What if deconstruction was something else?

Everywhere you look people are deconstructing. For some, this looks like a total rejection of faith. Some question a doctrine here or there. Others walk away from “church” and hold on to Jesus. Loads of “Christian famous” folks are carrying out their deconstruction online for the world to see. Some are leveraging deconstruction for financial gain (yes, you can hire people to coach you through a season of deconstruction).

Then there's the response to deconstruction. Some celebrate it and almost evangelize it to others. Others point to it as a simply a way to disguise apostasy. Both seem to be missing the mark.

The Dark Night of the Soul

What we now call “deconstruction” is nothing new.

St. John of the Cross is largely credited with coining the term, “dark night of the soul” in his 16th century poem.

Even before him, the concept is present throughout the writings of early Christians. The dark night of the soul often refers to seasons where the one who believes encounters in fresh ways the mysteries of the divine. This could be in good times and bad times.

As we look to the story of the people of God in the Bible we see this dark night of the soul or deconstruction all over the place. In particular, I think of the books of Ecclesiastes, Lamentations and Jeremiah (honestly, almost all of the prophets show signs of this). One of my favorite parts of the Acts of the Apostles is witnessing the deconstruction of Peter and Paul's faith.

What strikes me is that counter to what some folks would have us think, deconstruction is normal for people seeking to follow in the way of Christ.

Maybe what it is...

I have been thinking a lot about this dark-night-of-the-soul/deconstruction for the last number of years. Something I am realizing is that I have gone through many seasons of deconstruction. So much so, that I'm not sure that the term is even helpful. For a while I thought maybe it was a cycle of deconstruction and reconstruction. But, I'm not sure that's really it. I think that perhaps, something else is going on.

I wonder if a little phrase from C.S. Lewis' The Last Battle might be helpful,

“It is as hard to explain how this sunlit land was different from the old Narnia as it would be to tell you how the fruits of that country taste. Perhaps you will get some idea of it if you think like this.You may have been in a room in which there was a window that looked out on a lovely bay of the sea or a green valley that wound away among mountains. And in the wall of that room opposite to the window there may have been a looking-glass. And as you turned away from the window you suddenly caught sight of that sea or that valley, all over again, in the looking-glass. And the sea in the mirror, or the valley in the mirror, were in one sense just the same as the real ones: yet at the same time they were somehow different–deeper, more wonderful, more like places in a story: in a story you have never heard but very much want to know. The difference between the old Narnia was like that. The new one was a deeper country: every rock and flower and blade of grass looked as if it meant more. I can’t describe it any better than that: if you ever get there you will know what I mean.

It was the Unicorn who summed up what everyone was feeling. He stamped his right forehoof on the ground and neighed, and then cried:

“I have come home at last! This is my real country! I belong here. This is the land I have been looking for all my life, though I never knew it till now. The reason why we loved the old Narnia is that it sometimes looked a little like this. Bree-hee-hee! Come further up, come further in!”

“Further up, and further in.” It strikes me that this is really what is happening in my life and the life of so many others. Maybe, it's not de- and re- construction? Could it be that it's a vast spiral of becoming more and more of who we are meant to be? Ken Wilber in his text, A Theory of Everything, calls this the process of “transcend and include.”

What if we could envision our lives progressing not along a linear line of ups and downs, but as a spiral that is driving us deeper and deeper towards reality. We learn what we need to learn where we are right here, and right now. Then that drives us ever deeper to new truths and a clearer sense of who we are and who we are to become. The mystery continues to beckon, “further up, and further in...”

I don't have a new word for this, but maybe an old word would do? Maybe the old word, “sanctification,” is a better term. This process of becoming something new. When I read through the stories of God's people I see them constantly moving and growing and changing.

“Further up, and further in...”

It's not so much a deconstruction or even a dark night of the soul as much as it is being confronted with a current reality and the hope of something new before us. This something new is a version of ourselves moving towards greater flourishing.

What if...

I wonder if this sanctification is what Jesus meant when he talked about how he had come to give us life and life to the full?

What if, all the stories that are emerging of deconstruction are really stories of sanctification. Most of the time, from what I see, when people come out from the other side of this season they are more loving, more gracious, more given to mercy, and have a greater empathy.

What if, we need to follow the footsteps of the prophets and of the apostles and have all our assumptions about God challenged and broken, to truly find God in the deep mystery?

Have you experienced a dark night of the soul? Or have you experienced deconstruction? How have you changed? In what ways does your life look different as a result?

This week we talk about hospitality through the story of Jason in Acts 17.

My certainty died but then my faith lived

I was there when he died.

I sat next to him as they turned off all the machines. His wife and daughters had left the hospital and entrusted these moments to me and another friend.

It didn’t take long.

He was ready.

I had met him shortly after we moved into the neighborhood. He had a loud laugh and a sly sense of humor. I had never met anyone quite like him. He was both the life of the party and a loner. Each winter he drove around picking up the neighborhood kids so they didn’t freeze at the bus stop.

His laugh was unmistakable.

During the time we knew one another he taught me about being someone who thought of others before himself.

I taught him about Jesus.

I guess in reality, he taught me about Jesus.

After he died, I didn’t really know what to do. I had done the pastor thing when other people died.

But, this was different.

Our faith community had prayed and prayed. We visited. We cared. We never stopped showing up.

I had taken him to dialysis.

We had good and deep conversations about God, faith, and love.

If anyone should have been healed it was him. Yet, he didn’t get healed. A tiny leak in his bowel, indiscernible until the very end, killed him from the inside out.

I was confused. I was heartbroken. I was angry.

It was there sitting next to my friend when he died that my certainty died too.

As I sit here today years later, I realize that something else was born that day: my faith.

Up until that point my belief was an intellectual certainty. Sure, I wrestled with various theological and doctrinal ideas but these were simply intellectual machinations. They didn’t really mean much. Theology, doctrine, and dogma was an intellectual game. I was constantly testing it and stretching it to figure out what was the most intellectually appealing position. It was fun and life-giving.

Wherever I found myself on any particular day I was certain.

This certainty was something very precious to me. I held on to belief with an iron fist. I protected my certainty like Frodo protected the Ring.

I could tell you affirmatively all the things that I believed and I could argue for them. Likely, I could convince you that I was right.

The day that my certainty died was the day that faith was born.

You see, certainty requires no faith. It simply needs some intellectual ascent and a bit of reasonable evidence and certainty can be attained.

But, faith comes from the mistiness of doubt. Faith is the small light shining in the misty darkness of spiritual pursuit. We stumble and grope and discover bits here and there.

When certainty dies, we can finally find faith.

Faith is hope in the midst of doubt. Doubt is not the adversary of faith. No, it turns out that doubt is the harbinger of faith.

Certainty, is the great adversary.

When we are certain, we don’t have to have faith.

For instance, I don’t have faith that I ate a ham and pepper omelette for breakfast this morning. I know it. I am certain of it.

I have faith that God loves me and cares for me in the midst of all the goods and bads of this world. Why? Because I’ve experienced things in my life that don’t make sense apart from something outside myself. I am confident that Jesus is who the Gospels writers say he is. I am confident that he did what the Gospel writers say he did. This confidence in the self-sacrificing-loving Christ provides me with grounds for faith.

When certainty died, faith came to life.

With certainty dead, I could finally explore all the things of God. What a journey it is! There’s no longer any need for us/them, in/out, there’s only a need for loving well.

Living with faith is freedom because I no longer have to protect my certainty. I can stare into the mist and ask the questions and re-imagine faith and grasp for hope.

I was there when he died.

I was there when he began to truly live and so did I.

My certainty died but then my faith lived

I was there when he died.

I sat next to him as they turned off all the machines. His wife and daughters had left the hospital and entrusted these moments to me and another friend.

It didn’t take long.

He was ready.

I had met him shortly after we moved into the neighborhood. He had a loud laugh and a sly sense of humor. I had never met anyone quite like him. He was both the life of the party and a loner. Each winter he drove around picking up the neighborhood kids so they didn’t freeze at the bus stop.

His laugh was unmistakable.

During the time we knew one another he taught me about being someone who thought of others before himself.

I taught him about Jesus.

I guess in reality, he taught me about Jesus.

After he died, I didn’t really know what to do. I had done the pastor thing when other people died.

But, this was different.

Our faith community had prayed and prayed. We visited. We cared. We never stopped showing up.

I had taken him to dialysis.

We had good and deep conversations about God, faith, and love.

If anyone should have been healed it was him. Yet, he didn’t get healed. A tiny leak in his bowel, indiscernible until the very end, killed him from the inside out.

I was confused. I was heartbroken. I was angry.

It was there sitting next to my friend when he died that my certainty died too.

As I sit here today years later, I realize that something else was born that day: my faith.

Up until that point my belief was an intellectual certainty. Sure, I wrestled with various theological and doctrinal ideas but these were simply intellectual machinations. They didn’t really mean much. Theology, doctrine, and dogma was an intellectual game. I was constantly testing it and stretching it to figure out what was the most intellectually appealing position. It was fun and life-giving.

Wherever I found myself on any particular day I was certain.

This certainty was something very precious to me. I held on to belief with an iron fist. I protected my certainty like Frodo protected the Ring.

I could tell you affirmatively all the things that I believed and I could argue for them. Likely, I could convince you that I was right.

The day that my certainty died was the day that faith was born.

You see, certainty requires no faith. It simply needs some intellectual ascent and a bit of reasonable evidence and certainty can be attained.

But, faith comes from the mistiness of doubt. Faith is the small light shining in the misty darkness of spiritual pursuit. We stumble and grope and discover bits here and there.

When certainty dies, we can finally find faith.

Faith is hope in the midst of doubt. Doubt is not the adversary of faith. No, it turns out that doubt is the harbinger of faith.

Certainty, is the great adversary.

When we are certain, we don’t have to have faith.

For instance, I don’t have faith that I ate a ham and pepper omelette for breakfast this morning. I know it. I am certain of it.

I have faith that God loves me and cares for me in the midst of all the goods and bads of this world. Why? Because I’ve experienced things in my life that don’t make sense apart from something outside myself. I am confident that Jesus is who the Gospels writers say he is. I am confident that he did what the Gospel writers say he did. This confidence in the self-sacrificing-loving Christ provides me with grounds for faith.

When certainty died, faith came to life.

With certainty dead, I could finally explore all the things of God. What a journey it is! There’s no longer any need for us/them, in/out, there’s only a need for loving well.

Living with faith is freedom because I no longer have to protect my certainty. I can stare into the mist and ask the questions and re-imagine faith and grasp for hope.

I was there when he died.

I was there when he began to truly live and so did I.

We explore three scenes in Acts 16 and what do we find? Practice of Prayer, Practice of Presence, and the Practice of Piety (all the alliteration!)

We take a look at the first Church council, the Jerusalem Council. What we discover there informs us even to this day about the nature of following Christ.

Originally recorded at Peace Presbyterian Church in Flint, MI

There is this interesting little line in the letter that Paul of Tarsus wrote to the faith community in Galatia.

“Christ has set us free to live a free life. So take your stand! Never >again let anyone put a harness of slavery on you.” – Galatians 5:1, The >Message

What does it mean that we are set free to live a free life?

Our freedom is rooted in grace. When are all bound up in shame we can't live well. There is a constant fear and a constant sense of existential dread. Everything we do is under this weight of shame. Shame presses us into hiding from being exposed. We believe that we are the sin-sickness that entangles us.

Grace comes in and says, “No! You're free! You are healed from that sin-sickness, your true self is now free to live life to the full! No more hiding! No more worry! You're whole and free and embraced by the Divine! Go now and live!”

Jesus said, “I have come that they might have life and have it to the full! (John 10:10)”

Grace frees to live that life.

In another letter that Paul wrote he wrote this, “Now God has us where he wants us, with all the time in this world and the next to shower grace and kindness upon us in Christ Jesus. Saving is all his idea, and all his work. All we do is trust him enough to let him do it. It’s God’s gift from start to finish! We don’t play the major role. If we did, we’d probably go around bragging that we’d done the whole thing! No, we neither make nor save ourselves. God does both the making and saving. He creates each of us by Christ Jesus to join him in the work he does, the good work he has gotten ready for us to do, work we had better be doing. (Ephesians 2:7-10, The Message)”

Isn't that amazing? We are not simply freed by grace but we are called by grace to join Jesus in work that he has “gotten ready for to do.”

When grace breaks into our lives it transforms everything. All of a sudden we are no longer burdened about this or that. We no longer find ourselves all bound up in shame. What do we find? We find our sense of purpose, a sense of being, a sense of calling!

One of my favorite movies is The Mighty Ducks. It tells the story of Gordon Bombay a fallen hockey star who has lost his way. He ends up having to coach a hockey team of benchwarmers. In the midst of his coaching his shame is removed as experiences grace after grace. What does he discover? He discovers that this thing that was at first a punishment, becomes his calling. He's a coach and he's really good at it. In his coaching he experiences love and joy and fulfillment.

This is the very thing that grace does. Grace sets us free to find love, joy, and fulfillment.

Christ has set us free indeed!

Dan does a dive into Acts 14:21-28 and we wrestle with the reality that life is hard.

For the last few years I’ve had the joy of preaching at Peace Presbyterian Church in Flint, MI. This year, I gave in and started recording the messages and posting them as a weekly podcast.

Here is this week’s message. Perhaps you will find it encouraging:

I call it, Common Grace:

open.spotify.com/episode/6…

Paul and Barnabas let us in on a little secret, God gives joy to everyone...