What exactly is this thing we’re calling “deconstruction”? And, if you choose to deconstruct your faith, how exactly do you do it? These are the questions I’m asking right now, mainly because you’ve been asking them of me.
“Deconstruction” implies that the thing we’re taking apart was constructed at some time by some one. The thing we’re deconstructing wasn’t delivered whole and entire in one piece from on high. Someone made it up. Someone built it.
We usually think of deconstruction as demolishing. That when we’ve taken something apart, all we’ll be left with is a pile of rubble. If we’re feeling anger toward the thing, that demolition might feel really good. But what many of us are feeling when we think about deconstructing our faith, along with a little or a lot of anger, are grief and fear. If I take this thing apart, what will I be left with to shelter me? And what about the parts of it I love and that do nurture me? If I blow the thing up, those pieces are smashed to smithereens.
Deconstruction can be thoughtful and nonviolent, if we choose to do it that way. Deconstruction can honor your history, your tender heart, and your anger.
Why take our faith apart? To get to the deep structure. The Ground of Being. The unconditional. The treasure beneath all the religious trappings.
Here’s how I’m currently deconstructing my faith:
1. Let the structure fall down. Let it go. Stop spending valuable energy propping up what needs to be allowed to fall. You have more important work to do. Make the decision to tear it down.
2. Collect the pieces in a pile. Cover them with a tarp and walk away for awhile. Wander into the closest wildflower meadow, maybe. Lie back and watch the clouds. Put your feet in the nearest creek.
3. When you’re ready, sift through the pieces for usable and beautiful remnants. Hold each piece in your hands and feel your body’s truth. Keep only what makes you feel open and free.
Jesus is a keeper, for me. His essence, his stories, his life and his death – these are all life-giving for me. I’m keeping the mystics – Hildegard, Julian, Margery, Claire and Francis, Meister Eckhart. I’ll keep Harriet Tubman and Oscar Romero. I’ll keep the Beguines, abolitionists, and Catholic Workers. I’m keeping all the preschools, soup kitchens, and twelve-step groups in church basements. I’ll keep English cathedral organs and choirs. I’m keeping cloisters, too.
But “sin” I’m letting go. The masculine god “up there,” separate from Earth? I’m letting Him go, too. The rules about who’s in and who’s out? Nope.
This isn’t a rational process. It’s more like the KonMari method for deciding what to keep and what to let go of: “Does this spark joy?” If not, out it goes.
4. Take your time rebuilding. You have time. Let this emptiness be a gift. It’s okay to be unsheltered for a while. Receive the “gift of the goo,” as one client put it recently. This is where finding your community can be incredibly helpful. Feeling unsheltered is scary. It helps to have friends out here in this empty place.
You may find that you use very little from your former shelter. You may find that you need to move completely and start over from bare Earth. You may find that you’re mostly good where you are, and that just a few tweaks are necessary. I know and love many Christians who are perfectly content living in the shelter of the traditional church.
I’m also hearing from more and more people who are simply no longer willing to tolerate the church’s refusal to listen and change. Your stories of leaving church are heart-breaking, and your courageous walks into the empty spaces in search of a nurturing, whole faith are inspiring.
By doing this process, you’ll be able to identify what’s healthy and healing for you because it sparks joy, and what makes your body feel awful and you won’t tolerate it anymore.
Why deconstruct? To return to the Source, the Living Water.
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Photo by Lina Trochez on Unsplash