I grab my earbuds, pick a playlist at random, snap the royal blue leash onto Sandy the Beagle’s collar, and head out the door. Sandy needs her evening walk just like I need the sweet respite of summer break after a particularly difficult school year. As I notice the evening sky glow with the first sweeps of gold and blush, my mind wanders to the article I promised I’d construct. And how I clearly haven’t put in any time other than a few short notes.
A song I haven’t heard in awhile wafts through my earbuds, “Free” by Rudimental.
See, whoa, c’est la vie
Maybe something’s wrong with me
But, whoa, at least I am free, oh, oh, I am free
It’s not that I don’t have any thoughts or experiences when it comes to moving on from fundamentalism. I have plenty. A veritable family heritage. But it’s difficult to know where to start.
I was raised in the Church of Christ. My mother’s father was a Church of Christ minister and her mother’s grandfather was a frontier preacher in North Texas. My father’s father was an elder and can trace our family’s roots in the Restoration Movement all the way back to Alexander Campbell (IYKYK). His great grandfather founded the first Church of Christ in the state of Texas and was involved in the beginnings of what later became Texas Christian University. My mother served as church secretary and my father was a deacon of various ministries while I was growing up.
I dutifully attended Harding University and married a youth minister. We spent 12 years working in Churches of Christ in South Georgia and Northeast Arkansas. I also worked as a librarian at a private Church of Christ school for eight years. Those years were filled with spiritual and emotional abuse. Even five years post ministry I still struggle to articulate some of the things that happen to us and don’t fully understand how abusive some of our experiences were.
It wasn’t until we were unceremoniously let go from our last ministry position here in Arkansas and we subsequently decided to both take secular jobs that I was forced to reckon my faith with my reality. I entered that scary world of “deconstruction.” Different people will define the word in different ways, but for me it means to essentially perform a closet clean out of your mind. It’s often a rapid unlearning and unraveling of beliefs and customs given in a fundamental religion. Of course the scary part is that these are tightly held beliefs, not just old jeans that haven’t fit in five years.
But we can and should outgrow harmful theology and ideas.
Anyone who has ever stepped out into the terrifying journey of deconstruction knows it isn’t easy. And no two people will have the same journey. Even my sweet husband and I have had different journeys. Deconstructing different parts of our faith at different times and in different ways.
Early on into this process, my therapist gave me some good advice. He told me to do my best to accept where the journey may lead. Deconstructing doesn’t mean you are leaving your faith. How you chose to engage your faith may look different, but that’s ok. He told me to be ready because it could look like standing on a boulder on the edge of Mount Magazine to greet the sunrise or going through the process of becoming an ordained Episcopalian priest. Or anything in between. Or none of those things.
See, whoa, c’est la vie
Maybe something’s wrong with me
But, whoa, at least I am free, oh, oh, I am free
After five years, I still consider myself to be a Christian. That doesn’t mean I haven’t had moments of doubt, agony, or fear of discovering a new way of faith that’s different from my upbringing. I have felt all of that and more. There have been many Sundays I weeped through parts of worship, not sure if I wanted to keep doing this. And there have been other days of the week that the Spirit has led me and spoken tenderly to me.
But the beauty is that I’m free.
I’m not a marionette, strings attached and ready to perform at a moment’s notice. To be honest, that’s how I’d felt for a long time. As a child I wanted to please my family. As a minister’s wife I didn’t want to do anything to cause trouble. I knew how to walk that line to keep church ladies happy and not get myself or my husband reprimanded by the elders. I was so tired.
But the beauty is that I’m free.
I’ve preached and I lead communion from time to time. I help my daughter practice for the Advent scripture reading. I commune with friends while drinking a margarita or two. I’ve gotten a tattoo, dyed the ends of my hair pink, and this past week booked an appointment to finally get my nostril pierced. I’ve helped plan a rally at the state capitol, gotten tied up in public education advocacy, even stuck my toe into the world of Arkansas politics. I bounce my little girl on my knee while we recite the Lord’s Prayer at the end of services together. I adore her bedtime prayers. I adore the questions she asks about Jesus.
The beauty is that I’m free.
