Crisis Of Faith

I’m breaking away from discussions about my Mom for this post. Well, mostly – she’s going to come up, but not as the main thrust.

I’ve been somewhat struck lately by a need to reaffirm my faith. Not faith in the way that mainstream America would consider to be a “conventional” kind of faith. Not the typical Judeo-Christian kind of faith, which, due mostly to the utter hypocrisy that I see from most who claim such faith, I have little or no use for. I believe that I can honestly say that it would take less than my ten fingers to count the number of true Christians I have met in my lifetime. For their sake, I will say for the record that when you do meet a true Christian, you will find that person to be one of the most amazing people you could ever hope to meet. You’ll forgive me for going down this road, but I need to state the things that I don’t believe in, and why, before I state the things that I do believe in, but that I find a need to reaffirm for myself these days.

I meet so many “Christians” who claim that they know without any doubt what their God expects of them. Thus, they go about their daily lives, reviling this group of people, condemning another group of people, looking down their noses at the poor, the hungry, the homeless. There is one so-called “Christian” preacher who is well known for his “God hates fags” slogan. Excuse me, but isn’t Christianity supposed to be a religion of tolerance? You don’t see many gay Christians (yes, there is such a thing, believe it or not), walking around carrying signs that read, “God hates heteros.”

My point is that as a whole, denominational religions tend to be very self-righteous and judgmental of anyone who does not believe exactly the same things that they believe. Here in America, that religious group tends to be the fundamental Christians. As a whole, they give hypocrisy a whole new level of meaning.

I was taught the spiritual practices of the Northern Cree people. While I was brought up Catholic, I rejected that religion quite early on, though I was required by my mother to attend mass regularly. Once I left home, I turned my back on Catholicism completely. The reasons for that are not important. For quite some time, I led a life with no spiritual practices at all, really. Then finally, I came to recognize the importance of those practices, of the existence of that faith in one’s life. It was at that point that I took up the regular practice of my Cree beliefs.

While mine is essentially an “Earth-based” faith, I do believe in a Creator, a Great Spirit who was responsible for the creation of the universe that we inhabit. However, unlike the other deities that I’m familiar with, mine has laid down no laws or rules to follow. Rather, I am guided through my life to always try and do the right things, the things that will please Creator.

Traditional teachings are as relevant today as they were in the time of my Ancestors. They are blueprints for human behavior – they connect us to the teachers of the natural and supernatural worlds, celestial beings, plants, animals, earth, air, fire, water – respected equals, in other words, whose unique traits provide models for living in a “good way.” There are lessons to be learned from both the secular and supernatural worlds – to be passed down from generation to generation through songs, drumming, stories, sharing, caring, medicine wheel teachings and ceremony.

These days, though, like many people of almost any faith do at some point, I find myself wondering if my faith is strong enough. My mother is dying of cancer. Her faith is not the same faith as mine, and I’m finding it difficult to reconcile the two spiritual worlds. It seems as though it should be simple: She will go to be with “THE” Supreme Being. There really is only one, in my opinion. Call that being God, Creator, Allah, Yahweh, Buddha, whatever; it’s all the same thing, you’re just using different names. And yet, I find myself worried and a bit taken aback. I criticize those “other” beliefs for not recognizing that theirs is not a monopoly on spirituality, yet here I am, worried that my mother may not make a safe journey to the other side because she doesn’t follow the teachings of the Cree elders.

When I rejected my Catholicism, I didn’t view it as a “crisis of faith,” and I still don’t. Rather, it was a rejection of religious authoritarianism. I eventually made my way to a set of spiritual beliefs and practices that are anything but authoritarian. There was a time when I thought that my faith was strong enough to reassure me that Creator would bring home anyone who crossed over, no matter there belief system. Now, I find that my faith is perhaps a little less than that strong.

As I’ve prayed about this, I’ve found that the more time I spend praying about it, the less assured I become in my beliefs. That is more than a little unnerving for me. I go out and pray twice a day, at sunrise and sunset, and each time, I come away feeling a bit less sure of myself.

All of this self-doubt comes at a time when I’ve been honored immensely. At the request of several people, I will be the leader of a sweat lodge ceremony, something that is only done by a person who is either a medicine person, or an elder. I have to wonder, did this request come because I need to do this in order to reaffirm my own faith by trying to teach others? Given my seeming lack of faith, do I have any right at all to be attempting to lead these people in a sweat lodge ceremony? How can I help them to learn more about their own faith, when my own is in question right now?

What the hell is happening to me?

And It Continues

First, I’ve changed the title format of these posts about my Mom. Reality Check is beginning to get on my nerves. And if my readers can’t figure out that a post is about her then, well – they shouldn’t be trying to read grown up stuff.

I went to see her last Wednesday. I would have written about that visit before now, but I’ve been pretty busy. She will be going for her third chemo session tomorrow. After that, there will be three more.

The chemo is wearing her down. The last two times that I’ve gone to see her, she was upstairs in bed, propped up on pillows and watching television. There is a small table now set up next to her side of the bed, with all of her medications, books, a lamp, writing materials, etc. For the most part, I think that she is camped out in bed. Her hair is now gone, and for someone who doesn’t care about it, she will not take the scarf off of her head – even when it’s just her and my step dad there.

We’ve begun to talk about a myriad of little things when we find ourselves alone together, like a long overdue letter that I needed to write to one of my aunts for something that she did for me a long time ago. It’s one of those things that probably doesn’t matter in the long run, but feels very important. Sometimes, saying, “Thank you” for help and guidance is extremely important. I asked her for my aunt’s mailing address, and told her that I needed to write to her. She said, “B***?” I replied, “Yes,” and she said, “My B***?” I again replied, “Yes.” She wanted to know what I needed to write to her about. When I explained it, she was quite surprised at the whole thing. I think, though, that she was also grateful to her sister.

Watching my mother right now causes a strange mixture of feelings. It’s a painful thing to watch her. Until very recently, she was a lively, almost hyperactive woman. If you pissed her off – and I have a knack for doing that sometimes – her voice could overpower any other noise in the room. When they moved to the apartment where they now live, I watched her first pack, and then unpack with an energy level that was utterly amazing. When I think about that move, it strikes me that this fucking cancer was already at work in her body, with the sole purpose of gaining enough of a foothold to kill her.

There are other times, though, times that are becoming a bit more frequent each time I visit her, when I can feel us growing closer. For the sake of those who may have stumbled in here, and don’t know the back story, my family has never really been all that close.  Even though I live just ten miles from my parents, I would go months without visiting them. They didn’t expect it of me. So, when I say that my Mom and I are growing closer as we walk this path that she’s been put on, it is really a feeling that I haven’t experienced since I was a little boy. Honestly, it’s been something of a very bittersweet experience. I enjoy the closeness, I enjoy telling her that I love her, and hearing her tell me the same thing. I enjoy kissing the top of her head before I leave, even if it is through a scarf.

I feel as though I’ve found my mother again, after a long absence. That absence was, to be blunt, almost entirely my fault. But then, I’ve been operating under the assumption that my mother is immortal.

I know differently now, and I’m not going to squander the time that I have left with her.