Thoughts on Faith and Egrets
"...unruffled, sure, by the laws
of their faith not logic,
they opened their wings
softly and stepped
over every dark thing."
My husband and I have both been ill this week, with our throats too scratchy and hoarse to even read The Fellowship of the Ring out loud to each other before bed, as has been our usual routine. So last night I picked up Mary Oliver's American Primitive, which was given to me as a gift by a dear friend from Dr. Bob Fink's Creative Writing workshop. And in one particular poem, I found words to accompany the current season of my life and the newest Great Secret I've discovered.
As is usually the case, it was right there in plain sight.
Over the past few years, I've experienced a lot of heartache and disappointment. I've seen the crumbling and the ruin of people, places, and things that I've loved with reckless abandon. And the reckless abandon part of me has been all but swallowed up.
I'll be quite open with you. Last semester, I came through a massive crisis of faith. The years of disappointment and loss came to a head and I found myself unable to place any confidence in the goodness of God. A mentor met me for lunch at Jason's Deli and I cried through most of our meeting, unconcerned about who might see.
But time passed and the throes of doubt and anger dissipated. Even though I wasn't getting along with God, I was dead-set on holding on to him. Like Peter said —
—Lord, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life.
His words became like the theme of my life. And I was sad that the fire had gone out, but I was not shocked. I had read so many warnings about this from the Aristocracy of the Kingdom of Heaven. Hudson Taylor, Amy Carmichael, George Mueller, C.S. Lewis, Oswald Chambers, Abraham, Moses – they all fought this darkness, this blank space. I knew it wasn't new to me; there wasn't room for self-pity.
I would just keep going. I would just keep doing the things. I would not worry about whether I felt anything. I would just do it.
But loving Jesus, it's not a Nike thing. It's not a thing like Shia LeBeouf yelling at the camera and pumping his arms like a gorilla (I know, why does that video exist?). It's not like that.
That's what I learned in Tijuana. Alex and I were part of a group that went down to Baja earlier this month. We built a church and a home (well, we hammered a few hundred nails, at least, and slung lime green paint on the boards, our construction skills being minimal). In the park a little boy sat down next to us while we ate our lunch one afternoon and he spoke to us in Spanish and we painstakingly constructed and fumbled through clumsy questions and answers for him. And mostly we just sat together, us and the little boy from a lonely village in the desert, not saying anything.
But what was most beautiful about the trip was all the stories people told and passed on. On the bus, on the street, in meetings after dinner and breakfast in the frigid breeze blowing off the ocean, people told their stories of staggering grace. Their stories of change, and transformation, and hope deferred but nevertheless arriving. Their stories of faith.
And I learned something: faith isn't only an action word. It isn't only about what we do. It is also a climate of the mind. It is a determination to believe, come what may, in the coming of the promise. It is a rejoicing. It is a feast. It is a banquet in honor of things that are not. And when we're holding that banquet, there's no need to feel foolish, for at the head of the table sits God — who gives life to the dead and calls into being things that were not.