I’ve been asking myself this question frequently over the past couple of weeks. Why did I decide it was a good idea to write another blog? Why can’t I just leave well enough alone? Why does anyone care what I have to say about still being a person of faith when I no longer identify specifically as a Christian? Why do I want to invite criticism into this part of my life? Why don’t I just go into the WordPress Admin page and click “Delete your site permanently”?

No one would know the difference. Very few people know I’m planning to write again. Why don’t I just backtrack and change my mind? I’ve been doing really well lately with my self-worth, my confidence, feeling at peace, and settling into acceptance of who I am becoming. I like me, and I like where I am. Why do I want to upset the balance I’ve worked so hard to find?

I’m reluctant. I have deconstructed the faith of my growing up. I have deconstructed the faith of my first 30 years of adulthood. The faith that I held was not practiced alone, but with my family of origin, my closest friends, those who have been mentors to me, and those who I have counseled. My deconstruction has occurred in much more isolation, drawing in my immediate family, a trusted pastor, new friends for whom faith connotes differing levels of experience, certainty, and agnosticism. It is hard to speak my truth in the broader arena. There is fear and apprehension.

What if friendships are lost? What if family relationships are strained? What if people view me patronizingly? What if they worry about or pity me? It feels more Zen to just bask in my own truth, living quietly in peace, not putting myself out there. And yet, my current goals in counseling are to Be Real and to Be Happy. I can fulfill being happy by staying where I am, I think. However, if a part of me is hidden from people I truly care about and value, how is that being real?

And how am I truly being real if I get stuck in this current place, hanging on to a new but static way of being instead of continuing to wonder and ponder? Am I afraid of what I will find if I continue to examine my faith? I think I might be.

Deconstruction has been cathartic. Just thinking about it physically fills me with intense emotion and sensation. It reminds me of jumping full force into a home remodeling project that routinely begins with the removal of old fixtures, cabinets, and even walls. Destroying can be a great deal of fun. Afterwards, muscles ache and bodies are tired, but it is such a satisfying feeling. Getting rid of the old and outdated.

Usually the destruction is followed by a cursory cleaning up of the scrap and rubble, leaving behind unfinished plywood, bare lightbulbs, and holes to be patched. From there, it takes time for rebuilding to occur. Sometimes it’s important to live in the emptied, blank space for a period to get an idea of how to reconstruct.

It can be hard to imagine what the new design will look like when it’s implemented. Will it be as functional as desired? How costly will the project be? Will it need to be completed in steps, or can it be done in one massive effort? Can it be done alone? With a friend? Or does it require an expert? Those questions are often best answered prior to demolition. We have undertaken numerous home renovations during our marriage. Most have followed the best practice protocol of doing the planning in advance, taking only the requisite time between deconstruction and reconstruction. Some took years to complete and only got finished when it was time to put the house on the market.

My dismantling of faith has been different. Initially, I wasn’t even aware the design and fixtures were outdated. Once that revelation occurred and I pulled a few pieces down, things just started falling apart. There was no time to plan and answer the questions of cost, function, and how it would look when finished. It just had to get done, for the safety and well-being of all in the vicinity.

The majority of detritus has been taken away. The space looks empty and clean. The sun is shining in the undraped windows and glinting off of pipes and ductwork usually hidden behind drywall. It feels spacious and welcoming in spite of being unfinished. There’s still a comfortable spot for lounging in a shaft of sunlight and taking a much needed break, to rest tired limbs, to glory in work well-done, and to appreciate the openness created by the removal of walls.

I’ve been resting for a little while. I’m feeling less worn out. I have an inkling of a potential design for reconstruction.

(When things were coming down during the deconstruction phase, I thought I wouldn’t ever want to reconstruct anything. Just clean things out and leave it bare. But I guess I needed more time and reveling in the moment of cleansing so I could consider the possibilities.)

The remaining configuration is sound. The structure has good bones. The space is efficient and functional. I have a lot to work with here. I have faith in goodness. I have faith that God is good. I have faith that I will not be faulted for my uncertainty and searching. I have faith that engaging in divergent thoughts about beliefs will not result in my eternal demise. I have faith in my good fortune of being a human being hurtling through the universe discovering, feeling, experiencing, and being empowered to choose.