I had a typical Texan upbringing: I was raised Southern Baptist, went to church every Sunday from an early age, and attended youth group all through middle and high school. Faith was at the center of my life.
As I went on to college, I continued that work. In fact, I became even more active, eventually becoming a youth leader for all grade levels at both my local church and the church near my school.
So I guess I find myself in this middle ground, a struggling Christian who knows better but can’t find a way to be accepted or forgiven, despite the examples of so many people who are in much worse situations.
That all changed after graduation when a series of events led me to something of a crisis. I found myself betrayed and isolated from both churches I had called home. My wife and I lost our first child, who was stillborn. Overwhelmed with anger, frustration, and heartache, I drifted away from my faith.
I thought I simply needed time, but now it’s been five years since I’ve even stepped inside a church building or picked up a Bible (which is sad, because I’ve accumulated quite a few over the years), and most of my “prayer,” if you can call it that, has been sarcastic complaints and accusations.
How did I get to this point? How did I go from being an active churchgospel-preaching believer who spent most of my time obeying the Great Commission and teaching the teachings of Jesus Christ to being a bitter, unchurched guy who trembles at the thought of going back to early Sunday mornings and late Wednesday nights?
That is exactly what I began searching for. But my search so far has brought me more confusion and loneliness than anything else.
I began talking to people close to me who were still active in the church and strong in their faith. The problem soon became clear. Whatever they were saying, I had heard it all before. Even the pastors I spoke to, while eloquent and knowledgeable, were unable to teach me anything beyond what I had learned in my years as a pastor.
To make matters worse, I found myself now receiving the exact same advice I had given to countless students over the years as a small group leader. It was easy to tell people, “Trust God. His ways are always the right ways. He knows better than we do. Go to Him and He will comfort you. Turn to Him and He will give you the answers you need.” But putting these words into practice in my own life was much harder.
Even though I know it’s the right path, my stubbornness and pain often get in the way. What if my belief that there is a greater purpose to these tragedies is wrong? What if five years from now I still can’t see the big picture? These are questions that I don’t know how to find peace with. I know I never will.
I seem to have two options. The first is to simply accept that I can never be the Christian I was, which is very painful to think about. The second is to give up looking for “answers” to what I’ve been through, stop throwing tantrums, and go back to my faith. This also seems impossible.
I know there are people who have endured more tragedy than I have and yet their faith remains strong, but I don’t know how they manage to keep it going. Part of me wonders if it’s all an act, if I was good at it when I was in church and their act will eventually crumble like mine did. Or maybe they are holding on to their faith unwavering and I just can’t admit that I am failing.
But what did I want the Christians I spoke to to say? What did I expect from them? I was reminded of the lyrics of the Tenth Avenue North song, “Someone to Talk To”: “But when I tell you where I am, they tell you where I’m not.”
It also reminds me of the chorus of this song: “Can I say I’m lonely? Can I say I’m scared? If I told you how I feel, would you still be here? There’s truth but also broken hallelujahs and lies. Can you take my confusion? I need someone to talk to.”
I understand why every Christian I spoke to said the same thing, and I repeat, they weren’t wrong, but it wasn’t what I needed to hear. Perhaps they didn’t have the right words to say.
Not feeling safe within the church, I began to look outside. I heard about a loose group of Christians engaging in “spiritual deconstruction.” Like me, they had been raised with traditional faith but now felt it was missing something. In response, they began to deconstruct the assumptions behind their worldview and figure out what was wrong with it. This seemed perfect.
I quickly realized that there were two big problems with this movement. First, this so-called “deconstruction” seemed to me to be nothing more than a cover for atheism, or at best agnosticism. These people not only rejected the idea that God is good and that Jesus Christ is the Savior, but also rejected the very existence of God in the first place.
This seemed to lead not to liberation but to anguish — anguish deeper than mine. They didn’t just not believe. Their contempt for faith was loud and pernicious. Their arrogance that they were right, that everything they believed was a lie, was enough to alienate me completely.
I can’t imagine that I could ever get to the point where I would deny the existence of God. If you were to ask me right now, “Do you believe in God?” my answer would be yes. If you were to ask me right now, “Did Jesus Christ die for your sins?” my answer would also be yes. This is exactly why I feel betrayed. God exists and He is good. So why did He allow me to suffer like this?
But this intense confusion over what seems to be a broken promise from God is better than the idea that there is no God and no promise. My experience was pure chance, pure bad luck. I don’t want to live that life either. In fact, it scares me even more.
The second problem with deconstructionists was that they were almost entirely politically left-leaning. In fact, it seems that politics was the catalyst that caused most of them to question their faith: they left the church because they could not accept its positions on homosexuality, abortion, the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, and other issues.
On the other hand, I have become more conservative since I left the church — more pro-life, more anti-drug, more pro-capitalism and free markets — the only thing I’ve become more liberal in is that I believe God is a more perfect judge and that there may be many more people in heaven than Christians realize.
But maybe it’s just a coping mechanism I’ve created for myself to deal with the fact that I’ve become the person I never wanted to be – a bitter, angry “ex-evangelical” who rejects the idea that God’s will is the perfect way. And now that I have a child, I worry even more about what will happen to me, and what will happen to my son, if things don’t change.
So what happens to me? Current Christians, I know they want to help but they can’t because it’s not their role to solve my problems. Deconstructionists can’t help because they’ve committed themselves to a complete change and become the opposite of who they once were. I don’t fit into either group. Neither has the solution I’m looking for. It’s between me and God.
So I find myself stuck in this in-between: the struggling Christian who can’t find a way to accept and forgive despite the examples of so many people in worse situations. The person who is still angry that the worst parts of her suffering were caused by doing what she thought God was leading her to do. The person who can’t understand why some of the greatest blessings in her life, like the birth of her adorable son, came after she left her faith. How can I understand that?
This story does not have a happy ending, at least not yet. Perhaps I am just writing it to help others who are going through something similar to realize that they are not alone, that they are not alone in this long and uncertain journey, hoping for a happy ending, longing for the security of an old faith, and working with all their heart and soul to reclaim it.
