Something to believe in

For years, I struggled to connect to my father's God. But this Easter I'm reminding myself that Jesus himself was a doubter.

Topics: Religion, Easter,

Something to believe in

One Sunday in Lent I wake with a taste of pennies in my mouth, my chest sore, a broken record of worries running through my head. I worry about money and wonder whether my daughter, Abbie, who’s been struggling with her math homework, will be able to pass the third grade test. I worry about my mother, who is alone and without financial security. Panic blooms out of my chest, until I am finally so sick, I pound down the stairs and grab hold of the cold porcelain toilet.

Depression is a wilderness; the landmarks of ordinary life are torn loose from their meaning. I am in a desert like the one Jesus inhabits during Lent. In the day, I can talk myself down: I have a little money in the bank. My daughter will not fall out of the window of the apartment. But at night I can’t control my thoughts. My neck is tight and my sinuses ache. Lent is nearly over and I’m annoyed with Jesus. I’m frustrated he’s getting so much attention.

The truth is, ever since I was a girl in my father’s country church, I’ve felt competitive with Jesus. Now I resent all the Holy Week services, particularly because I’d like to attend. But I have my classes to teach, papers to grade. A friend suggests I need to realign my priorities. This enrages me. I’m not out snorting coke and picking up sailors, I’m trying to pay my bills and make sure my daughter learns her multiplication tables. Besides, if God is equally inside me, as inside Jesus, if God is equally inside a church as in my kitchen sink, then why should I feel compelled to go to church? “Jesus is a drama queen,” I say. “Every time I see a crucifix I feel like shouting ‘Get down off that cross you big faker!’”

When I go to visit Sister Leslie, she sees my agitation and seems amused by it. Her face is serene, though the eyes behind her glasses sparkle. I know she won’t yell at me, but I’m pretty sure she won’t agree with my assessment of Jesus.

“This is a very good thing,” she says, leaning forward. “You’re finally feeling it. You’re uncomfortable because you’re up there pinned with Christ to the cross.”

“Do you think God loves the rest of us as much as he loves Jesus?” I ask. It’s idiotic, I know, but my soul is tightly fisted around this concern.

She leaves her chair and comes to me with a box of Kleenex, her voice low and confident.

“Absolutely,” she says.



In the years that I’ve known Sister Leslie, the cross, which for years I’d regarded as a kitsch object used to slay vampires, has begun to resonate. I’ve internalized the wood slats pressed against one another and see them as a symbol of my own existential conflicts. Sister Leslie, like all of us, has had her own conflicts. She is the oldest of four children, eight years older than her three younger brothers and sister. She remembers the house’s chaos when all three were in diapers. “I was always longing for silence,” she says. In Tonawanda, the Buffalo suburb where she grew up, she attended an American Baptist Church, where she was baptized in the big tub behind the altar. After a restless decade of college, graduate school and travel, she settled with her partner — a woman who years before had been a Catholic nun — in Manhattan, working on Wall Street as a librarian for a corporate law firm that represented Ivan Boesky, one of the biggest names ensnared in the stock market scandals of the 1980s. During Sister Leslie’s lunch hour she sometimes sat in the back of Trinity Church and was pulled in by the beauty of the language of the Book of Common Prayer. She joined the church, got a spiritual director and began to participate as a sub-deacon and reader. Two years after her relationship broke up she began attending day retreats at Holy Spirit. One day one of the sisters asked her a question that changed her life. “She asked me if I’d ever thought of becoming a nun. I said no and ran out of the place.” She laughs thinking about her alarm. “But inside me, that no resonated. Inside me there was a giant yes.”

After 9/11 I needed desperately to talk to someone. I wanted to know if I had to pray for the terrorists, and what to say to friends who were condemning God. When I met Sister Leslie, she looked exhausted, but at peace. Her composure made me angry. I told her I kept thinking of flames engulfing people and the abject terror of those who had jumped.

Sister Leslie was silent, her hands folded in her lap. “When one thinks of horror one must also think of ecstasy.” She leaned up, her thin frame balanced on the edge of the chair. “No one knows what was on the other side for those people.”

I resisted the idea. I wanted to provoke her. I ran through my list of spiritual roadblocks. There was what happened to my ex-husband Michael’s uncle, Ron. I last saw Ron at a minor league baseball game in Illinois. I remember his red face and veiny nose, ratty cashmere coat and worn loafers. That winter he’d come out of a bar late at night and passed out in a snow bank. By the time a passerby found him he’d gotten frostbite in his hands and legs. Both legs had to be removed as well as all of his fingers. He was in a wheelchair, living in his mother’s house, when he died of complications from the amputations.

As I lay out the grim details — the blackout, the snow, the amputations, the wheelchair — I hear my voice, stopping and starting. I sound hysterical. I can tell by the way Sister Leslie is sitting that she knows I’m not just telling a story, I’m asking a question. What is the meaning in Uncle Ron’s death? I can’t make horror into anything else. I can’t flow through it. I hit my head on Uncle Ron in his ratty cashmere coat lying in the snow bank, his fingers and legs turning pale purple.

Sister Leslie leans forward and speaks, her voice clear and strong.

“You’ll never know the meaning of an incident like Ron’s death until a much later date,” she says.

This answer does not please me. It’s like time heals all wounds. I look at her, she is thin under her habit, bones covered in a black shroud.

“At some later time the meaning, which will never be explicit, may reverberate.”

“I don’t get it.”

I keep thinking she hasn’t heard me. Ron had his legs sawed off. Ron had all his fingers cut off. Ron has children, sisters, brothers, a mother. The horror to me is complete. There’s no room for even the smallest ray of light.

“We’re here now in this room,” she says. “We’re talking about Ron, his story has moved you, made you aware of human frailty. Think of the horror of the crucifixion, the degradation. The shame of it.” Sister Leslie leans forward. “And how that event reverberates out through history into so many hearts.”

Sister Leslie is insisting I have a choice. I can clench the bloody bone or I can widen my focus, look around me and see that while my hands may be blood-stained, I am standing in a garden under a tree surrounded by light.

- – - – - – - – - – - -

A week later, Abbie has lined up her Hello Kitty dolls along the tub’s edge and her Barbie jet ski is zipping around in the water. She’s gotten two tiny glow sticks from a gum ball machine and is using them like starting batons. Ever since I picked her up at school she’s been preoccupied. I ask her what is wrong. She looks up at me from the tub.

“Quintana told me something that’s really going to hurt your feelings.”

Quintana, a girl in Abbie’s class, is a sophisticate with a Danish mother and an older Spanish father. Maybe she said something disparaging about my ratty wool sweater and baggy jeans, but who knows? Once, when she was in preschool, Abbie asked me where poop came from. I began to tell her about the digestive tract and how vitamins and nutrients were taken out of food and absorbed by the body. Abbie’s eyes glazed over. “Zachary says the wolves come and put poop in you at night.” She said her answer was definitive.

After I read to her she snuggles down into her bed, her two dolls Pussy Cat and Kit beside her, the glow sticks each balancing against their chests. I ask her again if she wants to tell me.

“It’s going to really hurt your feelings,” she says. “I hate to say it to you.”

“Go ahead,” I say.

“Quintana says there is only Mother Nature, there is no God.”

“That doesn’t hurt my feelings,” I say. “That’s fine with me.”

“Really?” she is incredulous.

“Everybody has their own theology.”

She looks at me blankly.

“You know how your friend Ginger believes in werewolves and she prays to her dog Dudley?”

Abbie nods.

“Everybody has their own idea of God. I mean maybe Quintana is right, maybe Mother Nature is God. Sister Leslie thinks God is a girl.”

Abbie’s mouth drops open.

“God is a girl? she says.

“Sister Leslie thinks so,” I say.

Her brows fold down and she looks, in her eight-year-old way, extremely serious.

“I need to know if God is a boy or a girl.”

“You can decide,” I say. “You decide what you want to believe.”

“God is a girl?” Abbie says again as I turn off the bedside lamp. “I’ll have to think about that.”

In the dark, the glow sticks lay on her dolls as bright as bits of neon.

“Look, Mommy,” she says, “the dolls have souls.”

- – - – - – - – - – - -

On Easter, Abbie dyes eggs with my mom. When I press her to come to service she reminds me that she, like her friend Quintana, has decided there is only Mother Nature. I decide not to argue. How can you argue with a girl wearing a Supergirl nightgown and writing “YO!” with a wax crayon all over several dozen hard-boiled eggs?

It’s been a cold winter and a rain-soaked March. Inside the church, the altar is covered with potted lilies, pink tulips and daffodils. The place is humid and sweet as a greenhouse. Ushers wear white skirts with yellow blouses. As the choir processes, the congregation sings “I Know That My Redeemer Lives.” We hold hands across the rows for the Peace Song. Reverend Banks begins his sermon by explaining how Easter originated as a pagan holiday named after the Goddess Oestar and that Persians dyed eggs long before Christ. Banks goes on to describe the crucifixion, the thorns puncturing the skin of Jesus’ forehead, blood streaming down his chin, how he passed the dark night in the tomb and then how Christ’s resurrected body filled with nothing but light.

I am lucky if I can believe in the resurrection ten minutes a month. I have doubt. But I have faith as well. My doubt fuels my faith. To me doubt connects to the mystery of God much more than certainty. The finite cannot contain the infinite. Once, a New York cab driver told me he was a former Muslim who now subscribes to no organized religion. “Religions are not directly from God,” he said animatedly from the front seat. “Religion is finite. God is not finite, but infinite.”

Banks comes down out of the pulpit. You need to be sure Dearly Beloved, absolutely sure, Christ died for you. Hello somebody! Are you positive, absolutely positive?

I slip from my pew and walk out of the church. On the sidewalk I think: Jesus himself was a doubter. He questioned the validity of the established religious order. He doubted his ability to do what he was asked to do and, on the cross, he doubted the loyalty of God.

My conflict, I see now, has not been with any individual church, but with church life in general, a life that began at my baptism in my father’s shabby cottage in Sylvan Beach. The idea of church still has a grip on my imagination, but I realize that what I thought was held only inside those walls — grace and divinity — are actually located directly and authentically inside myself. Church is not a set of rules or a specific building but a way of life.

But I am not able to break with Christianity, no matter how uncomfortable I am with many of its current manifestations. Biblical imagery and Christ’s message of forgiveness continue to haunt me, and I know my own redemption lies in Christian tenets, not in others’ religious beliefs. Still, I can interpret the Bible in my own way. I can choose from the creeds that have been passed down, I can make my relationship to God my own, not one that is defined by church doctrine. And I can pray. Of all the gifts Sister Leslie has given me, her Aunt Birdie’s Book of Common Prayer has been the most valuable. Thin colored ribbons stick out the bottom. I read Morning Prayer and sometimes Compline. The Compline antiphon is my favorite: Guide us waking, oh Lord and guard us sleeping, that awake we may watch with Christ and asleep we may rest in peace.

Since I was a teenager I’ve lived in a world mostly devoid of divinity. But now I see the sacred includes not just churches but hospitals, highways, costume jewelry, garbage dumps, libraries, the cruising area of public parks. Also pet stores, subway platforms, Ferris wheels and rain storms.

Rather than certainty, I try to cultivate a sense of sacredness. Life is brutal, full of horror and violence. Life is beautiful, full of passion and joy. Both things are true at the same time. The paradox extends to my own being. I think of the words of Slovenian philosopher Slavoj Zizek, who calls Christianity the religion of Love and Comedy, à la Charlie Chaplin: “The point is not that, due to the limitations of his mortal sinful nature, man cannot ever become fully divine, but that due to the divine spark in him, man cannot become fully man.” Abbie, as young as she is, has already felt this dichotomy. On a page of her journal I found this epigram: I feel like I am someone like God I do not know why.

Darcey Steinke is the author of four novels, two of which were New York Times Notable Books of the Year. Her non-fiction has been featured in Vogue, the Washinton Post, the Chicago Tribune, the Village Voice, Spin, and the New York Times Magazine. She lives with her daughter in Brooklyn.

Featured Slide Shows

  • Share on Twitter
  • Share on Facebook
  • 1 of 11
  • Close
  • Fullscreen
  • Thumbnails

    Ten spectacular graphic novels from 2014

    Beautiful Darkness by Fabien Vehlmann & Kerascoët
    Kerascoët's lovely, delicate pen-and-watercolor art -- all intricate botanicals, big eyes and flowing hair -- gives this fairy story a deceptively pretty finish. You find out quickly, however, that these are the heartless and heedless fairies of folk legend, not the sentimental sprites beloved by the Victorians and Disney fans. A host of tiny hominid creatures must learn to survive in the forest after fleeing their former home -- a little girl who lies dead in the woods. The main character, Aurora, tries to organize the group into a community, but most of her cohort is too capricious, lazy and selfish to participate for long. There's no real moral to this story, which is refreshing in itself, beyond the perpetual lessons that life is hard and you have to be careful whom you trust. Never has ugly truth been given a prettier face.

    Ten spectacular graphic novels from 2014

    Climate Changed: A Personal Journey Through the Science by Philippe Squarzoni
    Squarzoni is a French cartoonist who makes nonfiction graphic novels about contemporary issues and politics. While finishing up a book about France under Jacques Chirac, he realized that when it came to environmental policy, he didn't know what he was talking about. "Climate Changed" is the result of his efforts to understand what has been happening to the planet, a striking combination of memoir and data that ruminates on a notoriously elusive, difficult and even imponderable subject. Panels of talking heads dispensing information (or Squarzoni discussing the issues with his partner) are juxtaposed with detailed and meticulous yet lyrical scenes from the author's childhood, the countryside where he takes a holiday and a visit to New York. He uses his own unreachable past as a way to grasp the imminent transformation of the Earth. The result is both enlightening and unexpectedly moving.

    Ten spectacular graphic novels from 2014

    Here by Richard McGuire
    A six-page version of this innovative work by a regular contributor to the New Yorker first appeared in RAW magazine 25 years ago. Each two-page spread depicts a single place, sometimes occupied by a corner of a room, over the course of 4 billion years. The oldest image is a blur of pink and purple gases; others depict hazmat-suited explorers from 300 years in the future. Inset images show the changing decor and inhabitants of the house throughout its existence: family photos, quarrels, kids in Halloween costumes, a woman reading a book, a cat walking across the floor. The cumulative effect is serene and ravishing, an intimation of the immensity of time and the wonder embodied in the humblest things.

    Ten spectacular graphic novels from 2014

    Kill My Mother by Jules Feiffer
    The legendary Pulitzer Prize-winning cartoonist delivers his debut graphic novel at 85, a deliriously over-the-top blend of classic movie noir and melodrama that roams from chiaroscuro Bay City to Hollywood to a USO gig in the Pacific theater of World War II. There's a burnt-out drunk of a private eye, but the story is soon commandeered by a multigenerational collection of ferocious women, including a mysterious chanteuse who never speaks, a radio comedy writer who makes a childhood friend the butt of a hit series and a ruthless dame intent on making her whiny coward of a husband into a star. There are disguises, musical numbers and plenty of gunfights, but the drawing is the main attraction. Nobody convey's bodies in motion more thrillingly than Feiffer, whether they're dancing, running or duking it out. The kid has promise.

    Ten spectacular graphic novels from 2014

    The Motherless Oven by Rob Davis
    This is a weird one, but in the nervy surreal way that word-playful novels like "A Clockwork Orange" or "Ulysses" are weird. The main character, a teenage schoolboy named Scarper Lee, lives in a world where it rains knives and people make their own parents, contraptions that can be anything from a tiny figurine stashable in a pocket to biomorphic boiler-like entities that seem to have escaped from Dr. Seuss' nightmares. Their homes are crammed with gadgets they call gods and instead of TV they watch a hulu-hoop-size wheel of repeating images that changes with the day of the week. They also know their own "death day," and Scarper's is coming up fast. Maybe that's why he runs off with the new girl at school, a real troublemaker, and the obscurely dysfunctional Castro, whose mother is a cageful of talking parakeets. A solid towline of teenage angst holds this manically inventive vision together, and proves that some graphic novels can rival the text-only kind at their own game.

    Ten spectacular graphic novels from 2014

    NOBROW 9: It's Oh So Quiet
    For each issue, the anthology magazine put out by this adventurous U.K.-based publisher of independent graphic design, illustration and comics gives 45 artists a four-color palette and a theme. In the ninth issue, the theme is silence, and the results are magnificent and full of surprises. The comics, each told in images only, range from atmospheric to trippy to jokey to melancholy to epic to creepy. But the two-page illustrations are even more powerful, even if it's not always easy to see how they pertain to the overall concept of silence. Well, except perhaps for the fact that so many of them left me utterly dumbstruck with visual delight.

    Ten spectacular graphic novels from 2014

    Over Easy by Mimi Pond
    When Pond was a broke art student in the 1970s, she took a job at a neighborhood breakfast spot in Oakland, a place with good food, splendid coffee and an endlessly entertaining crew of short-order cooks, waitresses, dishwashers and regular customers. This graphic memoir, influenced by the work of Pond's friend, Alison Bechdel, captures the funky ethos of the time, when hippies, punks and disco aficionados mingled in a Bay Area at the height of its eccentricity. The staff of the Imperial Cafe were forever swapping wisecracks and hopping in and out of each other's beds, which makes them more or less like every restaurant team in history. There's an intoxicating esprit de corps to a well-run everyday joint like the Imperial Cafe, and never has the delight in being part of it been more winningly portrayed.

    Ten spectacular graphic novels from 2014

    The Shadow Hero by Gene Luen Yang and Sonny Liew
    You don't have to be a superhero fan to be utterly charmed by Yang and Liew's revival of a little-known character created in the 1940s by the cartoonist Chu Hing. This version of the Green Turtle, however, is rich in characterization, comedy and luscious period detail from the Chinatown of "San Incendio" (a ringer for San Francisco). Hank, son of a mild-mannered grocer, would like to follow in his father's footsteps, but his restless mother (the book's best character and drawn with masterful nuance by Liew) has other ideas after her thrilling encounter with a superhero. Yang's story effortlessly folds pathos into humor without stooping to either slapstick or cheap "darkness." This is that rare tribute that far surpasses the thing it celebrates.

    Ten spectacular graphic novels from 2014

    Shoplifter by Michael Cho
    Corinna Park, former English major, works, unhappily, in a Toronto advertising agency. When the dissatisfaction of the past five years begins to oppress her, she lets off steam by pilfering magazines from a local convenience store. Cho's moody character study is as much about city life as it is about Corinna. He depicts her falling asleep in front of the TV in her condo, brooding on the subway, roaming the crowded streets after a budding romance goes awry. Like a great short story, this is a simple tale of a young woman figuring out how to get her life back, but if feels as if it contains so much of contemporary existence -- its comforts, its loneliness, its self-deceptions -- suspended in wintery amber.

    Ten spectacular graphic novels from 2014

    Through the Woods by Emily Carroll
    This collection of archetypal horror, fairy and ghost stories, all about young girls, comes lushly decked in Carroll's inky black, snowy white and blood-scarlet art. A young bride hears her predecessor's bones singing from under the floorboards, two friends make the mistake of pretending to summon the spirits of the dead, a family of orphaned siblings disappears one by one into the winter nights. Carroll's color-saturated images can be jagged, ornate and gruesome, but she also knows how to chill with absence, shadows and a single staring eye. Literary readers who cherish the work of Kelly Link or the late Angela Carter's collection, "The Bloody Chamber," will adore the violent beauty on these pages.

  • Recent Slide Shows

Comments

0 Comments

Comment Preview

Your name will appear as username ( settings | log out )

You may use these HTML tags and attributes: <a href=""> <b> <em> <strong> <i> <blockquote>