by Darrin W. Snyder Belousek
The Mennonite, December 2011
My soul magnifies the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior… For the Mighty One has done great things for me, and holy is his name.—Luke 1:46-49
This is Mary’s great song of praise to God. Mary sings with joy because she has been surprised by God—“he has looked with favor on the lowliness of his servant.” Mary has been favored by God’s grace in a personal, intimate way—she is blessed with a child, God’s own Son—and she sings with joy in thanksgiving for this wonderful thing God is doing.
Like Mary, I love to sing—and to sing with joy. (Though I doubt I will ever be called “blessed” on account of my singing.) And I sing with joy because I, too, have known the surprising grace of God in a personal, intimate way.
Although I have loved to sing since childhood, I have not always sung with joy. For several years during my 20s there was no joy. I was one of those who “sit in darkness” beneath the shadow of fear, waiting for the Lord, watching for “the dawn from on high to break” (Psalm 130:5-6; Luke 1:78-79). Having wandered from the church, I was walking the shadowy vale alone.
I had been raised in a Christian home, where I was read Bible stories on my mother’s lap, and we held daily family devotions. Every Sunday our family went to church (twice), where I was taught “the faith of our fathers” and was baptized a “believer” while yet a young child. At age 13, on graduation from eighth grade, I received a card from a family close to ours. In it the father, Harvey, had written this note: “May the great Triune God be enough for thee.”
At the time I wanted so much for that to be true, but I wasn’t sure I could simply say “yes” to it. Even as a youth I had a complex, inquisitive mind and tended to ask questions—too many for my parents’ comfort. Looking back, I think that Harvey, who knew me well, recognized that it would be a struggle for me to be satisfied with the simplicity of faith.
Now I was in college and, like most young adults, wanted to chart my own course—in life and in faith. I didn’t want to reject God or even Christianity. At the same time I couldn’t accept God on the terms of the Christianity I had known as a child.
So I went off in quest of my own salvation—to seek salvation for myself, by myself. I read the ancient philosophers, the existentialist writers, even books on Zen Buddhism. I cultivated solitude in an effort to be “authentic.” I wrote poetry to express and embrace the “fear and trembling” of a lone pilgrim on an unmarked path.
I eventually came to the conclusion that it would not be enough for me to “pull myself up out of nothingness” and “will an authentic life.” To truly live I needed not only to be free from fear but also from guilt. Beyond that, I needed to know that love was real and that there was something to hope for. All this, however, I could not do for myself—indeed, it was my “self” that needed saving.
I was lost and knew it, but I didn’t know how to find the way back home. I prayed through poetry—for faith, for hope, for redemption. The traditional spiritual tells my story: “When I was a seeker, I sought both night and day. I prayed the Lord to help me, and he showed me the way.” Two years passed, however, before I saw the first light of dawn.
In the meantime, I had begun doctoral studies at the University of Notre Dame, where there’s a crucifix in every classroom, “Our Lady” adorns the “Golden Dome” and a 10-story “Touchdown Jesus” flanks the library. In an ironic twist of divine providence, there in the midst of my self-chosen exile from the church I found myself surrounded by the church—the Catholic Church. This was the last place I would ever have expected to receive grace and find salvation—every instinct from my fundamentalist upbringing rebelled at the very thought.
My redemption from exile began one day in the summer after my first year. Deirdre, a fellow student, saw me eating lunch alone and invited me to join a group of her friends. Reluctantly, I did. She introduced me to Jeanne, Joan and Tim.
I began joining them for lunch and soon realized these were not only people I wanted to know but were the friends I needed. They had what I was longing for—faith and hope—and something more besides, joy. Yet they were Catholics, devout Catholics. Wasn’t Catholicism legalistic and graceless? How could they be both faithful Catholics and joyful people? At times I doubted what I was seeing was real.
Despite my doubts and fears, over the next two years these four friends led me back to faith and wooed me back to the church through the gentle love and gracious hospitality of genuine friendship. They were evangelical Catholics in the truest sense of “evangelical”—they believed the Christian faith was good news and that the church was home on earth and so were intent on sharing their faith with others and inviting them to join the family of God.
Dawn broke clear on a Sunday morning in September. Light suffused the room, filling my heart and my head. In a moment, I was sure that God was near and love was real, for I had seen both through my friends. Fear fled. And then, unsought and unexpected, joy flooded my soul.
During the weeks and months following, I was visibly joyful, a difference in demeanor my friends could not help but notice. “What’s happened to you?” they asked. When I shared my story, we rejoiced together, as did the shepherd with his friends when he had brought home the one lost sheep (Luke 15:3-7).
As Advent arrived, I wanted nothing more than to sing:
“Come, thou long expected Jesus,
born to set thy people free,
from our fears and sins release us,
let us find our rest in thee.
Israel’s strength and consolation,
hope of all the earth thou art,
dear desire of ev’ry nation,
joy of ev’ry longing heart.”
So have I sung with joy since. I sing with joy because, as Zechariah had sung, God has looked with favor and redeemed me—setting me free from fear and sin, free to serve him in righteousness and holiness all my days (Luke 1:68-77).
Darrin W. Snyder Belousek is a member of Salem Mennonite Church in Elida, Ohio, where he shared this testimony in worship during Advent 2010. He serves on the board of Bridgefolk.