Sunday, December 2, 2012

Losing Faith

I am done.

That’s what I tell myself. Or maybe what I hear. I hear it in the early hours of the day. I hear it as I slip into sleep.


I know. You’re hoping for me to finish the sentence. Well, okay.

With waiting. With hoping. With dreaming. With believing that something will be made from the ashes. (Don’t even start with the “beauty from ashes” songs. Don’t. even.) With praying. I prefer yelling. Maybe sometimes mixed with begging.

I asked Him. Asked Him for years not to make it turn out this way. I played and replayed the “worst possible scenario,” and still it came.

I can hear the laughter in the background. Sinister bellowing.

Fine. You win! Cause, yep, you guessed it. I am done.

But here’s the dumb thing. I get paid to talk about God and what He’s done. I get paid to talk about what He’s doing now. Sometimes it sucks. Last week I was counting cursor blinks.

One, two, three, four…

What could I possibly have to say? Umm, I don’t get Him. Umm, why does He allow the wicked to prosper? How should I know? They’ve been prospering for years. Umm, yeah, I have a serious list of all my disappointments and a few complaints for Him. Can I use that?

Also, did I mention I was dealing with parables. They make me nuts. NUTS.

No, they aren’t easy because they’re stories. They’re hard. Shocking, disturbing. Yes, they mess with me.

But do you know what also happens? Somehow I start typing. Writing out silly things about God sending the Holy Spirit to do the work we can’t possibly do on our own.

In the end, there are paragraphs of words. Words I believe. Words of what is buried deep in my heart. The deepest places in me that wrestle with the mysteries of God. And I realize I would defend Him with everything in me, though I have no idea what He’s doing. I can’t make sense of what He’s done, but I love Him.

Next, I’m forced to write about Advent. It gets easier. The writing, that is. Not Advent. Because it’s mixed with groaning, and as much as I smile when I view the purple stolls across the Eucharist table, I hurt for friends lost in brokenness and uncertainty this season. For friends waiting and hoping for good news. For those feeling betrayed, by their bodies, their loved ones, and maybe even their God.

I come home and fry up tostada shells, and I pray.

I ache. I utter. I sigh.

I’m not done. To Whom else could I go?