Something leaps up to grasp these words as they drift over my ears. It’s evening, the sun is slipping behind the horizon, conjuring auras of florescence, and I am studying Faustus at the worker desk in my boss’s office. The moment has hardly registered before I identify the feeling—the fluttery, frightened, leaping feeling—as hope.
It has been over two years since I returned from colporteuring on the east coast, swimming in questions, and trying to beat back waves of doubt. Shortly after my return I gave up church for couple months…or maybe it was only a few weeks, I’m not sure. What I am sure of is the invaluable gift colporteuring gave me—the gift of hunger.
Spiritual hunger, or the desire for a deeper understanding of god, is a virtue in my community. Before colporteuring I sought intellectual understanding of theology and doctrine. I was not burning with emotional desire to know god the way the breathy praise songs indicated I should. After colporteuring I was consumed by little else. My desire to know and
understand the divine led me to embrace my rising doubts. Once I embraced my doubts, there was no turning back. My questions multiplied, and more often than not they were met with trite, incomplete answers. The arguments of unbelieving friends gained traction in my mind. By winter I was neither saint nor skeptic, but I couldn’t sit in the pew anymore and pretend to be fulfilled by what I heard, so I left.
I’ve been leaving ever since; philosophically, ideologically, physically, but not emotionally.
Something inside me leaps up to seize the tendril of hope in what I now realize is an invitation. Sent by my heart from the lips of Ben Lovett, it carries the implicit anticipation of response.