Since I haven’t regularly attended church since September, I met with my pastor on Friday to withdraw from church membership. I told him that this church has been a great stepping-stone for me out of the Reformed Baptists; that I love the people here and wish them the best; that I need a place that’s more liturgical and more oriented towards lament. It’s hard to stay in an evangelical congregation turning ever more reformed and hard-complementarian, and this past year has been so incredibly, personally painful that I need to find community to support me. He asked, Is it wise to leave community while you’re struggling? I said, Nobody has reached out in the months I’ve been gone.1
I am feeling weary. Worn. I want to feel justified in the eyes of my eldership, my church, my Christian friends—I want my struggle to be accepted as legitimate. But I also have the sense that the only way to be justified in the evangelical context is to … stay evangelical. The only way to be right is to stay right. Ask all the questions you want, as long as you’re still convinced of the right answers. Speak about “trusting God’s providence despite everything” while “holding on to him even in the valleys”—when that’s what hurts, the holding on. I can’t pretend to feel a stability I do not have, or spout conclusions that I have not reached.
I’m discouraged that I haven’t reached those conclusions. I’m scared about what I had, that I’ve lost. I can’t say salvation-wise if I’m in or out, and I am worried I won’t be accepted in this middle place. The fact is, I need space from firm belief, and in the meantime I can’t prove to or reassure anyone that I’m going to be okay.
Meanwhile, I have all these critical talk tracks in my head.
→ In a dark night of the soul, you’re supposed to press on and through, not quit. Is this quitting? Is this avoidable? Is there something more I can do, could have done?2
→ This crisis seems brought on by my family’s rejection of me; but faith shouldn’t depend on external circumstances. What gives??
→ If I leave church (and bible reading, and the Lord’s supper, and regular means of grace), then of course I’ll feel lost and drifting. If I abandon my responsibility to put myself in the way of grace, like a cup beneath a faucet, can I expect to feel / receive / produce all that’s been promised?
But all these things seem to point to salvation (and salvation feelings) as contingent on my action. In this framework, though God refuses to be found, I can’t stop pursuing him3. In this framework, he will not give me grace unless I work for it.
Is that a free gift of grace? Or is that a transaction?
A core value that I have seen in myself since childhood is trueness. I care less about being right, and much more about being honest; clear; authentic; living in the light and pursuing what is. I’m not reevaluating my belief in God because I want to be a wicked heathen, and certainly not to please the urges of my own wicked heart (believe me: this is not the path I would have chosen for pleasing myself). But I do have to be true, and ask the questions I really have.
It is massively disorienting to cut out a part of my life that I thought was the only thing keeping me alive, and to realize I’m fine. I thought my faith was my beating heart, and when I realized how fundamentally vital it was I would take it back with a flood of grateful reassurance. Instead, it feels like I’ve actually removed a tumor. Losing it affects my balance for sure, as I move forward in my life—it was part of how I walked and talked and carried myself—but I’m not dead the way I expected to be, the way I was told I would be. I feel fine. How can I be fine? Fine is dangerous; fine is your sinful self telling you lies.
But I feel … free.
What does that mean? What does it mean that I can walk away from my faith and feel nothing but relief? What does it mean that I can take a break from God and not feel repentance, longing, any more distance than I’ve felt the past two years, as I fasted and prayed and read and wept and worshiped? I don’t even know what those feelings mean now. How could I have been so in love with God once, so interested in his word, worshiping in his church, intimate with his people, fed by speaking of him and his works? Why did I find it in me to memorize and meditate, praise and thank and fellowship, serve and repent and pursue, to discipline myself and submit myself and remind myself? If it doesn’t mean anything now, I don’t know what it meant then. I don’t know what was real and what was imagination. Was there truth in what I was taught, and I just didn’t tap into it right, or tap into it truly?
I don’t feel a secret pull back. I don’t have an awareness of something different and divine and remade in me. There is no still, small voice in my heart reminding me of truth and letting me know I am different. I feel the same as before. Just freer.
Perhaps the ‘free’ is just free of unnecessary rules, and I have thrown the theological-belief baby out with the bathwater. Then shouldn’t I miss the baby? Shouldn’t I feel a baby-shaped hole?
I want to be good. I want to do good. I want to be allowed to believe that, and I don’t want ‘goodness’ to mean ‘doubting myself,’ convinced that the very state of ‘believing I want to know what is true and do what is good’ proves my self-deceit and fundamental wickedness.
And I want to be believed. I want people to see me as I am and take me at face value, also believe I want to be good, instead of seeing me as a wretch. I am sick to my stomach over feeling hatred for myself; tired beyond belief of being blamed for broken relationships; weary of hearing condemnation from the pulpit and nothing but anger from God until I look like someone else.
I have always felt a deep embarrassment when someone doesn’t actively want to be my friend. I recognize that now as shame. I assume they don’t want to be friends because of me: because I am metaphorically rotten meat, and who wants to be associated with that? I’m grateful to be tolerated. I try to keep my stench low, and to not lose my associates their friends because of me, the unpleasant acquaintance. And when someone is inevitably grossed out, I can’t try again: rotten meat after two weeks isn’t any better. All I can expect is, ‘Are you stupid, too, thinking all I needed was another chance to like you? Don’t you get it: you’re rotten.’ All I can do is at least be smart, and preempt by letting them know, Yes, I know what I am. I can’t do much for you, but I can be as inoffensive as possible, humbly acknowledge my limitations, and accept anything from you that you’re willing to give. I don’t expect too much, or think too highly of myself; I know I’m rotten.
At this point in my life, believing I suck hurts too much. It hurts to feel that message from home; it hurts to feel that message from church; it hurts to feel that message from God.
So I am taking a break from all those things, to learn to see myself differently: not as rotten meat, first. I want to live out of being loved. And when I am able to operate out of love, I will be able to honestly see what I need to grow in. What I need to pursue. Who God is, and if he is for me. And if he can be healthy, if he can be as open and loving and patient as I’ve been told he is, as I need, as I want to be, then I will consider returning.
Or maybe not ‘returning.’ Maybe starting anew.
Not “nobody”: very few. I have two particular friends at church, who have walked with me all of 2023, the kinds of relationships that stick no matter what congregation you’re a part of. Three others have also reached out once to say hello—which is great! But doesn’t make me feel I’m pulling up deep roots.
I am always afraid of having left something undone. I want to do everything possible, and everything as right as possible, so I know whatever happens is not my fault—and prove I’m not asking to be carried on flowery beds of ease. I’m willing to work to make it work.
When he is found: that’s his grace. When he is not found: that’s my fault.
Deryn, I’m so sorry for everything you’ve been through. I want to thank you for writing this. I’m realizing that I’m in a very similar place right now. I’m wanting to be done, but I am afraid. So thank you for sharing your words and your courage. I hope that you receive the love you need and deserve.