Act of God

A fable about faith in crisis.

My idea of God is not a divine idea. It has to be shattered from time to time. He shatters it Himself. He is the great iconoclast. Could we not almost say that this shattering is one of the marks of His presence?   

----- CS Lewis, A Grief Observed

 

I remember when my church burned down. It was struck by lightning during a horrifying storm that was strong enough to topple trees and destroy people’s property. It burnt to cinders in mere minutes. And then, as if Mother Nature wasn’t satisfied, the ground shook and warped in a way that the foundations lost all integrity, so I couldn’t even rebuild it where it had stood for so long. It’s so shocking when occurrences of this magnitude happen in nature, and they are always referred to as an ‘act of God’.

            When I first saw the wreckage, I sobbed. It had been my church. Every Sunday of my young life was spent there. It was calm, harmonious and full of love, not to mention that it was God’s home. Where was He going to go now? In a frenzied panic, smouldering remains be damned, I began moving through the ash and rubble. I could save my church. I would save it. I needed to save it. So many people who had come before me had shared their faith, love, and hopes here. I needed to save it as much for them as I did for myself.

            However, as I sifted through the char, I began to notice something a bit strange: so much of the wood that had not burned was actually rotted through anyhow. All I had to do was apply a little bit of pressure and it crumbled in my hands. Even the stones that made up the walls were severely cracked, flaking away year after year from all of the pressure being brought down upon them. Some stones were broken entirely, but held in place merely by the other masonry surrounding it.

            Holy s**t, I thought to myself, how the hell was this place still standing? How had nobody been crushed to death?

            Then a giant gust of cold wind blew hard into my face, stinging my eyes and stirring up the dust and ash, blowing it into people’s gardens, covering their yards with a smelly, smoky film, and making their houses look grimy.

            This place has crushed people to death, I was reminded. It’s taken beautiful, bright lives and broken them until they conformed, or else they were cast out, or cut down. This abuse and neglect was like an inverted act of murder: it left the body alive, but had killed the soul. And these actions--- or inactions--- were all done in the name of God. These abuses knew no boundaries of land, time or tribe. Like a tornado, or flood, or fire, or blizzard, it went were it went, oblivious to the devastation and harm it caused.

            But unlike a tornado, or flood, or fire, or blizzard, the destruction caused was not an act of God, but an act of Man. It was Man who transcribed the many rules and stories, edited, adapted, paraphrased, translated, and interpreted them, and fought over what should be a part of the book. It was Man who memorized the often contradictory laws, and bent them to his liking and purpose. It was Man who went through the lands and over the seas to take these rules to others and teach them, whether they wanted to be taught or not. It was Man who started wars and committed genocide when those who didn’t want to be taught made it plainly so. 

It was Man who told women of all ages that, as direct decendants of the First woman--- a woman who was easily corrupted by Satan, and then brought damnation upon her husband---- they were temptresses by birth, made dirty by their monthly blood, and therefore lower than men, and that no matter what horrible thing had happened to them, it was definitely their own fault; who told not-so-straight people that they were deviants, nothing but perverted, sinful abominations that were shameful in the eyes of God for ‘being sick that way’; who aided and abetted deplorable abusers, all the while telling the innocent children who were treated in such an unspeakable manner that no such thing had ever happened; who told indigenous peoples the world over that they could no longer speak their languages, share their stories, practice their culture or worship That Which Is in their own way; who quelled scientific study and discovery, believing that such ideas contradicted God and were therefore blasphemous, and not perhaps yet another language in which He speaks to us. It was Man who said, ‘We want to share the love of God with everyone!’, then cut down and crushed all who stood in pursuit of that goal.

            These people then went into God's house, whether that house be called 'church', 'temple', or 'mosque', and continued to propogate these ideas, but always with a mention of love and 'what God wants', because why do such things if they aren't love, or if it isn't what God wants? They hung pictures on His walls that didn’t even look like Him, and when they would refer to Him, it was to the painting, not to the mystery, the indescribable, the Infinite Source that flowed amongst and through all. All they heard were rules, all they practiced was dogma, and all they saw was a painting. They managed to put a limit on the Limitless, because limit creates control, and control creates power.

So Man stood proud in being an emissary and servant of God, yet neglected the very Church which they claimed to be custodians of. They claimed that their foundations were love and redemption, and others could have that too, but only if you believe what they too believe, and follow it unquestioningly. However, many did question. First innocently, then emphatically. They fought back, challenged and defied. And they left. So the foundations crumble, the wood rots, and churches collapse, leaving Man to ask with oblivious horror, ‘Why is this happening?’

My tears had cut tracks through the grubbiness on my face. I looked around me and what I had seen as tragic ruins mere minutes before had shifted to horrific carnage. It may have been Man who did these things, but it was always under the guise of Divine Instruction. Did God really want this brutality, this horror? And worst of all, did God really think that this was love? My mind recoils from such an idea, and inadvertantly recoils from God. This God that will condemn me if I put one toe out of line, that will send me to a fiery, eternal pit if I make a mistake, this God that apparently loves completely, yet punishes severly and eternally. I suddenly find myself standing on a precipice, looking into a dark void where God used to be. 

With my toes on the edge, however, I become aware of something tentatively holding me back, like a thin string holding onto my shirt, barely keeping me from falling completely: its the times that I have felt an overwhelming, all consuming, yet utterly silent grace and love surround me. This love, as well as the peace, community and safety that I felt here as a child was very real, but so is the evil obliteration of the mind, body and soul that has been caused to countless others over thousands of years. And the extreme contradiction of these two becomes the stone on which my heart is broken. So many of the ways that I was taught to love my fellow humans, I was taught here. But also, so much of what was done here inherently wasn’t love. So, does that mean that I don’t love? That my love is somehow marred or not legitimate? And what I perceive as love, is it actually harm? And most heartbreaking of all, if God is love, but there is no love to be found, where did God go? Was He there to begin with?

            I sat slumped in that mess--- that big, awful mess--- and I sobbed and wept. I don't want a God who preordains these things. I'm an atheist with that god, which makes me cry all the harder, because I still want Something, but this is the only something that I was raised to know. Where do I go from that?

            I cried a bit longer that way, standing on the edge of having to choose between my humanity and my faith, when a different breeze blew. It was now warm, and so very slight. It felt more like a loved one who had come up behind me to whisper a lovely little secret in my ear. The breeze wasn’t enough to stir a leaf, but it did somehow momentarily lift my heavy burden of uncertainty, and I took that moment to escape from that awful, suffocating place--- to come back from the edge--- and to go do what I felt to be right. 

I ran back to my parent’s house, and returned with a pair of work gloves and my dad’s wheelbarrow. I sifted and sorted through the wreckage, intention coursing through me. The work that I had set for myself made me sweat buckets, stub my toes, crush my fingers a couple of time, cough and splutter from breathing dust and ash, get scratches and splinters, and made my muscles ache from moving the heavy stones and timbers, but on I work, because I believe this may be the most important work of my life.

            A lot of it wasn’t salvageable. Whatever wasn’t split, cracked, or rotten was burnt beyond any hope of repair or further use. But I did manage to find bits and pieces. I found shards of stained glass, stones that were small but sturdy, and pieces of wood that somehow escaped destruction. And in these small pieces, I saw something that I believed was worth saving, something that I still hope I am correct in wanting to take with me. In these pieces, I didn't see the god I was raised to know, but instead met another one. This hard work consumed my entire day, but I managed to fill the wheelbarrow.

            As I did one last go through, I picked up a massive timber that was still hot as a coal. I put on my gloves, gathered my strength, and lifted with my whole body. I was literally leaving no stone or timber unturned. I managed to flip it over, and was surprised to see a statue of Mary. I grew up seeing Mary everywhere. She was always dressed in pristine white and blue, her beautiful face shining towards Heaven, hands held in supplication. But the thing that I now held, sprinkled with ash and charcoal, was not the Mary that I had grown up with. Her lovely white mantle had taken on immense smoke damage, making it look more like a streaky grey towel; her once perfectly porcelain face was disfigured from the heat of the fire; her blue robes were chipped, with a couple of particulary big chunks having been broken off completely. The base of the statue is also about a third missing, severing some of her toes, and making it impossible for it to stand sturdy of its own accord ever again. Her right hand was broken off at the wrist, and though I tried, I couldn’t find it in the debris.

Poor Mary looked like she’d been through a war, but then I ruefully think, I suppose that in a way, she has been. I’ve always liked Mary. I liked that she stood firm in her female, matronly glory in a patriarchal religion. I like that even though we’re taught that Jesus is the Son of God, Mary was still his mother, a woman who brought him into the world through her mortal body. And Messiah though he may be, she taught him how to walk, talk, his pleases and thank yous, and expected him to clean his room when told.

I regarded that poor, wretched statue. That poor Lady. She always appears perfect: in her virginity, in her holiness, in the way humans see her. She looks pure, and is often the standard that so many women, especially Christian women, are held to: without sin, virginal, quiet, porcelain-esque beauty, living her life solely for her family and for God. But what I saw now wasn’t perfect. She was broken and covered in dirt, her skin had marks, her face was no longer conventionally beautiful, she looked dog tired, and her clothes were unwashed and unkempt, but she was still trying to look like she had it all together. This made her now resemble every woman in the world, but of course, this made me see a beauty that had never been shown to me before, and my love for her somehow grew. Her remaining hand was still stretching out. Please take me with you, her imploring eyes seemed to say. I smiled at broken Mary, human Mary, and held her in both arms, pressed tightly to my heart. You’re ok, Mary. I got ya. 

I placed her gently on top of her temporary bed of stone and turned back to look at that scrapyard of faith. I breathed deeply and knew that my time here was now done.

I rolled the wheelbarrow through my town, huffing and puffing and sweating, because it was some heavy stuff. I passed plenty of people, all of whom saw what I’m doing. Some looked utterly confused, others appalled. Many laughed and sniggered behind their hands, filming on their phones to post to social media later with some sort of disparaging caption, I’m sure. There were those who had an absolutely dark look about them, like they wanted to kick my wheelbarrow over. Some just looked at me with sympathy on their face, like they knew that I was putting in all of this effort for nothing. People even felt the need to announce their inner thoughts--- thoughts about my own business--- and those comments ran the gamut:

‘Oh my god, are you, like, some religious weirdo and this is, like, some weird Jesus thing, like carrying his cross or some s**t?’

‘Ugh, that is disgraceful. You honestly think that you can just pick and choose what you want and leave the rest? You either take all of it, or none of it! If you honestly call yourself a Christian, you would know better!’

‘That f*****g building should have been burnt down years ago! F*****g piss on the ashes, pave over it and make it into a goddamn parking lot. It would do more good.’

‘What is wrong with you?! That is Mary! The Mother of God! You just have her laying on some stone heap like a piece of garbage?! And look at her… she looks absolutely ghastly! What have you done to her? God forgive you!’

However, there were others. They were the people who remained passively silent. Not out of unkindness or indifference, but because they got it. At one point or another in their lives, they too had to make a decision of what they would leave and what they would take. They understand that it is a singular journey, no matter the conclusion that is reached, so they stand back and watch me, respectful of my mission. At one point, an errant stone rolled out of the wheelbarrow, and a woman stepped forward to pick it up. She didn’t put it back right away; she held it for a moment and looked at the stone with an emotion that I couldn’t place. She then looked at me with kindness in her eyes and put it back into the pile, and nodded. I gave her a small smile, uttered a quick ‘thank you’, and continued on my way.

 

I got back to my house, soaked through my shirt and redder than a tomato, but I got straight to work. I traced a small outline in the dirt so that I could have an idea where I wanted things to go. I tried different combinations of stones, wood, and glass. It wasn’t easy at all, but d****t, I was determined. So much so that I didn’t notice the time passing. It was only when my husband had turned the porch light on that I realized how dark it had become. He came outside with a cup of coffee, a sandwich, a jacket, and a couple of granola bars for me to snack on later. He set it all down, then looked at my ramshackle construction and got a look on his face like he had just drank tea with bad milk in it.

‘So this is important to you, huh?’

‘Yup.’

He looked at it again. He didn’t want this in his backyard. My husband is a person who doesn’t like churches. Like, really really doesn’t like them. Churches were the reason for a massive civil war that had happened in his country, a war which he was born into, and observed his entire childhood. However, despite vehemently disagreeing with churches, as well as denying any invisible prescence except for air, his goodness is so much bigger than his animosity. Its one of the reasons why I married him. And even though he sometimes rolls his eyes and shakes his head at my beliefs, he has made it very plain in our life together that his love for me is bigger than it all. 

So he sighed and turned to me, his look of unimpressed annoyance changed to one of quiet resignation.

‘Just be careful, please.’

‘I am. I will.’

He bent down and kissed me on the top of my head.

'I love you very much.'

'I love you too. Very much.'

He walked back into the house, and left the porch light on for me so that I could continue my work into the night. I smiled widely watching him go, touched that his love outweighs his anger, and the effects are acts of genuine kindness and humanity. He strives to be the best human that he can, even though he can fall short sometimes. But of course, don't we all? It is the intending, the trying, and the trying again to live with compassion, understanding and love that marks our goodness, not our ability to follow dogma. That is at least what The Carpenter preached about. My husband doesn't strive to do good because he will be rewarded for it in this life or the next. He does it because he believes it to be right by his fellow man. I don't say this to annoy him, or to belittle or undercut his beliefs at all, but in his own way, my atheist husband is one of the best Christians that I know, and I thank God every day that I get to spend my life with him.

With a big, dopey, lovestruck smile on my face, I turned once again to my work.

As the sun stretched its fingers over the horizon, I was nowhere near done my task. I mean, don’t get me wrong: I nearly killed myself trying to get it done. My muscles felt like frayed fabric, my eyes like they had stared wide into an arctic blizzard, and my spine felt like it was made of crumbling concrete. I was both overheating and freezing cold. I couldn’t feel my legs, but was somehow acutely aware of them cramping horrifically. I also realized that I was very thirsty, my jaw was clenched, and I really needed to pee. Physically, I was the most uncomfortable and exhausted than I had ever been in my life, and all I had to show for it was an etched outline in the dirt and a small pile of rocks and sticks. But of course, I just laughed at myself. What made me think that I could build it in one night, one week, one year, ten years? This is something that will take my whole life.

Despite my body feeling like it was going to simultaneously melt and shatter, I decided to sit for a couple more minutes. Sometimes, in this life, I feel like we would all benefit from a few more minutes of sitting quietly. The early morning was intoxicating yet calming, with nothing but the glorious sound of birdsong greeting the sun once again. I sat blanketed by that irreplaceable moment, grateful for the first hand knowledge that there is a priceless beauty in seeing the dawn of a new day baptising the small foundations that I had created out of love and hard work.

 

My little church has been under construction for many years now, much like the Sagrada Familia in Barcelona. But where that church is for anyone, this church is just for me. Not that I’m actively excluding anyone, but because I think that this is something that should only be for me.

It's rather tiny, so I crawl into like it’s a blanket fort. And just like when I was a kid, I take immense pride in this wierd, lumpy thing that I have built. Though it is small, the timbers and stones all fit in a way that keeps my church strong and weatherproof. And the variously sized pieces of stained glass that I have managed to salvage are part of the walls too, creating windows of different shapes and size all over, banishing any shadows with rays of rainbow light that shine brilliantly all throughout the day. Mary is in there too. I’ve had to shove her feet into the ground because she of course kept falling over. Growing up, I always saw her on a plinth, some sort of pedestal that seemed to create a distance between her and humanity. But now, Mary's feet are rooted in the soil--- the mother of Christ connected to Mother Earth---, and I feel very happy that she is still a part of my church.

My church is a solid structure, but it’s the details that change, as I’ve done a lot of arranging and rearranging over the years. Sometimes, I change my mind about where that small fleck of glass should go, or if it’s better for the structure as a whole to have this stone go there instead of here. I’ve also gotten materials from different places and different people, allowing myself to add to it in unexpected ways. The supporting timbers are oddly spaced, and sometimes get swapped with stones. I also abandon some materials entirely. They no longer suit my structure, and that’s ok, because what doesn’t work for me may well work for someone else.

I know that a lot of humans don't like my church, but I really don't care what they think. What I do care about is that I believe that I have found God for myself--- the Source of all love, compassion, creativity, grace and connection between all things--- and glady fall into such beauty. I built my own church. I built my own faith. And I believe that the Great Creator is happy that I have taken from His example and have made something from immense love.

This morning, I went out with my coffee, intent on having it while I was in church, but in the chapel doorway laid my dog. I may have built my church only for one human, but animals are certainly welcome, and dogs are actively encouraged. I sit down next to Gloria--- yes, her name is in fact Gloria, the Latin word for ‘Glory be’--- and her eyes open slightly. I pet her lovely soft, red fur and look at her sweet little face that has managed to continue to look exactly like a puppy for her whole life.

‘You know, Gloria… ‘dog’ is ‘God’ spelled backwards.’

Gloria does not care whatsoever, which stops the conversation dead. Then I remember, she’s currently in church. Maybe she’s having her one-on-one time with God right now, and I am thoughtlessly interrupting. So I sit with my coffee in one hand, and gently stroke her nose with the other, patiently waiting my turn. The illuminated stained glass spots her fur, making her look disco fabulous. The same sunlight catches my wedding band, the representation of the love I share with my husband, and I see the beautiful stones glint in the sun, resembling the many colors of my church walls.

I remember the day that this all started. I remember the devastation that I felt, my rush to rebuild what had been lost, the conflict over whether it should be saved at all, and the moment that I chose to save it in my own way. And as if taking a cue, the same, nearly imperceptible wind returns, and with it, a silent but forceful rush of clarity that causes the hairs on my arms to stand: my choice to follow love instead of rules, to save what I can, those people who stood by and quietly supported me, my atheist husband having the humanity that Jesus preached about, finding beauty in a cracked, singed statue, investing time and love into something that I believed with all of my love-hungry heart to be right and true. Quiet mornings with nothing but birdsong, the sun beaming just behind the horizon, glints of rainbow light, a gloriously tired, pained body made so by good hard work, having coffee while sitting by my sleeping dog. 

These moments in life that are indescribably beautiful, but so often go unnoticed, because the truly beautiful things never ask for attention. It is not the mighty wind, nor the all-consuming fire, nor the devastating earthquake. It is the quiet moments that are filled with grace, just like this one, here and now.

This is an act of God.

Author's Note

I wrote this story to exorcise some things that I have gone through in my life, trying to understand my personal beliefs and where they 'fit'.
This is not meant to start a religious or spiritual debate, nor is the comment section a public forum. I will only take criticisms or comments on the writing itself, not the topic. If I believe your comments to be unkind, inflammatory, or in anyway offensive to myself or indeed anyone else, your comments will be deleted. Please be respectful and open minded. Thank you.

Reviews

[Daz]

This is a very good read. Definitely a keeper.

[Chrissie Muldoon]

Thanks so much for that comment, Daz. I really appreciate it and am so glad that you enjoyed my story :)