The Part Where I Get to Have Faith

I’m tired. I’m just so tired. Tired of people giving up on Christianity. Or Jesus. Or “faith.” Or however folks describe what used to be their way of living, their spirituality, their everything, their all-in-all, now their nothing-at-all.

In recent weeks, former mega-pastor and author, Josh Harris, revealed: “I am not a Christian.”

Just today, I learned Hillsong worship pastor and songwriter, Marty Sampson, posted: “I am not in anymore” — in being in Christianity.

Marty’s confession hit me all day. God has often spoken to me in music, a rightly timed song on the radio or on Spotify: a calming of the soul, a call to courage, the prophetic coming to pass.

Hillsong’s music has personally resonated for a decade and a half. I discovered this Australian brand of worship back in high school on a former classmate’s MySpace page. Playing on my friend’s profile was a song that would become (and ever remain) my favorite Hillsong masterpiece: “From the Inside Out.”

Singing the song? Marty Sampson.

I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve watched this music video and all the other times I’ve listened to the song elsewhere.

And now this? This same guy who sings “the art of losing myself / in bringing You praise” now says:

I’m genuinely losing my faith, and it doesn’t bother me. Like, what bothers me now is nothing. I am so happy now, so at peace with the world. It’s crazy.

Harris spoke similarly of his own walking away:

I don’t view this moment negatively. I feel very much alive, and awake, and surprisingly hopeful.

Both confessions void of loss, or grief, less of a relief from no longer following Jesus — more of a bliss to follow something else.

It unsettles me. I’m unsettled.

In years past, other notable Christian figures have walked away. Derek Webb, formerly of Caedmon’s Call, now hosts a podcast with guests whose faiths have also “deconstructed,” if not been demolished altogether.

I listened to a few of Webb’s episodes and couldn’t take any more. My heart bursting for all these people whose faiths fizzled into oblivion.

Hitting closer to home, some other Christian musicians with same-sex attraction have changed (or abandoned) their theology to adopt an affirming position of homosexuality: Ray Boltz, Jennifer Knapp, and Trey Pearson, to name a few.

On the one hand, why should any of this faze me? Why on earth should my faith or my general spirits be determined by musical figures I’ve never met?

So what if one of them happens to sing one of my favorite songs?

I guess it’s that the famous folks walking away from Jesus are visible reminders of the less famous ones who have done the same. The ones I’ve called my friends.

I first experienced such a situation years ago, and what a whirlwind that friendship was. So deep, so quick, so pivotal to some of my landmark life-moments; then, nothing at all.

No more Jesus.

No more common ground.

No more talking.

No more friendship.

What a godsend turned godawful run that turned out to be. Good thing I’d never again experience that once-in-a-lifetime flub. Right?

I’ve since experienced such “deconstructions” of relationships multiple times over, and I fear it happening the rest of my life: investing into a friendship only for the other party to abandon the very cornerstone upon which we’ve built the thing.

It’s crippled me from reaching out to existing friends in recent difficult times. I feel stymied at the surface when my very nature is to dive deep with others. Deep into the trenches of our shared humanity.

One of my favorite artists, Mike Donehey of Tenth Avenue North, just published his first book: Finding God’s Life for My Will. A twist on the common Christianese catchphrase.

I’ve started reading it, and I’ve listened to several podcasts on which he’s recently appeared to promote the book. I can’t get enough of this guy, a fellow Enneagram Four also confused for a Seven for his bubbly love of adventure. A fellow melancholic who smiles when it rains on vacation.

In one podcast interview, Mike spoke of his daughter’s fear of going upstairs for bed because it was dark. A former version of himself would have chided his child and told her to get over it.

Instead, he responded with perspective:

The thing about having fear is that now you get to have courage.

Indeed, nobody is wholly courageous; the presence of fear is what defines the act of courage. He carried this same sentiment into a line about doubt and faith:

The thing about having doubt is that now you get to have faith.

And oh boy. This Christian who’s been a Christian for about as long as you could be a Christian is starting to have some serious doubts. A reckoning with reality. It only took me 32 years.

I’m facing the increasingly obvious reality that this world is so, so broken. A rainstorm that never lifts. And unlike my response to physical rain, my soul isn’t smiling.

These last couple years, I’ve fielded more doubts than ever before, not due to any personal tragedy or spiritual apathy, but largely due to public figures and friends alike walking away from Jesus.

This same Jesus I follow.

With regard to the people I’ve known and befriended, I just feel an overwhelming sadness for them, sadness for us, for the changing relationship, and even anger for God.

Like God, what gives? Aren’t they Yours? Do you still see the steps they take away from You? Why don’t You stop them? Why don’t you intervene? Will you ever reverse their course back to You? What if you never do? God, don’t you care?

God, were they ever even Yours to begin with?

This expedites an existential spiral over God’s sovereignty, of “once saved, always saved,” of ever being in the “palm of God’s hand,” and more.

Another spiral for another time . . .

I only have my human perspective, of course. I’m limited, and cognitively I’ve always been at peace with this aspect of my relationship with God.

Would I follow a “God” who knew as much as me? Wouldn’t “God,” by definition, be unlimited in understanding, time, and perspective, often causing me confusion from my vantage? Wouldn’t I want to put all my trust in Him if I believed God was good, trusting Him for all the future things I cannot yet see?

Still, I wonder. I painfully wonder. What are the implications of a person who followed Jesus and led worship and ministered to fellow believers, ministered to me, only to walk away — walk away forever? What does that even mean? How does it happen, God?

Alas, I have to let it go. I have to give up knowing the unknowable.

As Marty once sung, and as he once proclaimed:

In my heart and my soul

I give you control

Consume me from the inside out

God, I need to be consumed. Every last distraction, every last feeling, every last thought. Every last belief that beckons me away.

Because as hard as it is to follow Jesus some days, God, it’s beautiful. It’s a beautiful thing to share this road with fellow believers. For the Spirit to breathe life into others’ hardships. For us to minister to one another, because we were made to be one Body.

I can’t help feeling I’ve not seen my last friend attempt to sever herself from this Body, either temporarily or permanently. But I want to remain present in my friendships. All of them. I want to dive deep.

I want to be real about my own doubts. I don’t want to stuff anything down. I don’t want to ignore the darkness. I want to let out every shadow.

I want to admit when I’m confused by Scripture or boggled by God’s plan, and I want to fucking scream blessed be the name of the Lord.

I don’t know what’s in store for these various musicians and friends who no longer walk this road with me. I don’t know the grand design at work, if indeed there is one.

I hope there is.

But I also have doubt. So much doubt.

But I guess this is the part of the story where I get to have faith.

Lord, help my unbelief.