The first printed thoughts of this wondering wanderer, or wandering wonderer, published in Presbyterian Record at Christmas, 1999, recounted one man’s circuitous path toward faith. Born just ahead of the baby boom but young enough to catch the wake of the turbulent sixties as a journeyman disc-jockey career began, my only religious exposure was a couple of adolescent years at a United church attended by a charming young lady too wise to yield to my teenage fever. Married into a Québecoise family to whom religion echoed of La Grande Noiceur, somehow I always knew that I would “go back” to church. And so I did when it dawned that I am probably not immortal.
I still quote the apocryphal story of the alcoholic, atheist, skirt-chasing W.C. Fields found reading a Bible upon his death bed.
“Bill, you’ve converted!” exclaimed a friend.
“Noooo. Just lookin’ fer loopholes.”
That was me more than a decade ago. In the darkened gallery of a crowded Church of St. Andrew and St. Paul on Christmas Eve, awed by the mystery of a far away long ago birth, I realized how much I take on faith. That my family loves me, my computer computes, the brakes work, the paycheque won’t bounce. Why not, after half an agnostic lifetime of resistance, just take one more thing on faith? With music soaring heavenward, I whispered what may have been my first prayer:
“If that’s good enough for you, Lord, it’s good enough for me.”
In the decade since, God has led me to places I had never dreamed of going. I broke a cardinal rule – “never volunteer” – and found myself washing dishes for sixty hungry students. I learned that God so loves Presbyterians that He invented committees. I was startled to hear so much laughter. I walked the mean streets of Saskatoon and learned to love a saint named Stewart Folster. I opened my big mouth once too often and learned more about building websites than I ever wanted to know. The job prerequisites can’t be that demanding if they made me an elder. If friends are people who will be there when the going gets tough, I’ve found more friends in a decade than in all the years before.
Postmodern is us, though. Western-world churches struggle against science-bred skepticism, raging consumerism, severed community and family connections in frantic urban sprawls, and endless assaults of media superficiality. Marshall McLuhan remarked that living in a time of intense media change is discomforting in the extreme, and our 21st Century global village testifies to that.
I long for a few moments of quiet peace. I mourn for the lost faith of our fathers. I go to church nearly every Sunday, privileged to share a great tradition, a majestic building that echoes the faith that raised the great cathedrals of Europe, inspired music that speaks beyond words, and reflections that touch my life. There are moments of intense richness, usually alone, in which I feel that God is close. The Holy Spirit? Perhaps.
There are other moments. In rush hour traffic, late for a church supper, vocalizing frustration as only a Montreal driver can.
“How can you talk like that?” asked my wife. “You’re on your way to church.”
Angels appear at the most surprising times.
I still approach church hungry for nourishment of the spirit, more filled with disturbing questions than easy answers. That Presbyterian Record has the fortitude to share these wandering, wondering struggles with unbelief suggests that I am not alone. Accompanied, sometimes at a great distance, by God, let us share this journey that probably began when you asked the adolescent question: “Why am I here?” Commiseration, understanding, theological pointers and outraged screams are all welcome.
