Oh hey friends.
Welcome to the unfettered series! Over the next few weeks, we’re going on a walk together, through the 10 biggest things I’ve done to heal. This is how I’ve become happy with myself, comfortable in my body, safe in my faith, and truly unfettered. This is by far the most vulnerable, honest, and robust series I’ve written and I’m so happy to share it with you.
We’re starting off a little strong today so bear with me. It’s important to start with this, though, because exactly none of the progress I’ve made in my health would have happened without the reshaping and reframing of my doctrines and beliefs. I had to. If I refused to confront the things I believed about God that weren’t true, I would have lost my faith entirely.
If there’s any Christian practice that is as old as the faith itself, it’s asking hard questions about the things that we believe and the things that we’re taught. We’ve always done it. Questions should be welcomed, celebrated, encouraged, and even celebrated. Jesus asked a ton of questions. He even answered questions with more questions. Our faith history has been shaped by the searching and the asking of every father and mother before us. Questions should never be an issue in the Kingdom of God.
Questions and doubt exist on a spectrum. Not everyone asks the same questions at the space pace with the same ferocity. Some questions are accusatory, passive aggressive, rhetorical. Some are genuine, fueled by curiosity and the desire to understand. Some people ask questions and it leads to the complete demolition of their belief systems. Other people ask questions and those questions lead to a deeper understanding of God’s word and a closer intimacy with Christ. Just like there are many different belief systems in the body of Christ, there is a wide spectrum of belief in those who are exploring the depths of their faith. Some have simply unraveled and walked away from things like prosperity gospel, the word of faith doctrine, theology around women, the Holy Spirit, the church, etc. These are all good things to evaluate. Just like Martin Luther confronted his beliefs and penned the 95 theses, we serve ours faith well when we look at our beliefs and hold them up to the character of Christ and the Story of God and His People and see how they line up.
My healing was being hindered by my bad theology. What we believe about God affects every aspect of the way we view ourselves and the way we interpret the things that are happening to us and around us. If we believe that our bodies are broken and limited by the sin of the world then we’ll treat our bodies like they don’t matter. If we believe that our suffering is given to us as a prize for working well for the Kingdom, then we will stay in catastrophe. If we believe that there is a formula to faith - that if we do A, B, C, then God will do X, Y, Z, our faith will crumble when the equation fails. And it will fail.
One of the most courageous things you can do is to confront your theology and ask, “is this right?” What if it isn’t? That’s a terrifying reality! Your paradigms and your self identity are so closely intertwined that pulling on a single strand can unravel the whole thing. And then what’s left after that happens?
I’ve done this a few times in my adult life, but never so much as I have in my thirties. As a kid, my parents were really great about letting us ask questions, however uncomfortable they might of been. But the culture we were are apart of and the denomination I grew up in often treated questions as threats. The most audacious ones would be quickly shut down with a panicked theological anecdote. Expressions of pain and confusion were met with confident assertions of God’s goodness, faithfulness, and a gentle warning to not go too far. “You just have to trust him,” they’d tell me. But what if I didn’t? What if I couldn’t?
I built my faith on a dangerously unstable framework. If the answer to all of my questions was “trust him,” all it would take is one gust of wind to knock the whole thing over. What did it mean to trust him? What did that look like, practically? All of the Christian, evangelical answers fell flat. They weren’t enough. I wanted more. I didn’t just want to trust God, I wanted to know him. And I wanted to be known by him.
A devastating church wound shattered my faith framework. Completely demolished it. Everything that made sense to me stopped making sense - quite literally - overnight. People judged my questions. They judged my response to my pain. They tried to rush me past anger, past hurt, away from the cardinal sin of “bitterness,” but I welcomed it all with open arms. I drank that cup and enjoyed every sip. I’d earned it. I deserved it. God had betrayed me. He’d sided with my enemy. What happened to us was beyond unfair, it was absolutely unjust. The liar won. The abuser kept his throne. As the victims, we ran with our tail between our legs, hoping no one was coming after us for a crime we didn’t commit. I watched the foundations of my faith crumble and then I took a sledge hammer to what was left.
And it was good.
My theology hadn’t been formed around the character of Christ and the goodness of God, but around the system of church I was in. The stability of my faith was dependent on a system of authority and rules and on my place within that system. My identity was wrapped up in who I was in ministry, what role I played, what calling God had placed on my life and what I did to honor that calling. Everything about who I was was wrapped up in who I was to the church. As long as that system was working in my favor, I had no reason to believe my faith wasn’t stable. When the structure fell on top of me, it took my faith and every scrap of my identity with it. Who was God if he wasn’t on my side? Who was God if he was protecting my enemy? Who was God for if he wasn’t for me? Who was God if I wasn’t called by him? If I didn’t know who I was, I didn’t know who God was, and vise versa. My theology hadn’t accounted for everything changing. It hadn’t accounted for my heartbreak or betrayal or spiritual abandonment. And so, it crumbled.
But I went back to the ruins. I scavenged for pieces of what I still believed to be true about God. I had to look back over what I believed and face the reality that what I believed about God might have been wrong. If it was wrong, then what was right? I didn’t know. I could barely put one foot in front of the other, much less think critically about what I believed!
And so, I was left with four things and I clung to them until my fingers cracked and bled : He is good. He is kind. He is faithful. He is for me. When I woke up each day feeling like I couldn’t breathe from the weight of my heartbreak, I’d whisper, He is good. He is kind. He is faithful. He is for me. I didn’t even really believe it. But I held on to it. It’s all I could do.
Slowly, I rebuilt my faith around those four things. How do I engage with my pain if I believe that God is good, that he’s kind, that’s he’s faithful, that he’s for me? How do I treat my neighbor if I believe that God is good, that’s he’s kind, that he’s faithful, that he’s for me? How do I treat my enemies if I believe that God is good, that’s he’s kind, that he’s faithful, that he’s for me? How do I raise my children if I believe that God is good, that’s he’s kind, that he’s faithful, that he’s for me? How do I make decisions if I believe that God is good, that’s he’s kind, that he’s faithful, that he’s for me? How are my doctrines shaped by the belief that God is good, that’s he’s kind, that he’s faithful, that he’s for me? How do I view people who don’t believe the same things I do if I believe that God is good, that’s he’s kind, that he’s faithful, that he’s for me?
When I accepted that my theology had been wrong, I started to believe that God hadn’t betrayed me, he’d just exposed the lies I believed about him. What a grace! And in place of all that rotten theology, my faith grew into something that was robust and beautiful. Instead of a perfectly constructed set of beliefs that fit nicely inside of boxes and had an answer to everything, my faith grew wildly and intimately and beautifully. I hadn’t realized how tightly I had shackled myself up in the name of the God who said he came to do the exact opposite of that! But sometimes shackles feel safer than the freedom God offers us. At least if we’re chained up, we can’t make mistakes.
I had to let the bad stuff go. It was terrifying. I wasn’t sure where I was going to end up. I wasn’t sure how it would affect my marriage, my motherhood, my ministry, my entire life. I just didn’t know. But I had to walk bravely into it because I couldn’t keep carrying the anger, doubt, and confusion while also trying to go through all the motions of life in Christ. I don’t go through the motions anymore. It is a joy to walk with Christ.
Getting rid of that belief system laid the foundation for the faith that was able to carry me through the valley of the shadow of death many times over the years that followed. I’m not sure I would’ve been able to even stand if the demolition and rebuilding never happened. I’m so thankful that it did.
Believing true things about God helped me heal in a fully integrated way. Mind, body, soul.
Confronting bad theology is a good thing. It sets us free. It makes room for good theology to grow. Good theology helps us heal because it helps us to see true things about ourselves. When our theology is good we believe that we are good. We believe that we’re valued, loved, cherished, held, safe, welcome. When we believe those things are true, everything about the way we see and engage with the world changes. Everything. We find joy, peace, contentment, love, kindness, gentleness, grace, mercy, compassion, empathy, forgiveness, repentance, reconciliation, justice, truth. Bad theology picks and chooses, good theology accounts for it all.
Reintroduce yourself to the Story of God and His People, not to cull it for proof your beliefs are right or wrong, but out of curiosity and the pursuit of knowing God. Relax into the knowledge that you are safe with Christ and he will honor your pursuit of him.
The ruins aren’t the end of your faith. When Jesus died, the veil in the temple that separated the people from God tore top to bottom. When he conquered sin and death, he bridged the divide between us and the Father. In that moment, his presence entered us. The Creator dwelling within the created. The temple was a holy place. And now we are. God’s presence in our lives isn’t dependent on the structures we build to make him make sense. When our temples crumble, he doesn’t go anywhere. If he’s in the temple at all, it’s only because we’re in there. He is in us. We are in him. As we pursue him, not a set of beliefs that are “right,” we find him. He takes up the spaces where our structures used to stand. Your faith doesn’t have to be perfectly tied up in a set of unchangeable beliefs in order to earn God’s grace and mercy. His goodness and mercy are following you, even as you unravel and rebuild.
I think that’s really good news.
You are safe with Christ.
Your theology might be wrong.
But you can find the good stuff.
And the good stuff will be the most crucial part of your healing.
In the meantime,
He is good.
He is kind.
He is faithful.
He is for you.
thanks so much for reading part 1 of this series! On Monday, I’ll be sending an email to paid subscribers that breaks this down a little more. I’ll be going into more detail on how to confront bad theology and how to find the good stuff. the robust stuff. if you want to get that email, upgrade your subscription here down there 👇🏻
my theology could be wrong | | unfettered
Kristen, internet stranger here: thank you for this. I cannot wait to read more.
It’s good to feel like I’m not alone. Right around Spring 2020 when everything else hit was when I lost my faith as I knew it (I’m in my mid-20s). There were a number of things that contributed, but that’s a story for me to tell someday. Things were so dark for such a long time, and they still are sometimes. I thought I was alone. It took other people sitting with me to show me Christ was also sitting with me.
I can't even tell you what this means to me. I'm walking this right now and when I try to be honest with people at my church or friends close to me, they look at me like I have 3 heads and change the subject. It's uncomfortable I know, but to me it feels like a needful process as I continue to sort through the legalism I was raised in for so many years. We currently go to a great church, but there is still pressure to "perform" in some ways. Is this normal? I'm so confused I think. Hanging on for dear life and looking forward to more of this! Thank you!