Deconstruction (Psalm 73)
Summary
In part two of a two-week look at doubt, Pastor Dominic Jackson takes on one of the most loaded words in the church today: deconstruction. He names five common reasons people deconstruct, drawing on the painful story of his own friend group of future pastors and missionaries, most of whom have since walked away from the faith. Then Dominic opens Psalm 73, where Asaph nearly loses his footing watching the unfaithful prosper. Instead of cramming modern deconstruction into the psalm, Dominic lets the psalm become a roadmap for reconstruction: start with what you know, name the obstacle, dig beneath it, don't go alone, bring it to God, and tell your story. He closes with an image of the kind of church Gateway hopes to be: not a fence that keeps people in line, but a well that keeps drawing thirsty people back.
Questions for reflection
Dominic says the tension of deconstruction can feel like being "two different people." Have you ever felt that pull between what you were taught and what you're questioning? What was that like?
Which of the five reasons for deconstruction (broken trust in leaders, toxic teaching, secret sin, outside influence, or a desire to follow Jesus better) do you most recognize, whether in your own story or in someone you love?
Asaph starts with "Surely God is good." If you were rebuilding your faith from the ground up, what is the one thing you know you can start with?
Asaph eventually admits that his real issue is envy. When you dig beneath your own questions or frustrations with God, what do you find there: anger, exhaustion, disappointment, fear, or something else?
Asaph's perspective changes when he enters "the sanctuary of God." Who in your life could you honestly bring your doubts to? If no one comes to mind, what might it look like to find that person?
Dominic contrasts two ways of keeping sheep: building a fence or digging a well. Which picture better describes the faith community you grew up in? Which describes the kind of community you want to help build?
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We continue our series that we are slowly moving along, and we continue looking at the Psalms. And this is kind of a part two from last week. If you weren't here, that's okay. You'll pick up where we're going pretty quickly. But last week we looked at Psalm 77, and we talked about spiritual doubt. It was a lot of fun. And we talked about how spiritual doubt is often a picture not of God's distance, but in reality, it's often a reflection of God's love—that he allows us to experience this. And we heard from St. John of the Cross, who compared the absence of God to, like, a loving parent—if you remember that—who is weaning a baby off of milk. Or a modern example would be, like, a parent helping their toddler take their first steps, and the parent taking a step back—not to move away from their child learning to walk, but instead as an invitation for that little boy or that little girl to move toward their loving parent. And if you remember that great line from Paul Tillich: doubt is not the absence of faith; doubt is actually an element of faith. And so the invitation was to see our doubts, our questions, even our skepticism, not as a dark room—remember, we talked about the dark night of the soul—to see it not as a dark room, but instead as a window, which has the opportunity to lead to light.
And so today we continue looking at the Psalms, and we reflect on where our doubt actually often leads, which is deconstruction. Now, if this is too dark for you these last two weeks, next week we talk about Psalm 23. It's going to be a lot of fun and a lot more cheery. But this is actually so, so important, I think.
Today we talk about deconstruction. But the problem with using, like, this language—buzzwords or cultural expressions—is whenever somebody says "deconstruction," that could actually mean five different things to five different people. Just click on the hashtag on, like, Instagram or TikTok or whatever, right? Which we'll look at in a moment. But what all of these stories—people who are going through a season of deconstruction—what they all have in common, even if they're all using the same terminology, the same process, what they have in common is there's a tension between what I once believed, or was taught, or what my community holds to believe, and what I am questioning.
And to state the obvious, this tension is a response to doubt. At least it starts that way. I am doubting the church. I am doubting this expression of Christianity. I am doubting my leaders. I am doubting whoever you're reading or grew up reading or whatever. I am doubting John Piper or Joyce Meyer or Rob Bell or Ravi Zacharias or Mark Driscoll, the SBC, the Catholic Church, the white evangelical church, the Gateway Church, Dominic Jackson—whoever it is. What does that guy think he knows, right? Whatever it is, whoever it is, I am doubting what somebody is telling me about God and what I actually believe or know or am unsure of.
And for many, this tension can feel at times like you're two different people. At least that's how it felt for me when I was in this season. Part of me wants this to be true because it's all that I know. And yet there's this other part of me that is terrified of what happens if it isn't. In fact, I had a friend who grew up in, like, an actual cult. I know that gets thrown around a lot. But he grew up in this church that was actually a cult. And he was raised in it, and it was abusive. And the pastor even got arrested. It was a whole thing. It was terrible. And my friend escaped this. And years later, they confessed to me that there was still a part of them that missed it—that they missed parts of this. They missed how much easier their life was at this time. How they actually had some fond memories of those days, while knowing they had to leave, that this was destructive. And yet still they had this tension. They felt like two different people who had two entirely different perspectives looking back.
Others, when wrestling, might have questions about the Bible, frustrations with the Bible, and yet still recognize that the Bible, Scripture, has often brought comfort to them. Or they have former leaders who they love, who were good people but had some bad theology. How do you separate that?
Well, when it comes to this tension, it should be no surprise that the word "doubt"—the etymology of the word—actually comes from the word dubitare, which means double-minded. And if you've ever gone through a season of doubt, you know exactly how accurate this is: this tension, feeling at times conflicting emotions, questions, skepticism, wants. And so what do we do when this is where we are? What do we do when we have questions and fears and doubts? Or a better way to ask this is, what does healthy deconstruction look like? That's where we're going to go today. But first, let's pray.
We pray for light in the dark, whatever that looks like. Pray for hope, for answers, for comfort, for reassurance, for companionship, for encouragement to keep wrestling with things, or the strength to let them go. Wherever we are, whatever we are holding, we know that we need you in all things. And whether some of us walked in here having never felt closer to you in our lives, or for others who might feel like the psalmist did so many years ago—searching, struggling, even doubting—what we all have in common is our need for you. And so give us your word today, your message, and help me to get out of the way. I pray this in Jesus' name. Amen.
This morning we look at Psalm 73, if you have a copy of the Scriptures and you want to turn there. And we're going to find a person questioning, searching—in many ways, what might be considered deconstructing their worldview, at least temporarily. And as you're turning there, just one more brief word on deconstruction, if I may. Give me a couple minutes, and then we'll hop into our psalm.
In my experience, all of the folks who I either personally know, I have friendship with—or even when I was in a season of deconstruction myself—typically it is because of one of five reasons. And if you have a different reason, write it on your connect card. I would love to update my list. But typically, most of the people who I know who would say that they are going through a season of deconstruction, it's typically one of five reasons.
The first is broken trust from leaders. And if that is your story—if you are here today and you have either experienced pain or abuse or been let down by a leader—I am so sorry. Whoever it was that hurt you, that was not God's design for the church. And whether it was a church leader or a family member or an elder or whoever it was, I'm sorry. And it's unfortunately a lot more common than you might think.
I found this photo recently from one of my birthday parties in my early 20s. I was 21 or 22 or something. And there's, like, 18 of my closest friends, and we're all crammed into this photo. And all of these friends I grew up going to church with—many, if not most, of us were going to go into ministry, going to be pastors, missionaries, worship leaders. And I found this photo. It popped up on my Facebook recap or memories or whatever it's called, which is always kind of creepy when that happens. And it makes you feel super old. But still, so it popped up, and it was, like, 20 years ago. Here you were. And I remember seeing that photo and just feeling so incredibly heartbroken. Three of us in that photo are actively involved in a church. Another three or four might identify as Christians, maybe attend a church a couple times a year. But the majority of those people—future leaders in the church—the majority have completely walked away and would either consider themselves ex-evangelical or agnostic, atheists even.
And I started to wonder—I mean, that is a huge amount. Statistically speaking, what is going on here? And I understand the trends and drops in religiousness and church with young people. Not that I am a young person. Once upon a time I was, though. And I started to think back to the journey that many of us took. And again, these were future pastors and leaders and worship leaders and missionaries who were on fire for Jesus and now want nothing to do with him.
And I started to think about the churches we all attended. Not our childhood youth group, but the first church we attended as adults. The first one—my pastor had an affair with the worship leader. A story that is sadly so cliché, you shouldn't even be surprised when it happens. And yet, when it does happen, you're surprised and shocked and floored and heartbroken. And so that church, a church of almost 400 people, shut down within six months.
Well, then, back to my friend group—most of us made it to another church, a smaller church, a church of 50 people or so. That medium-sized church was way too big, too flashy, so we found a small neighborhood church. And that pastor had an affair with another person in the church and left his wife and kids and stole money on the way out.
Then some of us ended up at this huge church, one of the largest churches in the country, with multiple locations and book deals and even a church planting network connected to it. And I thought, okay, there's got to be some accountability here. Come on, like, this is one of the largest churches in the country. There's got to be some checks and balances, right? A year later, that church was shut down. The pastor didn't have an affair or steal money, but he was fired for spiritual abuse of his staff.
And as I look back at that photo, I thought—as hard as it is to admit, especially as a church leader now, and as sad as it is—I had to be honest: I got it. In fact, maybe the fact that there were even a handful of us who still wanted anything to do with the church—that should have been the bigger surprise. I mean, these are the people we put our faith in. And we were disappointed over and over and over again.
It's not always a scandal. Sometimes it's hypocrisy. The amount of people who I know who have left the church after their pastor endorsed—fill in the blank. A bill, a hate group, something else altogether. And you scratch your head and say, this doesn't sound like Jesus—at least the Jesus I know. Whether greed or abuse or political influence or hypocrisy or secrecy, whatever it is. And so many people I know didn't leave the church because of Jesus. They left the church because of the guy who stood up front each week claiming to speak on his behalf.
Next reason is toxic teaching. This isn't about the person in leadership, but the message they give, where the pulpit is often hijacked for personal or political or hateful or conspiracy-theory or fear-based or prosperity preaching or something else altogether. And it becomes their personal soapbox. And what's sad about this is, often when I talk to my friends who have walked away—often when I'm talking to my friends and they share about the God they don't believe in anymore—I tell them, "I don't believe in that God either." That God you heard described each week from your former pastor—that's not the God I worship.
However, worth noting, there's also another type of poor teaching, which isn't about what it adds, but all that it lacks—which is as much consumerism and entertainment, but never moving deeper. It eventually becomes what Bonhoeffer calls cheap grace, right? Low discipleship, which leads to someone asking, what difference does church or the Bible or Jesus make? I don't look or feel any different. None of us do, right? And so whether it's an abuse of Scripture or a deflating of it, many people deconstruct over bad teaching.
Third one—I'll move faster. Third one is secret sin. Now, this has happened more times than I could count. A person tells me, "I've deconstructed from orthodoxy. I don't believe in"—fill in the blank. Some core doctrine that has been around since 2,000 years ago, that the early church believed, early church mothers and fathers believed—but some guy on TikTok figured it out, right? And so often it starts as, "I don't think—I don't know—sin exists." Or, "I don't think there's a heaven." Or, "What if we've all been wrong about"—fill in the blank? And then what has happened so many times that I've seen in my own life is, a few months later, it comes out that this person was hiding something—having an affair, stealing money, a secret addiction, leaving their wife and kids, or abusing them behind closed doors, or they were a closeted racist, whatever it was. And it's like, well, yeah, the guy who's trying to redefine sin was probably trying to justify their own sin. So that's another reason.
The fourth I'll just call outside influence, or countering ideologies. A group, a movement, a friend group, the pressures of society, maybe politics. And I have to say, by the way, when I say politics, many people hear that and they assume I'm talking about, like, I don't know, the kid who goes to college and walks in and, you know, is handed a copy of whatever and is invited to some sort of rally and loses their faith. I'm not just talking about progressive ideologies, liberal theologies. Sometimes that's true. But the amount of people—especially young men, but not always—who are leaving orthodoxy and eventually their faith over far-right extremism, white supremacy, hate groups—it's staggering. And so there's the pull of an outside influence on both sides of the aisle. Eventually you're holding these two different worldviews—one connected to the Word, the other connected to whatever world it is you have been invited into—and it just doesn't fit anymore.
And yes, I'm talking in extremes, and yes, I'm generalizing, but I think you know what I'm talking about here. Don't email me if you're offended—if you lean to the left or the right and love Jesus. I'm talking about extremes here. Or if you are upset at me, you could email me at zachanderson@thegatewaychurch.com, right? But honestly, what I'm talking about is replacing the Lamb of God on the throne and replacing it with the elephant or the donkey of your politics, and making it something it was never created to be.
All right, moving on. Last one. And this is a different type of deconstruction that is simply rooted in a desire to follow Jesus better—to better follow, love, serve, and be more like Jesus. And somehow remove, detangle, deconstruct my American or capitalist or Wesleyan or Catholic or 21st-century or white evangelical or Republican or—[unclear]—Bieber or '90s Emergent Church or whatever you were raised in, right? It's just, like, asking the question of, how have we lost the message, right? It's that simple. And trying to return to the context, even if some of those things were well-meaning, right?
Okay, and so those are just a few of the reasons people I know have deconstructed—stood at a crossroads between what they once believed and what they are wrestling with, or what they can no longer believe. Okay, so what in the world does any of this have to do with our psalm? I'm glad you asked.
Well, this morning, instead of trying to, like, fit and cram a modern example of deconstruction into our psalm, I want to do the opposite. I want to look at this psalm as perhaps an outline for our modern questions or concerns or deconstructions of our faith, and then move from there. And I don't know what your questions are. Maybe they are about the Bible. Or the church. Or doctrine. Or tradition. Maybe your questions are bigger than that. Maybe it's wondering, there are so many religions out there—how do we know ours is right? Or maybe it's, I've believed as long as I could remember. I was raised in this. How much of this is just a reflection of my upbringing? Or my culture? Or maybe your questions are like the psalmist's. Your questions are connected to pain. You watched loved ones suffer. You hear of all these tragedies in the world—human trafficking, curable diseases which people are still suffering from, injustices, corruption, violence. And you think, where is God? What is he waiting for?
Whatever your questions, instead of focusing on those, I'd love to offer perhaps an invitation on what to do with those questions. And so let's look together. Psalm 73 opens: "Surely God is good to Israel, to those who are pure in heart." He starts with a declaration. Not only is there a God, but God—the God of Israel—is good.
I grew up in a church where we would say every week, "God is good," and then you would answer, "All the time." And then you're supposed to say, "All the time," and then the other person says, "God is good," right? And it was like this—like, I don't know. It was just something that we did at our church. But it's like, that's Christianity 101, right?
But here's the thing. I have to confess, during the darkest season of deconstruction for me, when I was just trying to figure things out, I felt like I had, like, pulled on a thread, and everything I thought I believed started to slowly detangle and then slowly start to unravel before me. And I got to a place where my pastor disappointed me. And so if I can't trust him, then I don't think I could trust the church. And if I can't trust the church, then I don't know about this Bible that they're preaching from. And so what do I actually know? What do I believe? What can I actually put my trust in?
And so where I started was: forget how old the earth is. Forget these two confusing, seemingly contradicting accounts. Forget what Paul says about—whatever subject. Forget what my pastor said about this political party. Forget what the Left Behind books said about the end of the world, right? Forget all of that for a moment. Let's just put this to the side, because this is what I'm wrestling with: what do I actually know to be true?
And what I realized at this point is it made more sense for there to be a God than there not to be. Science seemed to support this. The universe confirmed it. I've talked about this before—the science of fine-tuning, right? This is where I started. There was probably a God. And if there was a God, and that God made all of this—though there's pain, there's also so much beauty. And if that were true, then this God must be good. And so this is all I felt like I knew, at least at the time.
But here's what I want us to take away just from this. Here's a great framework for deconstruction. If you are at a place where you feel lost or confused or like you have more questions than answers, rewind back. I'll call this reconstructing your faith. After deconstruction, instead of just staying there, here's a path for reconstruction. And we see this in the opening of our psalm.
Step one: start at what you do believe. What can you believe? And try to move that line as far forward, and that belief as clear, as you can. The first time I was in a season of doubt, I didn't know anything. Not at all. I was questioning everything. I believed there was good in the world and probably a God, but outside of that, I didn't know a whole lot. My starting point was very, very vague, but at least I had one.
Years later, the second time, I sounded more like our psalmist when I was going through this. The second time I was in a season of deconstruction, I believed in God, I believed in Jesus, I believed in the church, but I had some serious questions about it. And so my starting place was much like the opening of this psalm. Here's what I did know: surely God—the God of Israel, the God we see in the person of Jesus, the God in the Old Testament and the New Testament—that God is good. But what about predestination, the age of the earth, the authority of Scripture, what the Bible says about whatever topic I was wrestling with? I had no idea. But God is good. I can start there. And so that would be my encouragement to you. When you have questions, start with what you do know. And for me and Asaph, that first step was: God is good.
Let's keep going. Verse 2: "But as for me, my feet had almost slipped; I had nearly lost my foothold." So here he is, slipping, struggling. And what is he struggling with? He tells us, verse 3: "For I envied the arrogant when I saw the prosperity of the wicked." Here he has moved from what he knows, big picture—what he can believe in—to what he is struggling with, which is part two.
Number two: name the obstacle. I know God is good, and yet I'm still struggling with this. And for the psalmist, his obstacle is he envies the arrogant. That's what he's wrestling with. That's what he's trying to justify and figure out.
Worth noting: for a long time when I read this, I believed that the wicked he was talking about were, like, pagans or pirates or, like, outsiders. However, I found that many, if not most, scholars actually believe—and the psalm seems to suggest—he's talking about his own people. He even calls them, in verse 27, unfaithful. He doesn't call them faithless. He calls them unfaithful. He's using covenantal language here.
And I have to admit, most of the issues I had in this season were very similar. My deconstruction journey began with others who were—[wearing] the name of Jesus and living completely opposite. And for Asaph's community, many, it seems, have lost their way. But here's the problem. Here's what he's trying to figure out: they seem to be thriving. They are, like, living their best life now. Here are people he grew up with, he's known in community, he's probably even worshiped alongside at some point. And now they have walked away from their faith, and their lives look pretty good.
Look how they're described. We won't go through each one, but just scan the next few lines. Verses 4 and 5: they are prosperous. Or they have no problems, no needs. They are prideful, even violent. They have no compassion, even have wicked thoughts—verses 6 to 9. They're popular—verses 10 and 11. Or here's how he sums it all up, in verse 12. He gives us, "This is what the wicked are like—always free of care, they go on amassing wealth."
And there it is. There's the problem right there. Why does a perfect, loving, fair God allow this injustice to happen? Instead of "why do bad things happen to good people," what he wants to know—what probably a lot of us want to know—is, why do good things happen to bad people?
I do believe—I think Asaph knows—that these people have problems in their lives. Deep down, he knows their lives aren't as perfect as they seem. But since he is, like, hyper-focused on this, on them, it is all that he can see. And that's the problem: when our focus only sees one thing, that's all we seem to be able to see.
Years ago, I was visiting my brother, who lived on the Oregon coast at the time. And pretty much, if you've ever been there, every day is almost the same. It looks like it's about to rain, like, all the time, pretty much all year. And there's always some fog lingering around. But every now and then, you either get some real rain or you get some real fog—the dangerous kind of fog. And I remember I was in his backyard when the fog started to roll in, and it was, like, unlike anything I'd ever experienced before. If you've ever seen thick fog, you know what I'm talking about. It's, like, the kind that causes car accidents, or small dogs to go missing, or, apparently, me to go missing, right? The fog was so thick, I couldn't see anything around me. I couldn't find the house. I was hanging out in the backyard, and I could not find the house. I kept tripping over my feet. And at first it was kind of cool. And then it got terrifying real quick. Eventually I was rescued by my niece, who was, like, seven years old at the time. That doesn't matter. It was very manly and tough of me. But still, I'm out there, and she finds me with a flashlight or whatever.
But here's the thing. Here's what I learned about fog later. Apparently, 8,000 cubic feet of thick fog—which was the backyard I was standing in—if you were to somehow squeeze or filter all the water out of it, you would barely be able to fill up one glass of water. This fog was so thick, it was all that I could see, and yet it could barely fill up a coffee mug or a kitchen glass, right?
And here's the thing: I believe that the same takes place with our doubt, with our questions, with our skepticism at times. Sometimes it feels like all that we can see—the biggest thing that is in front of us, all that we think about ourselves or about God or about whatever it is. But when we're able to name it and then take a step back and see what is actually true, or what is actually under this—which is exactly what Asaph does—it changes what we see.
Verse 13: "Surely in vain I have kept my heart pure and have washed my hands in innocence. All day long I have been afflicted, and every morning brings new punishments. If I had spoken out like that, I would have betrayed your children. When I tried to understand all this, it troubled me deeply." And so first he starts with a baseline, right? Then he names the thing.
And the next step we see for the psalmist—the next step in healthy reconstruction—is simply to keep digging, and look for what is underneath the question or the feeling. It's admitting, I'm embarrassed by this. Or, I'm ashamed of this. Or, I'm afraid of what this might mean about God or about my worldview. Or, I'm confused. Or, I'm desiring control right now instead of letting go of it. Or, I'm looking for justification. Or, I'm looking for peace. Or, I'm angry—and honestly, if I keep digging, I'm really angry at my pastor or my church, and I'm projecting that at the Creator of the universe. Or, I'm tired—I'm so exhausted from trying to do the right thing over and over. Or, I am let down—I should be further along in my life than I am.
Or in Asaph's case, what he finds is, I am envious. He says all of these people are all doing great, but look at me. It's not even really about these other people. It's about him. Look at all that I have done for you, God—what are you doing for me? I should be further along. I should be further along in my career. I should have a bigger platform. I should be more successful. I should have gotten that promotion. God, I have given you so much. Where is my reward?
Asaph is offended not at the wrongs being committed against God, or even in the name of God. He's offended about the wrongs and injustices against him. And even though being envious or jealous of others is wrong—Lord knows I've done it plenty of times in my life—at least he's being honest here, which is the next step. By digging and looking at what is under your question or emotion or pain, whatever it is—name it. God can take it, I promise. Just read the Psalms. It's all over there. And bring that to God.
One of my favorite philosophers, Søren Kierkegaard, says it this way: we believe that God is great enough to harbor our lives with all their grievances, and that he can lead us from darkness through to the other side. But worth noting, here's what helps in this process: to actually name the grievance. Name what is under what it is you're feeling.
Next, verse 17: "till I entered the sanctuary of God; then I understood their final destiny." Which is number four: don't go alone. Notice he enters the sanctuary of God. This context is both private and public worship. Last week I shared that one of the best things you could do in this season, when you feel like you're in the dark, is to find somebody who sees clearly—to find community. And notice it is when he got out of his own head for a minute and into the house of God that his perspective changed. In the next few verses, he admits that the people far from God aren't actually doing as well as they might seem. And they definitely won't be when they meet God.
And then he moves on, verse 21, after he has this new enlightenment from entering into the sanctuary. Verse 21: "When my heart was grieved and my spirit embittered, I was senseless and ignorant; I was a brute beast before you." There is a confession here. Notice he is turning to God. He started with what he knew. He named the issue. He looked at what was underneath the issue. And next, he didn't avoid his church, temple, community, which is the temptation for so many people during this season.
And then, number five: he brings it to God. And notice what happens when he does—when he actually takes what it is he's feeling, what he's wrestling with, and brings it to God. Look at what happens. Verse 23: "Yet I am always with you; you hold me by my right hand. You guide me with your counsel, and afterward you will take me into glory. Whom have I in heaven but you? And earth has nothing I desire besides you." He's able to see clearly. Instead of trying to figure it out on his own, or on the internet, or with whatever best-selling former pastor's Substack is selling that week, right—instead of that, he goes straight to God with it, directly to the source.
This reminds me of the story of Thomas you might be familiar with, right? He says the quiet part out loud, right? He names his doubts. And it's in this that Thomas reaches out, and he's able to touch the divine. Or like a grieving parent—if you know that story—who brings their hurting child to Jesus and says, "I believe; help me with my unbelief." Even if it feels counterintuitive to take your questions about God to God, it is the best thing for us. And it's how we find healing and hope, maybe even answers.
Also worth noting: in all the stories I shared about someone turning toward God with their questions and doubts, notice how Jesus responds to them. He moves towards them in love. Not to reprimand them or punish them, but to be a light in the fog, or in the dark, or in your doubt.
Finally, we'll finish it out. Verse 26: "My flesh and my heart may fail, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever. Those who are far from you will perish; you destroy all who are unfaithful to you. But as for me, it is good to be near God. I have made the Sovereign Lord my refuge; I will tell of all your deeds."
And that's number six: tell your story. This is your testimony. One of my favorite quotes—I've said it a hundred times; here's number 101, okay? This is from D. T. Niles, a famous Sri Lankan theologian, pastor, preacher. He says evangelism is just one beggar telling another beggar where to find bread. And I love this. This is saying, I was once hungry, and then I found food—let me tell you about it. Or, I was once hurting, or I was once doubting, and then I found God—let me tell you about him. Let me tell you my story.
One of the most healing things is to share these stories. It's saying, I promised myself at some point I would never set foot in a church again, and here I am, somehow, by the grace of God, right? I walked away from my faith. I walked away from God. Or, I had so many questions, and to be honest, I still have a ton. But even though those questions didn't get any smaller—they're still there—the love of God I experienced seemed to somehow get larger. And so tell your story.
Speaking of, I'll close with this. When I was going through a season of doubt, which led to deconstruction, I felt so incredibly alone. I couldn't talk to my friends. I couldn't talk to my church. The second time, I worked for a church—I was a youth pastor. And here I am wrestling with these things, and I was like, I can't tell anyone. If I do, I'm going to get fired, or I'm going to get judged, or whatever it is. I was just trying to figure my faith out. And I finally hit my breaking point. And it was at this moment, when I felt like I was in a whirlwind—like I didn't know which way was up and which way was down, I didn't know what I believed, I didn't know what was true—that I finally confessed to my mentor, a guy named Ray. And Ray, instead of responding with judgment or condemnation, told me a story of his season of doubt. And then I told another friend, and then I told my small group, and I was met with either, "Yeah, I've been there too," or just gratitude for my honesty and vulnerability.
But here's the sad part: this is not everyone's story. So many people I have talked to were excommunicated, kicked out, fired, simply for asking questions, because the system they were part of was rigid, controlling, and graceless.
And here's something that I've learned recently. I think it's a perfect analogy. All the sheep herders in the room—I'm sure there's plenty of you—you'll know this. But for the rest of us city folk, right: there's only two ways to not lose your herd, apparently, if you are a sheep herder. There's only two ways not to lose a sheep. You can either build a long, large, thick fence around your entire property and maintain that all the time, right? And for farmers with acres and acres of land, you can imagine how hard this is—and expensive, right? But that's one way. It's rigid. It's limiting. And there is no room for exploring. But you also don't have to worry about your sheep going too far.
Or there's another way, which is simply to have a source of water in the middle of your land. Instead of building a fence, it is digging a well. And what you'll find is, if the sheep are getting their thirst quenched, they might explore a little bit. They might go a little too far at times, but they'll always come back. And when I think of a well, I think of the living water. I think of Jesus, who says, go ahead, reach out to me. Ask your questions. Touch my wounds, he tells Thomas, right? Take your time. I'm not going anywhere.
At the Gateway Church, we're not really good at building fences here. We don't want to build a rigid wall of who is left out and how to keep others in and in line. And we don't have a list of approved questions and doubts, and who gets a stamp according to their beliefs, and who should be left out based on their deconstruction journey. That's not us. Whatever your questions, we've probably heard them before. In fact, we've probably asked them ourselves before. But instead of drawing a line of how to be a good church member, we would rather point you—point us all—back to the well that will never run dry. The one that can take our questions, our doubts, our skepticism, our deconstruction. He can take it. But my encouragement is, wherever you are on your faith journey—if you're in a season of deconstruction, or figuring it out, or at least asking questions—my encouragement is: don't do it alone. Let's pray together.
Spirit of the living God, though you need no invitation—not in this room, not in our service, not in the sermon, not in our lives—yet still we invite you, as a posture of trust. We invite you into our questions, into our doubts, into our deconstruction, but also into our reconstruction. And so, Lord, my prayer is for anyone who is here today who is asking those questions, whatever they happen to be. I just pray for comfort. I pray for courage. I pray for your presence to be felt. I pray for opportunity. I pray for grace. I pray for the strength to not just deconstruct, but also to turn to you in reconstruction.
And Lord, I also want to pray for anyone who showed up here today and is shaking their head right now and thinking, well, that was weird. Lord, I just pray for anyone who is not in this season and frankly probably has never been. Lord, I just pray for grace for us. I just pray for open eyes and open hearts to those who are around us—friends, family members, community members who are asking questions, who are trying to detangle the systems they grew up in, the faith that they either inherited or once held, and what is true of you. And so help us, those who can see you clearly right now—help us to be a light, pointing not towards ourselves, but to the true light, to you, Christ Jesus. We pray this in your name. Amen.