The Faith Wilderness

For the past four-ish years, I’ve been going through what I now refer to as the “faith wilderness.” It all started back in 2017 when a couple decades of church baggage came to a head in a pretty ugly way. The details aren’t important here, but I suddenly found myself on the outside of a place I had always been tightly knit into. As much as I would like to say I’ve spent my whole life advocating for those on the margins (and sure, there are some ways I may have done this), it wasn’t until this point in my life that I really, truly started to consider people who were “outside” of the church and why they might be there. Was it them, or were we not as welcoming and inclusive as we said we were? Sure, we told people to come as they were, but what about going to them where they were, without an expectation that we would see them in the pew Sunday morning? When three or more days a week were dedicated to life within the four walls of a building, was it even possible I could be about the outward mission of Jesus like I said I was? Also, why, as people of God, were we so caught up in such policing, unmerciful behavior towards one another?

Cue in a few more existential questions and I found myself in a tailspin of faith deconstruction. The questions compounded into something much deeper than church itself. And I know I’m not alone. I recently commented to my husband that so many of my peers who also grew up in a similar hyper-conservative subculture of Christianity seemed to be in some sort of similar faith crisis. The process starts differently for each of us, but the question we all seem to grapple with in the end is, “Will we throw baby Jesus out with the bathwater?” Will Jesus make it out on the other side of this wrestle with the faith of our childhoods? Is He worth it after all? When so many pieces are being torn apart in deconstruction, it feels like He may crumble right alongside of them.

If I had to boil it all down into something shorter than a dissertation, the theme of my struggles pointed to this message I was taught from a very young age: “Asking questions is doubting and doubting is sin. If you doubt Jesus, do you really believe? And if you don’t believe, you know what that means for your afterlife.”

I was terrified to start asking questions; terrified it might mean I didn’t have faith, that I wasn’t “saved,” or it might lead to doubt which couldn’t be resolved. But with my previous church identity stripped away from me, I didn’t have an easy veneer to hide behind. Where there was previously constant noise, it was now the uncomfortable silence of me, God, and my questions.

It didn’t all suddenly click. However, there was the slow and steady realization that maybe, just maybe, I wasn’t doubting God after all. It was possible my doubt was stemming from what I had been taught about Him. I wasn’t doubting God was all-knowing, all-powerful, present and loving; I didn’t doubt Jesus was God among us, the Spirit being God within us. Those things I continued to hold true.

I was doubting that to prove my love for Jesus, I had to vote along a party line. I was pushing back against the idea of having to hold to an extremely particular set of doctrine in order to secure my ticket to heaven. I was questioning if women really existed to be quiet, somehow having less of a message worth hearing.

I had always been taught that the fruit would speak for itself (fruit being a common Christian metaphor for what is blooming out of our inner lives). And it did. The fruits of insecurity, striving, and religious pandering were finally starting to rot in my life.

While always assured striving wasn’t necessary and faith was enough, this sure didn’t seem to be the case when push came to shove. It sure seemed as though what we said and did mattered more than what was actually in our hearts. But this farce could only hold up so long for me. The long held bitterness and anxieties were bubbling over.

So I questioned. I dug my heels in and dove deeply. For years, faith was a battleground. Some days, I wondered if Jesus would see me through. Other days, I was terrified He wouldn’t. But here’s what I learned during my wrestle with God. I learned Jesus can handle it. God wouldn’t fall off the throne in heaven because I had some big questions. That just isn’t how it works.

Along the way, I discovered something. I had always treated the words “faith” and “doubt” as if they were antonyms. But now I no longer believe this to be the case. I think real, time-tested, faith with legs to stand on has had doubt as a traveling companion at one point or another. Faith that means something has been unafraid to ask hard questions and lean in, because an authentic relationship with God is more valuable than belonging to the desired “in crowd.”

Many of my “big questions” remain unanswered. And somehow, this doesn’t matter as much as I thought it would. What matters most is knowing I have the freedom to ask them; pushing against the grain is okay to do.

I may be less likely to have the perfect Scripture on hand to pray over you, but I’m more comfortable leaning into your hardship than ever before. I’m probably more likely to offer you a glass of wine than I ever have been, yet somehow my home and life are the most open they’ve been (figuratively. Calm down, COVID police). Somehow, fixing problems and having the right words to say matter less than showing up, messy and awkward.

I still doubt, fumble, and question. Much of my theology is held loosely and somehow because of that, my faith seems to be held stronger. The only difference is now I don’t see those things as deconstruction; I simply see them as faith. And this faith is better, more genuine, having been fought for, torn down, and rebuilt. It’s like when you gut a house. Beforehand, you might not know about the mold or leaks living between the walls. And upon discovery, it brings grief, headache, and a whole lot of work to rectify. But once you correct the issues and rebuild, not only do you have a more beautiful home, but one less likely to collapse from the inside out.

Here I stand: coming out on the other side of the wilderness (for now). I am confident my journey of faith will bring me through more days of wilderness, drought, and storm. I am more confident that Jesus will still be there; God with us. And this is enough; God with us.