I told my sister I was angry with God. But when I sat down in ado to talk to God properly for the first time since the accident, I realise I wasn’t really angry. I was disappointed. I was resigned. Because I know that my questions will remain unanswered, the ‘signs’ I receive will remain equivocal, and that nature will continue to take its ordinary course. And I know that I cannot demand for miracles, and that I am supposed to be OK with this normalcy. Perhaps this last line was prophetic after all.
C.S. Lewis defines a miracle as Supernature’s interference with Nature. I have walked too far in my faith journey to doubt the existence of Supernature. But I now doubt the existence of interferences.
Ever since I was young, I thirsted for other worlds. I tried to satisfy that with fantasy, fairytale, magic, and myth. I still do. It is never enough. And when I found God, I thought His otherworldliness was the key to the hole in my heart. I knew that I would still be restless and unsatiated, only seeing dimly through a mirror. But the hope that we could catch glimpses of heaven on earth, that extraordinary grace could result in extraordinary signs, that a benevolent omniscient omnipotent superpower intervenes in our daily lives – these constituted my romance of orthodoxy.
But God did not intervene that day. The chain of causation proceeded as per normal. There was no deus ex machina, no act of God, no divine intervention.
In SOW, we were told to yearn for charismatic gifts. Many asked for tongues. I dared to pray for healing and working of miracles. I never really expected to get them. I now think I never should have bothered to ask.
I know the easy answers to the questions I ask. God has a greater plan in allowing bad things to happen. God makes all things new. God works in his own time. God’s ways are mysterious. God works through other people.
I do not object to these answers for being wrong; I object to them for conforming so insipidly with ordinary life. I object to them being ordinary, when God should be wondrously, awesomely, inspiringly extraordinary.
During our Disney Marathon a week ago, I insisted that we watch Prince of Egypt first, so that Sarah would not fall asleep while watching it. That was how important I believed the movie to be. I would have argued for it to be part of P6 or Sec 1 Camp programs if I had the opportunity to. And at the scene where Moses plunged his staff to part the Red Sea, I proudly declared that “doing the Moses thing at the Red Sea” was on my spiritual bucket list. Swee laughed at what a fantastic idea it was.
Maybe this is precisely what God intends – to shatter my fantasies of witnessing or wielding Moses’ Staff, to dispel the illusion of miracles, to banish the delusion that cartoons are real. And if they are not, why did I invest so much of my life in fiction?
Today, God, you are ordinary.
I feel like I have lost a core of my identity.