Soliloquy for the Incredulous

As much as it pains me to admit this, in my zeal for remaining true to my intellectual self, I have all but turned my back on my spiritual self. I have for so long tried to refrain from giving into my desires because there was a part of me that could no longer rationalize their legitimacy. I miss the church and what's more, I need not make any apology for that declaration. It is what I feel. But if only it where true for it is hard enough to live without certainty, seeing through the glass darkly, but to do so in the face of such blatant offensives to its beauty is beyond my ability. At least if I had the certainty of the gospel's veracity I could stomach the church's indiscretions--even embrace them as I would a wayward relative, but I can only continue to look on in disgust with no respite from the horrible sight that presents itself to me it all its ugliness. Yet, if I could be assured of its certainty, I being as every other person, the whole world would be privy to its truth and then what of faith? It hard enough to believe in a thing which one cannot see or hear or touch but it is even harder still to believe when every granule of existence mocks the very notion of its truth. Anyone can lust after a gorgeous woman, by only a truly dedicated lover can be committed to one that lacks such beauty--only he is able to see beyond the temporal flaws.

The words of the father whose son was possessed come back to me almost daily now, "I believe, help my unbelief." But I stop short of uttering that prayer. For fear that it would be answer? Perhaps. I have smothered the flames of my faith to the point that it is nothing more than smoldering ash, the smoke of which, when I dare to come near, chokes me and turns me away.