Early in the pandemic and initial shutdown, I heard a story on NPR about a teacher that ran a marathon in his backyard for charity. It was fun and inspirational enough to remind me of the resilience of human beings, the incredible stamina of the human spirit. I read Man’s Search for Meaning by Viktor Frankl (a Nazi concentration camp survivor) shortly after and felt a renewed hope in the ability to cope and overcome adversity. While the pandemic introduced new stressors, there was a novelty in learning to adapt that was, I daresay, exciting. It was enough to propel me forward on exhausting, challenging days, as I looked forward to the return of normalcy.
Now, a year later, I couldn’t feel farther from that mindset. The fatigue from this prolonged season of adaptation feels all too much.
During this season, I’ve struggled to recognize what is left of my faith since much of the trappings have been stripped away. While I’ve always been taught that faith in Jesus is larger than Sunday morning gatherings, a beloved church building, or any other act in itself, I’ve come to realize just how much these rituals meant to me. Scripture encourages us to gather, sing, confess, and pray together for a reason—these corporate acts cannot save us, but they certainly bolster our walk with God. The redeemed life is not without its ongoing challenges.
I have been blessed in that I have not had to go through this Covid-19 journey alone. There is still community, for sure, and there is still access to Scripture, worship songs, and other resources for encouragement—all reasons to be thankful. However, the loss of nearness is a tangible loss I have continued to process.
I am grieving.
I imagine you might be, too.
I find myself less interested, these days, in triumphant stories about mere humans overcoming the struggles of living in a pandemic. I’m less interested in cute anecdotes when I’m ready to scream from overstimulation in my own home, where the walls feel as if they’re closing in on me each day. In addition to the pandemic, we’ve witnessed bitter division that has left me reeling with grief over the state of the American Church.
I sat on a beach with my husband one recent Sunday morning and these thoughts, and accompanying tears, came pouring out of me. We were enjoying a brief respite from the usual, crazed pace of our lives, and the stillness was enough to allow these uncomfortable thoughts to surface. I felt such pain and embarrassment as I confessed that these days, I sometimes question whether Jesus is as real as I had thought, whether the Gospel truly offers a hope that can sustain me, if I even have faith at all.
It is hard to share these things in print (on the internet, of all places), until I remember that at its core, the Church is a family—broken and dysfunctional, but at its best, loving, accepting, and honest. In the midst of such upheaval, we need to create the space for such hard truths to be expressed. I am here to remind you (and myself) that these feelings do not disqualify you from experiencing relationship with Jesus.
On the beach that morning, after I was out of tears and all I could admit was, “I am trying to trust that Jesus has me,” I was reminded of a story that felt especially compelling.
There is one verse in Genesis 3 that, in my experience, is often overlooked. It follows Adam and Eve’s rebellion against God and the resulting curses He delivers to Adam, Eve, and the serpent. Before they are cast out of the garden forever, Scripture tells us, “And the LORD God made for Adam and for his wife garments of skins and clothed them” (Genesis 3:21, ESV).
As this verse interrupted my grief that morning, I reflected on how Adam and Eve must have felt immediately after the fall. For them, any notion of nearness was gone in an instant; in one singular act, they had done away with the most intimate, harmonious relationship they had ever known, and not even for just themselves—for all of mankind. I thought of how broken they must have felt, how alone and ashamed…left reeling from the trauma of death and separation from their God, and the newfound distance within their own marriage.
And then…God clothes them—not with leaves or synthetic fabric, but with the skins of a slain animal, a beloved creation named by Adam himself. In a beautiful place that had not known death, a place now tainted by the disobedience of humans, God got His hands dirty for the sake of the very people that wronged Him. He knew they couldn’t bear their own shame, so He embraced the ugliness of death to ensure they would be clothed.
I can’t express how much relief the reminder of that provision brought me in that moment. I was reminded of how God moves toward the brokenhearted, how these feelings of distance have been present since the very first humans rejected God, and how the story of God has persisted in spite of Adam and Eve feeling so very far from Him. When my faith felt so small and so faltering, God met me with the compelling beauty of who He is—who He has always been.
I am still becoming acquainted with this little faith of mine, disentangled from the things I must go without, that I miss dearly. I feel less sure-footed without the rituals that have been so encouraging to me over the years. In moments of doubt, however, God shines through my own insecurity and reveals He is the author and perfecter of my faith (Hebrews 12:2).
In a similar season of doubt during my college years, a dear friend introduced me to R. S. Thomas, a Welsh poet that also happened to be an Anglican priest. To this day, he is one of my favorite writers due to his stark honesty; he demonstrates a faith that was rocky and yet beautifully anchored by a trust in Jesus, even when it felt grim.
I leave this poem with you today, hoping that wherever you are, even if you are feeling so far from God, you would know you are not alone. As we progress through Lent together, and make sense of what is left when so much is stripped away, I dare you to press in to Jesus with your discomfort and doubt, to let Him meet you in that very space.
The Absence by R. S. Thomas
It is this great absence
that is like a presence, that compels
me to address it without hope
of a reply. It is a room I enter
from which someone has just
gone, the vestibule for the arrival
of one who has not yet come.
I modernise the anachronis
of my language, but he is no more here
than before. Genes and molecules
have no more power to call
him up than the incense of the Hebrews
at their altars. My equations fail
as my words do. What resources have I
other than the emptiness without him of my whole
being, a vacuum he may not abhor?
