Belief, Bare Bones

This has been a challenging weekend for me, as a person and a priest. It has reminded me strongly of why I tended, until recently, to be reclusive. One of the things I tried most to avoid was entanglement with people. Some of my capacities make people eager to be entangled with me and bring their flaws to the surface, which can be dangerous for me—it has not been unusual for people to try to harm me in the course of their obsession or as their worse tendencies rise to the surface.

Can you blame me for being reclusive? I would be hard pressed to count how many times someone has threatened me, tried to lay hands on me, or tried to force me to do something.

Of the spirit, I can say that it is marvelously complex, but very straightforward. They say what they mean, though you might not understand at first. What they mean will unravel in layers and layers and layers over time.

Of people, I can say they are like a sneeze into an open bottle of ink. Tarry, sticky, messy without reason. They delight in their own messes and in smearing it on others, like children playing in the mud.

I woke this morning thinking of something Anaisa said a few weeks ago, and went to sleep thinking about a conversation I had with one of my students. With my student, I was discussing faith. With Anaisa, I was discussing our relationship.

My faith was questioned this weekend by someone who has the capacity to do so, and specifically my capacity to hear the spirit and to hear what is speaking. The person was angry with me for something and when I did not respond to them the way they wanted, it kicked off a series of expensive events that left me questioning the nature of my faith and my capacity to hear and understand the spirit.

I am often slow to act. I have learned caution over a lifetime of anomalous events. A cool head is an advantage when everyone else is freaking out. One of the lessons this weekend was I am a little too cautious, and while I heard instructions to remain calm (and did), I begin to wonder if I should be more offensive.

Talking to my student last night, I ended up saying something which, if you knock all the fancy words off it, is very simple: I believe because I can do nothing else.

There are plenty of reasons, if we want to be practical. The spirits come. My readings are accurate. I am too poor an atheist to lack belief when I am someone who can get possessed. I have seen the spirits casually violate physics and demonstrate the knowledge of things that no one else knows, things that I didn’t know. The spirits give me messages that challenge me to grow, to change, to elevate. They come and bring impossible healing.

Impractically, belief is what I can do, the message that echoes in the still places in me no matter what else is going on outside me. No matter how hopeless the world outside me seems to be, that little flame has yet to burn out.

Anaisa reminded me that the spirits will not always come in a way that seems kind. To her, I responded as I must: if you are working within the divine purpose, I cannot stay mad at you.

And it is true. We are not given the promise that it will always be nice, only that we can change.