Congratulate the Questions

Today I wrote Marty Sampson a DM on Instagram.

For those of you who don’t know, Marty Sampson is a Christian musician and worship leader who was a prominent celebrity figure on the Hillsong mega-church scene for decades. Obviously, I’ve been a big fan since I was eleven years old. He wrote songs with sincerity and a deep lyrical sense of his own personal faith. When I’d Youtube the latest worship conference or watch a song recorded live, he always inspired me with this way he had about him— never adding anything extra to his simple melodies, despite cameras and lights flashing in his face and thousands surrounding him. Everyone else would be running and jumping all over the stage, or falling to their knees with their hands lifted in surrender, but he showed his worship and devotion in a much more calm, gentle way. When he was singing and leading worship onstage, he always seemed to be somewhere else, engaging in something very personal.

As I made my way into the ministry and began leading musicians, writing songs, heading up conferences, I strived to make my own worship and devotion more like his.

Sometime last year, Marty Sampson came out with a series of intense, provocative statements about the problems he had with Christianity, with belief, and with church. Of course, in the little Christian bubble-world that remains obscure to many, still somehow spanning across the globe, his loaded Instagram posts made headlines in every Christian news source and magazine. Yet, more interesting than some 200-word article about a “fallen” worship leader from Hillsong Church was his comment section that erupted with ruthlessness— all from well meaning, self-righteous, angry fans.

“You’re supposed to be an example to us.”
”Why are you leading God’s sheep astray?”
”You’ve lost your way and now you will burn in hell for it.”

Crazy, horrible stuff.
Frankly, I’m not sure if it’s worse to take hard hits of criticism as a celebrity in the secular world, or to take them as a celebrity in the religious world. The latter have a special kind of hatred reserved for them if they upset their faith community, and it’s always seasoned with the “fires of hell” or jargon that curses that someone’s most intimate parts, their soul. Christian celebrities step out of line and are condemned publicly as instruments of the Devil, contorted to hurt innocent followers of Christ.

Poor Marty.
I don’t know the guy. But I’m willing to bet that, when he shared his real thoughts on his real faith, he probably felt the greatest sense of relief simultaneously with the greatest sense of ostracization. At least he could finally be honest and pick up the pieces. But now that he said something, he knew he’d have to deal with a parade of judgement for months to come, on display for ghost-readers like me.

If, in the moment, I had the gaul to comment on his “radical” posts, I would’ve congratulated him.
For being honest with himself, with his community, with God.
For “coming out” and finally releasing the weight that all the questions and frustrations must’ve been causing. Saying them, naming them, shedding light on them— I wonder if it was like breathing out the longest held breath.
I would’ve congratulated him for the courage it took him, choosing to step out of a safe, normative circle, out of lying to himself, out of the suppression of honest feelings.

“The first step to solving a problem is to recognize that it does exist.”

When I think of how hard and intimidating it can be to step out and speak honestly about where you’re at, when I realize that a massive Christian celebrity did it, against his own cherished timeless faith, against all odds, knowing he would be abandoned by and disappointing to so many,
I think of Nicodemus.

Nicodemus is famed in a New Testament story for having a secret meeting with Jesus in the middle of the night. The story goes that he was a member of an elite religious group, the Sanhedrin. At the time, these men considered Jesus to be a heretic in regards to all that was pivotal and required in their traditional, Jewish faith.
This is one of my favorite parts about the story: Jesus was not a widely acceptable authority regarding religious thought or Jewish text. (Sure, he would find himself in a stand-off with Pharisees about how to interpret a particular scripture, or how to punish a certain person who sinned. But after Jesus shared his thoughts and left them all speechless, they would deem his statements as radically dangerous and continue in their plot to execute him.) Despite all that, this man of the Sanhedrin must’ve had enough questions about Jesus to make him lose sleep.*

Nicodemus was likely well known and admired within his community, seen as a holy man and leader. Yet, like anyone, like all of us, like Marty Sampson— he had questions too, his own qualms and issues with his devout religion and practices of the Sanhedrin. So he decides to fraternize with the enemy, flirt with “heresy”, and betray his tribe. He meets with Jesus when no one will catch him, and he asks him loaded questions about the meaning of life, of truth, of real salvation.

Another wonderful thing to consider about this tiny story, is that Jesus agreed to sit with Nicodemus, both of them hidden, to talk with him about everything he didn’t understand. Jesus was okay with a secret meeting, at a late hour, in an obscure place.

He was willing to hide with Nicodemus to keep his reputation safe; but also willing to go there with him and hear the hard hitting questions.

What does this tell us about the heart of God?
That God likes our questions.
That God welcomes our doubts.
And, that God sits with us in our shame, even in a hidden location if we need.

It’s okay with God if we come when no one’s looking (perhaps because we’re scared of the crowd or scared of ourselves), to say that we’re thinking of walking away, or burning our faith to the ground. It’s okay to tell God that we lose respect for “truth” every time we read one scripture that contradicts another.
If Nicodemus’ story is any indication, clearly, God is fine with such honesty.

We’re humans. Life can be incredibly painful and unfair.
Of course we’re going to throw the baby out with the bath water once in a while.
Of course we’re going to curse.
Of course we’re going to ask why, and how, and what if.
So why are we scared of tough questions?
Why do we equate honest feelings and lack of faith with sin?
Why are we so hesitant to wrestle with God about things we don’t understand?
Why can’t we bring ourselves to slip out of bed and meet him in the darkness, with every last unanswered concern?

I mean, did it ever occur to any of us that Marty Sampson, or Nicodemus, or that person we know who used to believe but just can’t anymore, — such people could simply be acknowledging their symptoms when they take ownership of their scary curiosity, off-putting questions, and tired frustration?
To say nothing of the fact that maybe they’re also terrified to admit what they don’t know, what they don’t believe, to confess to themselves and their communities they don’t have the energy to keep going.

I think our questions and doubts are important guiding clues to help us know what’s really going on inside.
“The first step to solving a problem is to recognize that it does exist.”

I used to be so afraid of my own questions and doubts.
On the days when I felt like the world was just too dark for God to exist, I couldn’t admit that thinking to myself, let alone anyone else. On the days when I was so burnt out and exhausted from trying to believe, angry, tired, life in a pressure cooker, I forced myself to keep going, keep smiling, keep serving.
Now, I understand how vital it is to acknowledge my questions, my doubts, my pain, fear, and fatigue. I can see that pressing them down and stuffing them back in a corner will only make things worse.

What a cruel thing to do— ignoring your own symptoms, suffering silently. Playing pretend all alone.
Sometimes, walking away is the best medicine you can give yourself. I’ve been in this church game my whole life, and I often notice that the only reason hurting, wounded Christians stay in a community for so long is because of social pressure, which only makes them more sick, more hurt, more bitter.
Sometimes, admitting that you’re down for the count is the exact freedom you need to find the rest you require.

We owe it to ourselves to be honest with ourselves.
Interestingly enough, many books and letters of correspondence between Mother Theresa and her superiors suggest that in the last decades of her service, she did not have the will to believe in God, often writing that she could not feel his presence amidst the vast suffering she was trying to alleviate in Calcutta.

“Spiritual bypassing” is a term I learned a couple of years ago from one of my favorite podcasts, but it was said to be coined by a man named John Welwood, a Buddhist teacher and therapist. He saw many of his patients pushing themselves further into their spiritual practices in order to avoid the actual issues they were up against. Spiritual bypassing is suppressing and ignoring symptoms of unhealthy living, trying to “fix” deep problems with only religious practices. Come on, we’ve all done it. (Then, hopefully, we give up and start addressing the actual problem, by say, going to therapy, finally— surprised by all the beautiful things God can do with the tool of actively seeking professional help.)

To reject our own days of unbelief, to ignore our own personal cries for help, doubts that show our cracks and weariness, to “pray away” questions or chastise our curiosity is to spiritually bypass and push away opportunities for healing and growth. If our faith really is all encompassing and truly authentic, then it should be able to engage securely with doubts.

In the same way, when we shame our brothers and sisters for doing such, we’ve missed the point entirely. We make it about an ideology to commit to, instead of about the health of the person in front of us.
If someone says they’ve had enough, we should honor that courage, and then we have to let them find reprieve elsewhere— especially if we hold to the truth that God is everywhere.
He is still taking care of them; maybe he’s even meeting with them in the deep night, on their own agreed terms.

For the Marty Sampsons out there,
it just got to be too much for them.
And the truth is, you know what that feels like if you’ve lived life long enough. You’ve walked away before too— for a day, an hour, a year. You’ve read something in scripture and scratched your head, or closed the book entirely. You’ve seen the contradictions and you’ve wanted to ask, or search, or question.
You’ve stopped praying for a bit.
Maybe you were afraid to say it out loud, or face that in yourself.

But we don’t have to be afraid.
We don’t have suppress the symptoms that mean to point us in the right direction toward healing.
Don’t spiritually bypass the reality and pain of living life.

“The first step to solving a problem is to recognize that it does exist.”

So what did I write to Marty Sampson? Did he read it?
No, he never saw my message. I bet it went to his DM-request inbox since I’m a stranger. (And I’m sure he was smart enough to stop checking that place since his followers can be so mean.)
Nonetheless, I told him that I admired him for his bravery. I told him that I have been in a similar situation and that it’s a hard step to take, publicly asking questions and embracing doubts. I told him that I was sorry it costs so much to be honest in our faith communities.
I suggested some books he might like, books that Jesus let me borrow during my “Nicodemus-moment”, books that gave me space to breathe and rest, and find belief again.

I finally got my chance and congratulated him for asking the questions we’re all asking in the dark.

*Can I talk to a post-evangelical for a second? Don’t feel bad about reading the Rob Bell book, or for tuning-in to a Richard Rohr sermon. Obviously we’ve all been there, and we’ve tried to hide it. You’re losing sleep, you’re out of touch with what you need, and your faith is on the line— let a different angle on truth give you some space!