Friday 7 October 2011

Faith

Meanderings around a comment on the previous post left by Cathy and a far superior piece of writing than that which is to follow from the wickedly good TracyOC.

I feel that this post probably deserves a word of warning. I have tended to avoid mention of religion here, mainly because when I attempt to even think about faith, God, sin, morality, mortality and so, I can feel my tiny wee brain sputtering, straining and generally reaching a state very close to kaput. But here goes, the wheels are about to come off people. Consider yourself warned that this post doesn't make a great deal of sense.

One thing that has become glaringly obvious since August 2008 is that I have the ability to believe two contradictory things at once, equally fervently. Whether this ability was latent and activated by the events of August 2008, pushing me out into a world where I had to consider possibilities that, up until that point, I had preferred to ignore, or whether that ability was conferred upon me by Georgina's death, is a moot point. I can hardly remember what I thought, or how my brain worked, or even who I was, prior to then.

Between the 26th and 29th of August, I was convinced that Georgina would live, saved by medical technology and the cleverness of mankind, saved by nebulous forces of Good. Because she had survived thus far, because she was named after my grandmother, because God loved me and would answer my prayers (although how I squared this with the fact that many, many other cries that rose up over those three days would go unanswered I have yet to figure out), because the doctors were too clever and the machines too efficient to let the outcome be otherwise.

Between the 26th and 29th of August, I was convinced that Georgina would die, because that knowledge was born deep in my bones just as surely as she was born from me, because mankind simply isn't that damn clever, because machines malfunction and break, because she would be condemned by nebulous forces of Bad. Because I was a rotten, broken person, because God hated me and either scoffed at my prayers or sternly waved his finger at me.

And I am certain that, if I were to root around in the distant past of this blog, I would find two contradictory descriptions of that time. The happiest time of my life, the saddest time of my life. But neither of them are lies. My certainty that she would live, my certainty that she would die, are both equally true. My surprise when she did. My sense of something inevitable occurring when she did. Not irreconcilable to my new and twisty brain. Both descriptions are a reflection of the truth, in my Schrodinger's cat like mind where both things happened, happen and continue to happen. And I'm not opening the box to find out the true state of affairs thank you very much. I'll keep the top of my skull right where it is.

In the Venn diagram of my superstitious and rather limited world view, two circles can overlap and, eventually, engulf one another, a multiplicity of statements and intentions happily co-existing whereas previously I had felt that one had to be pushed out in order for the other to remain believable. I used to think that I couldn't have both. But now there is no room for mutual exclusivity in my world, the conditions in my brain fall into perfect intersection every time. In the world of probabilities, things that looked like P(A and B)= 0, blur and rearrange into a world where there are no disjoints. I can have it all. Even if I don't particularly want any of it.

My brain has become an odd, bifurcating place. Sometimes I look in the mirror and feel vaguely surprised that I do not have a tree growing out of the side of my head. Or at least something slightly more branchy and leafy than the apparently smooth expanse of skull, skin and hair that is reflected back at me.

I suppose that what I am groping towards is that since Georgina died I have both perfect faith and no faith at all. So it provides both every single consolation and none whatsoever depending on the light and the prevailing wind conditions. And I'm fairly sure that maintaining faith in the presence of no faith precludes that faith being perfect? Hedging your bets, I hear you cry. Yes, 'tis convenient I will admit but there you have it.

I always found a strange beauty in the idea of the leap of faith, the virtue of the absurd, of finding certainty where, by rights and rational argument, there should be no such thing. Something that makes so little sense that, in a circular fashion, it could possibly make all the sense in the world.

It is hard to make that leap, to choose to believe in anything benevolent, or kind, or beautiful, when life has grabbed you by the head and smooshed your face up against the plastic wall of an incubator and forced you to watch your baby die by degrees. So that there can be no doubt that this particular individual, this part of the wonder of creation, who to you is all the world and your heart and your dear, dear love, is going to stop before she even really got started. And it is, in all probability, going to hurt her. It's certainly going to hurt you and anyone who has even a passing care for you.

But when I looked at my daughters, close up, how I could fail to believe in kindness, in beauty, in benevolence? Because the living yearn for life and those two tiny babies reached out towards it. Even watching those stretching arms made my heart curl around itself.

When you are in that impossible place, what else can you do, where else can you go? In order to carry on breathing in and out until your turn comes around. You have to believe. You have to disbelieve. All at once.

And because this sort of post would not be complete without some sort of Biblical quotation, here is a bit of Exodus 33.

And the LORD said unto Moses, I will do this thing also that thou hast spoken: for thou hast found grace in my sight, and I know thee by name.
 And he said, I beseech thee, shew me thy glory.
 And he said, I will make all my goodness pass before thee, and I will proclaim the name of the LORD before thee; and will be gracious to whom I will be gracious, and will shew mercy on whom I will shew mercy.
 And he said, Thou canst not see my face: for there shall no man see me, and live.
 And the LORD said, Behold, there is a place by me, and thou shalt stand upon a rock:
 And it shall come to pass, while my glory passeth by, that I will put thee in a clift of the rock, and will cover thee with my hand while I pass by:
 And I will take away mine hand, and thou shalt see my back parts: but my face shall not be seen.

I've always liked these verses, particularly in the King James version. Everything sounds better in the King James.
When it comes to faith, I think that is where I am.
Wedged in the clift of the rock, facing the wrong way and covered up by a hand whose existence I am uncertain of.
Part of me reads these verses thinking, "Hmmmm, magical face that nobody can see without expiring? Back parts you say? Well well well, how very convenient for You." 
Immediately followed by cowering and fear of smiting. And you will note that I have capitalised the Y so I must believe that Someone is watching.

Part of me reads this thinking, why did you not show mercy to me? Why did you not show mercy to her? Or shew mercy even. And my question is answered, left hanging in the air and rendered entirely irrelevant all at once. Mercy, no mercy or a world where it is just a question of chances and biology and mercy never enters the equation. Or only the mercy wielded by mere humans. 

A God whose actions were kindly but un-interpretable, a God whose actions were a punishment, a God who is looking away, distracted by bigger mysteries than mine, no God at all, a roaring void, a calm absence, a place where the absence of God would be a blessed relief. All of these things happily line up next to one another. And I can choose which one I will or believe in all of them at once. 

Part of me is convinced that a great deal of nothing will pass behind me whilst I am wedged in that rock, not looking. 
Part of me is convinced that all the glory in the world rushes past my unsuspecting back.

15 comments:

  1. Wow I totally get it.

    I come from a very religous family, stuck knee deep in Southern Baptist beliefs. I grew up in the church but I always had my doubts, yet I also always have had my beliefs.
    My left brain argues with my right brain. The whole how can you believe in what you can't see. But then I argue, there is beauty and their is miracles so there must be a higher being.
    I love Science yet my heart still pulls me to God, I read the Bible, yet I rarely attend church.
    Losing Braedon has made me want to believe so much more then ever before. I want to have hope that one day I will see him again and this little box of bones and ashes is not really him and his soul has been set free.
    It is so hard to find the right path here, when I want to say, it is not possible that there is a God, because how could he take my child in this manner. But I also want to believe that there is a God who is holding my son in his kingdom.
    So to add to my wishy washy mutterings:
    Two of my relatives recently mentioned that Death is never part of God's plan??? But I thought that everything was part of God's plan. It is all so confusing and even more so when you throw grief into it.

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  2. The contradictory stories, neither of which are lies I get so well.

    I don't talk much about faith or belief or religion (online or elsewhere) because it can be so divisive but more because my own thoughts are sometimes so muddled or so clear but fragile that to put them in words for others threatens them.

    I found myself singing "I'll Fly Away" (Allison Krauss and Gillian Welch version, the one in my mind) to Henry often when he was in the hospital. Hoping, believing that he would live, wanting his struggle to end, thinking of freedom from the hospital and machines and meds, letting any other kind of release flit only in the edges of my mind.

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  3. First of all, thank you for the compliment. Hopefully my post isn't too disappointing for the folks who click through after reading this one.

    This morning one of my husband's family members got on FB and said that she needed to praise God today because her grandson is healthy and thriving. Her friends chimed in with a chorus of comments along the same lines and it made me wonder what they would say if he wasn't well or if it looked like he'd probably die. Would anyone say that God is great all of the time under those circumstances? If you aren't willing to say it publicly, does it mean that you believe it a little less?

    This post feels like the right counterbalance to that series of FB comments. Is it really faith if you feel it constantly? If it were as constant as the sky or the sunrise, wouldn't it be knowledge? I guess that shaky faith or divided faith seems perfect to me because it's been tested and left at least partially intact. Maybe this is the faith/science interface.

    I'm taking the long way 'round to say that I understand this.

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  4. Catherine this just sums it up beautifully. I used to think that double-think was a kind of moral failing, now I think it is a more realistic view of the world and its complexity.

    I also like Tracy's point to that it is doubt - or the connectedness of doubt and faith - which *makes* faith.

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  5. Catherine, I love and admire you more than ever for having the bravery to write about this - what you *really* think, not what you might think people think you should think. :)

    It is not easy to do, and it can be a scary operation.

    I don't have time to write much at the moment, but I'm pondering it all. So thankful you "touched the void."

    These are the kinds of conversations I long to have and find difficult to have because people either won't have them or won't be honest when they have them. You jumped both obstacles, easily.

    Appreciative,

    Cathy in Missouri

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  6. I love your writing and it always blows my mind. I think this *might* be my favourite post of yours (but I reserve the right to feel that way about some of your previous posts and any of your future ones too :-p).

    The image of being in the cleft of the rock whilst nothing or everything passes behind you - wonderful, perfect, true and amazing.

    There is so much more I want to say but my brain feels like melted fudge so I shall leave it there.

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  7. Catherine I find myself reading this post and nodding my head in agreement with all of it. I read the post you linked to and found I have the same reaction.. wordless because it has been said so well.

    I must thank you for the Exodus excerpt.. I rather like that one. How fitting indeed for those of us who walk this path.

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  8. Catherine-

    All of your writing is so very beautiful.

    I agree with what the above poster wrote- in that all of the struggling and doubt, I feel that my faith has been refined.

    I hope that you can find an easy medium somewhere in all of this mess. I know for me it comes and goes.... day by day.

    Much love

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  9. Wow. So honest. So human.

    I think about writing about faith, but that is as far as I get. I hear you. I'm afraid to admit so much of it yet. I believe. How/what do I believe?

    I like the faith you describe. I recognise it. It feels real. It feels obvious, like how could it be any other way?

    Thank you for putting it into words.

    Louise

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  10. you always seem to hit a note with me and give me something to think about. you also express beautifully what i didn't even know i was thinking about. i understand this duality, how could it not be this way, i have always thought that what we have all been through is representative of a true life, of living a full life. even where i sit now i can see this. xxx anne, harvey and dots mum xxx

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  11. Thanks so much for this, Catherine. I think about faith (or my lack of it) all the time, and I love the way you describe holding contradictions within yourself.

    I'm further from perfect faith, or even imperfect faith than I've ever been, and I'm still very cranky about how much mercy seems to be needed and about how little seems to be shewn, but some days the world and the people in it are so beautiful again that they seem to glow, and I don't know if I'm glimpsing the divine or just frail, dusty, earthly beauty, or if those things are as different as I used to think. Sometimes I wonder if those snatches of time might be a back road to faith.

    I love the image of you wedged in that rock - even though I'm not sure what or who is passing behind you. But I hope it's not entirely uncomfortable. God should, at the very least, provide a pillow or two and some beverages.

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  12. "Part of me is convinced that all the glory in the world rushes past my unsuspecting back."

    Thought and thought and thought about your post, Catherine. Of many lines to love, I love this one the best. It stays.

    What confuses me is what faith is "supposed" to look like. I mean: I so often see it looking like something no sane person would ever want. Correction; I so often see something that is *called* faith looking like something no sane person would ever want.

    Some of the hardest people for me to be around are the ones who clearly consider themselves "the faithful." I prefer the suffering, wondering, troubled, seeking, questioning searchers. Almost always, they are more honest.

    I have no stomach for the pat answers and neat-and-tidy-boxes-of-shoulds handed by the non-suffering to the suffering.

    I like your post. I'm glad you wrote. I think you're brave.

    I do believe in God. And I am still very, very confused about life on planet earth. Especially the other humans part.

    Glad you're there,

    Cathy in Missouri

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  13. Thank you so much for these comments. I was rather worried that this post might be met by resounding silence or worse. It's a bit clumsy but I think it is fairly close to what I think (or double think, which was the phrase I was probably groping towards Hanen!)

    Relieved that I'm not the only one wedged in the rock, not entirely sure what is going on and still waiting for my beverages and pillows.

    Glad you're here too Cathy. Thank you for your original comment, for your comments on this post and for making me think about these things in the first instance.

    You aren't alone in your confusion. If that is any consolation at all.

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  14. Wow. A lot to think about in this post, Catherine. I'm glad you wrote about this topic, even though it was difficult for you. Thank you.

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