Struggling with faith

Saint Sulpice used to be one of my favorite Paris cathedrals. This was long before The DaVinci Code put it on tourist maps, and it was almost always empty. Whenever I got a break from the young charges I had as a governess, I would sometimes go sit in the stillness of Saint Sulpice.

In one of its small side-chapels, Saint Sulpice holds a painting by Eugene Delacroix. In English, the painting is called “Jacob wrestling with the angel.” But I always hated that translation. In French, it’s “La lutte avec l’ange.”

It’s true that a “lutte” can be a mere wrestling match, but then again, it can be a whole lot more. A “lutte” can also connote a great cause or a life-long struggle. A “lutte a la mort” is a struggle to the death. And a “lutte contre l’injustice” is a struggle against injustice.

So I ask you: Does that picture of Jacob and the angel look like some mere wrestling match?

Perhaps some francophone will set me straight on why the “wrestling” translation is correct. But I spent a lot of time looking at that painting, and it sure looks like more than a wrestling match to me.

Lately, I’ve been pondering that painting again. It makes me think about my own struggle with faith.

I often think it would be so much easier if I could just walk away from faith. I yearn to let go of it. I pray to be free from it.

Most of the pure, raw hatefulness I’ve encountered is linked in with my faith. So in my neural networks, faith-related things are tethered to nightmares.

I envy people who find comfort in their faith. What a luxury. For me, faith is something I endure.

Faith is a constant, endless struggle. It’s not a source of solace.

I’ve tried so many times to let go of it. Wouldn’t that make more sense? If I was actually paying attention to Southern Baptist leaders, I would certainly think so. After all, what possible meaning can any faith group hold when its leaders become so wrapped up in themselves and their power that the safety of children is secondary?

But of course, I’ve quit paying attention to any Southern Baptist guidance on faith. I don’t think a group that breaks covenant with the next generation has much good guidance to give.

So I simply struggle with my own small core of faith and with holding it. On most days, about the only thing I can say for myself is that I haven’t let go.

Each time I think I may free myself and walk away from this thing called faith, I wind up reaching back and grabbing at the last remnant of the angel’s hem. Then I turn and re-engage the struggle.