Devout yesterday, agnostic today, and Christian every day
I hated chapel at my Christian college. I was surrounded by people who seemed so "on fire" with the Holy Spirit. For them, the veil between the presence of God and their life at that moment was paper thin, and they could brush up against what was on the other side. I wanted that, very badly, but I could never participate. I could not participate because I did not believe there was anything behind that veil. There was no God at all. No Jesus. No Holy Spirit. No prophecy. No worship. When I joined a Baptist church as their youth director, it was much easier to hide my lack of belief. The frozen chosen and the nonbelievers did not express themselves all that differently.
I don't pray spontaneously, from the heart. I feel silly praying when I'm not even sure someone is listening, and I fear how much it will hurt if I try to pray only to wonder how I can want healing and goodness for the world, and it appears God does not.
I can't read the Bible for personal connection with God. My stint with historical criticism leaves every word and sentence laden with more doubts, questions, and fear. Did Jesus even really say that? Did that even happen? What value does it have for me if it is not historically true?
Faith is nearly absent in my life, the small hope that things have a reason for them, and everything works out in the end, be it in this life or the next. There is no "everything will be ok."
Instead, most of my time is enveloped in a cold, foggy agnosticism. A gut wrenching feeling that I am all alone in this universe, and even the greatest horrors of the Holocaust or ISIS may one day be no more important to people than the Battle of Troy or the Black Plague.
But I am still a Christian, and sometimes I am so sure of the presence of God's grace and love that I would die for that conviction. When I partake in the sacraments, the bread and fruit of the vine which hold Christ's real presence, I feel a connection to Christ Himself. My fears cannot pierce this, for even if Jesus is not all that I have been told, this is the closest I can get to it being true. An unbroken practice of faith leading back to Jesus Himself, when He first said "this is my body."
When I hike in the forest, I hear the voice of Wisdom playing in the trees, just as we see Her doing in Proverbs 8:22-31. The silence of winter and the rebirth of spring both call me to the rhythm of death and life, mirroring the story of Christ.
When I spend time with those experiencing grief, oppression, or pain, my doubt cannot pierce through there either. The historical preaching of Jesus identifies Himself with these people, such as in Matthew 25, and when I listen to their pain or actively work to overthrow systems of oppression, I can see God clearly. My doubt or fear is worth nothing compared to the daily experience of the hopelessness of crucifixion. Only a resurrection of hope can heal those wounds.
And while I do not pray in my own words, I hold onto the prayerful words of others, using Old Russian Orthodox, Roman Catholic, and Anglican prayer books. The faith of others has been gifted to me, and even when all I can do is hollowly repeat the words of a page, sometimes I walk away thinking that maybe God listened to me.
All of this means that the intensity of my religion may fluctuate between highs of sacrament and social justice to lows of absence and loss, but in the middle of this turmoil, I have tethered myself to the rock of Christ, so that I may not be "blown and tossed by the wind." (James 1:2-8)
I may feel Agnostic one day. Or feel like a prophet another day. But every day, I am a Christian. I cannot fight the grace of God, and it will always be reconciling me to God, despite my best efforts to pretend it is not there.