Thanks for this one… what a luminous and necessary confession. I read your words as one might overhear a quiet prayer in the darkened back pew of a chapel… uttered not in certainty, but in love. The kind of love that stays. That bows the head even when the heavens are silent. That keeps the fast when the heart is numb. In Desert and Fire, I’ve tried to trace the same ache: that sacred disorientation that often marks the real beginning of faith, not its failure.
What you describe is not spiritual defeat, but fidelity: the fidelity of rhythm over rapture. The world mistakes faith for feeling, mistaking the trembling silence of Gethsemane for absence. But the mystics, those ragged friends of God, knew better. St. John of the Cross, wandering blind through the noche oscura, told us plainly: God is nearer in the shadows than in the sweetness. And the ancients of the East, too, whispered that doubt is not a barrier but a veil.
I’m struck especially by your insistence on practice over understanding, on doing before hearing. In my own reflections, I’ve called this the “incarnational paradox”—that God, who is Spirit, meets us through matter. Bread. Water. Words. Fasting, as you say, is not glamorous. Nor is prayer, especially when the only response is the sound of your own breath. But in that breath, in that sheer act of continuing, is the echo of divine presence.
The rituals are not evidence of belief; they are the womb of it. The body bows, even when the mind doubts. And somehow, mysteriously, the soul follows.
I’ve often said that faith is not the absence of doubt but the refusal to leave the altar because of it. And like you, I’ve found that it is precisely when I have no words of my own that the words of the Church become most dear, precisely because they are not mine. They are ours. They belong to the Body, which holds us when we cannot hold ourselves.
Your essay is a balm to all who think they are alone in the wilderness. It reminds us that the way back to God is not a blaze of glory, but a repetition of sacred steps, taken in the dark, with blistered feet, toward a Light we do not yet see, but whose warmth we remember.
Beautifully stated, Steve, and a fitting P.S. to the post. I shared my words above to be an encouragement to others, and here you are encouraging me. Thank you for sharing your thoughts!
Thanks for this one… what a luminous and necessary confession. I read your words as one might overhear a quiet prayer in the darkened back pew of a chapel… uttered not in certainty, but in love. The kind of love that stays. That bows the head even when the heavens are silent. That keeps the fast when the heart is numb. In Desert and Fire, I’ve tried to trace the same ache: that sacred disorientation that often marks the real beginning of faith, not its failure.
What you describe is not spiritual defeat, but fidelity: the fidelity of rhythm over rapture. The world mistakes faith for feeling, mistaking the trembling silence of Gethsemane for absence. But the mystics, those ragged friends of God, knew better. St. John of the Cross, wandering blind through the noche oscura, told us plainly: God is nearer in the shadows than in the sweetness. And the ancients of the East, too, whispered that doubt is not a barrier but a veil.
I’m struck especially by your insistence on practice over understanding, on doing before hearing. In my own reflections, I’ve called this the “incarnational paradox”—that God, who is Spirit, meets us through matter. Bread. Water. Words. Fasting, as you say, is not glamorous. Nor is prayer, especially when the only response is the sound of your own breath. But in that breath, in that sheer act of continuing, is the echo of divine presence.
The rituals are not evidence of belief; they are the womb of it. The body bows, even when the mind doubts. And somehow, mysteriously, the soul follows.
I’ve often said that faith is not the absence of doubt but the refusal to leave the altar because of it. And like you, I’ve found that it is precisely when I have no words of my own that the words of the Church become most dear, precisely because they are not mine. They are ours. They belong to the Body, which holds us when we cannot hold ourselves.
Your essay is a balm to all who think they are alone in the wilderness. It reminds us that the way back to God is not a blaze of glory, but a repetition of sacred steps, taken in the dark, with blistered feet, toward a Light we do not yet see, but whose warmth we remember.
Beautifully stated, Steve, and a fitting P.S. to the post. I shared my words above to be an encouragement to others, and here you are encouraging me. Thank you for sharing your thoughts!
Wonderful. Thank you.
Can i use this in a parish newsletter? Appropriate attribution of course.
-Michael Fields, stockton , ca
Sure thing, Michael. If you don’t mind, please include simplyorthodox.info in the credits! I hope it helps!
PS I once was in a rap group with a few guys from Stockton.
😎
--loved the article.
Beautiful ☦️