my misunderstood story of losing faith: for christians i love

 

Christian leaders are saying people who deconstruct or leave their faith do so because they don’t trust God, they are caught up in the ideologies of the world, they are angry at the church, or they never truly knew and experienced Jesus. 

 

That is not my story. This is.

 

I didn’t want this. I was so in love with Jesus. I had a relationship. He was my best friend, my foundation, my motivation, my waking and final thought. I prayed without ceasing because I felt him with me in every moment. I started the prayer ministry at my Christian university. I led missions trips. I spiritually mentored. I brought everything back to Jesus and it wasn’t fake. None of it was fake. 

 

I lost track of how many times I read the Bible cover to cover. I felt like I knew each and every character. I studied linguistics and biblical studies for six years, eagerly diving into Greek, Hebrew, Aramaic, hermeneutics, and biblical formation. It was there I began to notice things that gave me pause: no consistent depiction of hell, circular reasoning behind inspiration, signs of patriarchy in the texts’ development, or power and politics in the formation of a canon. My goal was to find the real Jesus in the midst of all this, because I loved him with my whole heart.

The first moments of doubt were terrifying to me, and I pushed them away ferociously. I’d always affirmed that doubts were okay - even healthy - within certain boundaries, but I realized I was crossing those boundaries. I went to my spiritual director and cried through our meetings, so afraid of losing the one person I was told I could never lose. After going through more tragedy, death, and loss than a twenty-something should, I couldn’t fathom losing the one person who felt closer to me than anyone. I was willing to do anything to keep Jesus, anything but close my eyes and just believe.

 

 

I continued studying the Bible with everything in me. While my confidence in the historicity and factuality of the texts waned, I gained a new understanding of how these stories were developed and intended. I realized these texts were collections of stories that revealed a culture’s perceptions of God and themselves. I learned to value them as such, even if it meant they no longer held the same absolute authority I’d been told they must. My studies gave me a window into a scribal culture that embraced reinterpretation and new voices, an attitude that seemed to end when fourth century Christians drew lines that fixed our canon into a black-and-white, in-or-out, theoretically “complete” book. I approached my professors with my questions, and they were honest with me. Most of them said, “I’m still asking those questions.” I slowly came to grips with the fact that none of this faith was as certain as I had believed.

 

I walked around in a daze. It was hard to get up in the mornings. It felt like staring into a black abyss, like being thrown into the void of outer space. Everything I’d ever dreamed of and worked for and shaped myself with came back to the gospel. I had been ready to die for Christ. I couldn’t imagine life without this. But day by day of studying the Bible and waiting for God, faith slipped through my fingers like sand.

 

One of my greatest fears was of leading anyone down the same path. I’ve been a spiritual leader for so long. I was so afraid that people would see my faith crumbling and end up crumbling too. The more I learned about the Bible, the less I wanted to share it because I knew the implications were much bigger than my own crisis. So I closed off this whole struggle from most people who knew me, even though being so unknown and unseen was suffocating. For a few months I just played the part. I bowed my head in prayer; I sang the songs in church; I engaged in spiritual discussions; I pointed people back to the God they wanted even though I barely believed in him.

 

Slowly, I tried to start telling my friends and community what I was learning and feeling. Each of those conversations left me trembling, sweating through my clothes, afraid the people I loved most would lose their trust in me. I remembered what I had been taught about people who “walked away:” they’ve been deceived by the world, enticed by sin, lost sight of truth, grown weak in faith. Would all my friends and loved ones believe that of me now? I realized there was nothing I could say in my own defense except tell my story and hope those who knew me would listen and believe I am still the same person I have always been.

 

I am not writing out of a need to convince anyone of my conclusions, of which I have few. I am writing because my heart is being broken over and over by those who misunderstand and mischaracterize me. I feel gutted when I hear Christians talk about doubt as if the doubter is insincere, uninformed, or apathetic. I feel flattened when Christians portray people like me as wanting the “easy path,” as if grief and alienation and up-ending your own life is the easy path. I feel patronized when Christians say that I threw out the baby with the bathwater, as if I don't understand the distinction between Christ and the Church. I feel sick when deconstruction is painted as a personal problem for people who prefer their truth to God’s truth. All I have sought is truth. All I wanted was Jesus.

 

To the Christians who are talking more and more about deconstruction, I ask you to let us speak. I ask you not to label me as someone who lacked commitment to Jesus. I ask you to hear my story and consider it, not write me off as a faith drop-out.

My story is not anger at the Church, or disillusionment with Christians, or lack of scriptural knowledge. My story is one of honest reckoning, gut-wrenching grief, and pursuit of truth. I hope following truth can be the common ground upon which we can meet, hear, and validate each other. And I hope that common ground will be a place you can see me not through the lens you’ve been given, but as I am.