God of Rescue/God of Presence

Ruminations on "The Book of Longings" Part 2

“I no longer believe in a God of rescue, but a God of presence.”

~Ana, from “The Book of Longings” by Sue Monk Kidd

Photo by Abigail Keenan on Unsplash

It is a dark night at the beginning of March 2003, the darkest night of our lives up until now, and the tiny single-wide trailer that was our temporary home would have been frigid if it hadn’t been crammed full of people like a fluffle of rabbits in a cage. I am standing across from the wood stove in the living room; or, maybe I’m in the kitchen. The only differentiation is a line where the thin linoleum joins the thinner carpet. I am being held up by my closest friend. She is crying because she is sad for me, and I am trying to cry because I’m supposed to. My father is alternately stoic and explosive with grief, my mother is retired to their bedroom. I am eleven, too young to realize that our lives are about to change forever, but even I find it unimaginably cruel that my mother is forced to endure labor and delivery for a baby she already knows is dead. We got the news today, and so our friends have driven an hour and a half to carry us through this night. Another of my friends is standing behind me, I realize, her arms wrapped helplessly around her body. I reach out, drawing her into our huddle. If she is comforting me than she won’t feel helpless. I am careful to change my weight, allowing both friends to support me equally. This I can control, this is how I will survive tonight, and the even darker months to come. Tonight I sing when everyone else sings, but when they pray my heart is silent. We are begging for a miracle that everyone knows will not come. For the first time, doubt, like the shadow of a subterranean beast, threatens to breach the surface of my inherited faith.

“I no longer believe in a God of rescue, but in a God of presence.” Of all the beautiful and challenging passages in The Book Of Longings, this one stopped me the hardest. I experienced an immediate shudder of recognition that was two-fold: I, also, no longer believed in a God of rescue; I had not for years. And, I have been far too afraid to be without the covering of a savior to admit it. Religion is an insurance policy. I followed the rules so that, in my time of greatest need, God would hear me. What was I supposed to do when God refused to play by the only set of rules I’d been given?