Addicted to Meaning

I attended church today, St. John's United Church of Christ to be exact; it was the first time I had gone of my own volition (not for friends' sermons or family occasions) in just over seven years. Why St. John's, it was the only place in the immediate area that would allow me to complete my internship when I was in my final year at Bible college while at the same time being acceptable to the internship coordinator who had summarily rejected an internship at a Unitarian congregation. The church's pastor, Rev. Linda presumably looked past my theology, or had pity on me--a young man who was still reeling from the lost of his faith while trying to finish out his requirements for graduation from a Pentecostal Bible college. Either way, she provided me with a respite from the relentless struggle I encountered almost everyday in the halls, classrooms and chapel of the college.

So I returned there, this morning, not sure as to what I would say to her. I didn't want to barge into her office some weekday night unannounced, a phone call or email were out of the question, so I had to meet her after the service. She immediately disarmed my hesitation with her casual style, unassuming while at the same time intense. I told her that despite my unintentional and sometimes very intentional attempts to distract myself from the spiritual realm, I could not escape a nagging feeling of emptiness. My life lacked meaning.

She put her head down and pondered for a moment. When she spoke, she did not quote me the scriptures, offer to pray for me or rebuke me for my continued waywardness rather she challenged me to go further and clarify the exact nature of the meaninglessness. Was it because of a lack of fulfillment in some other area of my life, was it clinical, youthful restlessness or something more. Knowing that I am an avid reader she tossed out two authors but hesitated to give titles until she had researched it further.

I told her that this may just be a passing phase--you see, I am addicted to meaning in much the same way a drug addict might be hooked on heroin. For the heroin addict, the craving is as real as his punctured veins, be that as it may, his friends and family will continue to plead with him to go into rehab. He has a choice, sell all his possessions, beg, borrow, even steal, to support his habit or cut it off completely, isolate himself for so long from the thing he loves more than life itself until he smothers it beneath the cloak of persistent indifference.

I, no doubt, have a similar addiction, an intense need for meaning. I have flirted with existentialism and its absurdity but I just can't embrace it in my heart. Of course it makes sense, everyday I live I am bombarded with countless examples of its accuracy and yet I cannot or will not rest from my search for meaning. I am not content to make it myself, concocting it in my mind like a script that I intend to act out, it want it to come from outside of myself but all I see is darkness beyond me. Although the darkness may not be coming from outside, perhaps I have lived so long looking inwardly that I am unable to look elsewhere and am simply seeing the darkness of my own soul.