An Answer

The rain was coming. You could feel it in the forest, the trees knew it. I was just past halfway on the familiar loop around the lake at Gilbert Run.  Zeke was taking a long drink in his favorite little watering hole, a little culvert that passes under the trail.  I stood still and looked up at the canopy in the full vibrant green of spring and the grey clouds roiling in the small windows of the forest's vaulted cathedral ceiling.
I had been thinking about a conversation I had with a friend of mine who has lost his faith and who is now agnostic.  I was wondering on the first half of my walk, how I might convince him to come back to the fold.  As I went through that pastor-ish mental exercise I came to the distinct impression that I was in a state of futility, I was trying to figure out again, despite knowing better, how to sell God.  And God was laughing at me.
As I stood still and actually listened to the sound of the wind in the trees and felt the expectation of the living things all around me, I realized that in my pursuit of a reasonable argument or even a sales pitch for God, I too had lapsed into agnosticism.  I had forgotten that the "proof" of God's existence can be felt any time and any where.  Perhaps I have been reading too much Richard Rohr (in fact, I know I have), but the strength of contemplative practice became evident right then and there.  My contemplative prayer is peripatetic, which means it involves walking.  The Camino and the struggle against type II diabetes have something to do with this, but really walking has been part of how I settle myself for most of my life.
On this day, I found I was not at all worried about the rain, in fact I was expecting it with the forest and the living things around me, welcoming it even as the trees do with their upturned leaves.  I wondered to myself, why would anyone want to deny the joy of this sort of communion?  Then I thought to myself, how often do you feel this way in church?  My answer, honestly, is almost never, I'm too busy in church to feel this way.
I suspect that people who lose faith, as in the case of my friend, haven't really lost faith in the divine presence, they have just lost their sense that religion has anything to do with it.  The problem is that without a religious approach to God you will eventually just become a mad pagan chasing after the spirits of the trees (which is quite appealing at certain moments).  My madman in the forest (the proper word is mystic) moments are tempered by the teachings of Jesus and the theology and ethics that grow out of that.  The emotional connection of that moment is great, but it's like water in your hands you can't hold it for very long.
Not even three minutes later, Zeke, as is his wont, was overcome by some olfactory delight at the trail's edge and lunged suddenly with full force towards whatever his nose detected, despite being firmly tethered to me by his leash.  This jerked me suddenly out of my feeling of peace and connection and made me momentarily very angry. I pulled back hard on the leash and yelled at the dog, he was, as usual, sorry and fearful.  I immediately regretted my outburst at the stupid dog, he is an idiot and he is likely to remain that way for the rest of his days.  He is also a teacher to me, he is a reminder that love does not need to be worthy.  He is stubborn and borderline neurotic, yet he is friendly and loyal as dogs usually are.  He can annoy the living daylights out of me on a daily basis, and yet I do care about him.  Instead of letting my anger continue, I knelt down and gave the idiot a hug, and it was the right thing to do, if not for him, for me.
The vague feeling of connection to God would have been utterly lost by that momentary jerk of the leash and a flash of anger, which is why paganism, while persistent and attractive, doesn't have the same historical solidity that the monotheistic religions have.  Feeling that connection is good, really good and close to the heart of God, but without some framework to get you past the challenges of life (stupid dogs in this particular occasion), you will always be on a quest for something you cannot find without grace or keep for very long.
I needed to forgive and be forgiven, and that was the work of Christ in me there on the trail.  As soon as I felt that, the forest breathed around me again and life reconnected with my spirit, and I was back in that place as a beloved creation, full of a divine Spirit.  This, for me, is what the life of faith looks like. I can't imagine not wanting to feel the life of the world and feel connected to creation.  I understand that religion gets frustrating and tiresome at times, but at it's best it gives us a way to put the stones of these spiritual realities together into something like a work of art rather than just random rocks that we happen to trip over.
I'm not really sure how to parse out the sequence of events.  I know I have felt that connection with the creation for pretty much my entire life, so I'm not sure I've ever really "lost faith." I do know that I didn't always connect that God experience with Christian faith.  In fact, the moment when my faith journey really took a turn was when that vague feeling took on the specific character of Jesus.  It is still working that way.  Then all he asked me was to recognize him, as the Gospel for this Sunday says, "my sheep know my voice."  The more time goes by, as I walk more, it's not just recognition but discipleship, following him, doing what he does, loving the way he loves.  Now the mystical moments of connection with the divine have a trinitarian character to them (honestly it's the only time I think I really understand the Trinity).  The Creator, the Redeemer, the Sustainer are all a part of that ineffable and barely describable moment where I know beyond all reason and beyond all doubt that God is there.