A Doubter, a Believer, and a Person of Faith: Community Reflection

Sometimes these essays are really hard. Sometimes they come spilling out of me as though they’ve been inside of me, waiting for the chance to escape. Today was one of the easy days. Thanks to all my friends at Trinity.

A Doubter, a Believer, and a Person of Faith

            I breathe in deeply and exhale through my mouth, forgetting that the microphone in front of my lips will pick up the sound of my breath and broadcast its shaking and quaking over the sound system for everyone in the congregation to hear. Maybe it’s ok that they all know I’m nervous, I think. It’s normal to be nervous when preaching your first sermon.

I begin with a prayer: “Let the words of my mouth and the meditation of our hearts be acceptable in Your sight, O LORD, my strength and my Redeemer.” Halfway through this opening prayer, I notice that I am looking up at the people in the congregation, who are sitting heads bowed in prayer. I snap my head down prayerfully, but I keep my eyes open and firmly focused on the notes on my podium. I find it difficult to do more than recite the words. My prayer is robotic, but God’s the kind of person to understand, so I’m not too worried.

“Amen,” we all say in unison.

It’s time to begin. I grab hold of the podium with both sweaty hands, gripping the wooden edges for support. I awkwardly fluff up my curled hair a bit and realize I forgot to reapply some lipstick before the service and hope that I don’t look sickly or pale. I smile to myself, aware of how ironically vain and petty such thoughts are in the midst of what should be a reverent church service. Then I look up at my church family, and begin reading my introductory sentence: “Easter season is known as ‘Eastertide’ and it lasts 50 days.” The blue and yellow light from the stained glass windows spills over the white page of my sermon notes.

Once started, I’m in familiar territory, and read with ease. I’ve spoken in front of crowds many times. Granted, those talks were about topics I know well – literature and teaching – and here I am expected to use my mustard seed faith to inspire and enlighten my friends. It was definitely appropriate that my first sermon would be on the topic of Doubting Thomas, who responds to news of Jesus’ resurrection by saying, “Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands, and put my finger in the mark of the nails and my hand in his side, I will not believe.” I always feel like the “Doubting Thomas of Trinity.” But looking out at the sea of familiar faces, people whose steadfast faith inspires and humbles me, I am struck by the enthusiastic and encouraging expressions on their faces. As I read, I sneak glances at each of them, trying to take in the moment.

First, I notice my dear friend Miffy, who helped me steadfastly with my research on Mona Lillibridge, even finding Mona’s grave and taking a photo for me. She looks at me with her signature serene kindness, no doubt honed by years of teaching children. I glance to the other side of the church, and notice my friends Martha and Paul, who once brought a gnarly stick to church for me that they found on a hike because they knew how much I would like it. They will be married soon. The stick is displayed alongside some gems and minerals and art in my house. I see Billie, the Cow Crusader, who pushes me out of my comfort zone, keeps me abreast of local news, and commiserates with me about weekend overindulgences and weekday dieting.

I get to the point in the sermon where I crack a joke about Fox Mulder, saying, “I want to believe!” and I hear my friends Trent and Chris giggle from behind me in the choir. I’m too nervous to turn and look at them, but I know Trent is listening straight-backed with his eyes closed, because that’s what he does. And without looking, I can imagine Chris’ sassy and clever face, the way his eyes get a little squinty when he laughs. I don’t really need to look to know what they’re up to back there. I can imagine my other choir friends back there too, with their wittiness and cynicism and sarcasm and fun and the way they make me feel so much younger when I’m with them.

I see so many people who have supported me and loved me over the years: Susanne, who baked a special Tres Leches cake for Sam on the day he was baptized to honor his Mexican and Spanish heritage; Catherine and Judy and all the women of the prayer shawl ministry, who made and prayed over a blue blanket for Sam (and me) when he was born; John, who lent me a book on storytelling to help me write my sermons; Monica, who understands my frustrations about my job and lets me voice them without judgment; Diane, who leads church committees with quiet practicality and strength; the other Diane, a former politician who smiles up at me with bright eyes from the front row; Trish, who, despite unspeakable personal difficulty, always has the brightest and most genuine smile in the room; Tim, who once told me, “if I left the church every time I disagreed with something, I’d have been gone a long time ago”; Aspen, who helps my daughter Naomi play with crayons and coloring books in the back of the church when she gets to be too much for my husband; Chris, my husband, recording me from the back, who was received in the Episcopal Church instead of sticking with the Lutheran Church because he knew how much it meant to me. Then there are the people who aren’t here: the Reverends Don and Diane, who helped me revise the sermon so that I could be confident standing in the front of the church today; Anne and Reverend Haydie, whose ethos as humans inspires the heck right on out of me and who gave me the surplice and cassock that I’m wearing.

I come to the end of the sermon and say, “Amen.” As I move to take my seat, the entire church erupts in a cacophony of applause, something that is rarely done in an Episcopal church. Some people even stand up. I awkwardly take a bow, and the applause continues. Yes, it turns out illegal clapping in church is something a family will do: joyful times call for joyful measures, after all.

Later, during coffee hour, many of my friends approach me, confiding in me that they too struggle with doubt. Like me, it’s a daily choice for them to embrace hope and faith. Like me, they often feel alone in their doubt. Maybe that’s why they all clapped at the end of my sermon; they recognized me as one of them: a doubter, a believer, and a person of faith.