Remodel.

Three years ago I got my first chance to remodel a house. Have you ever remodeled a place before? It’s a lot of work—more than you think—but it’s also an unparalleled opportunity.

In April of 2019 Kellie and I (with a little help) bought an old log house that perches just above the Watauga River in Valle Crucis. Build 40 years ago, it had lain empty and neglected for a long time. The “bones” were good, but the “skin” needed a lot of work.

I won’t drag you through the specific blend of blood, sweat, and tears our remodeling adventure entailed. Suffice it to say that the usual adage applies: Twice as long and twice as much money as you think. It involved a lot of unprintable language, trial and error (heavy on the error), but also moments of deep joy and satisfaction.

Am I glad we did it? Unquestionably. Would I want to do it again? Not so much.

It’s much the way I feel when it comes to what is now widely termed “deconstruction.” We might call it faith remodeling. It’s an often traumatic but ultimately rewarding experience for many these days, and Kellie and I are increasingly providing a safe space (in coaching, spiritual direction, and small groups) for folks to work through this particular challenging experience of pain and renewal.

When it comes to our faith stories, most of us inherit a “house” from others: Whether we fell in love with Jesus as a child or an adult, we were instructed in the way. Someone ahead of us in the faith passed along the constructs and narratives that circumscribe our budding relationship with God. That person likely instilled some basic theological paradigms in the process.

Maybe it went something like this: God is good. You are bad. But when you believe in Jesus, God makes you good again. Maybe you were shown a diagram that had God on one side of a chasm, you on the other, and the chasm bridged by a cross. Maybe it was the “Romans Road,” a tour through several Bible verses beginning with "For all have sinned, and come short of the glory of God," and concluding with “If you confess with your mouth Jesus as Lord, and believe in your heart that God raised Him from the dead, you will be saved."

Whatever the storyline, it was compelling! It offered us something that our souls craved most deeply: Reconnection with our heart’s true home. A place of belonging in the family of God. A larger redemptive story that now included us! That message changed us forever, reshaping our understanding of life, death, and the meaning of everything in between. There’s nothing better in the entire world, until…

…until the construction of that story begins to crack in the drywall and we wonder if there might also be cracks in the foundation.

Usually it’s not disappointment with God directly that initiates the deconstruction; more often it’s some disappointment with those who represent God. A teacher, a pastor, a mentor… Someone we trusted lets us down. Or we begin to ask certain faith questions that are minimized, superficially answered, or outrightly forbidden. We may begin to experience the long-term effects of cognitive dissonance around biblical tensions. Or we run into a level of personal loss or grief that can no longer seemingly be sustained by the house we’ve lived in.

Maybe a teenager “comes out.” Or we develop a friendship with someone with a thriving faith, but it happens to be another faith! Or maybe we realize that what we supposed to be our own faith was more the aggregate of other people’s faith with whom we enjoyed close fellowship. The possibilities are endless, and everyone has a story uniquely their own. But the effects of the deconstruction are often similar: disorientation, anger, isolation, anger, shame, and did I mention anger? It’s an extremely vulnerable place to land…and by and large, the church doesn’t know what to do with people in this predicament.

The message, usually implicit and unintended, is, You’ve gone off the reservation. You are in a dangerous or even disobedient place. We love you, but if you can’t pull it together, you don’t really belong here anymore. Very few Christians in deconstruction feel like the church remains a safe place to process their authentic distress or evolving belief system. And this is a crisis: If the church can’t find a way to welcome the disenfranchised, they will of course go elsewhere. And some who do go elsewhere never find their way back to faith at all.

The point of disconnect between the church and “deconstructors” is often tied to a static faith paradigm, where spiritual leaders equate salvation to receiving a body of belief that is established and contained…a body of belief that’s not supposed to change or evolve. Go deeper, yes, but don’t migrate so as to leave certain faith perspectives behind and uncover new perspectives. (I’ve explored the evolving faith paradigm in this previous post.)

Consider for a moment the faith evolution of an early church leader named Apollos. Described as a man with “a thorough knowledge of the Scriptures” who “spoke with great fervor and taught about Jesus accurately.” He had been “instructed in the way of the Lord,” Luke attests in Acts 18. In other words, he inherited a house of faith, a good house, only to find that it needed remodeling. It was Priscilla and Aquila who heard him teach, took him under their wing, and “explained to him the way of God more adequately.” Apollos’ story might stop short of deconstruction, but it certainly points toward the necessity for movement and progression in the faith journey.

Some, however, can’t move forward until they first move backward. Some find that they can’t build a second level on top until they replace the foundation underneath the first level. This is incredibly disturbing, both for the person in existential crisis as well as those in the faith community who may feel that their own faith story is being called into question. But it’s a necessary stage in the journey, as Janet Hagberg describes in her insightful book, The Critical Journey: Stages in the Life of Faith. Often, this “wall,” as Janet calls it, becomes the access point to the final and most rewarding stages of faith. I’m beginning to wonder if we can even reach the fullness of our calling without it.

I carry a hope that the church will find its way to being a community that welcomes the hard questions without rushing to canned answers or well-worn platitudes. If faith really is meant to grow, in dimension as well as depth, the most honest thing we may be able to say is that we don’t know. We don’t have an answer. Or that an old answer isn’t working for us anymore.

If that’s where you are right now, you haven’t been betrayed. God still has you firmly in hand, held in love. It’s okay to be angry. Anger is often a flag to show us where part of the house needs to come down so it can be rebuilt. Stronger. More authentic. Ready to sustain you in a new and delightful season of faith. This is hard work, and you don’t have to do it alone. With the faithful support of God and God’s people, I believe you’ll wind up with a remodeled house that serves you and the kingdom of God beautifully…just like we did on the banks of the Watauga River.

Contemplate

How do you feel about those in “deconstruction”? Can you be with them in their disorientation without feeling at risk yourself, without needing to defend your faith posture or criticize theirs? Without needing to rescue them but simply listening and loving…in confidence that God is big enough to carry them through to the other side? Who needs this kind of friendship from you right now, and how can you extend yourself this week?

Takeaway

Sometimes you can’t build the new thing until you tear down the old thing.