Deconstruction Pt.I “What Happened?”

"My pilgrim's progress has been to climb down a thousand ladders until I could finally reach out a hand of friendship to the little clod of earth that I am."
-Carl Jung

I am still a Christian, after all I've been through.

After all my questions have only birthed more questions, and no answers,
After the Trump-Evangelical romance that has lasted 4+ years, that continues, and consequently has demolished any allegiance I once had to my prosperity-gospel roots,
After losing my aunt and dearest friend to ALS, no matter how many prayers we prayed for her healing,
After walking away from so many church-supported ideologies that damage people groups and identities,
After the cancer came back into the bodies of so many I know and love,
After devouring, for years, what seems like a million "heretical" podcasts and books, to help me reclaim any kind of theology I could stand on:

I am still a Christian.
I still believe in the beauty and power of Jesus Christ.
I still believe in life after death.
I still believe in the Holy Spirit and perfect Trinity.
I even still find myself praying in the Spirit when I'm lost for words.
After all these years. After all I've seen.

But-- I have a lot of issues navigating that space, occupying that title.

For one thing, I don't know what to do with this playlist I made called "Heart Songs." It's full of Hillsong and Bethel and singer/songwriter types that croon about the sovereignty and might of God, the blood of Jesus, and the power of his name. I can't bring myself to listen to it or enjoy it anymore, but I also can't bring myself to delete it.

I can read some parts of the Bible, but there's this obnoxious voice over in my head that constantly interrupts any kind of rhythm I gain, just to turn the page, or start a new chapter.
It takes a lot for me to pull out that heavy book and open it. But I can't put it back on the shelf or let it collect dust.

Deconstruction.
It feels like a faith laid out, washed up on the shore of some remote beach, all parts of it disconnected, limbs scattered everywhere.

It's like being a shopper at Target who forgot a basket upon entering, with arms wrapped around all the things they need to buy: shampoo, oatmeal, toilet paper; their fingers weirdly clenching and clinging to random items slipping through, walking awkwardly through the store, trying hard not to drop something.

Deconstruction.
Where do I put things anymore?
Where do I put what I've learned and lived by my whole life?
Everything is scattered all over the place, now.
All constructs are gone.
I don't have a box or a file to store these things.
They hold meaning for me, but what that meaning is, I couldn't begin to explain.

Deconstruction.
A process for me that has been both terrifying, and freeing.
In my constant fear of losing it all, I ask God for help. Often.

Maybe the worst part of it is that I didn't choose to take everything apart, to deconstruct.
Life just started chipping away at ideas I used to be sure of.
And it seems that only the important chunks have remained--Jesus called it the rock to build one's house on, to withstand the winds and the waves that come.

So what happened?

All I know is, I was sitting in a packed Brooklyn theatre, March 2019. I was listening to a very famous person say very nice things about Jesus from a stage that seemed very far away.

In that moment, I instantly felt like I'd gone deaf, like when you realize you're the only person in the room with an issue, the only one whose ears are ringing.
Funnily enough, I had zero anxiety sitting there-- just complete apathy and numbness.

I suddenly noticed I wasn't okay with anything happening around me.

I didn't like all these expensive, grandiose events, these Christian celebrities sharing deeply personal stories from a pulpit, "pastors" whom no one could approach afterward or even get close to, "messages" being preached on whims and waves of laughter and applause, using scripture to confirm extreme revelations about God, lacking context and intelligence (both gifts from God that should be used). All my frustrations with church structure and hierarchy were just symptomatic of the deeper faith problems I had been wrestling with for years prior.

Everything surfaced to the top in that moment.
The straw that broke this camel's back.
I finally faced myself.
It was an out of body experience as I saw myself sitting in that special "volunteer" seat, finally admitting to myself that I no longer fit or belonged there.
Oddly enough, I wasn't afraid.

I was tired and ready to go home. I'd spent a year and a half "behind the curtain" of a megachurch, whilst simultaneously trying to heal from a decade of previous volunteering and work full-time in “the ministry.” For years, I had already been reading all the books and authors I was told to be "wary of"; the questions had been blooming and budding in a rather flourishing mind-garden long before this moment.
Now, it was time to be done with it all.

When I was growing up in an Evangelical atmosphere, beautiful and amazing things happened. From a young age, I saw women leading and preaching empowering messages. I felt the true energy and tangible presence of God-- real Holy Spirit moments that I will never forget or let go of. I am forever grateful for my upbringing. But when you take apart one aspect of your faith, it's like Jenga: the whole thing falls to pieces.

Born and raised in my church, I eventually became a full time worship leader-- the dream job. But once I got it, nothing went according to plan on the inside.
With each step I took into this career, the walls around me shrunk inward a little more. I could breathe a little less, think a little less, move a little less.
Everything felt restrictive, exacting, transactional.
I was 25 years old, and living up to my title of "Worship Leader" was becoming harder and harder to do.

I would lift my hands on stage and lead the band, but inside I was dry as a gulch.
I was getting more bitter, more agitated, and feeling more and more out of place. My deconstruction had started. Parts were falling off the axle. And I didn't even realize it.

Around this time, secret conversations began with trusted, younger pastors on our lunch hours. We dissected scripture and attempted a more social understanding of the gospel. Hell, LGBTQ communities, end times, politics, the works. We interpreted and reinterpreted ideas and hermeneutics and apologetics. I was emboldened to listen to the "edgy" podcasts, read the "naughty" books, ask the harder questions. These moments were the only chances I had to stretch my legs, before heading back into the shrinking room.

In all this, I wondered if maybe God was more than I'd been serving and preaching all these years. I felt hope when I entertained the thoughts proposing that maybe, my understanding of God was simply too small.
Thoughts that brought moments of respite, fresh air, and inspiration.
Sparks that kept me begging God for something new. For space.

As I look back and I recall those years, I can easily see what was happening: the shrinking, the suffocating, etc. But back then, I had no idea what was wrong, what I needed, or why I hated everything so much. I didn't know that I needed space, wild timberlands and hills that rolled out before me.

But God knew. And God brought me there: into a space which is now my here.

It took years of convincing, of unbuilding, of de-constructing-- it took that moment in the theatre, when everything turned off inside of me. Lights out.
God knew. Knew I couldn't breathe, or see, or fit into the old box of my upbringing, of "ministry", of belief.

God also knew that I was afraid. Afraid of space, of goodness, of the woods and the vast expanse of green opportunity for exploration.

So God led me to these places slowly. With all those years of pain and questions and disillusionment and dissatisfaction, God was teaching me that the unknown is beautiful and not to be feared.
"For Thou art with me."

I have deconstructed and I now occupy a space where God is big enough to be okay with that.
I got a spiritual director, started seeing a therapist, stopped attending church until I found one that was compatible with the space I require.
Now, there is room for me to lay out all the parts and figure out which to keep, how to put them together again.
God is showing me how to run, climb, roam all these open fields.

How to discover new heights and depths of faith. How to take risks.
How to accept myself.

It's gorgeous out here, but I'm still sad at times.
I can't go back into that little room...though I wish so desperately sometimes that I could. It was simpler in there, my beliefs were more socially acceptable in there.
Old people and family members liked me better in there.
I got way more pats on the back when I stayed in there.
Deconstruction can feel lonely and guilt ridden at times.

I feel like I've been stretched so much that things can never shrink down again or fit into any box at all.
It'd be nice to organize all this stuff lying around, this mess that life made.
It'd be wonderful to gather the pieces of my faith strewn out on the shore,
to ask a Target employee for a damn basket,
to slip back into the tiny room and keep my predecessors and old expectations happy.
But I can’t. It is impossible to do so, and I refuse to live a life of dishonesty with myself or with God.

In all this deconstruction, I love the wild escape and exploration.
Yet I still long for a home, a resting place for all these questions, for this racing mind.
Will I ever stop questioning?
Stop wandering around all this space God brought me to?

I have to believe that faith and doubt work together, that they are friends.
I have to believe that after all this chiseling, the rock that remains is where God is building our home.

Maybe my resting place is the promised presence of God and God alone.
That can never be taken apart. It is the one place I'm whole.

To all my deconstructing friends out there,
I know this journey is difficult, but I believe it is purposed and truly beautiful.

You are not alone.