No Going Back. Only Forward.

Something I’m struggling with right now is: spiritual reconstruction.

A pastor I respect recently declared his belief that evangelicalism is dying. I, for one, am ready to attend that funeral. Evangelicalism damaged me in ways I’m still discovering, deep in my bones. I don’t entirely blame it. I think it was a bad match for me, the girl who took every criticism wholly and instantly to heart; the girl who absorbed the teacher’s scolding of the whole class, even when she wasn’t misbehaving; the girl who wanted above all to please God, her family, her teachers, everyone.

I learned Jesus first, Others second, Yourself last. I learned everything in the Bible had only one correct interpretation, and we better pray and study to make sure we got it right. I was reminded often that my heart was wicked and untrustworthy, and I should submit to others, who knew better. I learned to erase myself and give God full credit for anything good that happened or anything I personally achieved; meanwhile, hurts, injustice, and hardship I suffered were His will that I should accept joyfully, or maybe my own sinful fault. I didn’t like myself much, so this really worked for me! I was all in and gave it everything I had. Then my life fell apart and I had to rebuild it. I had to learn to love myself. As I did so, the old narrative made less and less sense. Then suddenly, after about 25 years of devotion to Evangelical God, I was just done.

Despite what you might assume, it wasn’t one major event that did it. It was a million little deaths, disappointments, and false bills of goods I’d been sold. Waves eroding the rock of my persistence and certainty while the sun set. Then it was dark, and what was left of me washed out to sea. I never stopped believing in or loving Jesus. But I could no longer support a God who saw me as a cog in His sovereign machine, who had only saved me for the next life and was okay to let me hang on by a thread throughout this one, if that was somehow more glorifying to Him. I could no longer try to trust that God or call Him good. Deep down I still believed in a God who created me (and everyone else) with inherent value, a Father of abundance and light who wanted to give good gifts. I wanted to believe I could experience Him in a way that felt healthy and whole, not annihilating. This passage from Elizabeth Esther’s memoir remains almost a mission statement for me:

Well, these men can just sit here on my shelf and argue with each other. I am done listening to their voices in my head. If I am going to find my way back to God, I will start from scratch. I will choose the way of the illiterate. I mean, if God is abounding in mercy and loving-kindness, surely there is a way to God reserved especially for those who cannot read! I want that way… I want to experience the God who inspired me as a child, the God who found me long before I could comprehend a single word in my Bible. I want to experience God pursuing me for once. I am tired of seeking, striving, and knock-knock-knocking on heaven’s door. I no longer want to know that silent, capricious, harsh God who would just as soon throw me into the fires of hell as save me. I am challenging God to pursue me like someone who has never been exposed to the Bible. Love me, God. I dare You.

For the past couple of years, I’ve mostly floated, spiritually. I was too exhausted to do much else. I had to lie fallow for a while, like a field in winter, before anything could grow. I had to break down to my faith essence, which is basically yay Jesus, yay Holy Spirit, everything else is a big question mark. But all that floating – and recovering from burnout, and the love and support of a good man – has quieted my soul. Now I feel clear and strong enough to write these words, to admit these things out loud, knowing they might not be well received. I can occasionally read the Bible and close it without angst. I can make it through church without cringing. I can approach God and say, Okay. I’m ready to talk.

So I’ve spiritually deconstructed, as the kids say, and my reconstruction has now begun, and it’s a struggle. I am not interested in replicating the old blueprint. I’m looking to build a new thing – I am a new thing. I’m slowly sidling up to God and asking him to show me anew who He is, but every time I do, I remind Him I will not go back. Only forward. The nautilus grows too big for its chamber. It has no choice but to move into a new chamber that can accommodate its growth. Going back to the old one would smother and kill it. I’m inching forward on the hope that God designed both the nautilus and me that way on purpose.
 

This post was written for Day 8 of 10 Things to Tell You. Today’s topic is Something I’m Struggling With Right Now.