Reconstruct Your Faith E-Book

Kevin M. Young

• Herausgeber: John Wiley & Sons
• Kategorie: Religion und Spiritualität
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 292

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

Navigate the deepest questions of faith with the compassionate guidance of a pastor whose faith nearly fell apart

This book is a must have for anyone facing a crisis of faith. When our hearts begin to question faith, we often fear voicing our concerns and confusions aloud. But questioning is inherent in the journey as we seek truth faith, as author and pastor Kevin M. Young has learned firsthand. At a time when many lack trust in clergy—and clergy members themselves are facing burnout and disillusionment—we need an honest and accountable reckoning with the role of the church in our lives. Reconstruct Your Faith takes you back to square one, helping you reengage with the church, the clergy, and God, using methods that have been essential to Christianity from its beginnings.

• Embark on the next phase of your spiritual journey—even if you have become disillusioned with aspects of organized religion
• Receive guidance and wisdom from an open-minded pastor who has struggled with his own faith
• Examine the role of God, Evangelicalism, and the church in your past, present, and future
• Return to the foundations of faith to discover your own path through questioning to a stronger spirituality

This book guides you through the application of ancient spiritual practice in your life's journey, regardless of your denominational identity as a Christian or your belonging to a particular tradition. Anyone experiencing a crisis of faith or nagged by persistent questions about the direction of the church today will find healing and answers in Reconstruct Your Faith.

Leseprobe

Table of Contents

Cover

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Introduction

PART I: Deconstructing Faith

1 How Did I Get Here?

The Crumbling

The Power and Pain of Pastoring

The Painful Path to Disillusionment

Reflect

2 The Church

The Early Church

Reflect

Notes

3 The Bible

The Bible Is Not God

Jesus Is the Word

Reflect

Notes

4 Inerrancy

The Bible Is Fallible

Jesus Is Infallible

Reflect

Notes

5 Deconstruct-Reconstruct Cycle

The Origins of the Failure

The Building versus the People

Cycles of Deconstruction and Reconstruction Are Healthy

Reflect

Notes

PART II: Reconstructing Faith

6 Ancient Paths

Rediscovering the Roots

The History of the Church Can Teach Us Anew

Follow Jesus' Lead

Reflect

Notes

7 The Liturgy of the Hours

The Devotion to Prayer

Reconstructing Prayer

Reflect

Notes

8 The Church Year

The Early Church Calendar

The Modern-Day Liturgical Cycle

Reconstructing the Church Year

Reflect

Notes

9 The Saints

The Deeper Meaning of the Saints

Reconstructing Saints

Reflect

Notes

10 Feasts and Fasts

Breaking Bread Together

The Role of Fasting

Reconstructing Meals

Reflect

Notes

11 Catechism

Catechism in the Early Church

Catechized by Love

Reconstructing Catechism

Reflect

Notes

12 Creeds

Creeds Confirm Beliefs

Creeds Are Complicated

Acceptance over Judgment

Reconstructing Creeds

Reflect

Notes

13 Pilgrimage

God's Presence through Pilgrimage

Reconstructing Pilgrimage

Reflect

Notes

14 Wreckage and Mess

Epilogue

Index

End User License Agreement

Guide

Cover

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Introduction

Begin Reading

Epilogue

Index

End User License Agreement

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Reconstruct Your Faith

Ancient Ways to Make Your Relationship with God Whole Again

Kevin M. Young, DMin

Unless otherwise indicated, all scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.

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Scripture quotations marked (NRSV) are taken from the New Revised Standard Version Updated Edition. Copyright © 2021 National Council of Churches of Christ in the United States of America. Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.

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ISBN: 9781394219490 (Hardback), 9781394219513 (ePDF), 9781394219506 (ePub)

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To my wife, Sally, who deserves it and believed in me, even when I did not,

and

to Libbie, Lucy, Harris, and Matthew, for all of the sacrifices that you have made.

Acknowledgments

It takes a village of expert herders to shepherd an author from proposal to publication. As such, I owe a debt of deep gratitude to the entire Wiley team, including Navin, Kezia, Pete, Sophie, and especially, Amy, who took a risk and believed in me. Also to Mark, Sarah, Jason, and Coal, whose feedback made this book far better.

To the staff and monks of the Abbey of the Genesee, thank you for your hospitality, homemade bread, and for rescuing my faith.

To Portland Seminary doctoral Cohort 13, where the roots of this journey began, as well as Loren, Cliff, Matt, Chris, Jordan, Nathan, and especially Leonard Sweet.

About the Author

Dr. Kevin M. Young is a pastor, speaker, consultant, coach, and avid weightlifter. He holds degrees in Media Communications and Theology from Cedarville University, Christian Education from Dallas Theological Seminary, and a Doctor of Ministry in Semiotics and Future Studies from Portland Seminary.

He is an award-winning producer in church communications and media production, and he has pastored several churches, one of which was named among the Fastest Growing Churches in America.

Kevin is Lead Clergy at Christ's Table, a hybrid ministry he founded to bring community, healing, and resources to those who are disillusioned, disconnected, or done with the institutional church but not God.

He is an NASM Elite Certified Personal Trainer and RP Nutrition Coach.

He is the cohost of the Jacked Theology podcast.

Kevin and his wife, Sally, live in Birmingham, Alabama, with their four children: Libbie, Lucy, Harris, and Matthew.

Introduction

The room is almost all elephant. Almost none of it isn’t. Pretty much solid elephant. So there’s no room to talk about it.

—Kay Ryan, “The Elephant in the Room”

Not one, but three.

That is the number of elephants in the pages of this book, and they are rather sizable at that.

Deconstruction is the first elephant in the room. The very word itself sends a cold shudder down the spine of the church. Depending on where you stand, deconstruction is either the greatest problem facing the church or it is the only hope for the church's future.

Passions run high on both sides. Lines have been drawn in the sand; churches are increasingly divided on the topic, as are families and friend groups. Entering a process of deconstruction of one's faith often sounds the death knell for all of a person's spiritual connections.

Deconstruction is almost always a desert experience.

Pastors are understandably concerned.

Be it harmful or healthy, deconstruction isn't just changing the nature of their congregants’ spiritual journey, it is changing the landscape of the church itself. Many who deconstruct seem to walk away from the church, walk to a different church, or become advocates against certain dogmas in the church.

Deconstruction feels like an indictment, and that doesn't feel good at all.

If the word deconstruction is too harsh or off-putting a word, consider disentangling, disassembling, deprogramming, or decolonizing instead.

Try as the church might to prevent parishioners from traveling a path of deconstruction—or whatever we choose to call it—the church's attempts to control it have only fueled the fire, sending even more people down the path of deconstruction.

While most within the church would rather avoid the deconstruction conversation altogether, that may not be the best path.

Whenever there is an elephant in the room, we have options:

Avoid it.

Ignore it.

Deny it.

Silence it.

Face it and hope to understand it.

Of those five options, “Face it and hope to understand it” is the preferred path, and within these pages that is the stance for which I will advocate.

Those who walk a path of deconstruction rarely desire to walk it alone. If they end up alone on the road, it is more likely that the church abandoned them than that they abandoned the church.

How do I know?

I am a fellow sojourner.

Reconstruction is the second elephant in the room. For those on the path of deconstruction, the word reconstruction can be quite off-putting. It brings a lot of baggage and assumptions with it, and those in the process of assessing their faith need unburdened hearts and minds.

I understand the concern. Reconstruction implies that:

The process is as simple as putting the pieces back together again.

Usually, it's not that simple.

There is a single path to take on the journey. There isn't.

A path must be taken at all.

That's false.

There will be an end to the journey.

There probably isn't.

One will never deconstruct again.

Cycles of deconstruction/reconstruction are more likely.

It must be done as part of a church.

It doesn't.

One will remain within Christianity or still consider themself a follower of Christ at the end.

That isn't always the case.

Something must be done rather than nothing.

Some prefer to simply sit and be happy. Others prefer to sit and mourn.

But in the end, we are bound to words, and while we may choose a different word—such as remodel, reclaim, renovate, restore, renew, or reform—we can hopefully all agree to allow others to make their own journey, or even no journey at all.

It is neither my choice nor yours as to whether a person reconstructs or the path they take to do it, if they so choose.

So why this book?

We all need an “alongsider,” someone to walk with us on our journey. Though my path of deconstruction and reconstruction will differ from yours, it is helpful to know that you are not alone.

It is also easy to get overwhelmed, stalled, or stuck on journeys like this. It can be helpful, even hopeful, to know what helped others move forward. I also hope to convince you that you can and will make it through.

For those who desire to reconstruct a more Christ-like faith, I want you to see that it can be done. For those who aren't sure what they want, don't worry too much. I'm still not certain where my road leads either.

The third elephant in the room is me. Does the world really need another book by someone who looks like me? That is a valid question, if you are asking it. In many ways, I represent the church's greatest problem. I am a privileged insider.

I had an advantageous home situation (white, Midwest, middle-class, nuclear family), an advantageous educational journey (respected, conservative Christian universities and seminaries), and an advantageous career path (staff and senior pastor positions in some of the largest and fastest-growing churches in America).

But when a privileged insider begins using their voice to ask questions and question actions, the tides can turn quickly.

I am used to being an outsider to Evangelicalism, having grown up in the somewhat infamous Independent Fundamental Baptist (IFB) movement. We were King James Version (KJV) Bible-only, didn't go to movies, weren't allowed to dance or play cards, and were quite convinced of our own righteousness. While many of those who grow up in ultra-fundamentalism ultimately reject faith altogether, I did not. Instead of leaving, I bought a New International Version (NIV) Bible, became Southern Baptist, and went to see a movie.

In moments where many reject their faith, I pivoted. By the time I found myself in the throes of deconstruction, I had not only spent significant time in Baptist churches, but also seeker-sensitive, nondenominational, Evangelical Quaker, Calvary Chapel, and mainline congregations.

Over the years of ministry, I realized that I am hard-wired to be a revolutionary, one who fiercely and fearlessly advocates for needed change, challenging systems, ideas, and the status quo. But I am also hard-wired to be a healer and deeply driven to bring wholeness, health, and peace to brokenness.

Somewhere along the way, though, the church broke me.

This is the story of my deconstruction and how God is reconstructing me. This book is an invitation to join me on an ancient path.

PART IDeconstructing Faith

1How Did I Get Here?

He who thinks that he is finished, is finished. Those who think that they have arrived, have lost their way.

—Henri Nouwen

I can't believe I am here.

The thought had been rolling around in the recesses of my mind for days.

Perhaps, longer.

It was one of those uneasy feelings that a person gets deep in their gut when something, somewhere is off.  The kind that begins as a simple nagging thought that gnaws at the edges of your sanity in moments of quiet reflection, but which, when unattended, becomes a raging fire of fear and self-doubt that threatens to overtake a person's spirit and irreparably wound their soul.

If I gave the worry my attention, I was wary of losing my soul. I was spiraling fast, and I was uncertain as to whether I had passed the point of rescue.

Was I too far gone to be rescued?

I can't believe I am here, I repeated to myself.

What was once just an abstract question about the direction of my life had become a very literal concern as I stood facing what was in front of me.

A set of doors.

Large ones. Very large.

These are the kind of doors that are designed to be imposing, to make one feel insignificant. The doors could not have known that there was no need to make me feel unwelcome or unworthy.

I had arrived broken, and, I feared, beyond repair.

On the other side of those doors lay hope … or confirmation of my defeat. We only arrive at these moments when we have no other options left.

Sometimes, the only way out of a storm is through it … through those doors.

Behind me, the gently rolling hills of western New York's Genesee Valley rose to meet the sun as the afternoon beams lit up the trees, setting their brilliant orange and yellow leaves afire on this late-Autumn day.

Beyond those hills was the life that I had all but outgrown. It was out there, behind me, awaiting my return. But could I? I had desperately tried to hold to the roots of my faith as the storm raged around me. I had desperately tried to avoid facing the difficult questions that threatened to destroy my faith. I had pushed everything down to the depths of the darkness within, hoping to forever avoid them. I was aware that questioning everything I thought I knew could destroy everything that I had ever built, or worse, dismantle everything on which I stood as a pastor.

Some questions are too dangerous to ask.

But the pain of going back to what was now seemed as unbearable as the thought of moving on, moving forward, into the unknown.

I couldn't go back, but I was too afraid to move forward. So I did the only thing that made sense as the storm raged around me … or more rightly, within me.

I planted my feet, firmly, resisting the strong urge to turn back or even look back.

I had come here for a reason. I had gotten to this place in my life for a reason.

I had to believe that.

I had to believe that there was some purpose in all that I endured, all that I had questioned, and all that I had lost.

The thought of Lot's wife crossed my mind, and for the first time, I felt compassion for this woman who grieved the loss of Gomorrah so much that she turned into a pillar of salt. Or, said less poetically, she cried herself to death in the crucible of deciding whether to return to a pain-filled past or move forward toward an even more uncertain future.

Here I was, at that same decision point.

Go back or move forward?

Not only was I standing in the way of moving forward, but so were the imposing doors of the storied Abbey of the Genesee, a place I hoped would be a peaceful eye in the midst of my raging storm. The Abbey is well known for bringing hope to those who have lost their way. Henri Nouwen, the venerable Dutch Catholic priest, professor, writer, and theologian, once stayed here, and it changed his life.

I hoped that it would change mine as well, but to be completely honest, there wasn't much hope left within me.

I was mostly numb.

So numb, in fact, that just moments earlier, I could barely look at the two-story cross I passed at the entrance of the Abbey. For reasons I could not yet fully face, I had bounced my eyes away from it.

I couldn't look at the cross, and the guilt I felt was profound.

It's just a cross, I told myself. It's not like it's Jesus.

But I had lost the ability to ignore the obvious disconnect between how these symbols once felt and how they felt now.

I was definitely numb.

Over the last few months, I had found myself avoiding nearly all of the religious rhythms that once brought me solace. There was no peace to be found in worship services, church community events, or even quiet moments of prayer. It is an odd thing for a pastor to find themself at odds with most of the primary expectations of their role. But my discontent had grown beyond my congregants and church. Religious symbols that once brought me peace, like the cross, now bore pain. Doctrines that had once brought assurance now brought unease.

My faith was in crisis.

I was in crisis. And I had nowhere to turn.

I avoided the cross at the Abbey because I was avoiding Jesus. It is as simple and as painful as that. I could no longer look Jesus in the eye, and that felt odd to admit. I preached about him on Sunday, but I avoided him on Monday. Better to avoid Jesus than have to face him with doubt in my heart, questions in my head, and growing concerns about everything I thought I knew about him.

So I skirted around the cross, not yet ready to confront it, hoping that in finding my way to the Abbey, I might find my way.

I can't believe I am here.

The massive doors of the Abbey—imposing and more than a bit ominous—looked down on me.

I felt small.

Unimportant in their shadow.

Both these doors and the cross seemed intent on reminding me of my insignificance.

I didn't need the reminder, to be honest.

The chaos that led to this storm had been brewing for years, I just hadn't seen it until it was far too late to be successfully avoided. A faith that was once strong had been slowly dismantled from the foundation, brick by brick, over a long period of time.

I never expected the strength of my commitment to Jesus to be the very thing that unraveled my faith, yet here I was. It had been the doing of ministry that had led to my undoing.

And, I never saw it coming.

The Crumbling

Pastors aren't supposed to wrestle with faith. It makes congregations uncomfortable. We don't mind spiritual leaders asking hard questions of us, but we tend to prefer that they avoid asking hard questions about Christianity or the church. We want our leaders to have clear, bold answers, not questions.

I had questions.

I had a lot of questions.

I had questions about stuffy theological minutia that only even stuffier academics argue over, sure, but I also had a growing list of questions that gnawed at the edges of my mind.

Was God's heart really set against the LGBTQ+ community?

Were women second-class citizens in the Kingdom of God?

Was racism really embedded in the U.S. church culture?

Did the church really do more harm than good in the world?

Was “telling the truth in love” really the way to show love?

Were people who voted differently really in opposition to God?

Was the Bible perfect and without error, and, if it was, how could we be certain that our interpretations were correct?

Were we really loving our neighbor, or was that just something that we wanted to believe so we could assuage our fear and absolve our deeds?

I had questions, and these were just the tip of the iceberg. As a young boy in church, I learned that certain questions were okay to ask in church while others were better kept to oneself.

Good: “Is God a god of endless love?”

Not So Good: “Why did a loving God create Hell?

Good: “Does God love all people?”

Not So Good: “Am I welcome in the church if I am gay?”

Good: “Did God create everyone equal?”

Not So Good: “Can a woman be a Pastor?

Good: “Does God call us to care for those in need?”

Not So Good:  “Can we let the homeless stay in our building?”

I had questions.

So I did what any respectable pastor would do with difficult questions—I shoved them down deep inside, first pretending they didn't exist, then hoping that more effective study and fervent prayer would sufficiently answer them. But every time I ignored them, they came clawing back, stronger than before.

I began to see how the church had oppressed, marginalized, minimized, and harmed the people it was supposed to protect.

My questions and deep concern began to spill out during sermons and Bible studies, during board meetings and back-hall conversations. I needed others to join me in the wrestling and wrangling of the ever-encroaching doubt, but, each time I shared a struggle, I saw fear in the eyes of the Christians I confided in and confessed to, not help.

Should we really encourage others to vote for that person?

Should we really exclude that person?

Have we really thought about the ramifications of that doctrinal position and its scant support in Scripture?

Have we really considered the other side of this issue and whether we are representing it fairly?

My questions were seen as a sign of weakness, not strength. It began to unravel my faith at the edges … and, eventually, my ministry. I quickly learned that the only thing Christians like less than questions are questioners.

I was still as passionate as ever about following Jesus and leading others to him, but I was increasingly discontent with and within his church.

Religious fervor sometimes has a way of inoculating a person against reality.

The reality was simple: my faith was crumbling around me—my faith in the Bible, my faith in the church, and my faith in what I had been taught.

Only my faith in Jesus remained, and it seemed to be hanging only by a thread.

The Abbey was my Hail-Mary pass attempt. If I lost my faith in Jesus, I was certain that there was no salvaging any of the remnants of the faith that I once held so dear. But somewhere deep within, I was convinced that if I could reconnect to the roots—or the Root himself, Jesus—of my faith, then I could weather this storm, no matter the outcome.

Standing there at the Abbey, it felt like a hopeless attempt. The past few years had not only wrecked my faith, they had all but dashed my desire to ever be connected in any way to this thing called Christianity.

I no longer recognized the church, and I no longer saw much of Christ in Christianity. As I looked around, I wondered if the church would even be recognizable to Jesus, were he here. The questions kept me awake at night.

What would Jesus say to the Christians who blindly supported Donald Trump and those who followed his playbook? How would Jesus handle pastors who stoked the fires of Christian Nationalism? Would Jesus have applauded those who responded to the hurting members of the Black community with a curt, “All Lives Matter”? How would Jesus respond to Christians who gave donations to build bigger border walls instead of longer dinner tables? Would Jesus have participated in the oppression of the LGBTQ+ community or been horrified by his followers who did? How would Jesus have responded to Christians who preferred gun proliferation over peace? Would Jesus have been shocked by the church's COVID response? How many tears would Jesus have shed over the sex abuse scandals in his churches and denominations?

The church's response to each of these had moved the needle in my heart just a bit. Each time, I wondered what it would mean to love my neighbors in the way that Jesus meant it when he said:

“You must love the Lord your God with all your heart, all your soul, all your mind, and all your strength.”  The second is equally important: “Love your neighbor as yourself.” No other commandment is greater than these

. (Matthew 12:30–31)

Christians I had long respected took positions that caused very real harm to their neighbor. I saw a seemingly endless “ends-justify-the-means” mentality in Christian conversations, leveraging out-of-context scripture as justification for what amounted to hate, bigotry, and harm wrapped in “truth is love” rhetoric.

How could they not see it? I wondered.

Each issue took a toll on me, chipping away at my confidence that the Christians around me knew the meaning of “love your neighbor,” let alone Christ. While I still deeply loved the church, I increasingly loathed its public witness. I have always loved the church, even and especially the broken ones. But here—at the doors of the Abbey, in the shadow of the cross—I had to admit that I never really wanted to be the pastor of any of them.

Why would any individual of sound mind knowingly subject themselves to the kind of pain and suffering that pastors endure?

Why would anyone want to be put on a pedestal that required them to project perfection?

Why would anyone commit to a career that required certainty in all things and allowed questions in no things?

The Power and Pain of Pastoring

I should never have become a pastor.

In fact, pastoring was never a part of the life plan. The rectory was never my trajectory. I had seen what bad churches do to good pastors, and I wanted nothing of it.

As I entered third grade, my stay-at-home mother re-entered the workforce as the pastor's secretary in our home church. I had no idea how much this move would affect my future, or my opinion of the church. I had special access to the pastors … and their pain. I saw the unseen problems they faced and the faces of the people who caused them.

I quickly learned that many Christians wear a costume on Sunday that they hang up on Monday, if they make it that long. It never made sense to me how some of the kindest, most seemingly Christ-centered people on Sunday could be the meanest on Monday.

And to this day, it still doesn't make sense. I hope that it never does.

Clearly, that hour on Sunday wasn't enough for some people, I thought.

Maybe that is why we also had Sunday evening and  Wednesday Night worship services! But the people who had three times as much church seemed to be three times worse than those who didn't go at all.

Make it make sense! Why were so many Christians so very mean-spirited and intent on crushing others’ souls while attempting to save them?

Everyone takes a gut-punch occasionally, sure, and sometimes friendly fire is unavoidable, even in the church. But years of seeing good pastors take punch after punch from people spewing hate speech out of one side of their mouth and Jesus speech from the other was too much. I wanted nothing of that life. I couldn't comprehend how a good person who tries to help others find God's love could be asked to endure an endless lack of love from people who professed God's love.

I love you, Jesus, but your church kind of sucks.

I was fairly certain that Jesus was aware and maybe even agreed with me. The Book of Acts confirms that Jesus left Earth just days before the first church was formed.

I wanted nothing of it.

Neither did my wife who is a P.K. (that is church-speak for “Pastor's Kid”). She had grown up seeing her father take friendly fire from a series of not-so-friendly churches. He eventually escaped from those congregations and planted a new kind of church focused on the unchurched; she barely escaped with her faith, vowing to never marry a minister.

Who could blame her?

Those who have experienced it understand: church hurt is real.

She didn't want to marry a pastor, and I very much wanted to avoid the pain of being one.

Perfect match!

We spent years serving the church together in various capacities, comfortably out of range of the worst arrows. We never imagined that we would end up being on the receiving end of church trauma or that we would be the target of hatred from fellow Christians simply for serving God.

But life sometimes has a way of wrecking our plans and sending us down paths we would have otherwise dared take. It was as if I was destined for the pain of pastoring. Try as I might to avoid it, I could not avoid church hurt because, simply put, I could not avoid the church. It was in my soul, embedded deep, and extracting it would have left too little of myself to have any real life thereafter. And when you truly love something, you will endure almost any pain imaginable to help heal it … not unlike Jesus did on the cross, a thought that continued to sit at the center of my mind during the intense trauma that would come.

The Painful Path to Disillusionment

I was 33 years old when I confessed to my wife that I was feeling a pull toward the pastorate. The age is seared in my memory as it is the same year that Jesus is said to have gone to the cross.

My growing discontent over the state of the church led to a sense of passion for pastoring. It felt wrong to clearly see the church's problems and then avoid any responsibility for fixing them. I realized that I had been running from God for three decades, and I had read the Book of  Jonah, so I knew how that ended.

At 33, Jesus got the cross and I got a role as Senior Pastor. On the worst days, I wondered if crucifixion would have been less torture.

Churches are messy.

Church people are messier.

At first, everything was wonderful. It was a dream situation for a young pastor: a dying church in a decent suburb of a large metro area that already had everything necessary to be a thriving community of Christ followers … except hope. I knew from the get-go that this church was perfectly positioned to offer something different to the community.

Grace, not guilt.

Salve, not shame.

Healing, not hate.

Love, not legalism.

Nothing exceptional or radical, really. Simply Jesus. Just the things he taught in the red letters.