on making a faith your own
From the faintest blurs of memory, you can recall:
the weathered Bible
he read in the dim light of early mornings.
The old hymns she hummed by night
as sleep overcame you.
The storied walls of that familiar sanctuary
where your every week began.
The elbow-to-elbow tables
around which they told you the story of God.
Before you
came many whispered prayers,
many bent knees.
The whole of your home--
The whole of your life--
Scaffolded by their prayers.
And so yours is an inherited faith,
an assurance handed onward.
As they lay the well-worn path of faith before
you,
Brick by brick, a foundation was set.
Yet you find yourself unsteady,
determined but incapable to stand firm.
How then untangle the neat bow, the silver
platter?
How find the milk and honey, the fine gold?
How negotiate doubt, the abyss you fear most?
---
Somehow, you’d come to assume
the great mystery was bound by church walls.
You’ve known this God since birth,
but what is this faith
if not
quiet times and gospel tracts?
programs, retreats, raised hands?
wafers, juice and the hum of contemporary song?
bookending all things, always, with a chorus of
clapping hands?
What is your allegiance to this God,
beyond the moment your pint-sized self, just four,
“asked Jesus”
into her small and eager heart?
(As if you
understood it all then.)
(As if His
kingship required your invitation.)
Thus a journey begins;
of questioning--
of pressing into the void.
Slowly, you’ll sift through culture and belief,
attempting to distinguish what was conflated so
long.
Wonder, you must.
And wander, you shall.
---
Pilgrim, take heart.
As you ponder the rites and commitments
upon which you’ve stood and relied,
You’re walking the tightrope between
who you were, and who you’re meant to be.
Softly,
you’ll learn
to honor your past,
while pursuing the depths of glory.
To you, child of God,
To you, dear (broken, glorious) saint,
Be freed of guilt,
or fear,
or shame.
Don’t overlook the humanness of your questions.
Forgive those who relentlessly evangelize you,
(from within or beyond the Church).
Forgive those who fail to welcome you,
for where
(and for who)
you are.
Find the spaces and the empaths
that know this struggle,
that delight in the rugged voyage to truth.
Let the rolling waves of this season of doubt
shipwreck you onto the shores of God’s grace.
Remember,
the Maker of the Universe can handle your unbelief and fear.
To struggle with God, as did Jacob,
is a true reminder He’s there.
As you amble upon the ancient road of faith,
you’ll dig into the tear-stained pages of
Scripture,
you’ll discover answers in promises of old.
You’ll find solace in the presence of others,
who’ve made their way through the valley, too.
But don’t forget--
to uncover holiness beyond the
weather-beaten chapel
and crowded pews.
Pay attention to divine fingerprints
in the smell of alpine air spiced by wildflowers,
and in the steady flicker of a candle.
In the sweetness of a honeycrisp,
or the way fresh linens feel on your skin in the morning.
In sunset colors spilling out of wide oceans
and filling the expanse of the sky.
In the passing of seasons beyond your window,
or the way Your breath catches at the gentle lilt
of a violin.
In words strung together with aching beauty,
and guttural laughter with the ones you love.
Because in these instances of order and goodness and beauty,
you’ll re-discover the story you’d been told all along.
And soon, you’ll find this good news to be greater,
--
To you who is called
beloved,
masterpiece,
peculiar treasure. . .
As you begin the process of building (deconstructing, renovating, restoring) this faith,
remember this:
For now,
For here,
you only see through the mirror dimly.
But one day,
beyond the veil,
you will see.
Brick by brick, a foundation was set for you.
And brick by brick, you now unbuild it,
until, finally,
you find its cornerstone.
'The lines have fallen for me in pleasant places; indeed, I have a beautiful inheritance.' (Psalm 16:6)
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