The Anchor of Ritual
Holding Fast to the Orthodox Christian Faith Through Seasons of Doubt
Walking with Doubt: A Catechist's Confession
As an Orthodox catechist, I’ve spent years teaching the faith, guiding others toward the beauty and truth of Orthodoxy. But if I’m honest, I’ve also spent plenty of time wrestling with doubt. There have been moments when my heart felt distant from God, when prayers seemed to echo in an empty room, and when the weight of skepticism—mine and the world’s—threatened to pull me under. In those moments, I’ve found that the rituals and traditions of our faith aren’t just formalities. They’re lifelines, anchors that hold us steady when belief wavers. I want to share with you why these practices matter, especially when doubt creeps in, and how they’ve carried me through my own struggles.
In a world that’s always questioning, always demanding proof, the idea of sticking to religious rituals might feel “out of step with the times.” But Orthodoxy teaches us that these practices—prayer, fasting, the Divine Liturgy—are far more than habits or customs, and they transcend generations to be part of the general human experience of God. They’re ways of touching the divine, of shaping our souls, even when we don’t feel particularly spiritual. They connect us to God and to each other, no matter what’s going on inside our hearts. As Hebrews reminds us, "Faith is confidence in what we hope for and assurance about what we do not see" (11:1). Faith transcends our immediate experiences and feelings.
Image above: An anchor does a boat no good if the boat and anchor aren’t tied together.
The Power Beyond Our Feelings
I’ve learned that the power of these rituals isn’t about how they make us feel. Feelings come and go, and doubt can make them especially unreliable. Instead, the power lies in what these practices do. When I pray, even if my mind wanders or my heart feels numb, I’m stepping into a rhythm that aligns me with God’s reality. When I fast, even if I don’t feel “holy” doing it, I’m training my body and soul to depend on something greater than myself. These acts matter, not because they always feel profound, but because they shape who I am and who I’m becoming. As Saint Paul says, “I discipline my body and keep it under control, lest after preaching to others I myself should be disqualified” (1 Cor. 9:27).
I sometimes find it helpful to dip into the writings of the Stoics, those ancient philosophers who taught that virtue isn’t about feeling good—it’s about doing the right thing, day in and day out. They believed consistent action could shape your character, even when you didn’t feel like it. Orthodoxy echoes this wisdom (and many have noted parallels between Paul and the Stoics). Here’s the point: We don’t wait until we’re brimming with faith to pray or worship; we pray and worship to become faithful. I’ve clung to this truth in my own moments of doubt, when showing up to pray felt like an act of sheer will. And somehow, through the doing, faith began to stir again.
Christianity’s Hebrew roots offer another gem of wisdom that resonates deeply with me. In the Torah, the Israelites say, “We will do and we will hear” (Exodus 24:7). Doing comes first, understanding later. I love how this flips our modern obsession with needing to “get it” before we act. In Orthodoxy, we don’t have to fully grasp the mysteries of the Liturgy or the meaning of fasting to participate—indeed, ancient catechesis even would hold off on explaining the Eucharist until after baptism. We dive in to the life in Christ, trusting that the practices themselves will teach us. I’ve experienced this firsthand—times when I stood in church, unsure of what I believed, but found that the rhythm of the Liturgy carried me closer to God than my own thoughts ever could.
Sacred Rhythms: Prayer, Fasting, and Liturgy
Prayer, for me, is the heartbeat of this truth. There are days when I stand before my icons, words feeling hollow, wondering if anyone is listening. But I keep praying, not because I feel inspired, but because the act itself is a way of saying, “I’m still here, God. I’m still seeking You.” Physically bowing, crossing myself, speaking the words—they ground me in something bigger than my doubt, and they often give me words when my own words fail. They reminded me that faith isn’t just a feeling; it’s a choice to show up, to align myself with the reality of God’s presence, even when I can’t sense it.
Fasting has been another anchor. Following the Church’s fasting seasons isn’t always glamorous—sometimes it’s just me grumbling over a bowl of lentils, wondering what’s the point. But I’ve come to see fasting as more than a diet or a rule. It’s a discipline that reshapes how I relate to the world, teaching me to hunger for God above all else. Even when I don’t feel “spiritual” while fasting, the act itself is quietly working on me, drawing me closer to the One who sustains me.
And then there’s the Divine Liturgy, the heartbeat of our faith. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve walked into church feeling distracted or uncertain, only to find myself caught up in the familiar cadence of the service. Crossing myself, kissing the icons, receiving the Eucharist—these aren’t just motions. They’re ways of stepping into God’s presence, of joining the communion of saints across time. The beauty of the Liturgy is that it doesn’t depend on me feeling ready or worthy. It’s there, steady and unchanging, inviting me to participate in something eternal.
Even the disciples, standing before the risen Christ, experienced this mixture of worship and uncertainty. Scripture tells us "When they saw him, they worshiped him; but some doubted" (Matthew 28:17). Yet Jesus didn't reject them for their doubt—He gave them their mission anyway.
Carried by Community: Faith Beyond the Individual
What’s struck me most in my Christian life is how much we need each other in this. Orthodoxy isn’t a solo sport. When my faith falters, the Church carries me. The prayers of my brothers and sisters in the church militant, the prayers of the glorified saints in the church triumphant, the faithfulness of the whole community in Heaven and on Earth—they hold me up when I’m struggling to stand. I’ve leaned on this truth during my darkest moments of doubt, knowing that even if my own belief feels shaky, the Church’s faith is strong enough to sustain me. We have spiritual fathers, mother, brothers, godparents—in short, fellow strugglers—who are traveling companions along the way to encourage and strengthen us to keep the Faith.
Like Thomas, who needed the community of disciples to hold space for his doubts until he could encounter the risen Christ himself (John 20:24-29), we too need each other's support through seasons of uncertainty.
This communal aspect is why ritual matters so much. It gives us something solid to hold onto when our emotions or thoughts are all over the place. The Church’s traditions—prayer, fasting, worship—aren’t just random customs. They’re time-tested paths that have guided countless souls through doubt and into deeper faith. When I follow these patterns, I’m not just going through the motions; I’m joining a living tradition that’s been transforming lives for centuries.
Faithful Practice: The Path Through Doubt
I’ve come to see these practices as a bit like exercise. You don’t need to understand the science of muscle growth to benefit from lifting weights—you just have to show up and do the work. In the same way, we don’t need perfect faith or complete understanding to benefit from spiritual practices. We just need to keep showing up. And in my experience, showing up—especially when I don’t feel like it—has been where the real transformation happens.
This perspective feels especially urgent today, when so many of us are bombarded by challenges to faith. Our culture tells us to trust our feelings above all else, to chase personal “authenticity.” But Orthodoxy offers a different path: practice your way into faith. Don’t wait for certainty or emotional highs to live out your faith. Start where you are, with the rituals and traditions handed down to us. They’re not just habits—they’re bridges to God’s presence, even when we can’t see the other side.
What gives me hope is knowing that these practices aren’t just about us. They’re about God’s reality, His unchanging presence. When I pray, fast, or worship, I’m not just “doing religion.” I’m stepping into a relationship with the living God, whether I feel it or not. That truth has carried me through seasons of doubt and brought me back to faith time and again.
Jesus's words offer particular comfort in times of doubt: "Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you. Not as the world gives do I give to you. Let not your hearts be troubled, neither let them be afraid" (John 14:27). This peace isn't dependent on our perfect faith but on His perfect faithfulness.
Conclusion
So, if you’re struggling with doubt, I want to encourage you: don’t wait for perfect faith to start practicing:
Lean into the rituals of our faith, even when they feel empty.
Pray, even if the words feel forced.
Fast, even if it seems pointless.
Stand in the Liturgy, even if your mind is elsewhere.
And lean on the Church—on the prayers and faithfulness of those around you. These practices aren’t the opposite of doubt; they’re the path through it.
In my own life, I’ve found that holding fast to these rituals has been like clinging to a rope in a storm. They’ve kept me tethered to God, even when I couldn’t see Him clearly. And slowly, sometimes imperceptibly, they’ve led me back to faith—not a faith free of questions, but a faith strong enough to carry them. My prayer for you is that these ancient practices, these sacred rhythms, will do the same for you, guiding you through doubt and into deeper communion with the God who never lets us go.
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.
Wonderful. Thank you.
Can i use this in a parish newsletter? Appropriate attribution of course.
-Michael Fields, stockton , ca