Hebrews 11:1 “Now faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see.” (NIV)

It’s hard to believe in something that your mind tells you isn’t possible.  Take the Christian story of the Resurrection.  The fact is – people die and they do not get up and walk among us again.  Period.  Usually.  Hardly ever.

No one living today has it easy when it comes to embracing Christian belief.  We are not only outside of the direct experience of all of Christ’s purported miracles; we are outside the reach of their direct oral history.  

The American Heritage dictionary defines faith as 1. Confident belief in the truth, value, or trustworthiness of a person, idea, or thing. 2. Belief that does not rest on logical proof or material evidence.  We have to possess great faith to make the decision to believe.  

I’ve vacillated back and forth between a decision to believe and a decision to not believe most of my life. 

Part of it because I am a grey-area kind of gal.  Give me just about any topic and I can probably argue both sides of it.  Maybe that’s why I like President Obama so much – he’s a grey-area kind of guy.  When he talks about his faith, I can tell he probably made his faith decision in much the same way and for many of the same reasons as I did. 

As a pre-teen, the Bible and church seemed fascinating because they were not things that were part of my life or my parents’ lives.  Sure, my parents said they were Christians, and they threw some religions references out there to support their points, such as when they were inveighing against extra-marital sex.  (Unsuccessfully, I might add.) 

But they didn’t attend church and openly reviled the preachers who lived high on the hog in church-provided homes while their parishioners struggled to feed and clothe their families. 

I grew up in Tulsa OK, land of Oral Roberts and RHEMA Bible College. So all the cool kids at school attended Young Life, went to church every week, went to church camps and generally bought into the whole idea of organized religion.  That combined with my campaign to be not-my-parents was enough to make me want to give Christianity a try. 

I read the whole Bible cover to cover when I was thirteen and went to church occasionally with friends and with my boyfriend.  I even attended a few Young Life events at the home of schoolmate Katie Inhofe (yes, daughter of that Inhofe).

However, after a couple of years on the debate team, hanging around with the theater kids and reading Camus, Sartre and yes, Ayn Rand, I decided that I was not a Christian after all.  Even so, I had a hard time relinquishing all belief – some instinctual part of me continued to insist that there was something else beyond what we could see and touch. 

My college years saw a detour into Reform Judaism – being serious about a young Jewish man, I took Hebrew and started conversion classes.  That didn’t have ultimate sticking power once I realized the guy in question was not The One.  Back to agnosticism I went.

I married a cradle-born Episcopal at age twenty-eight; my former altar boy and Episcopal church camp counselor requested that we marry in a church.  I flat-out told the priest I was not really a Christian, that I didn’t know what I believed. 

This kind priest told me to be patient, that he had faith I’d find answers to the questions that troubled me; after a series of counseling sessions with us, he was happy to marry us. 

He was my first real introduction to what I consider to be “thinking Christianity”.  He wasn’t spouting doctrine; he genuinely cared about my understanding, and validated my questions and concerns.  His faith was not rote to him.  It was hard-won belief which visibly guided him and cushioned his path through the world.  He wanted the same for me, some day, when I was ready.

I wasn’t ready.  It took several years until I was open to the idea of church and belief.  It took a parking ticket to get me into a church again.

My husband had taken to parking in a certain lot near his office, because his parking garage was horribly expensive and inconvenient.  Unfortunately, the owners of the lot didn’t appreciate that, and got him towed.  So, one day he went looking for a alternate parking spot, and found one – on the street behind an Episcopal church.  He parked there for a few days, each day becoming more certain that we were supposed to go to that church, that maybe there was a home for us there. 

I humored him and went.  Rather than judgment and anger, I found interest and kindness when I told the congregants that I was not a Christian, but was simply attending services with my husband.  Over the course of a couple of year, after many hours of discussions where no one ever – not once – pressured me, I got baptized. 

For me, there was one interaction that allowed to make that final step.  I was explaining for the 10 millionth time that I could not, would not, believe that any loving or just God would condemn all non-believers to Hell.  The priest looked at me and said “Well, Laura, it’s not like what you or I believe matters – whatever God has decided in that regard is how it is.  What you and I think won’t change that.  So, you don’t have to know the answer to that question to believe in Him.”

So began our almost decade-long sojourn as regular church-goers.  The community aspect of church-going is wonderful.  It’s just what my no-extended-family needy soul most craves.  People who cared about us were there when  we were ill, or tired, or fed-up.  People supported us when we miscarried and when we delivered Jacob months early, providing an early baby shower with everything we could possibly need, food for us while we were too busy at the hospital to cook and a shoulder to cry on as we went from doctor to doctor during his first year.

Quickly, attending church became less about what I believed and more about hanging out with friends, having plans, being a part of something.  I wrote here earlier about divorcing our church.  In the process of that painful separation, I realized that I had been going through the motions; I had not really thought about what I believed in a very, very long time.  I was not taking proper care with what my child was being exposed to and taught. 

I still identify myself as a Christian.  So much of Christ’s teaching is a blue-print I would be proud to follow if I could just be a little more selfless, a little more thoughtful, a little more there for others.  So, though I am wavering badly, I have not totally renounced my decision to believe. 

I have pulled back; Sunday is now a day for family breakfast at the local health food restaurant, for taking our son to the park, for concentrating on each other.  Maybe we’ll attend Easter services.  Maybe we won't.

I suspect that there is an ebb and flow of spiritual life for everyone.  I don’t know; I do know that I feel something missing where something used to be.  I just have to decide if what used to be there was a shining diamond or a rhinestone, pasted on in the desire to look like the popular kids.