How Did I Get Here?
An extended excerpt from Chapter 1 of “Reconstruct Your Faith”
NOTE: This newsletter contains an exclusive excerpt from my newly released book, Reconstruct Your Faith: Ancient Ways To Make Your Relationship With God Whole Again.
I can’t believe I am here.
The thought had been rolling around in the recesses of my mind for days.
Perhaps, longer.
It was one of those uneasy feelings that a person gets deep in their gut when something, somewhere is off. The kind that begins as a simple nagging thought that gnaws at the edges of your sanity in moments of quiet reflection, but which, when unattended, becomes a raging fire of fear and self-doubt that threatens to overtake a person’s spirit and irreparably wound their soul.
If I gave the worry my attention, I was wary of losing my soul. I was spiraling fast, and I was uncertain as to whether I had passed the point of rescue.
Was I too far gone to be rescued?
I can’t believe I am here, I repeated to myself.
What was once just an abstract question about the direction of my life had become a very literal concern as I stood facing what was in front of me.
A set of doors.
Large ones. Very large.
These are the kind of doors that are designed to be imposing, to make one feel insignificant. The doors could not have known that there was no need to make me feel unwelcome or unworthy.
I had arrived broken, and, I feared, beyond repair.
On the other side of those doors lay hope. . . or confirmation of my defeat. We only arrive at these moments when we have no other options left.
Sometimes, the only way out of a storm is through it. . . through those doors.
Behind me, the gently rolling hills of western New York’s Genesee Valley rose to meet the sun as the afternoon beams lit up the trees, setting their brilliant orange and yellow leaves afire on this late-Autumn day.
Beyond those hills was the life that I had all but outgrown. It was out there, behind me, awaiting my return. But could I? I had desperately tried to hold to the roots of my faith as the storm raged around me. I had desperately tried to avoid facing the difficult questions that threatened to destroy my faith. I had pushed everything down to the depths of the darkness within, hoping to forever avoid them. I was aware that questioning everything I thought I knew could destroy everything that I had ever built, or worse, dismantle everything on which I stood as a pastor.
Some questions are too dangerous to ask.
But the pain of going back to what was now seemed as unbearable as the thought of moving on, moving forward, into the unknown.
I couldn’t go back, but I was too afraid to move forward. So I did the only thing that made sense as the storm raged around me. . . or more rightly, within me.
I planted my feet, firmly, resisting the strong urge to turn back or even look back.
I had come here for a reason. I had gotten to this place in my life for a reason.
I had to believe that.
I had to believe that there was some purpose in all that I endured, all that I had questioned, and all that I had lost.
The thought of Lot’s wife crossed my mind, and for the first time, I felt compassion for this woman who grieved the loss of Gomorrah so much that she turned into a pillar of salt. Or, said less poetically, she cried herself to death in the crucible of deciding whether to return to a pain-filled past or move forward toward an even more uncertain future.
Here I was, at that same decision point.
Go back or move forward?
Not only was I standing in the way of moving forward, but so were the imposing doors of the storied Abbey of the Genesee, a place I hoped would be a peaceful eye in the midst of my raging storm. The Abbey is well-known for bringing hope to those who have lost their way. Henri Nouwen, the venerable Dutch Catholic priest, professor, writer, and theologian, once stayed here, and it changed his life.
I hoped that it would change mine as well, but to be completely honest, there wasn’t much hope left within me.
I was mostly numb.
So numb, in fact, that just moments earlier, I could barely look at the two-story cross I passed at the entrance of the Abbey.
For reasons I could not yet fully face, I had bounced my eyes away from it.
I couldn’t look at the cross, and the guilt I felt was profound.
It’s just a cross, I told myself. It’s not like it’s Jesus.
But I had lost the ability to ignore the obvious disconnect between how these symbols once felt and how they felt now.
I was definitely numb.
Over the last few months, I had found myself avoiding nearly all of the religious rhythms that once brought me solace. There was no peace to be found in worship services, church community events, or even quiet moments of prayer. It is an odd thing for a pastor to find themself at odds with most of the primary expectations of their role. But my discontent had grown beyond my congregants and church. Religious symbols that once brought me peace, like the cross, now bore pain. Doctrines that had once brought assurance now brought unease.
My faith was in crisis.
I was in crisis. And I had nowhere to turn.
I avoided the cross at the Abbey because I was avoiding Jesus. It is as simple and as painful as that. I could no longer look Jesus in the eye, and that felt odd to admit. I preached about him on Sunday, but I avoided him on Monday. Better to avoid Jesus than have to face him with doubt in my heart, questions in my head, and growing concerns about everything I thought I knew about him.
So I skirted around the cross, not yet ready to confront it, hoping that in finding my way to the Abbey, I might find my way.
I can’t believe I am here.
The massive doors of the Abbey—imposing and more than a bit ominous—looked down on me.
I felt small.
Unimportant in their shadow.
Both these doors and the cross seemed intent on reminding me of my insignificance.
I didn’t need the reminder, to be honest.
The chaos that led to this storm had been brewing for years, I just hadn’t seen it until it was far too late to be successfully avoided. A faith that was once strong had been slowly dismantled from the foundation, brick by brick, over a long period of time.
I never expected the strength of my commitment to Jesus to be the very thing that unraveled my faith, yet here I was. It had been the doing of ministry that had led to my undoing.
And, I never saw it coming…
To keep reading Chapter 1 and the rest of Reconstruct Your Faith: Ancient Ways To Make Your Relationship With God Whole Again, get the book today from your favorite online bookseller or local bookstore.