Author: Searching For Jesus in America

Who: Sunny, Nneka, Liz, Kody, Sydney, Payton, Justin and Jamie (not pictured)

Church: Literally…US

Dinner: My apartment

Topic: A Year in Review and What’s Next

While I was in Austin, it struck me that I was officially rounding out my year of visiting churches in Chattanooga. The realization settled in slowly, but once it did, I felt this unexpected wave of tenderness toward the experience, like reaching the end of a long, meaningful conversation you don’t quite want to leave. I instinctively wrote that I wanted to celebrate the moment, but that word didn’t feel right. Celebration suggests a loud joy, a triumphant exclamation point. What I felt was quieter, softer… a kind of sacred acknowledgment.

This year wasn’t about tallying visits or achieving a goal; it was about listening, learning, and allowing myself to be shaped by stories, communities, and the slow work of attentive presence. So instead of celebrating, I found myself wanting to commemorate it, to honor the journey and the ways it stretched me. To pause long enough to recognize the transformation, not just move on to the next thing.

This journey began with Sydney, Liz, and Nneka, three women who have shaped, challenged, and walked with me through some of the most meaningful conversations over the past few years. So it felt only right that I brought this year-long journey to a close with the same people who helped spark it.

What’s interesting, though, is how much has changed in each of us over the past twelve months. In our own ways, all four of us have taken steady steps away from the familiar structure of institutional church. Not out of bitterness, and not out of rebellion. We’ve each been experiencing what I believe to be a holy restlessness that keeps asking:

Is there more to church than what we were handed?
Is there more to following Jesus than the systems we were taught to blindly trust?

We’ve wrestled with those questions.
We’ve sat in the tension.
We’ve allowed ourselves to name what feels misaligned, and to imagine what a faith shaped by honesty, compassion, courage, and lived experience might look like.

Ending this journey with them wasn’t just sentimental.
It was symbolic.
Because in many ways, we’re all standing on the edge of something new: a faith less defined by institutions and more defined by the quiet, everyday ways we show up, love people well, and choose to keep seeking Jesus even when the path looks different than we expected.

So the invitation was simple, nothing flashy, nothing complicated:
Come over for dinner. And bring someone with you who still wants to follow Jesus but has maybe grown disillusioned with “church.”

We weren’t looking for people with polished answers or perfect faith. We were looking for the ones who are still trying, still hoping, still holding on to Jesus even as the institutional structures around them have left them confused, disappointed, or hurt. People who love the heart of the gospel, but aren’t sure where they fit anymore. It was an invitation into honesty, into community, and into the kind of table where questions and doubt aren’t liabilities.

I’m not going to rehash the conversation, because the words themselves aren’t what’s important. (Also, it was a safe space to speak honestly.) But, what is important is the larger pattern it represents—how many people are quietly disillusioned, uneasy, and, in most cases, becoming increasingly more frustrated and angry about what’s unfolding right in front of us.

And it was the following day when I realized one of the sources of my own growing anger: so many church bodies are acting like they are oblivious. As if ignoring the problem will somehow make it disappear. As if silence is a form of neutrality and not complicity. That disconnect—that refusal to engage—hit me harder than I expected. Because acknowledging what is happening, in real time around us, would require courage, accountability, and change. And far too many would rather protect their comfort than confront the truth.

But not all.

There were eight church communities I visited this year that I would genuinely consider returning to, places where I felt a spark of connection, curiosity, even belonging. In another life, maybe in another season, I could imagine our family settling into one of them, becoming part of their rhythm and their story.

But that isn’t the path we’ve been called to walk.

So where does that leave me?

I could easily write several more posts about this journey, about the moments that surprised me, the ones that disappointed me, and the ones that quietly reshaped my understanding of faith and community. But instead, I’ll offer this:

I’ve come to see the Sunday morning gathering, at its core, as a truly beautiful idea, people coming together to remember who they are, to encourage one another, to be formed by something holy and hopeful. There is purpose in that, and for many, there is life. But if I’m honest, I’ve never been a Peter.

I’m a Paul. (Yeah, the guy had issues, but you understand the comparison.)

Some people are called to build the house. Others are called to take the story on the road. Both matter. Both are faithful. Both reveal something essential about what community can be.

And I’m finally learning to stop apologizing for being the kind of person who meets God most clearly on the move.

And as I sit here in my neighborhood coffee shop, eyes blurring from tears, I’m struck again by the profound beauty of the story the Lord has entrusted my family to live. It feels almost impossible when I try to put it into words. If we weren’t the ones walking it… if these weren’t our steps, our prayers, our moments of stumbling forward… I’m not sure I’d believe it myself.

Yet here we are, somehow still moving forward.

What amazes me most is how the thread has held through every season. Every detour. Every unexpected turn. Every door that shut and every door that cracked open just enough for light to spill through. It’s only when I stop long enough to look back that I can see how intentional it all was, how the Lord has been weaving something far bigger, far more redemptive, than anything we could have designed.

And this gives me courage, because we’re walking into a chapter of our country that feels unsteady, uncertain, and heavy with things we can’t control. The air is thick with fear, division, and the temptation to retreat or harden.

But our story reminds me of something unshakeable:
Jesus is already standing in the future.
He is already where we are going.

So we will keep walking—by faith, not clarity, not certainty. We will keep showing up to the places we’re called, trusting that even in the dark, the same God who carried us here will carry us forward.

No matter what unfolds, hope is not behind us.
Hope is ahead.

I have so many thoughts and feelings about this picture. The first is that it TRULY captures how utterly exhausted we all are. (At least the three on the left!) You can see it in our faces, the kind of tired that doesn’t just come from a long week, but from years of showing up, giving everything you have, and still waking up to do it all again. The past six years have taken a lot out of us. Personally. Professionally. And honestly, those lines have always been a little blurry for us. The work we do is deeply personal, it’s not something we can easily clock out of at the end of the day. Every success, every heartbreak, every “why are we doing this again?” moment. It all runs together. But maybe that’s what this photo shows most clearly: the cost of caring deeply and the quiet resilience that comes from still standing side by side after everything.

This picture also tells another story.

Six years ago, I walked into Austin New Church with nefarious intentions, determined to find something wrong, something heretical, something that would confirm every stereotype I had already built in my head. But, to my surprise, I found none. That particular Sunday, the message wasn’t about politics or theology. It was about people. The pastor spoke about their ministry at the border, about compassion, about welcoming those seeking refuge, about love that moves beyond comfort zones and crosses boundaries. I remember sitting there, slightly disarmed, realizing that what I was witnessing wasn’t rebellion against faith.

It was faith lived out in its purest form.

And then, six years later, there I was, sitting on their stage, sharing that very story with their congregation. The irony wasn’t lost on me. To be welcomed back by the same community I once judged from a distance felt humbling, even holy. It reminded me that grace has a funny way of circling back, teaching us that transformation doesn’t always come in lightning bolts. Sometimes, it comes quietly, in the form of people who simply choose to love well.

The story I shared was one I’ve told many times before, including here. But it begs repeating, because I truly believe it’s the only way forward when it comes to where we are as a society. Six years ago, Jamie and I went to breakfast with Jason, eager to learn more about the work Austin New Church was doing at the border. We spent 90 minutes learning about the ministry and enjoying some of the best breakfast tacos I’ve ever had in my entire life… until Jason dropped a bombshell in the last five minutes of our time together.

With a wry smile, he mentioned that his denomination would likely be removing him for his decision to perform marriages for gay couples.

He went on to say that graduates of Dallas Theological Seminary (DTS) and churches like Dallas Bible Church refer to him as a heretic… and that statement landed heavier than he probably realized. For one, I graduated from Dallas Theological Seminary. And two, we just so happened to be driving to Dallas later that same day—to stay with a family who faithfully attended Dallas Bible Church.

It was a strange, almost divine irony. In the span of a few hours, we’d move from sitting across the table from a man accused of heresy to sleeping under the roof of people who might fully agree with that assessment. It was a quiet collision of worlds I once thought were firmly divided—one that forced me to reckon with what I really believed about faith, conviction, and who gets labeled “heretic” in the first place.

But, there was one thing I was certain of: I couldn’t dismiss the REAL fruit I saw in Jason and the work he was doing.

That evening in Dallas, we shared our experience at Austin New Church with a family from Dallas Bible Church. Their response was telling. They seemed genuinely perplexed, perhaps even unsettled, that we would attend a service there, let alone spend time with Jason. Their faces said everything before their words did. Confusion. Discomfort. Maybe even a little disgust. They couldn’t understand why we would step foot in a place like ANC, let alone share a meal with its pastor. That reaction stayed with me, because it revealed something deeper than theological disagreement.

It exposed a fear of proximity.

A couple of days later, I reached out to Jason. I told him I sensed God was about to lead me on a journey, and that I’d be grateful to have him as someone I could process things with—to ask questions, wrestle honestly, and maybe find some guidance along the way. His response was short and direct. He declined. (And, to be fair, I didn’t blame him.)

But a couple of day later, he circled back and said that he’d had a change of heart. Maybe he felt guilty, but I seriously doubt that was the case. Maybe he was curious. Maybe it was half a dozen other reasons. I’ve never asked him and, at the end of the day, it doesn’t matter. But I can tell you that having that connection, that sounding board, was pivotal to my faith journey. There are moments from living on the road, seared into my brain, like the time I spent 30 minutes pacing in between rows of RV’s at a camp ground near the Montana and Canadian boarder. I was questioning so many things I had been taught through the patriarchal lens of scripture, pulling threads that would lead to unraveling.

Circling gravel loops under a cold sky, wrestling with questions I had never allowed myself to ask before. Those theological threads, woven through a lifetime of teaching, I could feel them loosening, one by one. It was terrifying and liberating all at once. That unraveling wasn’t the end of my faith; it was the honest beginning of it.

Going back to Austin was healing.

Being away from Chattanooga was needed.

And now that we’re back, it’s time to get to work.

Before I even made it back to my room, after receiving the IV and getting my feet wrapped, I promised Jamie I wouldn’t attempt Day 2. He knew there was a part of me that would be tempted to go out again. But, I promised to stick to volunteering and cheering on the other participants. However, by dinner, moving around had become difficult, and by the next morning, I couldn’t stand up straight. I had re-injured my hip, and the headache and nausea had also returned. I knew it was time to make the hard decision to head home early.

Thankfully, my travel buddy, Karen, chose to head back, too—and I can’t express how grateful I am for her. There’s no way I would have made it through the Dallas–Fort Worth Airport alone. She even paid for someone to push me in a wheelchair through the terminals, because at that point I couldn’t walk on my own. My body was truly revolting, reminding me that even determination has its limits and that rest was no longer optional, but necessary.

And not just for 29029.

I came home with something I didn’t expect, a profound sense of clarity. The climb stripped away all the noise and left me face to face with what really matters—what’s worth carrying and what I need to finally lay down.

It wasn’t just about finishing a physical challenge; it was about recognizing that I’ve allowed certain responsibilities, habits, and even relationships to take more from me than they return. And if I want to keep moving forward—not just up a mountain, but through life—I have to protect what fills me and release what empties me.

Sometimes the bravest thing we can do isn’t pushing harder, but choosing differently.

What I didn’t expect was how deeply this would be reflected in my walk of faith. Ever since this journey began for our family, over 10 years ago, I’ve carried this unrelenting need to stay tethered to the institution of church. (And for clarification, I don’t mean the bride of Christ—I mean the juggernaut of programs, expectations, and structures that so often get mistaken for Him.)

But as time went on, I began to see the business model of church take over—the branding, the performance, the machinery that ran louder than the Spirit. And still, I told myself that staying mattered. Not because I thought I could change it with my own hands, but because I believed prophetic voices were needed. A voice to call us back to simplicity, to presence, to truth.

And, to be clear, those voices are needed.

Just not my voice… in that setting.

The climb made me realize how much that posture has cost me—how much energy I’ve poured into holding space within a system that often confuses profit with purpose. And yet, even in that realization, there’s no bitterness—only a renewed conviction that my faith was never meant to be sustained by an institution, but by Jesus alone.

Since being back, I’ve been a bit reclusive. I’m still working hard behind the scenes, of course, but I’m no longer pouring energy into places—or with people—that leave me feeling empty and, often times, frustrated. Church was never meant to resemble a country club. It was never intended to be a place of status, exclusivity, or performance. It was meant to be a sacred communal space—a gathering of the broken, the seeking, the grateful, the hopeful. A place where walls come down, not where they’re built higher.

At its core, church was designed to be a living, breathing expression of Christ’s body on earth. A table where everyone has a seat, not a stage where a select few put on a show. It was meant to be marked by humility and hospitality, by sacrifice and service, by the kind of love that refuses to keep score.

Somewhere along the way, we traded that vision for something shinier, something more marketable, something that looks successful from the outside but too often leaves souls starving on the inside. And yet, the original design still calls to us—a reminder that sacred community isn’t about belonging to an institution, but about belonging to one another under Christ.

And now I’m trying to figure out what that looks like for me and my family.

Church was never meant to be a place we go, but a way we live. For too long, we’ve equated faithfulness with attendance—filling pews, nodding through sermons, and calling it “community” while remaining largely unknown to the people sitting beside us. The early church wasn’t centered around a stage or a pulpit, but around shared meals, mutual care, and Spirit-led conversations. It was radically relational, inconveniently intimate, and beautifully messy.

Imagine if the gathering of believers looked less like a weekly performance and more like a family dinner. No more passive consumption of prepackaged inspiration. No more being “fed” while never being asked to contribute. Instead, we gather around tables, not stages—where everyone brings something to share, not just food, but story, wisdom, prayer, vulnerability. Church as a way of life, not a calendar event.

What might happen if we stopped going to church… and started being the church?

A few weeks ago, my friend Neil invited me to join a small gathering at Crabtree Farms—a place already rooted in the values of growth, collaboration, and community. Around the table were six of us from different walks of life: three of us work for youth-focused nonprofits, one works directly with the City of Chattanooga, and two others run their own photography and videography businesses. At first glance, our roles seemed diverse, but it quickly became clear that we shared something deeper: a genuine commitment to supporting and uplifting young people in our community. Whether through policy, storytelling, creative expression, or hands-on outreach, we each understand that investing in youth is one of the most powerful ways to shape a more just and hopeful future.

Words like ministry, faith, and outreach weren’t just sprinkled throughout our conversation—they were threads, quietly and consistently weaving everything together. As we shared our stories, there was a sense that this wasn’t just a meeting or a moment. It was something deeper.

Another word kept rising to the surface—sacred. Not in a formal or distant way, but in the quiet recognition that something holy was happening in the space between us. The vulnerability, the honesty, the shared longing to serve and be part of something bigger—it all felt set apart.

But here’s the thing about what is sacred: it doesn’t stay that way by accident. Sacredness is sustained through continued presence, continued listening, continued showing up for one another with open hands and honest hearts. It’s not a spark we admire and walk away from. It’s a fire that needs tending.

To call something sacred is to take responsibility for it.

To name a moment, a mission, a relationship as holy is to commit to its care. Not with grand gestures or perfect plans, but with steady faithfulness. With the courage to keep coming back to the table, to keep having the hard conversations, to keep letting love lead—even when it’s messy or slow.

What we experienced, I hope, wasn’t just a fleeting moment of connection. It was a beginning. And it will only remain sacred if we continue—continue the work, continue the community, continue the invitation to let God move in and through us.

Sacredness isn’t static. It’s alive. And it’s ours to steward.

I’ve been reflecting on this a lot lately—especially when I think about the intersection of my personal life and the work I feel called to do. There’s a tension our family carries, one that threads through so many areas of our lives. It’s hard to name sometimes, let alone explain. It’s the kind of tension that isn’t easily resolved, because it’s born from choosing to live intentionally in spaces that don’t always make sense to the world around us.

Someone recently described our family as “an anomaly of the human experience.” And while I don’t fully agree with that, I get where they’re coming from. From the outside, our choices may look unusual or even contradictory—but from the inside, it’s simply the result of holding multiple truths at once: conviction and compassion, struggle and hope, sacrifice and joy. It’s complex, and it’s messy, but it’s also deeply human.

Also, my husband and I, on more than one occasion, have said, “What the f&#k are we doing?” Jamie actually said it this morning.

Honestly, with the exception of our youngest, I’m pretty sure at least one of us says it every single week. Sometimes daily. But that’s what happens when you raise your kids to think critically, care deeply, and speak boldly.

You want them to question injustice… until they question your choices.
You want them to stand up for what they believe in… until they call you out for being inconsistent.
You want them to be independent thinkers… until they’re strong-willed and inconveniently vocal.

But here’s the thing: we wouldn’t trade it. Not even on the days it feels like we’re unraveling… which was pretty much EVERY. FREAKING. DAY. in July.
We didn’t set out to raise agreeable kids — we set out to raise compassionate, curious, courageous humans.
And yeah, that means living in a house where hard questions get asked, opinions get challenged, and none of us are allowed to just coast through life on autopilot.

It’s chaotic. It’s messy. It’s exhausting.
But if we’re being honest — it’s also kind of beautiful.

We’ve also noticed a striking — and sometimes frustrating — similarity between many of the conversations happening in the nonprofit world and those we encounter in church spaces.

In both spheres, there tends to be an entrenched mindset around “the way things are done.” These norms are often treated as unshakable truths, even when they no longer serve the people they’re meant to help. But if we’re truly committed to seeing different outcomes — more equity, deeper relationships, lasting transformation — then we have to be willing to reimagine the systems themselves. We believe there are other ways of doing things. More collaborative, creative, and community-driven approaches that challenge the status quo and lead to the kind of change we say we want.

And I’m not gonna lie.

There are days when I find myself longing for the version of church life we left behind years ago. I miss watching my kids leading worship — the familiarity of Sunday mornings, followed by lunch in the fellowship hall. I miss the structure: the midweek Bible studies that gave us a sense of spiritual anchoring, the weekend retreats that created space to breathe and reconnect, the occasional outreach project that reminded us of something bigger than ourselves.

But even in the midst of all that familiarity, there was always a quiet discomfort I couldn’t shake — a sense that something just didn’t sit right. So much of what we were part of revolved around an insular way of living. The rhythms and routines, while comforting, often felt closed off from the world around us.

Most of our time was spent inside the walls of a building, surrounded by people who looked, thought, and believed the same way we did. Activities were neatly compartmentalized — youth group on Wednesday, service on Sunday, maybe a mission trip or canned food drive once a year. Everything was curated to fit a spiritual checklist: attend, participate, serve, repeat. It was well-intentioned, but it often felt like we were going through the motions rather than engaging the deeper questions of faith, justice, or real-world impact.

It became hard to ignore how disconnected that model was from the messy, beautiful complexity of everyday life — and from the very people we were called to love.

Maybe that’s why we often find ourselves feeling frustrated — both with the nonprofit world and the church world. In many ways, they mirror each other: systems built with good intentions that, over time, can become more focused on preserving structure than serving people.

But for us, our motivation has never been about maintaining the way things have always been done. Whether we’re navigating faith spaces or community work, our heart has always been rooted in the same question: Is there a better way forward? One that truly centers the people we’re trying to serve — not just our comfort, our traditions, or our metrics of success.

We don’t believe there’s only one path to meaningful change. In fact, we believe real progress requires us to stay open — to question, to listen, and to imagine alternatives. There can be more than one way to move forward, and sometimes the most faithful, most impactful thing we can do is to leave the well-worn path and help create a new one — even if it’s slower, messier, and more uncertain.

Because if the outcome is greater dignity, deeper connection, and communities that truly flourish — then the risk is worth it.

Well, this past week has been… exactly what I expected.

Some people really didn’t like what I’ve had to say. Others have reached out with deep gratitude, saying they finally feel seen, heard, and understood. And honestly? I’m holding both responses with open hands.

I’m not intimidated by criticism—honestly, as an Enneagram 8, I welcome thoughtful, objective feedback. And I don’t find validation in praise either (if I’m being honest, I tend to question people’s motives). I don’t write to win approval. I write because I believe these conversations matter—and because staying silent never sat well with me.

So often, conversations about inclusion start with logistics. Is there room? Can we make space? Do we have the capacity? But when it comes to LGBTQ+ inclusivity—especially in faith communities—these questions often mask a deeper one: 

Do we actually want everyone here?

Let’s be honest… we can invite people to the table, but if we never offer them space to speak, to lead, to shape the conversation, then it’s not really inclusion. If we control the menu, the agenda, and the tone of the gathering, we’re not building community. Real belonging demands more than a seat; it requires shared power, mutual respect, and the humility to be changed by voices different from our own.

So the question isn’t “Who’s invited?”—it’s “Who feels truly welcome, truly heard, and genuinely valued when they get there?” Because until the table becomes a place of shared ownership, not just extended hospitality, we’re not practicing justice—we’re just rearranging the furniture.

With this being the last post in this series, I want to explore what it means to create not just a bigger table, but a more courageous one—one where love isn’t conditional, and belonging isn’t up for debate.

I’ve heard people say you can’t drink coffee and be a Christian.
I’ve also heard people say the same about alcohol.
You can’t be gay and be a Christian.
You can’t get a tattoo.
You can’t vote for a Democrat.
You can’t vote for a Republican.
You can’t be divorced.
You can’t cuss.
You can’t doubt.
You can’t question the pastor.
You can’t miss church on Sunday.
You can’t wear certain clothes.
You can’t listen to secular music.
You can’t practice yoga.
You can’t be rich.
You can’t be poor.
You can’t go to therapy.
You can’t have anxiety.
You can’t love Jesus and still struggle.
You can’t be a woman and preach.
You can’t read a different translation of the Bible.
You can’t love people too radically, or else you’re “watering down the gospel.”

Honestly, the list is long—and often contradictory.

But here’s what that long list tells me:
We don’t all read Scripture the same way.
We bring our stories, our cultures, our traditions, and our wounds to the Bible.
And how we interpret it often says more about us as it does about God.

So when someone says, “You can’t be gay and be a Christian,”
I no longer hear a definitive theological truth.
I hear an interpretation—one shaped by how they’ve been taught to read Scripture.

That’s why we need to keep asking better questions.
Not just “What does the Bible say?” but “How are we reading it?”
And maybe even more importantly: “What kind of God are we revealing in the way we read?”

Because the truth is, how we read the Bible has never been static.
Take the word “homosexuality,” for example. Many people assume it’s always been in Scripture—that it’s a fixed, unquestionable part of God’s Word. But that’s simply not true.

As I mentioned in a previous post, the word “homosexual” didn’t appear in any English translation of the Bible until 1946—in the Revised Standard Version. That’s nearly 2,000 years after the New Testament was written, and centuries after the Bible was first translated into English. In the original Greek, the words used—like arsenokoitai and malakoi—are complex, debated, and deeply context-specific. Scholars still argue about their exact meaning. But what we do know is this: the modern concept of sexual orientation didn’t even exist in biblical times.

So when we say “the Bible clearly says…”—especially when it comes to LGBTQ+ people—we have to pause and ask:
Are we interpreting Scripture faithfully?
Or are we projecting modern assumptions onto ancient texts?
Are we seeking truth?
Or are we defending what makes us most comfortable?

And even more than that:
Are we using Scripture as a weapon—or as a window into the heart of a God who consistently lifts the marginalized, welcomes the outsider, and redefines who belongs?

Because how we read the Bible will always reveal the kind of God we believe in.
Is that God harsh, distant, and conditional? Or is that God radically loving, just, and present—especially with those who’ve been pushed to the margins?

The difference matters.
Not just for theology—but for real people with real lives, real pain, and real hope.

The truth is, Christians have always read Scripture differently. Across denominations, cultures, and generations, we’ve come to different conclusions about what’s literal, what’s cultural, what’s timeless, and what needs context.

For some, drinking alcohol is a sin. For others, Jesus turning water into wine is all the clarity they need. And yes, there are even communities who believe coffee is off limits because of its stimulating effect. The point isn’t who’s “right”—the point is this: our understanding of Scripture is always shaped by how we read it, where we read it from, and who taught us how to read it.

So when we talk about topics like LGBTQ+ identity and inclusion, the question isn’t just what does the Bible say?—but how are we reading it? Are we taking time to understand the cultural context, the original language, and the overarching story of God’s love and justice? Are we reading to exclude or to invite? To shame or to understand?

If we’ve been taught that God’s love has limits, we may struggle to believe that full inclusion is possible. But if we’ve experienced the Spirit of God moving in and through the lives of LGBTQ+ people—and if we approach Scripture with humility, curiosity, and care—we might begin to see something new. Or perhaps, something ancient and true, but often missed:

Belonging doesn’t require erasure.
God’s image shows up in all kinds of bodies and stories.
Reading the Bible faithfully means holding space for both truth and transformation.

I’ll end with this…

For years, one of my greatest fears wasn’t just being wrong—it was what might unravel if I admitted I was wrong. Especially about something as deeply rooted as my “biblical stance” on LGBTQ+ inclusion.

Because if I was wrong about that… what else might I be wrong about?

It felt like tugging on a single thread that could undo the whole fabric of my faith.
And for someone who built their life on certainty, clarity, and theological boundaries—deconstruction wasn’t just scary. It was off-limits.

It wasn’t that I lacked compassion.
I just thought love meant telling the truth—even when it hurt.
But what I didn’t realize was that truth without humility can harden into something unrecognizable from the Jesus I claimed to follow. And fear of being wrong kept me from seeing the harm that my “clarity” was causing.

I thought my faith would fall apart if I opened that door.
But what I’ve found—on the other side of honest questions and sacred wrestling—isn’t less faith.

It’s a deeper faith.

Less about rigid certainty, and more about radical trust in a God who’s big enough to hold our doubts, and kind enough to transform our understanding without shaming our past.

So no—deconstruction wasn’t an option for me…
Until it became the only faithful path forward.

A path toward a more honest faith.
A faith not built on fear of getting it wrong, but on the courage to ask deeper questions.
A faith that makes room for complexity, nuance, and growth.
A path toward Jesus—not the version I was handed, but the one I kept catching glimpses of in the margins, in the tension, in the faces of people I was once taught to exclude.

It wasn’t a path I chose lightly.
It was slow. Painful. Lonely at times.
But it was also liberating. Healing. Sacred.

Because sometimes, the most faithful thing you can do… is let go of what no longer reflects the heart of God—and trust that what remains will be true and more like Christ.