I read this poem in the New Yorker in the early aughts -- at almost precisely the moment I was taking my leave of the church. I have tried to let it guide how I interact with people of faith since then. And I've been thinking about it lately.
These days, I have one foot in and one foot out of the church. I have always missed the community of my last congregation. I often miss the hymns. But I can't quite get myself to fully engage, either. I go back for a week or two, then disappear for months at a time. The people there still love me, oddly enough. That's God enough for me, for now.
But it's early in this crisis. They say there are no atheists in foxholes. I don't think that's actually true. I think I'm about to find out if I can survive this kind of challenge without permitting my hope to overwhelm my head. I honestly don't know. And I'm not sure that it matters. We're all about to experience PTSD -- the lucky ones among us, that is. Whatever gets us through, right?
Other notes:
* We were going to be frugal in the face of the pandemic, but really: We don't spend near as much money if we don't leave the house. We're spending a bit more on groceries, and a whole lot less on everything else. Of course, that's what's contributing to the collapse of the economy, but it's still the right thing for us to do.
No comments:
Post a Comment