Considering Faith

What spurred this meander through my faith has been two things, the writings of a pilgrim on the Camino in Spain and the death of the Pope. No, I'm not Catholic or wishing to walk 500KM as a pilgrimage, but I was unexpectantly moved by both. Both have had me deep in thought for days, about the role of faith in my life and what I've learned from others. 

My mom always cried when she was in prayer. I didn't understand that until I lost her. I'm a struggling Christian, a conversation that Mom and I had many times. Oh, I believe in God and the Gospel, but I struggle to dovetail the world I live in with a blind faith. In fact, I have struggled with this my entire life, at least since I was old enough to consider what faith really is. 

I remember little of church until I was in the eighth grade. We lived in a small Swedish community, Scandia KS, and we had a full congregation at the UMC each Sunday. Our Pastor Miller was a quiet, devoted man. He loved the youth, and I have very fond memories of youth group meetings. He loved music, and his daughter Beth had a sweet voice to lead our songs. It was during these days that I realized I went to church for the music - the traditional, four-part Amen, the Doxology, and the hymns. Music made me happy and could bring me to tears. 

I was a good kid, really. I was (am) sassy and stubborn, but I steered away from the typical experimentation with sex, drugs, but never rock and roll. 😊 During my junior and senior years in Chase High School, our dad started the Fellowship of Christian Athletes. I also had a special youth group in our church, led by an elderly missionary couple, whose names I've long forgotten. As I worked to justify the juxtaposition of cruel world/compassionate Christ, these two groups allowed me experiences that contributed to my understanding.

The summer following my junior year, I attended the FCA Conference at Oral Roberts University. I went through a wide range of emotions while there, shifting from annoyance at the girls throwing themselves down and confessing their faith to quiet submission of my own. One evening the topic was when we met Jesus. Lots of the girls told elaborate stories. As my turn rolled around, I realized I didn't have a story. I said, "I didn't meet Jesus. He's always been right here (pointing to my heart)." Oh, how can that be??  Then the answer was IDK. Now the answer is that my parents were Christians, they taught Christian behavior, and I really didn't know any differently. I never felt like I had to meet someone who was already there. I came home, feeling disappointed that I didn't have a meeting. 

In March of my senior year, the couple took our youth group to Bolivia on a mission trip, where they had served many years. I spoke minimal Spanish but it didn't matter. The times we all spent together building a small chapel and worshipping together only needed the attitude of prayer for us all to convey our faith. I have never forgotten those days, the sacrifice of the native people, about generosity and compassion. 

Life took me to new churches and raising our children in the church. Now, we are not churchgoers. We've been workers, servers, and when it was all over, our church families did not minister to us. That sounds horrible, but I have felt let down by organized worship since I began serving on various church committees. "I don't have time" became such a common reply when I asked others to participate or help. I loved helping to plan the new or different worship activities, but hated doing so much of the work. And when I didn't feel I could do it any longer (youth group, choir, education committee, admin meetings), no one asked about me, about us. 

Full circle - I'm 66 and I find myself missing a good sermon and hymnal music. I'm not impressed with the changes in churches to attract the young, because those changes are alienating our elders. They want a hymnal, a bulletin. They don't want to read off a screen or sing unfamiliar praise songs. Instead of organized religion, I serve where I am needed or asked. I pray and I have quiet time each day to think on my journey. 

I don't know if I've ever encountered another person as faithful as my mom. Moved by her commitment. Sitting at Jesus' feet, absorbing every word. Now I understand why she cried. She was blessed and she knew it. She was humbled that Jesus loved her and she couldn't wait to meet him. Her tears were of deep, personal JOY. I can only wish to attain that, some day, some how.