An incongruous blog post title for someone who spent the first 52 years of their life carrying on a proud tradition of vacillating between agnosticism and atheism.
Perhaps desperate times call for desperate measures. Or the humbling experience of being utterly defeated by life creates a willingness to look beyond that which makes sense. Or perhaps true peace can only be found by seeking comfort in the mystical and spiritual.
Maybe it’s all of these things and maybe it’s none.
Whatever the case may be, over the past 18 months I’ve had a growing awareness of, and comfort in, the presence of God, which culminated in the decision to become water baptised on Sunday 08 December.
While my relationship with God feels intensely personal – and quite frankly, nobody else’s business – my spiritual journey is an integral part of recovery from my much-publicised mental health decline. I’ve taken steps in a positive direction without a connection or concept of a higher power but was eternally caught in a maelstrom of recovery and relapse. Constantly residing in the past (depression) or future (anxiety) – the present moment never fully appreciated or accepted. My identity was bound to external phenomena – wife, mother, daughter, teacher, friend, colleague – and when these roles became complicated or ended, my identity shattered. Who am I when my children are grown? My career gone? Am I still a daughter when my mother is dead? A sister when my sister is dead? It turns out, everything in life is transitory and I’d hitched my wagon to stilts in the sand.
My family don’t understand my faith. The more cynical among them don’t even believe I have a faith. But I do. And while it’s tied to a mainstream ideology, my personal beliefs are as unique as everyone else – from militant atheist to religious fundamentalist. Becoming a Christian hasn’t altered long-held views on science, politics and cultural issues. Or overwhelmed me with the urge to give away every hard-earned penny. I haven’t joined a cult – despite what some say about mainstream religions. Becoming a Christian has brought me home and given me a sense of being worthy when I’m unworthy, accepted when I’m unacceptable, and loved when I’m unlovable. It’s become a safe place to fall – to give thanks and gratitude, and to beg for forgiveness and salvation.
Is it logical? No.
Do I understand everything about Christianity? Of course not. People way smarter than me have spent decades studying theology and still don’t understand everything. I don’t understand how electricity works – let alone God. Some things I must accept without understanding. I don’t need intimate knowledge on the physics of flying to accept and trust in the pilot and engineers. Life’s full of things I don’t understand. Why are people unkind? Where does self-worth come from? What’s not to love about cheesecake?
My mental health recovery has stagnated and stalled more times than I can count – and I’m very good at counting. I make all-important strides in the (apparently) right direction, then something drags me back into the cavernous depths. Seeking strength in the divine is like trusting a field full of strangers to levitate me overhead. I’ve never done it – because I don’t trust people. And I feel too fat. But if I did, I’d have to let my guard down and trust the group to support me. I couldn’t know for sure they would – I’d just have to believe. So it is with God. I believe that when I’m most in need, He will be there. That when all around me erupts into chaos, He’s quietly waiting to be my strength. Prayer is my mindfulness exercise – when I find myself living in the past or the future, prayer brings me back to the present. I can let go of the past (which cannot be changed) and trust in the future (which cannot be known).
I’m uncomfortable with various theological constructs – unhealthily close affiliations to politics, an obsession with the bedroom antics of consenting adults, a desperate need to recruit. Religions – old and new – don’t get everything right and don’t always keep up with the times. But at church I’ve seen so many more positives, with compassion and a shared sense of understanding. I’ve found a community of people who behave like family – the best bits. Sermons birthing unity and self-acceptance. And altar calls for prayer. Whether you’re a militant atheist, a religious fundamentalist, or somewhere in between (as the vast majority of us are), prayer feels healing. While science shares mixed reports, the simple matter is that when someone – or a group of someones – offers you prayer (distinctly different to unsolicited prayer), you feel validated and loved. Will that cure cancer? Who knows? God works in mysterious ways. But a few minutes of prayer can bring calm to a thumping heart and a belief in future possibilities.
Prayer is the mindfulness tool I’ve always talked about but never utilised.
The day before my baptism, Kiki gave me a gold cross. While she no longer practices any faith, tradition in her family dictates a cross is given on the day of baptism – so she sneakily popped into town right before Christmas and purchased one for me. It now hangs around my neck, snug against the amethyst necklace I inherited from my mother. When I feel afraid and uncertain, I unconsciously reach for them both.
After a year of curiosity and a willingness to be open to possibility, I was water baptised. I tentatively stepped into the big bath on my broken ankle and slid fully clothed into the comfortingly warm waters. I said “I do”, to the following three questions:
- Do you believe Jesus is the son of God?
- Do you believe Jesus died and was raised to life?
- Do you accept Jesus as your Lord and Savior?
Then I listened as prayer was spoken over me and the congregation watched on, willing the prayer to be heard by God. I confess, I didn’t rise out of those waters feeling one ounce different. The sheer publicness of the baptism detracts from the intensely personal relationship I have with God. But in my own way, I have cemented my relationship with God.
I know many people can’t understand my belief in God and Jesus and Christianity – just as I never understood in the past. I’m the same person except now I have a name to call upon for strength, courage and wisdom when mine fails me. Perhaps to you, God is an invisible friend or the flying spaghetti monster. I don’t know – and that’s okay. You do what works for you and I’ll do what works for me. Perhaps to you, God is profoundly important and intimate. Me too.
My spiritual quest is inextricably linked to my mental health recovery.
I’ve had encounters with God I don’t understand and developed a sense of purpose I never had. I have a huge amount of questions that cannot be answered and I’m developing my own way of reconciling Christian doctrine with a personal belief system. I’m as I’ve always been and completely changed.