A priest can’t reveal what I confess, on pain of excommunication. But I can. For a while my confessions have been pretty monotonous, boiling down to a simple lack of faith.
Sometimes I find it very hard to believe. My brain complains that no string of arguments, no matter how convincing and logical, can support the weight I try to shovel on them. For example, that after a guy in robes talks to a piece of bread it changes into the body and blood of a guy who died on a cross thousands of years ago — who also happened to be second person of the Trinity, the one who created and constantly upholds all things. And that by eating this “bread” I receive God into my body.
Let's be honest. It sounds rather silly.
And God doesn't do a whole lot to rescue us from doubt. (I speak for myself, anyway.) There are no fireworks, no voices, no images in the cinnamon bun, no sudden and dramatic answers to prayer. Somehow or other, we're supposed to make do with what we have, which often doesn't seem like much.
On top of this are the constant assaults on faith. Do we really know that the traditional Jesus is the true Jesus? Doesn't science seem to be filling in all the niches religion has occupied? Isn't religious faith closely correlated with a lack of education? And shouldn't the Holy Spirit have a little more obvious effect on believers — making us noticeably different than the rest? (Which, in case you haven't noticed, doesn't appear to be true.) And why does it seem that the church is always a year late and a million dollars short?
So I come to God with this monotonous complaint, like a worm who shakes his fist at heaven, and God's response is to forgive me, welcome me into His fellowship and grant me the grace to persevere.
My skeptical side says, “You see, God, You still haven't really done anything. This clown in robes has mumbled some words over my head, but how do I know any of this is true?”
And God, completely humiliating Himself for my benefit, has sworn to uphold the words the clown says on His behalf. “Whoever's sins you forgive are forgiven.”
“This is all foolishness,” I complain.
“Yes, love is foolish,” the priest replies. “Preaching is foolish. The Cross is foolish.” And I'm sent to meditate on the foolishness of the Cross and to tell God exactly what I think and feel. Imagine the divine humility — that God would allow these worms to represent Him to other, ungrateful worms, who complain and moan and think they know so much. And to listen to all this without tossing thunderbolts!
This isn't the way I'd run a religion. If I was God, replying to my complaints, I'd have a few more things to say.
“Since when do I answer to you? Have you read Job recently?”
“What about your commitments? Are you so fickle? What if your family and friends were as faithless to you as you are to Me?”
“Quit blaming Me, buddy. These problems are your own fault. You haven't been faithful enough at prayer and study.”
But that god is an idol, and, fortunately, not the God Who hung on the Cross for our salvation — Who accepts the abuse of men and says “Father, forgive them,” because, truly, we don't know what we do.
This divine humility takes away every excuse. How can I slam the door in anger when God's gentle tongue turns away every occasion for my silly wrath? How can I refuse to try again, and again, when God is willing to meet me on such terms? How is it possible to say no to a man Who is willing to do so much for me, requiring nothing in return?
© Copyright 2006 Catholic Exchange
Greg Krehbiel is a former Presbyterian seminary student and convert to the Catholic faith. He lives with his wife and five children in Laurel, Maryland, and writes the Crowhill weblog.
