On Deconstruction and Faith

Generated with DALL-E, depicting a construction crew demolishing a building.

I’m sure you’re familiar with faith ‘deconstruction,’ an experience you’d describe as revisiting, reassessing, and dismantling beliefs to construct new ones. At the very least, you likely know someone, whether friend or family, who is presently ‘deconstructing’ their faith.

It started with a bit of uncertainty and doubt about something. Whether it was a theological or ethical issue, at this point, it doesn’t matter. Sure, the first thing that gave them pause may have been the perceived incompatibility of Genesis with evolution or the seemingly passe sexual ethics of the New Testament. But there’s very little among the rubble left to recognize on this side of the deconstruction process.

At face value, the concept of deconstruction appears to be rooted in metaphor. A building that is constructed incorrectly eventually becomes dilapidated and in need of repair. So, too, will a faith built on shifting sands inevitably lean and crack and falter, requiring a bit of demolition to uncover the weak spots.

Likely, most people who are ‘deconstructing’ are unaware of the profoundly philosophical origins of deconstructionism. Some philosophers have suggested that the relationship between words and meaning is subjective; nothing is axiomatic in meaning. “There is no outside text,” argued Jacques Derrida, no final dictionary against which we may check our definitions, no supreme governing Merriam-Webster in the heavens. Why? Because “we are all mediators, translators,” said Derrida, and that’s just the way things are. We never leave the world of interpreting words into one in which we simply experience the world. Interpretation is how we experience; there is no reality apart from interpretation. So, to discern meaning, we must allow experience to critique and inform language.

If everything is interpretation, then deconstructing existing interpretations (or structures) of philosophy, theology, and ethics is an opportunity to question the status quo and amplify marginalized interpretations. The most radical forms of deconstructionism present us with an opportunity to set a demolition date on the ways we presently discern truth, goodness, and beauty so that we might build something else. As one author put it bluntly: “Destruction is essential to construction. If we want to build the new, we must be willing to let the old burn.”

When applied to faith, though, there’s a problem, one that not many are willing to admit, I imagine. We speak about deconstruction as if we were the ones who constructed our faith in the first place. The true faith, the envelope of the gospel, “was once for all delivered to the saints” (Jude 1:3). We didn’t build it, nor did we construct it. The faith was delivered to us. And, if we’re honest, the faith we began to deconstruct was not that once-for-all-delivered faith. It was a pre-fab built by our families and given to us as an inheritance.

Moreover, when we apply deconstructionism to faith, ironically, we’re left with very little room for nuance. We must either “be willing to let the old burn” or tolerate the old to our own detriment. After all, “deconstruction is essential to construction.”

What if we didn’t see faith in a binary constructed-deconstructed status? What if we riffed off the “construction” theme to better frame how we approach faith and doubt? And, in making that discovery, learn better ways to frame our faith journey and shepherd others in doubt?

Here’s my proposal. In keeping with the construction theme, the Christian faith offers us not two options for faith and doubt but five: 1) demolition, 2) disassembling; 3) remodeling; 4) renovation; and 5) rearrangement.

Before moving forward, I’m keenly aware of how ironic it is to introduce and define terms as an alternative to deconstructionism. And, trust me, a postmodernist cricket sat on my shoulder the entire time I wrote this, interrupting me after every sentence with, “Yes, but what about…” If “deconstruction is essential to construction,” what’s to stop us from deconstructing deconstructionism, to let deconstructionism burn and build something better? So, I flicked the cricket aside.

Demolition

First, demolition is an intentional, insincere, and even fabricated “faith crisis” to leave the faith while saving face, feigning to be a victim.

Let’s not fool ourselves. Some people leave the faith because they want to, for whatever reason. Just like the fool of the Old Testament convinced himself in his heart to believe “there is no God” (Ps 14:1), some people demolish their faith intentionally with the wrecking ball of sin. They don’t hold fast to their faith, nor do they genuinely desire, in good faith, to believe. In doing so, Paul says, “some have made shipwreck of their faith” (1 Tim. 1:19).

In the end, they don’t abide in Christ. “They went out from us, but they were not of us,” explained the apostle, “for if they had been of us, they would have continued with us” (1 John 2:19). To be frank, it’s not that they disbelieve God, they disavow Him. The hidden motivation of their “faith crisis” is pride and selfishness.

“Did God really say?” I couldn’t have him or her? “Did God really say?” I must keep my word? “Did God really say?” He is the only way? The demolition crew isn’t interested in the answers, only the questions, because the answers are as foregone as their hearts. There is a biblical term for this concept, apostasis. It’s where we get the English word “apostasy,” which means “to stand apart.” Those who demolish their faith intentionally ‘stand apart’ from the faithful.

And there’s a biblical approach to engaging the apostate: to treat them like an unbeliever, not as an outcasted other, an object of scorn and contempt. Instead, to treat them as if they don’t understand the gospel, no matter how much they say they do, for “each tree is known by its own fruit” (Luke 6:44). And believe deeply that Jesus loves them and wants them for Himself, even as they are running from Him.

Disassembling

Second, disassembling is the sincere exploration of one’s faith foundations. There are two modes, skeptical disassembling and hopeful disassembling. They are indiscernible, separated only by a difference in motivation.

Skeptical disassembling is a sincere exploration of one’s faith foundations with a sense that it will not work out in the end. It’s not as cavalier a process as demolition; some want it all to be true. But, in reality, they’re not all that hopeful. Still, they feel the need to do their due diligence. They see their destination and, to their credit, want to do the work to get there. But their end is the same as demolition.

Hopeful disassembling, however, is a sincere exploration of one’s faith foundations with the hope that it will work out in the end. And this crowd, among all the doubters in the church, are among the most scrutinized and marginalized by everyone.

On the one hand, the demolition crew is beside themselves, wondering why the hopeful disassembler won’t just hurry it up and leave already. Don’t they know that remaining in the church empowers all the issues they are presently wrestling with? “If that disassembler were sincerely wrestling with doubt,” reasons the demolition crew, “then they’d come to the same conclusions we did and would leave the faith to join us.”

On the other hand, people within the church are fearful and intolerant of their questions. How could a good God allow evil? Why would a loving God send people to hell? How can we trust the Bible? Why does God care about who I sleep with? Isn’t it myopic to say that the gospel is the only way to salvation?

To go deeper, they ask the questions few know how (or even want) to answer. If God makes us citizens of heaven, why are we so captivated with the politics of earth? If God is a good heavenly Father, why did He give me an abusive earthly one? If pastors are shepherd-protectors of God’s flock, why does he allow some to abuse His sheep?

These are the questions with which many disassemblers wrestle. For so long, they simply assumed the house of faith in which they lived had good answers, built on a firm foundation to weather storms brought on by doubt and sin. But when the massive weight of these issues began to settle atop their house, the heaviness caused their faith to groan and the foundation to crack. Of course they need to disassemble their beliefs to see what’s going on, and that’s not a comfortable process for anyone. But do they need to deconstruct their faith altogether? I’m less convinced.

What they really need is faithful friends who will stand near them, prayerfully holding the pieces as the disassembler does her work. Fellow saints ought to come alongside them to carry some of the load of their doubt, to “bear one another’s burdens, and so fulfill the law of Christ” (Gal. 6:2). They want it all to be true. They look to Jesus in tear-swollen eyes and say with the desperation of a pleading father: “I believe; help my unbelief!” (Mark 9:24).

Don’t push them out; pull them in.

Remodeling

The third is remodeling, an overhaul of theological convictions that doesn’t affect faith foundations like belief in God or the resurrection. Remodeling means changing a space’s form, like converting an empty basement into a guest suite. Things look different, but the foundation and support beams haven’t been touched.

It’s waking up one morning and confessing to yourself: “I really need to change some things, and I think I’m ready for that change.” You’ve spent years thinking about it, imagining what it would look like, even soliciting advice from trusted friends. Of course, you’re not going to demolish the house—that’d be crazy—but neither do you feel the need to disassemble anything to check the structure or foundation. You know they’re good.

It’s just that you’ve become convinced the function of an open floor plan is a better use of the space. So, you consult remodeling experts—theologians and writers and pastors, likely from another denomination—and, one day, you break the news: you’re leaving the church you grew up in for another one across town.

Not everyone will appreciate the remodeling job. Your parents might not like what you’ve done to your grandma’s house, the place they grew up in, the one gifted to you in her will. Why change the faith she taught you in song and story? But did they honestly expect you’d keep everything exactly the same? And your friends might think your Presbyterian choice of curtains is quite the change from your old Pentecostal shades. Still, Jesus is Lord to you. For that, they ought to praise His name.

But don’t confuse questions about the meaning and mode of baptism with the impulse to burn it all down. Don’t throw the baby out with the baptismal water. It’s far cheaper—it exacts a far lesser existential cost—to remodel one’s faith than to burn it down and build back up, if the rebuilding happens at all. Changing denominations isn’t deconstruction.

Renovation

Then there’s renovation, repairing or restoring something to its original function or even an improved state. Renovation keeps the structure the same but updates the wiring and appliances to match the new kitchen island. Things look similar, but they’re much better and in good repair. It’s a shift of opinion from one theological position to another within one’s faith tradition.

For example, maybe you grew up with the apocalyptic anxiety that the rapture could occur at any moment. God help you if the pilot is a believer and you were not among the elect when Jesus returned. But as the years passed, you left behind one eschatology for another. Jesus is still returning in the future, but less on Nicholas Cage’s terms. (Yes, that’s right—you forgot they tried to reboot the movie with Nicholas Cage. If you didn’t, I’m sorry to inform you that its sequel is due out this year.)

If you’ve ever been house-hunting, then doubtlessly, you’ve been introduced to a house “with good bones.” That phrase means the structural bits of the house are good but prepare yourself for the interior decoration. Popcorn ceiling? Shag carpet? Pink and avocado wallpaper in the guest bathroom?

Just because the home needs renovation doesn’t mean you must deconstruct the home. How ridiculous is that potential homebuyer who, when faced with the prospect of renovation, cries out, “That’s it! Let the old burn! Deconstruction is essential to construction!” The relator won’t simply refuse to work with you any longer; they’ll call the police to prevent arson.

Simply because you were taught the eighty-eight reasons why Jesus would return in 1988 doesn’t mean you need to keep that popular 1980s wallpaper. It’s okay to move past the debate and remove yourself from discussions that were popular three decades ago. There’s no need to knock down the wall. Just repaint it.

Rearrangement

Finally, and very briefly, there’s rearrangement, simply moving theological furniture around in a room to emphasize something that might have been hidden away. For example, you might have been very interested in doctrines of grace early in your faith but are now captivated by the spiritual disciplines. For some, it looks like you’re reneging on earlier convictions, but you aren’t. You’re just more interested in other things now.

Believe, And Don’t Be Afraid to Admit Your Unbelief

Sometimes you need to rearrange, remodel, and renovate your faith. I have. I’ve even experienced hopeful disassembling, feeling the rubble of my faith’s foundations in my hands, hoping that repairs would be made. And they were, praise God. But had I been told—or, better, confused—by someone telling me to deconstruct, to burn it all down to build it back up, I don’t think I ever would have hired the contractor for reconstruction.

Perhaps we need believers to admit such a thing, to confess our struggles without collapsing our theological rearrangements and renovations and remodeling and disassembling into demolition. Collapsing these concepts into one, “deconstruction,” ignores the nuance of faith’s relationship to doubt, dismissing the dynamism behind re-evaluating our beliefs. And it makes things difficult—if not altogether impossible—for a struggling believer to describe their doubt so that the faith community, through the word for the Word, can prescribe a hope.

To call this wide spectrum more or less the same approach (deconstruction) mixes apostasis with genuine concern about teasing out true faith from personal or imported beliefs and experiences. It’s to lump together those who willingly stand apart with those who were dragged apart. While the world says that we “must be willing to let the old burn,” the gospel offers a better way, one that invites us to pray, “I believe; help my unbelief.”