldn’t be a mentor of faith to teenage girls. She listened to my story and said, “Nonsense. We want you here.”
To read about that beautiful summer at camp, go to Part 4.
I called and told Ellen, the director of my Christian camp, that I would have to back out of my summer contract as a counselor. I couldn’t be a mentor of faith to teenage girls. She listened to my story and said, “Nonsense. We want you here.”
To read about that beautiful summer at camp, go to Part 4.
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