In the early 80s, when I experienced the renewal of faith which has marked all my life since then, a popular Christian recording artist was Steve Taylor, of the "Meltdown at Madame Tussaud's" fame. On that same album was a song entitled, "Am I in Sync?", which was essentially about how Christians live their lives at cross-purposes to the non-Christian human world around them. (As an effect, underlining the song's point, Taylor engaged in some out of snyc sythesizing, something difficult to listen to, let alone dance to.)
Whether or not I am living my life at cross-purposes to those outside the Church I'll leave for others to judge. I perhaps too strongly resemble the world. But this sense of not being on the same curve as the various worlds around me nonetheless is presently very pervasive. I walk out the door of our apartment building and it's a Lewis Carrol experience pretty much everywhere I go.
There are the thousands of challenges and temptations we Christian males face everyday: the clothing, or lack thereof, on the women we meet invites gazes that last longer than they should. It seems I can't make it all the way to the el stop without calling on the Holy Spirit, the Virgin and St Benedict for assitance, to help me set a guard over my eyes. There's the ever ubiquitous temptation to tell the "white lie" in the workplace--for the sake of placidity between oneself and one's boss and co-workers. "Yes, I think that plan is fine. No, I don't have any real problems with it." Go along to get along. Going to a restaurant is a constant battle with gluttony.
And I could add constantly to the list.
This would be bearable, if nonetheless difficult, if there were the two strong refuges that Christians throughout the ages could count on: home and the Church. In my case, our home, imperfect thought it is, is thankfully one of those refuges. For all our differences, Anna and I share a common moral outlook and share many strong faith convictions.
For my part, however, I lack the other refuge: the community of faith. For me, the various churches I have encountered have not proven the test of endurance I have neded. My heritage churches, or, at least those individuals who had meant much to me in my faith walk, either could not endure my investigations and activities with other churches (in particular the Episcopal Church), or not having any point of common interest eventually stopped calling and writing. One of the ministers who married us, who had been for us a mentor and important Christian leader, we haven't heard from in several years now. The other, ironically ministering to a United Church of Christ congregation, and now has debilitating M.S., is the only one from our "former" lives that maintains contact with us. Anna's own mentor pretty much stopped calling when I was confirmed in the Epsicopal Church.
Having come to the Episcopal Church, and having found an important friend and mentor, in Fr. Cravens, it was after only a few years that I found myself once again, at odds with the denomination. I've gone into some of the specifics before, so I'll not belabor the point now. I'll just iterate one event which was for me, emblematic. It was in an Anglican Theology class, and we were debating the issue of abortion. One preson in the class put forth the point that she was currently ministering to a rape victim, and she, the minister, could not accept that she would have to add to this victim's pain the further pain of carrying the baby to term, so she, as a priest, would advocate abortion. It will come as no surprise that I am against abortion, and that it took all I had within me to not just "go ballistic" over this callous view of a human life as "more pain." Instead, I took strong exception that this minister would put her own moral values on the victim; and posited that instead, it was her duty as a priest to articulate what the Church taught about human life and abortion, about suffering and redemption, to point out the possible choices and their consequences (temporal and spiritual) and to stand with the victim no matter her decision. At a break, this person whose view I argued against, came up to me and asked me when I would be leaving the Episcopal Church. (If she's reading this: one year later.)
I now find myself part of a blog world in which I am very definitely a minority voice. Which wouldn't be so bad, after all, I don't mind the give and take of discussion. I appreciate having my views countered and questioned to see if they can stand the test of examination. I certainly enjoy showing how the faith of the Church in the end always proves itself not only true, but the most practical and human way to live. Ah, but as is so true of human nature: birds of a feather . . . . One is more likely to hang out with those of like mind than those with whom one diagrees. And while we rightly tout the virtures of dialogue, the hospitality of ideas does not always translate into invitations to dinner.
My academic colleagues are similarly in contrary journeys. My own essence and search is so wrapped up in the Church--and this gives fuel to and shape for my own philosophical passions--that they simply don't know what to do with me outside of our semi-annual Scotch parties. And it may well be, now that I failed to gain funding, that this aspect of my life in light of the advent of our first child, is temporarily, if not permanently, now on hold. A heartbreak, it is, but one framed by the joy of our coming child.
For whatever reason, it seems that my particular quest for the truth of the Church has led me from and into and back out of various communities. Although I am absolutely certain of the love and support of my wife---and she of my own--nonetheless, even here, she fails to understand (and I have failed perhaps to clearly communicate) what it is I am after. My family, similarly, doesn't get it. My dad and sisters pretty much shrug it off as a mystery, but still involve themselves in our lives. My mom and her relatives don't understand and are hostile to it. Silence is not golden, but punishment.
So here I am, back to the murkiness and darkness I had thought to have emerged from about two years ago. Sorry, Mr. Donne, I am not the farmer in the dell.
Posted by Clifton at April 8, 2003 04:14 PM | TrackBack