I disapprove of crises of faith. Not having them, but referring to them with that nomenclature. It makes it seem like some sort of intellectual exercise, and I suppose that sometimes it is, in which case, call it an intellectual conflict of faith. But your real "crises" of faith aren't intellectual.
Two days ago, I said that the main reason I was sure I would live to be 150 was because God wouldn't kill me until He'd had all the fun He could have with me. I genuinely didn't want to believe in God because I'd rather live in a universe with no cruel deity who derives pleasure from my suffering. Now that's a fucking kick in the balls of faith.
What do you tell someone in a situation like that? If I were ministering to myself, what the hell do I do? It reminds me of a piece by Gordon Atkinson which no longer appears to be on the Internet (but the miracle of the Wayback Machine brings it to your eager eyes) and you should read the whole thing because it's about as good an expression of I don't know what as there is. To excerpt:
… people facing death don’t give a fuck about your interpretation of II Timothy. Some take the “bloodied, but unbowed” road, but most dying people want to pray with the chaplain. And they don’t want weak-ass prayers either. They don’t want you to pray that God’s will be done. …
Actually the post from which I learned of this powerful work has a thing or two to say on the subject as well. But that's neither here nor there.
I don't pray. Or rather, I don't believe in prayer. Yes, sometimes when the chips are down, I beg whomever might be listening to grant some basically selfish request, but I know that it won't work. I don't even believe in the weak, watery sort of prayer where you just ask God to be present in your life and let you be worthy of God's love. God doesn't work that way. Every time we ask God for something, even the basic, general-purpose love stuff, we either get it or we don't, and saying the right magic words or thinking the right magic thoughts won't make it any more or less likely to happen.
So I don't "pray" because prayer is just another way of asking for something. I talk. I argue. I spit venom and bile. Sometimes I whimper. Yes, I know, that's "prayer" but this is all about semantics, ain't it? If I don't do "crises" then I don't do "prayer" even if both are accurate descriptors.
I get where dying people are coming from. I'm addicted to life, and it and I have an unhealthy relationship right now. So even as it's pulled from me, I'll be raging, grasping, wheedling, cajoling. I know they say that there are 5 stages of grief, but how many people actually make it to acceptance? I probably won't. So yes, when the pastor shows up, I will want some deep hoodoo. Hell, I'll probably call in witch doctors and shamans to cover my bases. And like the man says, I will die anyway, because we're all going to eventually. So even though I will rage, right now I can tell Future Me that he is being a jackass.
But to return to my original question, what the Hell do I tell myself? I'm not going to pray, even if I believed in prayer; that's almost like letting slip more chinks in my armor. You don't tell the bully where it hurts the most. You act like the things you care about the most are the least valuable.
I could try to reassure myself that there's no reason to believe that God operates this way. But why should I believe myself? I'm not Job; I don't deal well with God proving a point to Satan by fucking my life up royal. So I talk to God. I'm never certain that God doesn't find my conversation amusing too, but what else can I do? I give God my point of view.
And when all else fails... well, I cry a lot. It's piteous and ridiculous and helps no one. I laugh sometimes. They're cousins, you know: laughing and crying. I've cried so hard I started laughing and laughed so hard that it swung back around to crying again.
All of this called to mind a hymn which I knew as a child. There are so many different versions out there, and if your taste runs more to the Mormon Tabernacle Choir, they've got a version. But my childhood is this one.
It's a happy, glorious song which just revels in the wonders of the world, but take that and turn it upside down. Strip out all the joy, take away the hope, and the song still holds. When all else fails, sing. When. Not if. Everything else will fail. Your faith will falter, your hope will turn to despair, your love will be lost to you. You'll be walking in the dark and there will be monsters all around you. You won't have the strength to cry out, to call for help, no matter how futilely. It will happen. And if in that moment you have a song, you won't be crying, you'll be singing, and that's better than nothing, isn't it?
It's not much better. And it's harder than simply sinking, letting go, letting it happen. And you're going to die anyway, whether you sing or not. And if there is a God, God is cruel and malicious and there is no love in the world for you. Sing out. Maybe someone's listening.
I'm not a motivational speaker, obviously. And I still have my doubts about life and my place in it. But I'm a contrary son of a bitch, so you'll probably hear me bitching and moaning about it to a God with whom I might rather not talk. And you might hear me singing a little too, softly, just for me and God. I'm still here. I'm still not broken. All has not failed.
