Uncertainty

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The biggest problem I have is with trust. I have trouble trusting God, my family, my friends, politicians and even myself. Well, I might be right not to trust the last two on this list!

When I don’t trust God, it damages my relationship with others. It’s hard to hope, be open to new ideas, or take risks. It’s difficult to embrace others’ success rather than reacting with jealousy. At the moment, I’m going through a time of uncertainty in my personal circumstances. When I woke up on Friday morning, after the EU referendum result, it was in a country which faces a time of change and uncertainty. This will inevitably affect my own family.

I’m apprehensive about the future. I want to know right now what is going to happen, and when an immediate answer isn’t forthcoming, I throw a tantrum. I am behaving like a spoilt child at a snack break. Rather than sharing the biscuits with others, I want to keep them all to myself. I don’t just want my biscuit for today; I want one for tomorrow and the next day and the next.

What I don’t realise is that the biscuits will go off if I try to hoard them. If I really trusted the person who provided the biscuits, I’d know that they would provide what I need tomorrow and the next day. The trouble is, I don’t trust. I want everything right now.

Sometimes, lack of trust takes another form. I huddle into myself and lose hope. I become convinced that God has forgotten about me, or that I simply don’t matter to Him anymore.

In his book ‘The Second Greatest Story Ever Told’ (thanks for the recommendation!), Fr Michael Gaitley says that “sin begins with a lack of trust.” Okay, so it’s not just me. He goes on to say that our lack of trust comes from a distorted image of God. He describes God’s dealings with mankind in the Old and New Testaments and through the church since then as “God’s school of trust.”

Today I realised that while I might assent to the Gospel at head level, my fear and lack of trust shows deep unbelief at another level. If I really believed that Jesus is the good shepherd, then I would wait patiently until he showed me where I’m supposed to go next. If I really believed that God notices when a sparrow dies, then I wouldn’t give up in despair, convinced that he’s forgotten about me.

So many things in my life, like the political landscape I live in, are out of my control. However, I can’t even manage trust. I fail at that too. Like St. Therese, all I can do is hold out my arms like a little child and ask God to pick me up.

I think of John Henry Newman’s hymn ‘Lead, Kindly Light’ where he says “I do not ask to see the distant scene; one step enough for me”. I also think of Norman MacCaig’s poem, “Something Still”. It’s about a relationship which was good, but something has gone wrong. In the last verse, the poet says,

Disregard your empty hands.

It is not nothing in your fingers

That aches, but the impossible greed

To hold at once all your tomorrows.

That just about sums it up. If I can get over my impossible greed to know that my tomorrows will be provided for, I’ll be able to see that I have what it takes for today.

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That dreaded word conversion

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I remember being totally confused as a little girl, when I heard my uncle talking about a barn he had converted. Had the barn undergone some kind of religious experience?

I left the Protestant church I was brought up in and searched for some alternative belief system or set of experiences which would bring meaning to my  life. From time to time, I came across people who convinced me that I needed to be converted. It never came to anything. A few days later, after the euphoria died down, I remained the same messed-up self that I was before.

After trying it several times, I gave up and shrunk away from anything which smacked of conversion. I wouldn’t have said that my life wasn’t in need of improvement, but I didn’t feel that I could change according to a formula. I stopped going to church altogether, and would have described myself as an agnostic who leant towards a belief in God.

Conversion is a very personal thing. You can’t force it on anyone. A human being might look at the barn and decide that it needs to be converted into a studio flat. From the cow’s point of view, however, conversion would be a disaster. It would turn the barn into something totally useless.

Caught in the end

For various reasons, I started attending the Catholic church. Despite my aversion to conversion, I was caught in the end.  I can remember exactly where I was sitting in the church and what the priest was saying. He was telling a story about someone who asked him if he expected to make any conversions to Catholicism. He paused, and I waited, knowing that if he told us that he expected to make converts, then I would be out of that church as fast as my legs could carry me, and probably never come back. I hated the trapped feeling I got when someone didn’t accept me as I was, but just saw me as a potential proselyte.

“I leave conversions to God”, was what the priest actually said. Instead of feeling relief – I was let off the hook, wasn’t I? – I experienced disappointment. Until that moment, I had not realised that I actually wanted to become Catholic. I found out that I actually wanted someone to convince me that there were good reasons for me to convert.

The thought was so daring and so strange for someone brought up strict Protestant, that I didn’t know what to do with it. I hugged it to myself like a joyful secret, reasoning that if it was from me, it would fade away, but if it was from God then I wouldn’t be able to get rid of it. After six months, the thought still hadn’t disappeared and I realised that I would have to do something about it.

No-one cheers you on

On my journey to becoming a Catholic, I was by turns frustrated, disappointed and relieved that I received little encouragement. Catholic friends were politely interested. The priest made himself available to discuss things, but left it up to me to decide if I wanted to return with more questions.

After making a decision to be received into the church, things seemed to get even harder. I wouldn’t go quite so far as to say that I was so discouraged, but it felt disappointing. If I was planning on joining a Protestant church, I would have been the centre of attention. People would have been solicitously cooing and clucking over me, like a newborn baby. As a wannabee Catholic, I felt that I had to give each door a hard shove before it opened.

I realise now, of course, that people were giving me space. They didn’t want to put me under any kind of pressure and were keeping their distance, so that I could back away with dignity if I felt it wasn’t for me. They knew that if what was pulling me into the church was from God, then it wouldn’t be snuffed out by a draught of cold air.

That loaded word conversion

A while ago, I took part in a survey of religious converts, to or from any kind of religion, being carried out by Leeds Beckett University. If anyone is interested, the survey is open until 30th June 2016. Their initial findings show that about two thirds of converts experience a ‘light bulb’ moment when they realise that they have to change their belief system, just as I did. However, this moment of decision doesn’t come out of the blue, but after extensive reading about the new belief system.

So where does that leave me with that loaded word conversion? It speaks of dusty things from the past being ripped out and replaced with squeaky clean surfaces, sparkling bathrooms and smooth floors. I couldn’t live up to that image, and in the end, didn’t want to even try.

A change of direction may creep up on us gradually. In my case, there was a definite moment, an instant, in which I recognised that change of direction. However, a change of heart is a slow, lifelong process. I have to be patient with himself.