notes on faith

I went to church this morning. It seems odd to write that sentence for two reasons. Until I moved out of my parents house eight years ago I spent almost every Sunday morning at Church. Since then, apart from a couple of Easter services and a chorister stint at a Presbyterian church during university, I haven't been back.

I never felt as though I'd left the church, eight years can dilute cradle Anglicanism, but it's not long enough to wash it away completely. And I had no beef with my faith: so long a part of my life, believing in God and understanding the new testament was as regular to me as breathing. Something I didn't think about much. Something that just sort of happened.

But there was a shift. Or there is a continual shifting. I'm not sure exactly. Perhaps my complacency made me spiritually lazy or maybe whatever faith I had was only ever a learned habit.

I don't think I believe in God any more.

I'm not sure when this happened, if it's permanent, or what to do about it.

A year and a half ago, when I organized my dad's and grandmother's funerals, I remember wondering how non-religious people dealt with death. At the time, I was thinking more about the structure of funerals, the processes of public mourning. I couldn't imagine organizing a "celebration of life" without any rules during the spinning teacup ride that is the early stages of grief. My family would have been paralyzed by the plethora of choices.

Now the question looms larger, like a guy looking for a fight in a bar. "How're ya gonna do it on your own? Huh? Huh? Wanna make somethin' of it sissy?"

I feel akin to the native Hawaiians, who, when forced to convert to Christianity, chose Anglicanism because they liked the pageantry of the "smells and bells" of the High Mass service. I take comfort in the liturgy because I know all the words off by heart and the music, particularly this morning, was excellent. But, as far as I can tell, there is nothing in me beyond a deep appreciation for the ritual, history and scholarship of the church.

Given all of this, is it ironic, that I'm considering singing in a church choir again?

Somehow, no. Singing would be no full court press to find God, rather, choral music is one of the more wholesome salves for my quarter-life crisis panic attacks. And I'm trying to spend more time in quiet, contemplative spaces.