The Fragility of Faith
“‘The point is, sometimes miracles occur only when you jump in.’”
I've always had faith, but my faith always came with a healthy bit of skepticism. The skepticism wasn't aimed at religion, necessarily, but with people, in general. You see, I've always had an interesting time with people; between gauging intention and reading social cues from my peers, I'm about as lost as they come.
This lack of understanding being one of my primary sources of motivation for becoming a psychology major, in addition to people telling me I shouldn't (I can be quite spiteful if the occasion requires it).
Growing up as a Bahá'í though comes with a few interesting caveats. We're taught to believe what we're told throughout our adolescent spiritual growth—for which our parents are responsible for until the age of 15—until our control over our spirituality is handed back with a handy little note saying, "independent investigation of the truth." Not literally, but it's implied.
Essentially, the rest is up to you.
Though it sounds a little callous, I appreciate the sentiment that you're given the power and encouraged to go and seek out what you believe to be true, even before you know who you really are. Pretty radical, isn’t it?
So, either you deepen with the writings, fall in love with the faith, and then declare that faith, or you choose a different path, wherever that may lead. Fun fact: just because you're born a Bahá'í, doesn't mean you have automatic membership. You have to choose to be a Bahá'í after the age of 15.
Which is another interesting bit that I really appreciated, I never felt forced to go down this path, it was my choice.
Well, my independent investigation has been a little rocky, to say the least, as most are, I imagine. A little over a year after my 15th birthday, I moved out of my parent's house and started college. I was still lost on this whole religion thing; as my mom would say in an exasperated tone every time the topic came up, "I know, religion isn't cool Chloé."
And it wasn't, not until I met Brian.
My independent investigation started with taking three religion classes with my handy-dandy spiritual guide (not really but kinda), Brian. And boy, am I thankful for Brian. Through him, I had an outlet for questions about faith I didn't understand and, more importantly, people.
One afternoon, after class had ended, I stopped Brian from exiting the room by assaulting him with an onslaught of questions concerning my odd prejudice—which I’ve since resolved—against religious zealots that used religion merely as a tool for their own agendas.
We sat and talked in circles for a couple of hours until finally, I looked at Brian and said, "I just don't like people!" He chuckled at that.
I had an epiphany after this very circular conversation with basically myself: people cannot wholly represent their faiths, and it’s unfair to hold them to this unattainable standard of moral perfection. Shitty people are just shitty people, and their religion has nothing to do with that manifestation of ignoble action.
My investigation started with Brian but has since plateaued over the past two years. I had fallen into a pattern of self-doubt and depression that somehow didn't lead me to faith but instead to absolute avoidance. I also didn't have anyone checking me on my bullshit. I was responsible for my own personal shit-show, the one-man show with a crack climbing addiction and some suspicious-looking chalk (this is 100% a joke, at least with the chalk).
Fast forward to today, I've moved back down to Southern California, the land of botox and taco trucks. Not only did I move back to SoCal, but I also moved in with my aunt. We now share a bedroom with a very Lucy and Desi style set of twin beds.
The importance of this transition is the accompaniment my aunt offers through this spiritual wonderland. One thing I've learned from this whole examination of my spirituality is that you're not meant to go through this alone; accompaniment is a crucial part of the process. And the people that have accompanied me through this mess we call life are endless.
The great thing about accompaniment though is that it takes on many forms. With my aunt, we started with saying prayers every morning. Prayers are like a workout, I've learned. You have to say them and then say them again until one day you feel a little more sincere and a little less like a fool begging into the “void.”
We also started reading. Reading the writings, books by Bahá'í authors, and, more recently, a book that has since rocked my world. A book called, The Year of Living Biblically: One Man's Humble Quest to Follow the Bible as Literally as Possible by A.J. Jacobs.
The irony of this next section, of writing a review for a book that is, essentially, about a man writing a review on the book of all books—the worlds #1 best seller—does not escape me. Here it goes anyway.
A rough summarization: A.J., an author and writer for Esquire, decides to simultaneously seek out spirituality for his young son and a book deal that naturally accompanies this quest. So, he does what any normal person seeking spirituality does and decides to live the Bible as literally as possible for a year. Yes, it is precisely as ridiculous as it sounds. To add to the comedy, A.J. is Jewish in Ethnicity but is as agnostic as the Flying Spaghetti Monster themself.
My fascination with this book, and its author, come from the similarities I could draw between us. The feelings A.J. struggled with over this year, his frustration with a psalm prompting him to be "slow to anger," the genuine struggle of losing control or the "freedom from choice," and often the fragility of faith itself (pg. 142 & 193).
Reading about A.J.'s struggle made me feel less alone in my own struggle for faith. I have plenty of my own "slow to anger" moments on the daily.
My aunt likes to say, "God gave us free will to make a choice between submitting or not submitting to the will of God." And, as I progress spiritually, I'm inclined to agree with her. The moment you decide that you have everything under control is the moment life will throw something at you to prove you wrong.
For example, when my aunt and I were cornered by forest fires on the road trip from hell this past summer. Every time my aunt said, "we're gonna do it, we're gonna get home today," another fire would pop up and push us closer to the coast. It wasn't until I begged her, half-laughing/half-crying from delirium, to stop challenging God, did we actually find a place to sleep for the night. Wild, right?
As soon as we had accepted the situation for what it was, the chaos ceased. And the next morning, we woke up and made our way home unhindered.
I viewed this read as an adventurous research project, the opportunity to learn at a distance. It allowed me to "justify" my own delay in exploring my faith more deeply, like my consistent battle in saying my obligatory prayer every day, literally one of the only things required from me.
It felt necessary to stop false attempts until they became sincere because what's the point if it's not sincere. On the other hand, there is something to be said about just doing it. Like I mentioned earlier, praying is like working out. Speaking of prayer, here's a funny visual for first-time prayer sayer A.J. on his quest, who's more than a little uncomfortable:
"So I settle on holding my arms outstretched like a holy antenna, hoping to catch God's signal"
(p. 21).
And though it sounds ridiculous, aren’t we all trying to catch a little? I used to ask my grandma if she could put a favor in with God and get me a skywriter with my life’s purpose written on it. You know, just a handy-dandy cloud-shaped banner spelling out “lawyer” or “doctor” or “elephant trainer.” I certainly don’t know, so maybe I am meant to train elephants, who knows.
Point is, I’ve been so wrapped up in this idea of the “next step” in my life—in finding purpose—that I’ve seemingly neglected myself. My therapist recently pointed out, that when your steps falter you need have something to anchor you, something you can rely on. Most pick from one of the big three: religion, family, and themselves.
She subsequently pointed out that with my abandonment issues and disconnection with my faith, as well as, my lack of self-confidence, I basically rely on nothing. I’m just floundering in the void. I’m including this little bit to acknowledge that, one, I’m working on these things; I’m working to hold onto something other than this unreliable idea of the “next step.” To focus on something bigger.
And two, having an immovable anchor like faith is something I’ve never put stock into and I’ve certainly never thought of relying on myself. On that note, I thought I’d share a quote from Baha’u’llah:
Dost thou reckon thyself only a puny form
When within thee the universe is folded?
Excuse me, as I bask in this profound statement. This quote is essentially bringing to light the idea that, with the universe enfolded within you, you have all of the necessary tools to conquer any situation. That strength, the power of the universe, is already within you; so, you just need to rely on yourself, and know you can persevere.
As someone who is inherently full of self-doubt, this idea seems out-of-reach. How could I handle every situation thrown at me? But even this question is my self-doubt speaking, not me. I am not my self-doubt. I have the capability to push beyond it, which blows my mind a little bit.
My purpose in sharing this very private journey is somewhat anti-climactic; there's no call to action to be found. If anything, I've realized how important it is for people to willingly embark on this quest themselves.
I'm still at the stage in my journey where I feel the need for constant justification. I started with an academic approach. I'm not quite to the "mystical" aspect yet, as my aunt would say. The closer I get, though, the more I begin to echo this thought—usually attached to the devoutly religious—that "'Secular people are the freaks…'" (pg. 201). I mean genuinely, how can you not look at life and go, "there's something special going on here."
I'm ok with where I'm at, though. I know I don't have all the answers, and this journey looks different for everyone. For me, it's taken numerous people and a ridiculously awesome book that's made my outlook on everything change.
I still have a hard time with people, but who doesn't. This whole experience, no matter how it looks, "takes you out of yourself and your prideful little brain," it makes you recognize things you were blind too and makes you question your every move (pg. 220).
Because of this I've now made a practice of questioning my intention and my words with a simple phrase—not out of self-doubt but out of genuine curiosity—"Does [will] it [this] make the world a better place?" (pg. 251).
So, does it?
Jacobs, A J. The Year of Living Biblically: One Man's Humble Quest to Follow the Bible As Literally As Possible. New York: Simon & Schuster, 2007. Print.