on deconstruction and certainty, seven years on

You’re reading Tethered Letters, a monthly long-form letter on creative faith and faithful creativity. I also write poetry and I’ve put some in a black book, a few more in a pink book and recently, a bunch in a blue book. Everything I write is AI-free. Thanks for reading.

Hello loved ones,

I can’t imagine how it has happened, but here we are already at the end of February. I don’t even know for sure what we did in February. It’s all a blur.

I think we spent some lovely time with friends far and near. I’m pretty sure they all brought the party with them and lit our house from within during the darkest time of year with treats and conversations late into the night. I know we love them dearly.

Honestly, the start of this year has been mostly about things breaking and us trying to fix them. Our old vehicle bit the dust, our fridge has been on the fritz, three of four drains came up clogged,1 the mirror in our bedroom randomly fell off the wall last week, and our washer has been given to jumping around at odd moments until very recently (thanks to an incredible friend of ours, you know who you are). Linnea and I have taken to casting sidelong glances at objects in our home, wondering when they might spontaneously combust.

But all in all, we’re hanging in there. Despite the speed at which this year appears to be passing, we somehow find pockets of rest and reflection.

One of the things I’ve been reflecting on for a while now has been the nature of what I write here, particularly in relation to faith. I’m going to enter this at an angle, so bear with me.

When I watched the second season of Amazon’s Shiny Happy People last year, it struck me much the same as the first — as the natural outcome of ministries built on fear, money, and pride instead of on truth, grace, and Jesus. In other words, both IBLP and Acquire the Fire used a reliance on the law and the shame and effort that produced to push a pseudo-Christian vision forward, one that wielded the name of Christ but proved to be devoid of His love and power in the end. These were ministries that didn’t understand the core of the Gospel as one of forgiveness and freedom, but as obligation, ambition, and greed. Their condemnation is deserved for all the damage they did as a result.

But maybe because of a certain level of cynicism I’ve accrued over the years, I started noticing something irritating about the show itself. Not about its message, but about its vibe. I started watching it through a slightly different lens: what would I get if I were to take away the context and just pay attention to the tone, to how it was being communicated?

I saw pretty, brightly lit studios filled with people who’d seen hard times, maybe even persecution, but now, by exposing the darkness, are free and happy. The rejoicing over the bankruptcy and demise of their enemies, the truth revealed, the villain toppled. The sadness of how deceived they had been before, but how now they are enlightened. The weird voyeurism of watching someone break down over a particularly hard memory. The anger over people still promoting certain ideas that we know lead to bad things. The shaky, grainy camera footage that lends a sense of gritty reality to the evil going on behind the scenes of the supposedly squeaky clean folks they want to warn you about.

Without the broader context, by vibes alone, I could see the documentary folks being a Christian ministry in their own right, evangelizing for their brand by leveraging a common enemy. While the truth of the matter is they are exposing a bad thing, the show still uses the same techniques in the medium that those ministries used at the height of their power. They design the vibe to pull the right people in to hear their message.

IBLP was designed to project family-friendly trustworthiness, righteousness, and purity, but those who got the ick from it (my mom, for instance) couldn’t shake the sheen of artifice, namely because of their familiarity with human nature. For Acquire the Fire, the gritty, hard-hitting, rock concert aesthetic hit the right vibe for their message of culture wars, suffering, and martyrdom for Christ.

The way these ministries present themselves — the brand they wear and the vibe they project — teaches you something about them, namely: how they want to be perceived, not necessarily who they really are at the core. I found it interesting that this show, which is presumably dedicated to detoxing Christianity of its bad institutions, presents the folks they interview as absolved and healed... maybe, shiny and happy? Its vibe felt like an appeal to those of us who have come out of ministries like the ones it highlights, who might feel hurt from our experiences and virtuous for rejecting the fundamentalism of our youth.2

I’ve been around the block on this kind of thing enough times now to know that often the solutions to real problems can become their own problems — and to be pretty sensitive to branding that gets lacquered over their solutions to help sell them. Perhaps this is uncharitable of me, but I have a lot of trouble with Joshua Harris, and his presence as a so-called “evangelical expert” in this second season really irked me. As someone who kind of epitomized “deconstruction” back whenever he left evangelical Christianity, he’s basically rebranded himself in triangulation with it and opposition to it ever since. He’s what you might call a “deconstruction industrial complex kid,” an influencer who most often shows up in contexts where he leverages the brand for personal gain. For someone who read his books back in the day, all of it just feels too familiar.

Tethered Letters began as the part-memoir, part-process of an evangelical Christian (me) during a season of deconstruction (my own and societally). I have been wrestling with issues of faith and culture since then, and for around five years in long-form letters here on Substack. Its been a balm to me to have a place where I can work through the thoughts in company with others doing the same, and to know that some of the thoughts that come from it are an encouragement to others.

I trace the genesis of TL to a post I wrote on my website in August of 2019, specifically dealing with the fallout from Joshua Harris’s deconstruction. In it I argued that as Christ-followers we ought to put less stock in the power and inspiration of our words, and that we need to be less “Christian” and more Christ-like:

“I find myself feeling more and more lost in this world, and more and more found in Christ. I have no clue what political affiliation I have now, but I know that I am in Christ. I have no idea where I fit culturally, but I know that I am in Christ. I don’t feel like I can honestly claim a denomination, and even the words we typically use to align ourselves beyond denominational lines are losing their meaning. And from what I can tell, I’m not the only believer feeling this way.

Some might claim that we have commitment issues. But the crux is that we’re loyal to something higher than all of those other categories. We look to Jesus Christ, and we’re learning to be okay with all the rest falling away.”

That last line is as good a mission statement for Tethered Letters as I could come up with, even today.

Yet over the last few years I’ve been noticing some shifts in my writing, from urgent and struggling to reflective and resting. Alongside these shifts, there’s a weird set of feelings about what they might mean.

For one, there’s a strange sense of loss in coming to rest somewhere, at least in my beliefs. It’s not like it’s very enjoyable to be in the mess of things, trying to hold on to one thing while not letting go of the other, trying to understand the truth and its far-reaching implications, and doing it all in public (which I will come back to). But it is a compelling place to be. It’s effortful and exciting, and you feel like you’re really in the mix of “the discourse” in ways that matter. Change feels like growth, and questioning feels like discernment, and conclusions of any sort feel like triumphs.

Coming to rest after all the renovations feels good, and peaceful, and right... but not compelling.

I’ve found myself struggling with feeling this way. When you’re wrestling with your doubts and questions, you crave the space to do it. You feel suspicious of people who don’t have the same doubts and questions, like they might not now but just you wait, or (shamefully) that they aren’t nearly as spiritual as you are because you’re “doing the work.”

But I’ve come to the question more than once when I’ve been in the thick of it: if I didn’t have “the work” right now, who would I be? Where would my value even come from without the questions? Who am I without this struggle?

The pull to go further, to continue to “deconstruct,” to find more questions to tilt at, more change to pursue — that’s a real thing. Change becomes a purpose in itself, its own sort of home, mostly because it’s easier to keep moving and not have to face what’s right in front of me, either the possibly controversial conclusion I’ve come to after the wrestling, or the painful circumstance I would rather not think about. You can become so used to the discomfort of “living in the tension” that it becomes its own sort of comfort.

I’m not saying to avoid the questions as they come. I’m acknowledging the temptation to just look for another sacred cow to slay, and that this is not the same thing. This temptation, when combined with our God-damned propensities to please others and raise our own standing in a given community through singing the tune of the day, shakes up a pretty intoxicating cocktail. It’s very tempting to be the one without all the answers, and to let that be my holiness.

Also, certainty about things carries its own sort of suspicion with it these days, as if the people around you might wake up tomorrow and find that you’re an extremist in whatever vein of extremism is adjacent to your place of certainty. You don’t want to be one of “those types of Christians,” do you?

So then we come to the vibes discussion.

Confessional Vulnerability On Your Substack (or CVOYS, to go along with the voyeuristic quality of it) seems to be the primary brand for this kind of work. It’s direct access, unvarnished, gritty realism with your past self and its surrounding institutions as the punching bag for your questions. But it’s also a questing yearning for transcendence, and an openness and grace to people you used to judge, and an (overly?) zealous championing of their causes too. It’s a mishmash of regret and absolution, shame and shamelessness, judgment and grace, darkness and enlightenment all rolled into something that just might make you a few bucks too. (Have I mentioned I wrote a poetry book about the process? You can buy it here!)

I’ve used that vibe here, in my writing, for a long time, for better or worse. I’m not even placing a value or moral judgment on it, although it certainly has its good and bad sides. It just... exists. It’s just the preferred tone for deconstruction. A messy vibe for a messy process.

The trouble comes in with the fact that the vast majority of you don’t know me in real life. Thus, I can share some “reality” while withholding key details. I can paint over faults or exaggerate them. I can present myself as more open and gracious than I am. I can fudge things and hyperbolize and posture all I want to, within the perceived limits of what is deemed “okay” by the current online contingent.

I really do try to avoid these things, to the best of my ability. But gosh, it’s sobering to realize how little of me this medium requires, and how easily misused it can be. It takes me a long time to trust the words of others when I cannot see their lives, which should conceivably back up those words. The ones I still read are those who have worked hard to earn that trust. I hope I’m one of them for you, or can become one.

The fact is that many of the beliefs I’ve come to at this point in my life are very similar, if more boiled down to the essentials, to those I carried growing up in my conservative, Christian, homeschooled childhood. Some are not, and I hold many of them loosely and plan to interrogate them again if I need to. I’ve come to the conclusion that coming to conclusions is just another part of growth, and that being in process is just another part of the process too.

There is little point in letting things like the particular brand I’ve cultivated rule the roost here. Change for change’s sake, I’ve found, is usually bound up in how people view you, not in who you are, or who God says you are, or who you say God is — and it’s surprisingly easy to deceive yourself about your motivations. Change as purpose is bound up in fear, whereas a wrestling for truth and wholeness is bound up in faith even as you face your doubts. Facing your doubts, like interrogating your most deeply-held beliefs, is a faith-full endeavor.

I think the whole of life is liminal. There are seasons and possibilities and time expands and contracts around us always, as we ebb and flow. But I don’t feel the liminal nature of it right now. Despite the speed of living, I feel rooted in a way I’m not sure I understand. I am standing on something larger, more solid than even my understanding of it, or my acceptance of it. I am standing on God, in Christ, by His Spirit. The doctrines of my faith don’t feel clinical or reductive anymore, the Word seems to be coming alive within me. I don’t need confirmation of my beliefs from others. I can hear an opposing argument and consider it, and still fall back into the arms of Jesus at the end of the day, convinced of His goodness and power and holiness. I’m not logicking my way out of things, just believing.

This kind of “reconstruction” doesn’t seem to fit the bent of the deconstruction industrial complex, perhaps because revealing the power structures behind the ideas (if we’re going to stick with Derrida on it) always seems to end in removing them instead of learning from them or returning to them. But aren’t those viable options? An old supporting pillar, despite its age and ubiquity, might still be load-bearing. An old window, shined up and cracked open to let in the breeze, is still a worthy window. Maybe we move the door, oil the hinges. But that door still opens.

We can pursue truth, but we won’t be able to grasp it all. We can grow into goodness, but we’ll still be bad sometimes. I want to believe that systematically sorting through all of my crap will lead me to a crapless place. I want to believe that I just need more humility and curiosity and openness to be happy and holy (or at least to look good online). But while I cherish those things, I also need clarity and conclusions, doctrine and duty. A season of wrestling helps. A static posture of deconstruction doesn’t.

At some point you have to move on with your life and choose what you’re going to do with it, what you’re going to place your trust in. Certainty is not shameful. A hard heart, closed eyes, and stopped-up ears — these things are shameful. But not certainty.

One only needs to spend a short time in the presence of an elderly Christian, with a bare minimum of humility, to have one’s deconstructive mindsets deconstructed. With the benefit of time and experience, with the humility that comes from both, these folks have challenged me more than I’ve ever been challenged by the cynicism of the deconstruction industrial complex.

In our Sunday school class this past summer, we had the privilege of hearing the life stories of the older folks in our church. They are certain that God is good, all the time; all the time, God is good. And they are certain of this despite great challenges, past faults, deep grief, hard times, and even harder decisions that I can’t even fathom. They are open to the Spirit, kind to those around them, humble in their certainty, and very human. Their love for God and people astounds me. Their faith is strong because it is rooted in Jesus, not in their ability to figure things out or reconcile tensions or force societal change through activism.

In today’s world, on today’s internet, in the intellectual round-tables and the talk shows and the mocking headlines, my church family would be considered naive, silly, hopelessly out-of-touch, maybe useless, potentially dangerous. And that just goes to show how utterly foolish the wisdom of the world really is.

Seven years ago, when I wrote for the first time about wrestling with my faith, I eventually circled around to a conclusion I still hold to this day, and have never been able to stop talking about. I’ll end with it here.

“Contrary to having arrived in some safe place... relying on Christ for our identity is both home and journey. It is now and not yet. In Him I grow and in Him I remain. The burden is easy and the yoke is light. I die and I live. And all of this makes me less anxious about the larger world or some distant future and more present where He puts me. I am to focus on doing the next thing, loving the next person, living a quiet life, and working with my hands. I’m learning to make the choices that confront me instead of the choices I imagine I will be forced to make. I’m learning what it means to be in the world but not of it, and again — what I mean by that phrase is not anywhere near what many “Christians” or “evangelicals” mean by it.

What I’m getting at (perhaps poorly), is that as soon as man-made categories become more important to us as believers than those that Christ established (for instance, the sheep and the goats) we’re losing the gist of a living faith. And His categories travel across party lines, beyond the people of the pew, beyond our religious systems, our moral standards, and our cultural values. …

Look to the day of the Lord, saints, and release the fear and pride that says we need to reduce a living faith into the right boxes and systems to be able to maintain it. Look to Jesus, the Author and Finisher of your faith, not to the “Christian” rulers and influencers and celebrities that populate the world. Let God be true, and every human uninspired.”

• I’m smack dab in the middle of The Boys in the Boat and loving every second of it.

• Finished my 5th or 6th read-through (I’ve lost count) of Perelandra and somehow I’m still mining gold out of that book.

• We just watched E. T. for the first time with the kids and it was way better than it has any right to be. As a film it is basically perfect, and the kids got such a kick out of it. We’re also coming up on watching another classic Spielberg flick in March — Percy requested Jurassic Park for this 10th birthday.

• Fleetwood Mac’s Rumours has been the record of choice for me lately.

• I mean, the Olympics, duh. We were pretty spellbound by Alysa Liu’s performances.