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There and back again
I finally finished the overdue theology paper that I was moaning about months ago. Good thing too. I had an absolute deadline of Friday, or risk getting booted from the program. The paper was supposed to be about the writings of a 14th century Christian mystic, who outlined a process of contemplative meditation. Somewhere along the way it turned into my own mystical journey, reflected in the writings of the anonymous author.
Once I finished, I could understand why it was so hard to write. It's funny how it is sometimes so difficult to put two and two together. It had never occurred to me that my struggle with the paper was directly related to how I was struggling with my faith.
I'm not going to get into it now, but around the end of 2001 I really started to struggle with my concept of who or what God was. It was pretty tough. Here I was in the middle of a five-year theology program, and I began to seriously doubt the very existence of God. I remember feeling this most acutely when I was in Rome. I sat in St. Peter's Basilica, the very heart of Christianity. I was at a Mass, close enough to the Pope that I could have reached out and touched him, and I felt absolutely nothing at all. I had thought that I would feel the overwhelming presence of God there, but there was nothing. Nothing at all. I visited cathedral after cathedral, and felt only emptiness. I came home and pretty much gave up. I continued in the program, but my heart wasn't in it.
Then, a few months ago, I attended a talk by a Trappist monk on the author I was supposed to write about. During his talk he said something that relit a spark of hope in what I thought was an extinguished faith. It had to do with the idea that God is never going to be what we imagine him to be. The God that had abandoned me wasn't really God. It was what I thought God should be. The abandonment was a gift. It allowed me to be free of the distraction of something I had created, and freed me to continue my journey. The funny thing is that the book I was writing on is exactly about this--about letting go of what we think God is, so that God can enter our lives. About not being distracted. It's called <>The Cloud of Unknowing.
So I sat down friday and started writing, and the words just flowed. It was painful--a couple of times I just started sobbing and had to stop for a while. I finished it, and then had trouble reading it through. It was just too raw. I submitted it as it was. I let my wife read it, and I think it kind of shocked her. She has an unshakable faith, and finds it difficult to understand what I have been going through the past year. I guess I'm just a complex person.
I'm still not sure who or what God is, but I know God exists. But he exists in a way that I will never be able to intellectualize. I'll only be able to feel it. So now we sit together in silence, and gaze at each other. Words are unnecessary. I feel surrounded by his presence.
Once I finished, I could understand why it was so hard to write. It's funny how it is sometimes so difficult to put two and two together. It had never occurred to me that my struggle with the paper was directly related to how I was struggling with my faith.
I'm not going to get into it now, but around the end of 2001 I really started to struggle with my concept of who or what God was. It was pretty tough. Here I was in the middle of a five-year theology program, and I began to seriously doubt the very existence of God. I remember feeling this most acutely when I was in Rome. I sat in St. Peter's Basilica, the very heart of Christianity. I was at a Mass, close enough to the Pope that I could have reached out and touched him, and I felt absolutely nothing at all. I had thought that I would feel the overwhelming presence of God there, but there was nothing. Nothing at all. I visited cathedral after cathedral, and felt only emptiness. I came home and pretty much gave up. I continued in the program, but my heart wasn't in it.
Then, a few months ago, I attended a talk by a Trappist monk on the author I was supposed to write about. During his talk he said something that relit a spark of hope in what I thought was an extinguished faith. It had to do with the idea that God is never going to be what we imagine him to be. The God that had abandoned me wasn't really God. It was what I thought God should be. The abandonment was a gift. It allowed me to be free of the distraction of something I had created, and freed me to continue my journey. The funny thing is that the book I was writing on is exactly about this--about letting go of what we think God is, so that God can enter our lives. About not being distracted. It's called <>The Cloud of Unknowing.
So I sat down friday and started writing, and the words just flowed. It was painful--a couple of times I just started sobbing and had to stop for a while. I finished it, and then had trouble reading it through. It was just too raw. I submitted it as it was. I let my wife read it, and I think it kind of shocked her. She has an unshakable faith, and finds it difficult to understand what I have been going through the past year. I guess I'm just a complex person.
I'm still not sure who or what God is, but I know God exists. But he exists in a way that I will never be able to intellectualize. I'll only be able to feel it. So now we sit together in silence, and gaze at each other. Words are unnecessary. I feel surrounded by his presence.
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I sent a copy of the paper to your email address. Thanks for the comments!
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