My Lord and my God

Don’t ever dare God. He’ll scare you right into prayer.

At least, that’s what happened to me when I started writing this column.

My deal with God was that, if he revealed himself during Lent through the people of this diocese, then I would write their stories.

At least, that’s what I thought our agreement was. I’m pretty sure the first draft of my first column said that, and that was my intent.

It didn’t turn out that way. Rather than writing about other people these last six weeks, I’ve been writing about myself. I didn’t want to, I didn’t start out to do so, and all this self-scrutiny hasn’t been pleasant. Instead of talking about the faith and good deeds of others, I’ve been forced to confront my own lack of belief.

I know Lent is supposed to be about self-examination, but nowhere is it written that it has to be public, so I kept trying to shift the focus of this column. Every week I’d remind God of our agreement, but each time I sat down to write the only words that would come out were about myself. I kept telling God it wasn’t supposed to be that way, but he didn’t listen.

Just to prove my point, today I finally read the fine print, as it were. I went back to the first article. To my horror I discovered that, among his innumerable other prodigious skills, God has a fine legal mind. The precise published words at the end of that first article were: ‘I’ve asked the Lord to open my eyes this Lent as I travel throughout the diocese. I will look for the ways that he is revealing himself to and through his Church. I’m not among the blessed who believe without seeing, but perhaps by Easter I, too, will be able to say without doubt, "My Lord and my God."’

As any lawyer will tell you, intent doesn’t mean beans compared to the written contract, which means that I didn’t have a leg to stand on when I complained that God was giving me so many stories that I couldn’t possibly write them all. Nor did I have a valid complaint when I grumbled that this column wasn’t supposed to be about me.

In fact, according to the published version, it really was supposed to be all about me.

If I’d known that, I never would have started this column. I was perfectly content as a Sunday Catholic – going to Mass on the Sabbath and writing the occasional check to charity.

Sometime in these past six weeks, though, God came out of the sanctuary and into my life.

I’d like to say I’m happy about this, but scared silly would be a more accurate description. The feeling that God is tapping me on the shoulder has me looking around for somebody else to recommend for whatever he has in mind. I don’t know what he wants, but I’m quite sure it’s not going to allow me to stay comfortably in my rut.

At this point, I’m in distinct sympathy with Jonah, who tried sailing to the far corners of the earth to get away from God. I’m also trying to improve on the prophets’ lament, to convince God that whatever he’s calling me to do, there’s no possible way I’m worthy to do it. I’m a middle-aged woman of no great intelligence, questionable courage and wavering faith. Isn’t it enough that I’ve started to pray regularly and am now willing to say, "My Lord and my God"?