belief

You  believe what you believe, and I believe what I believe.  

 I am not anti anything in the way of faith.  I have had the acquaintance of  Jains, Mormons, a wide assortment of Hindus, Sikhs  and Muslims, Jews, Christians (conventional and cult) with a liberal sprinkling of  professing agnostics and atheists.  

But I do find it bewildering that the great comfort offered by the Christian faith is so rarely mentioned,

that death isn’t the end, and that there is a life hereafter.   Pope Francis has gone to glory.  At the risk of sounding sour, he was 88, had been ill before and had had double pneumonia.   And he died on the day  Christians believe the Christ rose from the dead.  Yet in all the endlessly repetitive coverage of that morning, neither the life hereafter nor the day of Christ’s arising  was  mentioned.   And if his confessor didn’t bring it to his attention, I hope he thought of it for himself.

My father was the son of a Jewish mother which is to say, a Jew but he was brought up out of Judaism,  singing in the choir of the local Anglican Church.  His mother married out, as it was called.  I only heard about the Jewish heritage when I played Anne Frank

in the theatre, aged 15.

From young manhood onwards he wasn’t interested in the Anglican Church beyond a sentimental attachment to  certain hymns and carols, and the Watchnight Service, known elsewhere as Midnight Mass and held on Christmas Eve.

He believed in the majesty and wonder of nature, and the possibility of a second chance.   I think my mother’s beliefs were similar, respectfully prosaic.    

I read a lot about Yiddishkeit (Jewishness) and twice thought about conversion.   The first time I mentioned it to my father, he said gently “Jews are born, not made.”  And years later  when I offered to convert in order to facilitate my Israeli boyfriend bringing me home (his parents were observant Jews) Dov (his name)  was appalled.  It is a long  endeavour, outcome not guaranteed.  I went no further.  I fitted nowhere,

that was the deal.

But  I pray. 

  I pray  often, in passing and more deeply and I pray to a God that is just that – a power and an intelligence far about the minds and hearts of mankind.   I pray for God’s mercy and I thank him for beauty.  I pray every time I write copy and every time I have to have an injection.   And no I am not phobic about needles – I am just a wuss.

I have had two crises  when I got lost in what seemed to be a long dark tunnel and I couldn’t see how to go on.   I’d like to tell you  there was a hand, or a warmth, or a presence.   I don’t think I could define for myself, let alone anybody else, how I went forward again but I did.

Somewhere in there I shed everything except belief itself.  The words that I use comfort me.  As I believe  God knows everything anyway,  my confessions and requests and enthusiastic thanks come round in a circle back to me.  Like when I opened the front door to see two magpies  (one for sorrow, two for joy) and exclaimed “Oh thank you Lord.”  

I still like the term the Almighty – says it all.

And I believe that if I don’t get help, if the needle hurts, if I can’t reach somebody  or help or turn aside from the blackness that threatens  us on every side – that’s meant too.  Get on with it, God helps those who help themselves.

I have known some splendid examples of Christianity, emphasis here on quality not quantity, like the Irish Catholic nun who came towards me down the corridor after I had been questioned live on Irish TV many years ago about abortion and as I straightened my shoulders to take my medicine, she reached for both my hands which I gave wonderingly.  “Miss Raeburn “ she said.  “I don’t agree with a single thing  you said but you’re a darling girl.”   I think what cinched that was the man who shouted at me, wagging finger and all, that I would answer to God.  “I expect to” I said” but to no man born of woman.”