Faith Unraveling: A story about deconstructing and constructing something better by Mandy Kampen
Deconstruction:
Noun
The act or practice of breaking something down into constituent parts.
Ex - The deconstruction of complex problems into smaller issues can make them easier to tackle.
a philosophical and critical movement that questions all traditional assumptions about the ability of language to represent reality and emphasizes that a text has no stable reference or meaning.
a critical movement that questions forms, hierarchies, and assumptions that are thought to be fixed because of the language traditionally used to describe those forms, hierarchies, and assumptions.
Well that’s heady, huh? For a word used so frequently, and often with so much disdain, the concept of deconstruction can actually seem pretty...benign. There doesn’t seem to be much threat in breaking something down to its parts and then being honest about whether or not the language I’m using around those ideas really reflects what I believe to be true.
At the same time, if I stop at the breaking and never move on to rebuilding, redefining, or replacing then I can be a little like the person who gets rid of one demon only to see it come back with seven friends move in and make themselves comfortable (Matthew 12:43-45). If I’m not intentional about what I do with the spaces created by my deconstruction, there are plenty of bad ideas out there waiting to rush in and fill it.
Deconstruction isn’t a phase, or a season, or a one-time event. If we are really taking this growth thing seriously, we will deconstruct many things many times over throughout our lives. How we see business, work, romance, love, society, duty, spirituality, God - all of these are up for grabs. Because they are all aspects of human existence, and we understand human existence based on our experiences.
That being said, there was a very intense few years when it felt like I was deconstructing every. Single. Thing. It felt like I lit a match and burned my entire house down, then sat in the ashes and wept. Everything was changing, like it had done many times before, but so thoroughly that I wasn’t sure there was anything left of my identity.
After some time, though, thanks to the infinite wisdom and patience and love of those around me, I mustered the strength to stand up and brush the ashes off my clothes. I began to look around at the mess I’d made and noticed a few sparkles of color winking out from under the soot. There were a handful of gems that had survived the blaze - an emerald here, a saphire there. I picked up the ones I could find, took a deep breath, and started down a path into the wilderness.
I decided during that time that I didn’t think it was a good idea for me to build houses out of my beliefs. I get too attached to the security, the certainty, the safety of the walls and floors and beige walls. They box me in, and when it inevitably comes time to change things around I can’t find another way than to light another match.
My friend Dustin talked through this analogy with me, and he said he loves living in the house he’s built. But he’s very comfortable when the time comes to clear out a room - he has no problem setting the old furniture on the curb and changing the photos out in the frames.
Dustin and I work differently. And I’m glad for it. I’m best as a wanderer, staying on the move and keeping the gems close to me. I can trade them in when I need, but I never carry enough that they weigh me down. I’m so grateful for the pubs and homes and inns along the path - places of rest and renewal and refilling, sharing stories and ideas and debates and deep, long hugs.
If you are a wanderer like me, keep the faith. God is in the wind and leaves and the tread of your shoes. If you dwell in a home or run an inn (I know the analogy is getting a little much at this point), thanks for letting me stay awhile. I’m excited to see what you’ve done with the place.
--
Grace and peace,
Mandy K