In the year since our
road trip through Norway with my husband and two small children, a moment, so
brief I almost wonder if it really happened, comes floating back to me often.
It was early morning and we were driving on the high planes beyond the
fjords. The lighting was hazy and pink, as if the sun knew it hadn't had
a proper rest, and I felt much the same way. I looked up and out the
window at one point just in time to see two moose with heads bent to the
ground, the morning fog tucked softly around them. Their largeness,
otherworldliness and serenity shocked me. The image passed too quickly
to even form words to tell my husband, but still, I cannot shake it. I've
wondered why the memory, even at the time, felt so significant, except that I
knew my accompanying emotion at the time was panic. Internal panic at
what I perceived to be the pinnacle of a spiritual crisis--A crisis of faith.
Earlier that day,
staring into the thick, wise turquoise water of the fjords, I had felt so
small, so rough and lazy in my knowledge and so presumptuous in truly believing
that I knew much of anything. I felt anxiety over feeling trapped in the
gospel I had once felt entirely comfortable in. I pulled over and asked my
husband to drive. The expansiveness and beauty of the world I was
experiencing could not equate to me saying that I knew anything for sure, let
alone the truths and solved mysteries I believed the doctrines of the church
were asking me to claim. When I think back to that week in the back
country of Norway, my heart jumps across the chasm of two different camps--one
of complete awe and joy at the world around me and one, a culminating and
complete crisis of faith. In the time since though, I've also asked
myself this: What if it weren't a crisis? What if I had merely chosen
different language to sculpt my experience? Would the chasm have
lessened? Would I realize that both camps were actually not so different? What if when we entered the inevitable
time when we must take our faith out of the pack on our back to really examine
it were just that, an examination, a curiosity, a responsibility, a hope to
better understand?
Selje, Norway |
In poetry, at least good poetry, each word that
stands guard like a soldier to wiser thought is carefully recruited. A
superfluous, or worse yet, an ill-chosen word can be the hinge that sends the
reader right out of the poem. The poet is responsible for etymologies,
context, sounds, cadences and ancestries of each word used. Words carry
weight and baggage and the poet cannot ask the reader to simply brush those
aside. In a similar way, we are the poets of our own spirituality and we
must take accountability for phrases like "crisis of faith". It
seems that often we wave the phrase 'crisis of faith' like a flag of bravery or
martyrdom. We use it as a demarcation between those who are thinking and
those who are following blindly. We tout it under our belt as if it were
an event that came and went, and we either stayed in the church, or we left.
I want to propose that our language can dictate a more positive
experience for us, whether we choose to stay in the church or not. What
if we simply put some phrases given to us to rest? What if we took greater
responsibility for our language and cast aside some phrases that have simply
been passed onto us? What if we
refused to denote some of our most real and mature spiritual thinking as a
crisis and instead gave it a phrase that moved us from victimhood to powerful
players in our own spiritual journeys? Take a moment, just as a test, to re-name
your ‘crisis of faith’.
I've done some experimenting with alternative
phrases to 'crisis of faith', just to see how it does change our experience.
In an art show, I asked people to come up with their own alternative
phrase and write them on the wall next to a big banner that said, 'crisis of
faith'. I also provided a list of words from the New Testament that they
could use as prompts, because, as it turns out, Christ, even in scenarios that
legitimately could be classified as crises, never used the term. Here are
some of the phrases people came up with: Wonderful wilderness; questioning to
gain knowledge; hidden growth; look for better feelings; seeking more light;
rest heart be full; finding new shores; journey for truth; standing in motion;
looking higher; learning who we really are; opportunity to build a more genuine
relationship with God; teaching out of love. These are valuable phrases
to me because they set me up to be a seeker, a searcher, a climber. They are
phrases that dictate to me change without fear, searching without guilt and
genuine love between myself and deity.
There
is something about a crisis that puts one in a rather helpless place. A
crisis might be an earthquake or disaster, in which the one experiencing the
crisis is also, by default, the victim of circumstances beyond their control.
A crisis puts one into fight or flight mode because survival is the main
objective. In a crisis there is little time, or even reason to stop and
meditate, be thoughtful or even pray. For me, when I think of my
questions in the gospel as a 'crisis of faith', I am set at odds with God,
almost as if He is the one who created the disaster that I am fighting to get
free from. There were times when I became the victim of my spirituality, rather
than the explorer. When I feel at most in the midst of a spiritual crisis, when
I am tired of wrestling my thoughts, I become quiet. When I allow myself the liberty to think beyond the
phrase crisis, I realize that I am not at odds with God, but rather, my
searching can be cause for beautiful communion. When I am in crisis mode, I am stuck in a valley scrambling
for understanding, but what I would rather be is an explorer setting out for
greater heights and views and I’ve realized that often I am the only one that
can choose which place I will be in.
Selje, Norway |
About ten years ago,
about after my mission, there was a metaphorical set of doors that I opened
slowly in my spiritual life, and inside those doors, everything felt turned
upside down. My spiritual life was
swept up in the whirlwind of the thousands of words I read on the internet, the
long nights of discussion with friends and a lot of internal strife. Inside
this space, my spiritual life did feel like a crisis because I couldn't gain
traction. There was little to grasp onto by way of definite truth or certain
understanding. For a few years I stayed inside these walls, with colored
wires running every which way, some of them sparking at the ends, and me,
feeling a little panicked at how to organize these wires into something
functional.
Throughout those ten
years I’ve hardly missed a Sunday and have continued to find much peace and joy
in the gospel, but the thing I never considered was that my two experiences, my
crisis and my faith could be intertwined to the extent that they were both
pushing me on to the same higher spiritual plains. There was also
something exhilarating about the space of chaos for a time, something exciting
about saying that I am the one who is different, who is brighter for my
questions. At a certain point though, being inside those walls was not
sustainable. I had children, a husband, work to do, and I needed energy.
Feeling like I was in a crisis was no longer an option.
I saw another set of
doors, not the same set I had come through originally, but a set that led me
out of this place of chaos. A set built upon the idea that what I was
experiencing did not have to be a crisis and did not actually put me at odds
with God. I had to make a choice, I made it several times. I decided for a time
to leave the crisis behind, not that I was without question, and nothing got
“put on the shelf”, but I had to make a choice to re-define my spiritual
journey. It couldn’t be a crisis anymore. These new doors took some
humbling to push open and walk out into the other side, but what I found when
they were open was a beautiful meadow singing with possibility. Expansive space
that suggested to me that my spirituality was not confined to a set of rules or
expectations, but rather, my spirituality and even my attempted spirituality is
sacred, holy and cherished by God. The meadow offered me exploration and
possibility. In this place I shed myself of the phrase 'a crisis of faith'
because my questions no longer seemed like a crisis, my confusion at church
doctrine or church history seemed pale in comparison with what lay in front of
me. I am learning to turn chaos into my own kind of order, which seems
the most God-like quality I can attempt for now. I am using words like
'learning', experimenting, exploration, faith, compassion, journey, trust and
love as vanguards in my spiritual wanderings. I am still an active
Mormon, and while there are times that that phrase begins to creep to cynicism,
frustration, and confusion, but there are more times when I am so grateful for
a context to help me seek Heavenly parents and spiritual enlightenment. There
are often times when I would not find what I am hoping to be elsewhere.
The word crisis is no longer allowed as part of my spiritual vocabulary
because while it may have served me for a time, I cannot climb to higher peaks
with it atop my shoulders.
Fjords in Norway |
As I’ve thought back to the peaceful set of
moose standing silent and sacred up in the wilderness of Norway, I think I’ve
come to better understand the reason they’ve come back to me so often. At the time I saw in them something I
so wanted for myself, an unaffected confidence at their place in the
world. I envied their
simplicity. I wanted to stand with
grace and assurance in my place.
The spiritual turmoil I felt at the time would not allow me that kind of
peace or confidence. For a time I
thought it meant I must leave the church, but I think over the past year, those
serene and peaceful moose have become a symbol of what I might become within
the church. A beloved creature,
not at odds with God, but cared for deeply. A creature not in crisis, but one standing peacefully, eager
for what the rising day might bring.