There was a time, not so long ago, when my world was very dark. Have you ever stood outside, on a moonless night, with the thick, velvety air pressed all around you and the inky black sky above, and realised that you could see precisely nothing? That’s the kind of dark I mean.

Of course, I had all the feels as well; sadness, disorientation, confusion, an underlying sense of panic, but, primarily, the overwhelming sense was one of complete obscurity. I couldn’t see through the impenetrable blackness all around me, I couldn’t even see my hand in front of my face.

I had never been in a place like that before. It wasn’t until a long time afterward that I was able to be thankful for such a darkness, but right in the middle, I longed for light, for the path to be made clear, for God to give me a sign.

GIDEON’S FLEECE

A story kept coming to me during this time—one about a man named Gideon from the Old Testament, whom God raised up as a mighty hero and rescuer of Israel (Judges 6-8). The Israelites had been harried for seven long years under the hand of the Midianites (who were related to Israel through their common ancestor, Abraham).

The angel of the Lord appeared to Gideon one day while he was secretly threshing wheat, so as to hide the grain from the marauding Midianites. 

The angel told Gideon, “Go with the strength you have, and rescue Israel from the Midianites. I am sending you.” 

Gideon wasn’t so sure. It wasn’t so much that he doubted God, but rather he doubted God would use him. He wanted proof.

He asked God for a sign. He would put a woollen fleece out overnight on the threshing floor and if the fleece was wet with dew in the morning and the ground around it was dry, he would know for sure that God was with him and would help him rescue Israel.

The following morning, Gideon awoke to find a wet fleece on a dry floor. In fact, it was so wet that he was able to wring it out into a bowl, filling it to the brim. Convincing, yes?

Not quite enough for Gideon. Maybe it wasn’t God’s doing, just some strange quirk of overnight temperatures and precipitation and such.

He asked for a second sign, imploring God not to lose patience with him. He would put the fleece out again, but this time he asked that the fleece be dry in the morning while the ground all around would be wet.

Amazingly, that’s exactly what happened. And that’s where the story also ends, at least in relation to the signs. 

Gideon does go on to march against the Midianites, winning a decisive battle and freeing the Israelites from their control. The book of Judges, which chronicles these events, tells us that the Midianites never recovered from that day onward. The people of Israel were so impressed with Gideon’s bravery and leadership, that they tried to make him king, but he refused, 

We’re told nothing, however, about Gideon’s thoughts or feelings after receiving the second sign, only that he went confidently into battle soon after, clearly believing God to be with him.

I had always taken this story to mean: ‘ask God for a sign and the way will be made clear.’ And so, as I entered my dark night of the soul (although I didn’t know that’s what it was at the time), I repeatedly asked God for a sign. Not so specifically as, ‘make this or that happen’, but more like ‘show me which way to go.’ Metaphorically speaking, I was laying out my fleece each night, looking for a change; either a wet fleece and dry ground, or a dry fleece and wet ground. I didn’t much mind which one it was, I just wanted some indication of God’s presence, showing me which direction to take.

Like Gideon, I wanted to be brave but I didn’t want to make a decision without knowing for sure that God was with me in it. 

Bafflingly, it felt like God remained silent. I couldn’t understand it, I felt like I desperately needed a sign, I was actively looking for a sign – and yet my world remained dark. 

THE SIGN WAS  THE SIGN

I kept wondering about the story of Gideon and the message I thought the story communicated – ask God to show you, and then go that way – yet I couldn’t understand why God wasn’t coming through for me.

And then, suddenly, it hit me. The sign was the sign.

The story of Gideon wasn’t so much about direction but about trust. God already knew the way and could see the future mapped out, even if Gideon couldn’t. And Gideon didn’t need to be able to see that future to trust that God was already in it and that He had already gone before him. He just had to believe.

God had proven to Gideon He was able to do both things in relation to the fleece, and that, in fact, nothing was impossible with God. 

This was the God who had led the Israelites out of Egypt and through the Red Sea on dry ground. This was the God who had spoken to Moses from the depths of a burning bush which had not been consumed. This was the God who had called faithful Abraham out of the wealthy and prosperous civilisation of Ur to come to a place that only God knew, to a place that would become his home.

The sign was the sign – God can do anything. He already had my future mapped out, I just had to trust Him with it and step out. 

I needed to make a decision. 

STEPPING OUT IN FAITH

I’d like to be able to say that I then stepped out boldly and unafraid into a darkness that seemed all-encompassing. In reality, however, the fact that I couldn’t see where I was about to place my first step was terrifying.

Although deeply unhappy with where I was, I was also really scared to leave the place of no-decision. At least it was safe. At least it was known. At least I didn’t have to wrestle with all the doubts and fears that come when trying to make a decision – will it be the right one, will my family be ok, what if this changes everything…?

I was really scared to say ‘yes’ to God, without a single clue as to where He would take me. But I finally understood that the lesson of the story of Gideon wasn’t about waiting for the perfect sign before stepping out, but rather stepping out in faith, believing God had gone before me—and then watching God go to work.

They say that courage isn’t the absence of fear, but feeling the fear and doing it anyway (although the definition of stupidity is much the same which is why life can get complicated at times).

I noticed, almost immediately the moment I stepped out, a small glimmer of light. Things shifted in my world, doors began opening, new relationships began to flourish, and the darkness began to edge away. Like someone who has been deep underground, I felt my eyes adjusting to the light, my skin soaking in the warmth of the sun. 

“Sometimes when we’re in a really dark place, it can feel like we’ve been buried, but we’ve actually been planted.” – Christine Caine

I discovered that what had felt like a sentence of death was really a season of dormancy. I was like a seed, waiting for the right kind of conditions to grow. And, strangely enough, the truth is that most seeds germinate best in dark conditions. 

The darkness wasn’t an unhappy accident of fate, but a determined season of God. Things needed to die in the darkness in order to be reborn again in the light. 

THE DARK NIGHT OF THE SOUL

Even now, still thinking about that time, I become still and quiet, deep within my soul. It’s a difficult period to contemplate, a time of profound pain for me. 

The dark night of the soul is, as Inayat Khan writes, a total annihilation of all that you had believed in and thought that you were. Yet as Joseph Campbell states, “the dark night of the soul comes just before revelation. When everything is lost, and all seems darkness, then comes the new life and all that is needed.“

I’ve recently been reading ‘Confronting Christianity’ by Rebecca McLaughlin, who tackles the topic of suffering in Chapter 11 of her book. This chapter perhaps wouldn’t have resonated with me back then as it does now; I would venture to say that I had, generally speaking, suffered very little in my life up until that point. 

Rebecca offers a biblical framework around our concept and experience of suffering, sharing the story of two sisters, Mary and Martha, whose brother Lazarus had died (John 11:1-26). When Jesus finally arrives at their house, Lazarus has been dead for four days and both sisters are grief-stricken. We wonder that Jesus, who could have come sooner, didn’t, and instead chose to stay away. Yet even when Jesus does come, he does not fix Martha’s problem but instead invites her into a deeper, more profound realisation…

“Jesus looks her [Martha] in the eye and says, “I am the resurrection and the life.” As you stand here in your desperate grief, your greatest need is not to have your brother back again. It’s to have me.

This statement is yet more shocking than Jesus’ failure to come in the first place. Far from being the “good moral teacher who never claimed to be God” of modern mythology, Jesus here claims not that he is offering good guidelines for life, but that he himself is life: life in the face of suffering, life in the face of death.

Jesus’ power over death is absolute. I believe it is the only hope we have in the face of our inevitable end. But what fascinates me about this story is how little focus there is on Lazarus himself. Rather, the narrative draws our gaze to profound questions…In this strange stretching of the story, we get a glimpse of the whole biblical framework for suffering. The space between Lazarus’ death and Jesus’ calling of him out of the tomb is the space in which Martha sees Jesus for who he really is: her very life.” |  Rebecca McLaughlin, Confronting Christianity, pages 199-202

OUT THE OTHER SIDE

The dark night of the soul is the place where we confront the reality of death, natural or spiritual, perhaps for the first time. It’s the collapse of everything we thought we knew and understood, a painful shedding of possibly our identity, relationships, career, habits, or belief systems that had allowed us to construct some meaning to our lives.

It is often a time of existential crisis as we wrestle with our identity, our sense of self, and the purpose and meaning of life.

Yet it’s also the place where we confront Life, the true Life of the world, maybe, too, truly for the first time. “Our suffering is an entry point to relationship, a relationship formed through suffering as much as through joy. If, as Jesus claims, the goal of our existence is relationship with him, finding him in our suffering is the point.” (Rebecca McLaughlin)

As C S Lewis, British writer, literary scholar, and Anglician lay theologian, who experienced overwhelming grief at the loss of his wife, commented,  “Pain insists upon being attended to. God whispers to us in our pleasures, speaks in our consciences, but shouts in our pain. It is His megaphone to rouse a deaf world.” 

I wasn’t necessarily a better Christian walking out the other side of that dark tunnel. I wasn’t necessarily wiser, braver, or more certain of my next steps. The pain I experienced didn’t suddenly evaporate like mist in the bright light of day, and I wasn’t instantly fixed.

And yet, somehow, I had changed. When I emerged, finally, I did so with a deeper recognition of where I needed to be putting my trust, a better understanding of what is truly of value, and a resolution to allow the painful experience to shape me into a better person moving forward.

And I can still recall the moment in the middle of that dark night of the soul when I suddenly understood the call of God to mean that I must step forward into the darkness. And that, as I took that first step, light began to spill in through the darkness, illuminating my path, and I discovered that the One I was following had been there all along. 

(Not a reader? Take a listen instead ⇓)

Faith Under Fire

It’s been nearly five years since the religious community I grew up in ‘regretfully accepted my withdrawal from fellowship‘. In reality, I did no such thing, their statement was simply an awkward and disingenuous way to excommunicate me because I could no longer affirm, without reservation, particular tenets they held to be watertight and immutable.

I feel that had the Bible genuinely been our mutually agreed authority, there would have been no good cause to excommunicate me and plenty of good reasons to continue affirming me as a Christian in the Lord (as I do them).

I struggled a lot in those first few years with what I perceived to be the injustice of the situation. I have always been someone who has taken life, in general, pretty seriously (perhaps, my husband would wryly comment, a little too seriously at times) and my faith, in particular, quite seriously.

As a child, I had been aware of several church members who had been excommunicated through the years, with the church being told of such a decision by a public announcement issued from the front after the service. Children were always ushered out during these announcements, such things considered unsuitable for young ears, but we were not unaware of the solemn hush that would fall as we made our way outside, with the grim news eventually making its way to us regardless, through the whispers of our older, more astute peers.

It seemed to me, as a 12-year-old, that excommunication was the most awful thing that could ever happen to a person, worse than death; an all-encompassing, church-wide determination that a person had failed to keep the faith and had become a heretic or, worse, an apostate.

To experience it myself, then, many years later was shocking. It implied I had not measured up to the expectation of Christian living, and this judgment sits uncomfortably with me. I had no glaring moral issue or unrepented sin that would give cause for such action. And yet, I felt like Hester Prynne, with the letter ‘A’ (for apostate, in my case) painted in bold, vivid red on my back for all to see.

The seeming dismissal of the authenticity of my faith was and still is painful and difficult to understand. I wondered silently, had I failed to keep the faith?

All The God Colours

For someone raised in such a black-and-white tradition of viewing both scripture and the Christian life, adjusting to life outside of this – beyond the pale – has been both liberating and confronting.

I have learned about the messy but vital reality of the local church; filled with sinning and flawed humans who are being renewed daily by the grace of God, asking their questions and voicing their doubts along the way. And when I say messy, I don’t just mean a few hymn books out of place in the proverbial church pew.

There are many things that Christians agree on – the death, burial, and resurrection of Jesus, that God created all things, that humanity is estranged from God and in need of forgiveness and redemption, and that Jesus will one day return, bringing with him the new heaven and the new earth.

And then there are the things that Christians don’t agree on – eschatology (end times theology), the nature and workings of the Spirit today, old earth/young earth, what kind of worship is the right kind, the role of women in the church…

In my former Christian community, end-time theology was extremely important. A robust understanding of the (mostly accepted) end-time view was expected. Some would even go so far as to say that holding the correct end-time view (which must include Russia as the ‘bad-guy’ protagonist), was a vitally important part of bone-fide Christianity, right up there with the virgin birth and the resurrection. (Given Jesus had very little say about Russia, or the apocalypse for that matter, I had decided to largely untrouble myself with such conversations (unless they’re simply two Christians shooting the breeze – albeit somewhat left field, over a cold summer bevvie…).

In the wider Christian world, the end-times are often hardly given a thought. Sure, Jesus is coming back, and all things will be put right in the end, but the timing and mechanics are largely a mystery when all’s said and done. Jesus himself even said, “But about that day or hour no one knows, not even the angels in heaven, nor the Son, but only the Father.“

In contrast, a lot more time is spent on the here-and-now: how are you living; are you moving closer to God, does your life show the fruit of the Spirit?

An in-depth understanding of the atonement was also required. It was not enough just to say that you believed Jesus had saved you, you also needed to be able to explain exactly how this was done. Was it his life? His death? His blood? Was he a substitute (definitely not) or was he a representative? And what did you know about propitiational atonement?

Propitiational atonement? You may as well be speaking double-dutch. Some Christians wouldn’t have a clue what you might mean by that funny, old-fashioned word, but they sure as heck know that Christ died for their sins, and so they could have a relationship with God, and their faith is firmly placed in this truth.

(And, in fact, the community can’t even come to a consensus among themselves on the mechanics of the atonement, and multiple splits have occurred and still occur on this subject alone, with neither group affirming the other as true Christians).

Exposed to widely varying (and, in many cases, extremely interesting) perspectives on all manner of biblical topics, I have been forced to reexamine my own position and reevaluate, in many instances, how I had been taught to read and approach scripture. What may have once appeared to be the only way of reading the text was suddenly only one of several ways, and viewing scripture in light of all its nuances often opened up new ways of understanding, both scripture and others’ interpretations of it.

Suddenly I was no longer sure I was right on every single thing because I realised I’d never had the opportunity to genuinely consider alternative interpretations or views. Neither was I sure that being right was the point of the exercise.

People will try to tell you the Bible is black and white on every subject but it’s not, not by half. There’s plenty of grey, and bold, glorious colour too. There’s space for openness and conversation and listening and learning and for seeing things from different angles.

It’s a living book, this word of God, intimately speaking to each one of us as if it were written for us alone. It contains a kind of magic, a mystical power that changes our hearts and transforms our lives. And so sometimes we’ll hear its song like a harmony played on different instruments. And yet holding these harmonies together is the beautiful melody, always true, always constant, always trustworthy:

For someone raised to judge the authenticity of someone’s Christianity by their degree of understanding (or perhaps more accurately, their (correct) position on a myriad of doctrinal matters), this shift in perspective has not come without its challenges.

Challenging Your Status Quo

The way we think, the habits we form, the people we become are shaped by many things. We typically develop unconscious biases as a result of the things we were taught and the observations we made throughout our childhood. These implicit and explicit biases are influenced by our backgrounds, personal experiences, societal stereotypes, and cultural contexts, and when we look at religious life, it’s not so very different.

Many things that we do or think as Christians find their origins in scripture – but, conversely, a lot of things don’t and, more often than not, are simply generational traditions passed down until they become commonly established practices or beliefs (without necessarily any particular biblical weight behind them).

‘Traditions’ are described as inherited, established, or customary patterns of thought, action, or behavior (such as a religious practice or a social custom) or a belief or story or a body of beliefs or stories relating to the past that are commonly accepted as historical though not verifiable.” They can also be “the handing down of information, beliefs, and customs by word of mouth or by example from one generation to another without written instruction”, “cultural continuity in social attitudes, customs, and institutions”, or “characteristic manner, method, or style”. – Merriam-Webster Dictionary

I wrote more about traditions here so my intention isn’t to talk about them in any further detail in this article, only simply to point out that while there’s nothing implicitly right or wrong with traditions (the Bible never condemns traditions of themselves), Jesus’ words in Mark 7:6-8 remind us that traditions shouldn’t ever supersede God’s Word.

One of the biggest shifts in my journeying beyond the pale has been to attempt to recognise when these occasions of bias arise, and learning to examine the thought patterns, past beliefs, practices, or traditions that I may have once held to be true and immutable, challenging them in the light of scripture.

I think this challenge to our preconceptions and biases should form part of our spiritual disciplines throughout our Christian life, not just in moments of crisis, deconstruction, or external challenge.

As NT Wright comments, part of the genius of genuine Christianity is that each generation has to think it through afresh; not just receiving the faith but also keeping the faith; that is, constantly evaluating our beliefs and practices to see if they reflect the original apostolic teaching, traversing the space between certainty and disbelief with skepticism and faith held in both hands.

‘Part of the genius of genuine Christianity is that each generation has to think it through afresh. Precisely because God wants every single Christian to grow up in understanding as well as trust, the Christian faith has never been something that one generation can sort out in such a way as to leave their successors with no work to do.’ (N T Wright)

I wasn’t taught to hold this sense of healthy skepticism as a critical reality of my journey of faith. Rather, everything that I had to know and could know was supposedly imparted before my water baptism, and my Christian life thereafter – until death or Jesus returned – was simply about ‘protecting the truth’ and not ‘leaving the truth’ (don’t let the heretics in and don’t become a heretic).

Yet I have learned that the truth is far more simple than I first imagined and, further, is not a commodity to be owned or protected by us. It’s God’s truth and He can and has protected it throughout the ages. Our job is simply to make sure we’re walking in that truth – keeping the faith; constantly asking ourselves if our personal beliefs and practices continue to line up with the teaching of the apostles (and being committed to adjusting, if necessary).

The Teaching Of The Apostles

While being a Christian is certainly communal, and while Christians tend to believe mostly all the same fundamental creeds, and while the creeds and practices of Christianity can be taught and preached and are, in many ways, intrinsically invaluable to religion, true religion is the individual and deeply personal matter of one’s binding to the person of Christ.

Religion, therefore, in the truest sense of the word, cannot be passed down. It must be personally received by each individual, for themselves.

The Book of Acts, which recounts the early days of the first-century church, records what this looked like. The recurring theme throughout the book is a threefold message of salvation, repentance, and abiding, which every person who would call themselves a believer wholeheartedly adopted and received:

salvation + repentance + abiding

First, a message of salvation was preached; the desperate natural state of humanity and how God set out to rescue humanity, through Jesus, whom He raised from the dead. The scope of God’s story is, of course, much larger than our own personal salvation, but the primary message of evangelism is that we are estranged from God but that He has made a way home.

Then, a message of repentance was taught; the need to reject one’s former way of living and take hold of God’s provision of living water by being born again of water and spirit. This is the primary message of discipleship, a decision to become a follower of Jesus, who is both Lord and Christ. It is, as Eugene Peterson puts it, a long obedience in the same direction.

Finally, a commitment to abiding in Jesus – keeping the faith – was communicated; which includes the necessary reality of being part of the community of believers. By becoming a follower of Jesus, we are no longer just an individual Christian, but part of a collective body, the body of Jesus Christ. We are part of the church: a gospel-shaped, gospel-saturated, and gospel-sending living and breathing organic reality.

What’s also incredible to contemplate is that when we abide in Jesus, we are also in common union – community – with all those who are also abiding in him, both in our present time and throughout the ages, a great cloud of faithful witnesses of the risen King, the people of the kingdom (1 John 2:28, John 15:1-27, Hebrews 12:1-2).

We are connected right back to those at the epicentre of the most explosive and world-changing event: the resurrection of Jesus Christ. We are connected by the precious blood of the lamb and nothing can separate us from the love of God, apart from us choosing to leave the light and walk again in darkness (Romans 8:31-39).

Written about 300 years after the birth of Christ, the Apostles’ Creed summarises the foundational Christian beliefs taught by the early church and is an invaluable touchstone for us as we constantly examine whether we are keeping the faith.

“Examine yourselves to see if your faith is genuine. Test yourselves. Surely you know that Jesus Christ is among you; if not, you have failed the test of genuine faith.” 2 Corinthians 13:5

Keeping The Faith

Keeping the faith is the practice of constant personal evaluation; examining the state of our heart, being truthful about the orientation of our life, and showing evidence of the Spirit being present, through the adding to our faith of virtue, knowledge, temperance, patience, godliness, brotherly kindness, and love (which are all outworked in community).

Repentance is not a one-time act but a constant reorienting of our hearts towards God every single day of our Christian journey, a daily decision to walk in the light and not in the darkness. Do we remind ourselves of the place in which we used to be, the dominion of darkness, dead in our transgressions and sins, and ensure that we have not, like Lot’s wife, looked back, turning the direction of our life towards those former things which have passed away?

Believing (from the Greek word pisteōs (πίστεως), meaning to entrust) is firstly a posture of the heart. Are we continuing to place our trust, like faithful Abraham, in the provision of living water that comes from God? Are we reminding ourselves each day that we are saved by grace, through faith, and not by our own efforts, it is the gift of God? Are we resting in that promise? Or have we, like the foolish Galatians, begun adding additional spiritual acts to the formula of salvation, convincing ourselves that our performance somehow contributes to God’s work of grace (in our life or others)?

And are we abiding in Jesus, outworking our life of faith in the community of his people? Do we remain connected to the vine, bearing much fruit as Christ works in us and through us? Are we remaining in Christ’s love, keeping his commandments by loving our fellow Christians in the same way that Jesus has loved us? For a branch cannot produce fruit if it is severed from the vine, and, likewise, we cannot be fruitful unless we remain in Jesus.

Whether you find yourself in a season of drought, part of a flourishing faith community, at the edges of everything you’ve ever known, or out beyond the pale, I would encourage you to remember this: the Christian life is not an academic exercise. The strength of our faith is not judged by the intensity of our emotions; faith is trust and it’s only as good as the object of our trust.

The question, then, isn’t “do you truly believe” but, “who do you trust“? Are you pointing to Jesus, are you resting in his grace, and are you demonstrating his love?

Are you keeping the faith?

Be on your guard; stand firm in the faith; be courageous; be strong.

“But you, dear friends, must build each other up in your most holy faith, pray in the power of the Holy Spirit, and await the mercy of our Lord Jesus Christ, who will bring you eternal life. In this way, you will keep yourselves safe in God’s love. And you must show mercy to those whose faith is wavering. Rescue others by snatching them from the flames of judgment. Show mercy to still others, but do so with great caution, hating the sins that contaminate their lives.

Now all glory to God, who is able to keep you from falling away and will bring you with great joy into His glorious presence without a single fault. All glory to Him who alone is God, our Savior through Jesus Christ our Lord. All glory, majesty, power, and authority are His before all time, and in the present, and beyond all time! Amen.” | Jude 1:20-25, NLT

(Not a reader? Take a listen instead ⇓)

Leaving is never because of just one thing. Not really.

It’s the result of a thousand, inconsequential one things that all converge in a single moment of sudden, irreconcilable difference.

For me, the eventual leaving of the religious community I grew up in began as a tiny question fluttering at the back of my mind.

Back then, I’d never met a question I didn’t want to take apart, examine, rearrange and then carefully reassemble, perfectly ordered, and satisfactorily answered.

I’m, by nature, a lover of straight lines and exact dimensions. I find predictable angles strangely comforting, the even length and width of squares reassuring. Curved, irregular edges and uneven portions, I had decided, are one of life’s great menaces. Questions without answers were anathema.

Questions + Answers

However, this question-with-no-answer was an uncomfortable and irregular shape, one that I could not find a corresponding answer to in my existing theology. It was like a jigsaw piece that had been accidentally caught up from another puzzle, and no matter how I turned it around in my mind, I could not make it fit into my existing framework.

I was possessed with an uncomfortable sensation that something didn’t add up, that what I had been told no longer carried sufficient weight or authority. It was an inconsistency I could not overlook nor satisfactorily explain, an unexpected bump in an otherwise smooth spiritual life.

But back then, it was just one thing. It stood alone in its irregularity and I let it sit, like a bothersome pebble in my shoe, not fitting, never resolved. This question wasn’t the explosion, merely the spark; but when I cast my mind back to all the one things that finally resulted in my departure, I get no further back than this question.

This is a difficult article to write in many respects. I have many friends and family still within the community that I have left. The thoughts I share are entirely my own and are not intended to imply any lack of conviction or sincerity in any one of them, or indeed anyone else from within that community. I hope I am able to write about my experiences with respectful thoughtfulness for the many loving and good people who remain there still.

Yet I am also aware that I cannot be alone in my uncomfortable questioning. There must be others who have asked, if not the same questions, ones that are very similar and who have then sat with the same unsatisfactory answers, ones that simply won’t fit.

What are we to make of such inconsistencies? Does faith ask us to suspend our questions or does faith ask us to push deeper into them, despite the challenges, despite the possibility we may need to admit another answer is not only possible but probable and necessary?

You may be wondering what the question was. Well, it was hardly earth-shattering. It was a question of when and where a woman ought to wear a head covering. Yes. I grew up in a head-covering church.

Principles + Applications

(I would like to make a brief comment at this point; if you are a woman – particularly one who I know personally – who believes head coverings for women are a biblical principle that should be applied in perpetuity and therefore choose to cover your head, I deeply respect your conviction. I am not seeking to change your conscience on this issue. But I can bet you have questions, particularly if the application of this principle in your church looks anything like it did for me…)

The religious community I grew up in wore head coverings for church services, Bible classes, and Sunday school, but not fellowship meals or family Bible readings. We wore them at church preaching meetings, but not during community hall cleaning or evangelistic neighborhood visits. We would wear them for youth activities, more specifically, the formal part of the event but we wouldn’t wear them for the supper and games that followed, nor at church picnics or community outings.

We would wear them during formal preaching and Bible exposition but not during informal discussion group activities. We would wear them for church worship (although a woman wasn’t able to ‘pray or prophesy’, despite the scriptural prerequisite of ‘a covered head’ being satisfied), and remove them immediately afterward.

Head coverings denoted submission we were told, yet submission, strangely, didn’t seem to be required in the home, on trips to the beach, or when we were doing the grocery shopping. Little discussion was given to the biblical principle of submitting one to another and what that might possibly mean.

Finally, head coverings were required for a church meeting of business, which was neither an act of worship nor a church service of any kind. The question took shape in my mind and refused to be dismissed – why?

Why did we wear head coverings anyway? What was their purpose then or now? Are they even required now? What is submission really? Women had clearly prayed and prophesied in public worship then, why no longer? Or why, even with the required head covering in place did women ‘remain silent’? Why on earth did we wear head coverings to a business meeting?

Did we have it all completely wrong?

I’m not proposing to suggest an answer in this article to the questions this particular subject raises (if such an answer exists) or that the questions I’ve noted form a comprehensive list of all the relevant points of discussion. I’m simply highlighting the moment, for me, that scriptural principle and practical application suddenly appeared to be inconsistently applied and self-contradictory.

Just one question. One little spark.

Piles Upon Piles

Time passed. Over the years, the questions gathered in untidy piles in my mind.

Why did we bemoan the state of the world yet we seemed to do very little by way of community engagement or civic involvement to fix it?

Why did we seem to know a great deal about the end times and prophecy yet precious little about the here and now; the practicalities of Christian witness; paying our taxes, saving our marriages, stewarding our lives and finances well?

Why didn’t more of us recycle?

Why could we eat lunch with our non-believing co-workers but not socialise with them over dinner?

Why was taking communion at church  – common union – such a solitary and miserable affair, hemmed in on either side by silence and woeful introspection?

Why, if we were a people saved and redeemed and made new, did we sing such mournful hymns of lament?

Why, if woman was created to stand alongside man, equal partners in the great mission of God to fill the earth with His glory, were the women I saw all around me prohibited from contributing in meaningful ways within the church; in teaching; evangelising, praying, and leading the congregation with wisdom and grace?

Why did I see power posturing and spiritual manipulation manifesting themselves in a community born out of the sacrificial heart of Jesus, who came not to be served but to serve and to give his life as a ransom for many? Why did nobody do anything about it?

Why, when we were meant to celebrate grace, did we seem to reward intelligence, beginning at a young age?

Yearly examinations to determine biblical knowledge were undertaken each year by Sunday School students. The questions were often difficult and, it seemed, purposely disorientating. The premise seemed clear: the more you knew, the more spiritual you were and the closer to God you got. We all received prizes at an end-of-year award ceremony, for what exactly I’m still not really sure, but ‘first in exam’ and ‘first in class’ always got a mention and an additional prize.

I don’t recall any mentions for character development, personal growth, kindness, or showing Jesus to others.

The motivation may have been sincere but the subliminal messaging was flawed. We were taught to compete against each other, not run alongside each other. We were taught that what we knew was more important than who we were being.

It often seemed to me that the word of God was something to be sermonised from, bored by, afraid of, or wielded, weapon-like at others, but never the spirit-breathed and living words of Heaven’s Creator, active and able to deeply transform our hearts and lives, shaping us for His purpose.

Compliance seemed more relevant than character, uniformity more desirable than unity and, in the end, what I could explain about Jesus significantly more important than whether I actually loved Jesus and was following him (or at least trying to).

The Spark Ignites

All the things I’ve mentioned, the questions I’ve shared (and the many I’ve left out) can most likely be found in many other churches or religious communities, to a greater or lesser degree. And no church is perfect or has it all sorted, this I am willing to admit.

None of these things, alone, were enough to cause a leaving.

But I did resolve to do something about my questions, to seek opportunity and space to ask them, to give voice to my doubts, to challenge my perception of Christian life, and, if necessary, to adjust and reorient my direction.

To let scripture speak to me, unfiltered, and be confident that the Spirit would lead me in all truth. To allow my questions and convictions to sit in tension with one another while my Christian life continued to grow and deepen, built on the solid rock of faith in Christ.

To believe that the important things God wished me to know, He would make known.

I can’t say for sure whether, in the end, it was I who left or whether I was the one who was left; perhaps it’s more accurate to say that I was simply a strange shape that no longer fitted into a space that could not change.

Like the question that started this journey of deconstruction, I was now an uncomfortable and irregular part, a puzzle piece that no longer worked with the whole. The posture I had adopted and the resulting reorientation were now incompatible with my existing religious community.

Officially, I was ex-communicated, an ecclesiastical term weighted with censure and disapproval. We can no longer affirm you as a Christian.

It implied I had not measured up to the expectation of Christian living, and this judgment sits uncomfortably with me. I have no glaring moral issue or unrepented sin that would give cause for such action. The seeming dismissal of the authenticity of my faith was painful and difficult to understand.

This only resulted in further questions. What happened to come and let us reason together? Who decides whether another Christian’s life of faith is lacking?

What really is the purpose of ex-communication in scripture? How much power, if any, should Christians wield over each other in spiritual matters?

What makes a Christian Christian anyway? Is it what I know or Who I trust?

Why does the church gather? How is unity in Christ really achieved?

Where did I belong?

I did not deserve ex-communication. And yet here I am, on the other side of something that, at one time, seemed the most scandalous thing that could happen to any Christian.

I find that I belong nowhere and everywhere. That a leaving is also a beginning. And that, when Jesus said you will know the truth and the truth will set you free, he really meant it.

I have not been ex-communicated by God.

Still Asking Why

Why did I feel the need to write about this?

Well, firstly, I don’t think I am alone, in my questions or my sense of something not quite fitting right. I am certain that there are others out there, people I know well and people who may be strangers, who are asking questions.

And I want to tell you, it is okay to ask those questions; don’t be deterred in your asking. It is the glory of God to conceal a matter; to search out a matter is the glory of kings.

The true function of Christian theology is faith that seeks understanding; to not just know more about God, but to know God. We start with what we do know – and Abraham, the great father of faith is given as the classic example – that God exists and He is a faithful rewarder of those who seek Him. And then we keep searching, and asking, and growing, and learning, and building our life on this certainty, all with the intent to know God more.

Our questions aren’t just interesting, they’re vital to an informed, robust faith that will last us a lifetime of Christian journeying.

Secondly, you may be afraid to ask your questions. I want you to know that I understand your fear and your hesitancy; your desire to avoid similar censure. And yet I would say to you, in everything we have won more than a victory because of Christ who loves us. I am sure that nothing can separate us from God’s love—not life or death, not angels or spirits, not the present or the future, and not powers above or powers below. Nothing in all creation can separate us from God’s love for us in Christ Jesus our Lord.

You are God’s beloved child and He is not afraid of your questions. If you commit your heart in faith to Him, He will lead you in all truth. Do not be afraid of those who kill the body but cannot kill the soul. Rather, be afraid of the One who can destroy both soul and body in hell.

And finally, to those who would feel the need to censure such questioning, I would urge you to pause and reconsider. The Christian faith is not defined by all the things we could possibly know or articulate. None of us would dare to claim we have all knowledge or fully understand all there is to know about God.

The Christian life is not an academic exercise.

The Christian life is built upon the simple premise: This Jesus, who was crucified, God has raised again to life and he is both Lord and Christ. Those who confess this truth are God’s children, adopted into the household of faith by God’s grace.

The question then becomes not what do I know but who am I being? Are our lives demonstrating the fruit of a walk guided by the Spirit; love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, generosity, faithfulness, gentleness, self-control? Jesus told us by their fruit you will recognise them; that these are the markers that will distinguish a true follower from one who is a follower in name only.

The local church does have a corporate responsibility in the moral matters of each Christian’s life (another day, another blog), but the people are the church, we are all responsible to each other to encourage, disciple, equip, and, if necessary, admonish in our Christian walk.

And how can we grow, make mistakes, experience grace, or mature in our discipleship if we cannot ask questions and, if needed readjust, no matter how uncomfortable?

This is the messy but vital reality of the local church; filled with sinning and flawed humans who are being renewed daily by the grace of God, asking their questions and voicing their doubts along the way.

Leaving is never because of just one thing. It’s the result of a thousand, inconsequential one things that all converge in a single moment of sudden, irreconcilable difference. Every question I had ever had, every answer I had been given, and every answer I hadn’t found brought me to the painful realisation that this was a religious community in which I no longer fitted.

In the end, leaving was inevitable.

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As I have written this article, I have endeavoured to share my thoughts and experiences in an accurate and factual way, as they relate to me personally, summarising many aspects for brevity. For some of you reading this, my words may have deeply resonated with you and your experience closely mirrors my own.

Others reading this may be confused, disappointed, angry, or offended by what I’ve shared and may have received this article as critical or directed personally at them or someone they know. It is true that I have written in such a way that gives a critique of sorts. However, I would respectfully remind my readers that criticism is simply an evaluative or corrective exercise that can be applied to any area of human life, and is perhaps at its most relevant in the evaluation of our spiritual lives. Critique, while uncomfortable, can be the catalyst for much-needed reinvigoration, renewal, and revival.

No part of this article is intended to be received as criticism of any one individual, or offensive or divisive in nature.