There are things that I would like to write. I would like to write about the way the hawk wheels on his wings, and his shadow scatters the birds. I would like to write about the way the evening settles in, with its blanket of lilac and makes the beer sweat. I would like to write about the desert. Most of all, I would like to write about religion, but this is the thing that I know the least about. To be clear: I know all about religions. Not as much as some, but enough. I know about the ascendancy of myth, about the liturgical dramas of word and ritual that arose to tell those myths. I know about the crosses that people bow down to. I know about the gods and goddesses and about God and Godde.
But I do not know about religion, which is what the hymn-writer wants who wrote “give me that old time religion.” I know about having a faith, but not about having faith. Someone once said, “God, I do not love thee. I do not want to love thee. But I want to want to love thee.” Thrice-removed faith.
Does this seem somewhat bloated? Perhaps it is a little, or more than a little. What does faith matter? Faith may not be something which can be seized or held on to. I have always thought that faith is like the docking station between the human and the divine. “Faith is being certain of what is unseen,” which is taken to mean, “Believe in this thing which you do not have evidence to believe in,” or “Have a feeling when you whisper to yourself the name ‘God,’ and then call that feeling God.”
Did Jesus always have constant consciousness of the presence of God? It says that he was “like us in every way, tho was without sin.” If there is no experience of doubt, how could he be like us? But it also says that “we shall be like him,” and that he is the “first fruit.” Perhaps then it is not that Jesus did not doubt, but that he did not despair in doubt; though he slogged through this human swamp he was not mired in non-being as we are. He suffered the same confusions that we all experience as we move through the phases of childhood, adolescence and adulthood, but unlike us he was not confused about his confusion. He bore it honestly and authentically, without apology and without pretension. I think that I let my doubt sit in my stomach like a stone, it distracts my attention, I stumble over it. There may be a time when faith is like a pen writing words across the page of our mind – we look, and there it is. There may be times when faith is like a fire, far away, which we can see but there is no warmth.