My faith is far too timid.
It is quiet and nonconfrontational. It likes to hide in the corners and blend in with the furniture. It chooses not to discuss politics.
My faith is an opportunist.
It finds firm ground to rebuke misbehavior while shifting the weight of its plank from shoulder to shoulder. It swallows whole the commandment “Honor Thy Father & Mother.”
My faith is tired.
It stays up too late and wakes up too early and drinks too much caffeine. It’s as heavy as a stack of Bibles placed upon my eyelids. It glorifies the words “Tomorrow, I will…”
My faith is shallow.
It has learned to tread water but fears the deep end, where that knowledge will be forced into action. It delights in splashes and somersaults but only where its feet can still touch the bottom. It is satisfied to just be in the water at all.
My faith is self-conscious.
It wonders what people might think if it casually talks about prayer and blessings and what it means to commune with God, as if those things are daily occurrences. It wonders if those words will sound as phony in others’ ears as they feel in its mouth.
My faith is lazy.
It writes blog posts about God on Easter and Christmas and includes words from the Bible, knowing full well that is the most it has read in weeks. It sometimes goes to Bible study, and often says yes when asked to volunteer. It wings up a prayer before dinner, then grumbles at the crumbs littering the carpet.
My faith is dependent — absolutely dependent — on the promise of a reconciling God.
It is mindful of that beautiful, scandalous night but is too often forgetful or uninterested. It is inconsistent at best, it relies too heavily on eloquent prose and heartfelt music to be moved, it is swollen with hypocrisy and starving of compassion.
My faith is a paradox, a contradiction, a coward.
My God is brave enough and big enough to embrace and invite the paradoxes, the contradictions, the cowards.
My faith has nothing to do with me, and for that it is grateful.