It strikes me this morning that it’s been a while, too long a while, since I’ve posted about faith. I don’t know why that is, but one of my New Year’s resolutions has been to work on reconnecting myself with some of the daily rituals of worship and prayer. For the last few months, I’ve felt myself slipping into a rather perfunctory relationship with my Christian identity; I’m writing a book proposal about the intersection of masculinity, faith, and sexuality, and that’s got me intellectualizing a great deal and connecting rather less. (Mind you, as the son of two academics, I wince when I use the awkward term “intellectualizing”.)
Our “Seekers” confirmation class at All Saints resumed this past Sunday, and that’s very helpful. The old adage in Alcoholics Anonymous is that you can’t give away what you don’t already have — and I certainly can’t lead young people to a deeper relationship with Christ if I’m not actively working on that same relationship myself. It’s the difference between “describing” and “modeling”, and years and years of doing this have taught me that the latter is far more effective.
Like many people, my faith life has always been strongest when I’ve felt overwhelmed by doubt and uncertainty. When I was getting sober for the last time in 1998, going through my last divorce in 2002, or facing my father’s death this past spring, I was diligent in my prayers and meditation, diligent in asking God daily for guidance. And these days, I’m too comfortable. My marriage is happy, I’m enjoying my teaching, the finances seem stable, my chinchillas are cheerful. And I have slipped into “nominal Christianity”, paying lip service to a faith that at other times has seemed so vital, so intense, so all-consuming.
I know from talking to more seasoned Christians (and serious followers of other paths), that for adult converts, it’s hard to recapture the intensity of the “hour one first believed.” As someone prone to addictive, chemical highs, I miss that sense of being “on fire for Christ”, completely and absolutely in love with Him. (Like a number of the faithful throughout the ages, I often had explicitly erotic dreams about Jesus in the first few years after my conversion; for better or worse, He hasn’t appeared in my dreams in a very, very long time. I miss that, and I am sure it’s because I’m not open to it.)
So, I’m recommitting this morning. I’m going to go through the psalms again, as that is an especially reliable source of consolation and inspiration. (And I won’t just read my basic standbys: 37, 91, 102, 139.) I’m going to set aside five minutes every morning for meditation. I could promise half an hour, but I know that my mercurial, ENFP nature can’t possibly sit still that long. 300 seconds is about my max, but I know from experience it can work wonders.
The major project I am working on in several areas of my life is the synthesis of contemporary feminist thought and praxis with traditional Christian theology. That desire to reconcile the seemingly contradictory informs my writing, my teaching, my volunteer work. But I haven’t been living it out, particularly on the faith side of the ledger, as well as I ought to be. Five months from forty (can you tell how momentous that birthday will be for me?), I need to remind myself why I fell in love with my Savior in the first place. I need to invite Him back into my dreams.
Given your interest in both music and the Psalms, do you sing the Psalms, or listen to them sung? I find that very helpful; they were originally music, not just poetry, and somehow hearing them as music helps my sub-conscious experience them.
My favorite is the incredibly dark setting of Psalm 22 from the Scotch Psalter; I would happily mail you a copy if you want.
For sung Psalms, New Song (from Geneva College) is one great source, although they seem not to do the darker Psalms that I prefer.
On Christian life more generally, one discipline that I have found exceedingly helpful is to be out as a Christian in an environment where that is strange and somewhat threatening; it keeps me focused on BEING a Christian,a nd thinking about that fact rather than just drifting.
I, for one, would be really interested in reading more about your feminist thought/traditional Christian theology synthesis if you feel like posting more about it.
And if it makes you feel any better, I have never in my life been “in love with Jesus.”, nor have I ever had erotic dreams about Jesus. (and if I did, that would really creep me out.), and my spiritual path has involved a lifetime total of maybe 20 minutes of warm and fuzzy feelings about God. I think it’s great you want to work on your spiritual practice, but don’t beat yourself up for not feeling a certain way. According to all the Christian mystics, moving past emotional highs is an essential part of spiritual growth – as is a dark night of the soul, where nothing works and God seems utterly absent.
All that to say, a little spiritual discipline is a good thing, but not feeling a Jesus rush may actually be a sign a growing maturity, rather than a sign of failure.
That’s a good point, Christy. Having an addict’s personality means that I expect “highs” from everything: marriage, teaching, my relationship with God. As my own past makes clear, staying in relationship after the “high” has passed has been problematic for me. The initial love of Christ, the chemical rush I felt the hour I first believed (or the year I first believed) may indeed never return. And you’re right, maybe I need to work at reconsidering what I really expect from this love affair I am having.
I would LOVE to have you send me the 22nd psalm, SamChevre! Thanks for the suggestion!
Your comment about “the synthesis of contemporary feminist thought and praxis with traditional Christian theology,” is actually what brought me to your blog in the first place. I had to know if those contradictions in my beliefs could be reconciled, or if I would have to “ditch” one or the other – a crisis point, obviously, but I soon found my middle ground.
Surprisingly, I’ve found Ecclesiastes useful. Granted, it reads a lot like a suicide note at times, and its written from a completely different cultural/spiritual perspective, but the way the writer reconciles “don’t be too wicked, or too righteous” has helped me overcome some of the guilt I have.
It’s all mind guilt, of course, because I have the most cute, cloyingly sheltered and chaste life ever (not even a remark on my age, I’ve been in Uni, with many, er, *non* Christian friends for 6 years now, plenty of time to live out my rebellious fantasies)! But I’m a real rebel, “in my brain.”