I started reading a book on major themes in literary theory this evening, and (naturally) the first chapter detailed the topic of “beginning” in literary criticism. The opening lines of Dante’s The Divine Comedy were among the examples treated in the chapter. These lines read: “Midway in the journey of our life I find myself in a dark wood, for the straight way was lost.”  The book’s commentary describes this beginning as a “middling”–a beginning in the middle of life, in the middle of a dark wood–suggesting that Dante’s opening communicates that, “there are no absolute beginnings–only strange original middles.  No journey, no life ever really begins: all have in some sense already begun before they begin” (3).

I thought of my faith when I read these lines. I think the beginning of my faith was a middling.

Some people teach that Christian faith begins in baptism.  (This idea of beginning seems particularly fitting for consideration, as it is the Feast of the Baptism of the Lord today!)  They might say that when I was baptized a Catholic by my parents as an infant, something about my existence changed in that moment.  I became a Christian.  Or, they might say that in baptism my parents established the context that would determine my faith in the the future.  Baptism was the beginning of what would unfold in me later in life.

Others cite a one-time proclamation of Christian faith as the definitive beginning.  When one accepts Christ as his/her Lord and Savior from sin, he/she becomes a Christian. Many people tells stories of this moment when they knew something in them changed.  They became Christians.

But I think my faith began with a middling more like the one described in this textbook of mine: “There are no absolute beginnings–only strange original middles.  No journey, no life ever really begins: all have in some sense already begun before they begin.”  I cannot tell the story of how my Catholic faith began, so much as I can look back at the story of my faith and realize that it began before the moment that I recognized it.  When I try to pin down a moment, I always identity some precursor–some prior person or event or moment or memory full of grace and faith and god–one that complicates any notion I have of “beginning.”  Every “beginning” I consider becomes more like a “middling.”

I cannot tell of my faith’s beginning, only that it began.  And the story continues.

[This entry is cross-posted on CTA's Young Adult Catholic Blog]

Image from http://www.flickr.com/photos/traerscott/3167629678/

On one hand, surprises can be life-altering because they force us into a space of unfamiliarity, and thus, often lead us to a more attentive state of self-awareness. These experiences of enlightened perspective have the potential to change our world-views permanently, and sometimes do.

On the other hand, surprises often challenge what we have taken fore-granted. When our conformable presumptions suddenly appear dubious, we can find ourselves in disillusionment and even despair. It is difficult to change our minds or think differently about once seemingly-obvious things.

When we are surprised by God, we can gain clarity at the deepest level of our being, yet this can also be accompanied by confusion surrounding our most fundamental beliefs.

Since returning home from college, I have found myself in a number of conversations that have left me pondering the many ways in which God has surprised me over the past four years of my life. These discussions often look a little something like this: I’m in a car or around a meal table with a few friends from high school, and someone brings up a topic within the context of religion–be it gender roles or the priesthood or what have you. As I begin to speak, or even just consider my thoughts on the issue at hand, I become anxious, wondering, “Do they have any idea what I really think about this issue? Will they be shocked by what I say? Will they think less of me or my faith if they are?” I have been surprised by God in so many ways since high school, in ways that have changed my conception of God and my ethics dramatically–what will others think of me? It often leads me to doubt myself, and even the very truths that have surprised me.

As I have pondered this week’s Sunday readings, surprise lingers among the verses. In the first reading, the prophet tells of a leader usurped by an outsider. In the New Testament reading, God’s inscrutable wisdom is praised, reminding us that we are wrong to be too proud in our knowledge of God’s ways. In the Gospel reading, Jesus asks, “Who do you say I am?” While he blesses Simon Peter for his reply, we know that even the disciple becomes confused about who Jesus is upon his brutal crucifixion. Even he was surprised by God.

I don’t think that the possibility and reality of spiritual surprise should prevent our attempts at knowing and naming who God is–of course not, I study theology. Perhaps it does caution us, however, and inform the way we think about our beliefs about God:

Do we hold our beliefs so tightly that we are unable to be moved and surprised by God?
Is it possible that an unwavering conviction can turn into a dangerous close-mindedness?
What would conviction look like were it one open to the possibility of surprise?

For a great reflection on the readings, check out spiritual writer Ron Rolheiser’s thoughts here.