This past summer, I all but stopped believing in God.
To many of you, that might seem like the liberation of a religiously indoctrinated young adult. “You go, girl!” But to me, and those who know me, it was concerning. Well… I suppose it would have been concerning to those who know me, had I let anyone actually see.
How Did I Get to This Place?
Theologically, I didn’t renounce any core beliefs. I didn’t give God the finger or prance off on my own. There was no sudden “breaking point.” Rather, I took the more dangerous route: that of a slow decline.
When I started to see the uptick in apathy and isolation, I wasn’t sure what to do. I didn’t think I could fix it. But I did what I could and took my journal to a park. I forced myself to stay for an hour–a punishment of sorts after I’d given in to anxiety and skipped church that morning. I think I was more concerned with my response to the isolation (guilt) than the action of missing church itself. Why was I not genuinely sad to have stayed home? Why was a dark room with a weighted blanket one of the only scenes of safety in my life?
As I stared at my empty journal page, I reflected on my day-to-day life, and I glimpsed only a shadow of my former faith. If I was honest with myself, I saw very little evidence that I believed in anything other than fear. Months of healing my inner child and feeling things I’d never felt had slowly consumed my mind. Without realizing it, I’d turned inward in anger (“why hadn’t I been able to stop it?”) and distrust (“reliving this stuff doesn’t feel safe, so I need to retreat”).
Fear has always been one of my chief foes, as I’m sure it is for many of you. But it had a more accessory role in my life for a few years. In fact, as a young Christian, I often had to remind myself that I was/am not beyond doubt. No, I didn’t think I was perfect. But I did consider myself more spiritually mature than others my age. I had been through the proverbial fires; I had not bowed down. I was “good.”
When Pastors and teachers spoke of embracing doubt and taking it to God, I prayed for the person next to me. Never did I consider how severe my own fragility was.
When I wasn’t internally scoffing at the disbelief in those around me, I was praising God for giving me spiritual depth at a young age.
Based on many messages I received as a kid, the response makes sense. And I did have an relationship with God that, while it was more shallow than I realized, was authentic. Still, when Pastors and teachers spoke of embracing doubt and taking it to God, I prayed for the person next to me. Never did I consider how severe my own fragility was, apart from the grace of God.
Embracing Fragile
Sometime last year, as my world was crumbling a wee bit (okay, a lot), I wrote a poem about feeling fragile. The words that resonate most with me from that piece are those that compare the stability of humanity to that of fine pottery.
The word “fine” is often used to describe a status of “okayness,” but writing this poem reminded me that the word “fine” also defines a state of fragility–fine china, for instance, is delicate and can be easily damaged. So yes, I guess I’m fine… I just never realized which definition of “fine” pertains to me.
I was, and still am, fragile. What I’d identified as strength in my early twenties was profound numbness. As I began my healing journey, I realized that beneath layers of crusted scars and wounds, there were parts of me that had never correctly healed. Like crooked bones, these parts more or less functioned for a while. But then I grew and life’s pressure became too much for my screwy skeleton-of-a-self.
Beneath layers of crusted scars and wounds, there were parts of me that had never correctly healed.
Most of the time, my aloofness wasn’t visible to the outsider (even I learned how to forget it much of the time). And while I tried bringing those parts to God, I leaned toward the lie that I was sinning when I struggled with my mental health. For years, I suffered in guilt and self-hatred; foes that are easily masked with achievement and humor. As time went on, I mastered both. As months turned into years, I fell deeper into despair. I stopped applying the life-changing hope of the gospel to myself.
Within the box I’d put Him in, the Lord was near. Those were actually some of the best years of spiritual growth. Alone in a world I didn’t relate to, I clung to the Lord (well… as much as one can when emotionally zipped like a parka). I felt His pleasure as I overcame struggles, shared my faith, and battled singleness. It was just me and Jesus, and I felt safe in that little (albeit fictional) bubble.
I’ll spare you the long story of the quick collapse, you can read more about that here. What I will elaborate on is how that seismic shift pertains to this story: what I believe. See, my beliefs have shifted in the last year. At first, I didn’t want to admit that; change makes me want to crawl into a hole and die. But… on second thought, I began to recognize the growth it reflects. Rather than blindly leaning into rules or religion, I flung myself into the deep waters this year. I inspected what I believe to be true–longing to find it stable but unsure if it was quicksand.
I’m grateful for the chance to truly test my faith because it’s brought immense growth. For the first time in my life, I am bringing my anger to God. For the first time, I’m not forcing myself to open a Bible and read X verses because some rule says I must. That feels scary, and I think that means I (by God’s grace) am doing something right.
As sticky and kumbaya-level simple as this feels, it’s growth.
I share these things because my former self would never have believed how far I’ve “fallen.” This collapse, however, is the most amazing dismantling I could imagine. Friend, there is immense hope that results from the fall into grace. Growth.
Truthfully, though, it has come at a cost. I still lay awake some nights in a daze, wondering how in the world my castle-of-a-life has crumbled to this.
“This”
After five-plus years in vocational and volunteer ministry roles, digesting the impact of stepping away from those identities has intensified the “imposter’s guilt” I’d long harbored. Throughout my time in ministry, I had struggled with self-loathing; hating myself often. As much as I had tried to obey the seemingly-simple command to treat my body and mind as His temple, I couldn’t. I questioned if I really did love God when I kept choosing sin despite all my effort (spoiler alert: I now realize that neurological and biological disfunction in the brain is not sin).
“Could God’s people be so focused on doing that they trample the hurting? For how long had I been one of those people? ”
While leaving ministry allowed me to view my identity apart from my vocation, it also compounded the pain–the guilt of living like a fraud and finally “flunking out.”
It also compounded my distrust in people, including myself. Could God’s people be so focused on doing that they trample the hurting? For how long had I been one of those people?
No One Told Me I’d Feel So Empty
I kept waiting for the moment when I would miss working, but for half a year, that moment didn’t come. I couldn’t fathom entering a workplace again. No thanks for COVID’s impact, I felt drained and, more specifically, drained by ministry and its system that confuses people like myself–people who are frantically trying to serve with broken cisterns.
I adore my former workplace and coworkers; they supported me well. Many still do. But my exodus left me feeling utterly alone and ashamed. In my frustration, I saw myself as nothing but a burden. A liability. A waste.
I wondered if no one had stepped in to help me because they really thought I was fine. Or was it because I was too much of a nuisance? Too shameful?
I still wonder that, and while the thoughts aren’t as pervasive, they still come; they still cause me to lament the ways I falsely represented God and a “healthy” lifestyle to others who looked up to me. And despite what I know about Jesus’ resurrection, those thoughts still evoke a desire to punish myself until someone forgives me.
What I’ve Learned about Shame
Once I re-entered the world after six months away, I was unsure how to handle the deep inadequacy I carried. I navigated life with the poise of a newborn giraffe–stumbling through the day, often collapsing in a pile of clean laundry and tears by mid-afternoon. And as daunting as life was, figuring out how to relate to God and His people–especially as this new person I was becoming–seemed impossible.
I didn’t expect the Sunday morning panic attacks or the spontaneous tears when someone said hello before church. I didn’t understand why I felt “on guard” in church settings or scared to pray aloud. I started falling behind on emails and text messages (and subsequently judging myself because “it’s not normal to have 78 unread texts!!!). I even found myself in a spiral of anxiety when someone would ask me what the Lord was teaching me.
In time, some of those triggers have abated. Others have not. The shame and severe anxiety have persisted.
I’ve spoken with very few people about this struggle. For starters, discretion is important to me, and I want to be respectful as I reflect on my experiences. Secondly, I didn’t know many people (if any) who’d walked a similar road. I wish I’d been braver and asked for help. I also wish there was a support group for Christians who are…
- Disenfranchised with the Church (just as much with their personal failure as with the corporate stiffness of ministry)
- Untangling from their own toxic, works-based image and identity
- Healing from trauma that they didn’t recognize for decades because, “duh, everyone goes through stuff so just forgive and move on”
Some days, I’m still perplexed about where I am, or where I’m going. Shame is a powerful beast. I sometimes find myself ceding to what I conflated (combined) with godly conviction for decades of my life. And then I pause…
I pause because panic sweeps in with memories of every wrong I’ve done. I pause because I remember that two years ago, I had a life that appeared nearly perfect on the outside. I pause because for most of my life, I’ve never been able to do anything but keep going.
Pausing, reflecting, writing, sharing–those are actions that can leave me wounded. Do you know what else they do, though? They wound shame.
Who Is God to Me?
When my husband and I made a cross-country move last year, I didn’t anticipate how often I would feel obligated to explain why we’d moved. But, in varying degrees of detail, I found myself explaining my story to others. It wasn’t until I froze midsentence a few months ago–stumbling over how to explain why I’d been in Denver for half of 2022–that it dawned on me: this wasn’t a part of my testimony I felt good about.
As you may notice, I’ve gone quite silent on my website over the past nine months. I’ve felt quite empty, powerless, and fraudulent; not willing to broach a subject that pained me so much. Have I failed God? Who am I as a writer? How can I keep writing after I hurt people I love, leaving a church staff in the lurch? Is my life nothing but a lie?
I feel like I did it all wrong. But I believe that I didn’t.
The difference between those two sentences is the difference between Hannah five or six months ago and Hannah today. The latter is learning that layers of lies take time to untangle, and it starts with the choice to lean into the truth.
The truth is that I went months without being able to open my Bible or truly worship in church. I spent hours staring at the wall working up the courage to pray. Thankfully, the greater truth is that the Spirit is at work within those who believe. As I write this, the lies are beginning to unravel and I am rediscovering God.
Healing Takes a While
A few months ago–just as I was starting to realize I needed to address my spiritual crisis–a volunteer ministry opportunity went sour. A chance to honor the Lord with my giftings led to a resurgence of frustration and shame. Feeling used and subsequently disregarded, I burrowed back into myself. Who was God when His people failed me? Who was I that I was too much for other Christians?
We can pretend I surfaced after a day and some good Jesus time. But I actually stayed in that place until, well, a week or two ago.
It’s an easy place to run to when years of life experience teach us we are unwanted and inadequate. Thus, I plunged recklessly into those dark emotions. While I was never beyond the Lord’s grasp, the Holy Spirit must have given me a pretty long tether, because I raged and thrashed in every way I never had.
I’m not all better (and if someone can define what the heck that actually looks like, be my guest). Nonetheless, here’s what I’ve learned about God and about me:
- I would d rather start at square one with Jesus than climb my own rubble. I tried that; it nearly killed me.
- I may be afraid of my long-repressed anger, but God is not. He welcomes our emotions. He knows that emotions aren’t “recyclable,” and that if we stuff them down, well: they just begin to reek.
- Healing takes time, but it gives time too–time that was spent frozen in fear will give way to moments of truly living.
My Message to You
The hardest thing I’m learning right now is that God isn’t ashamed of me.
Would you dare to believe that He isn’t ashamed of you either? It’s true. Sure, I bet it pleases Him when we reach the heights of joy in this life. I know I’ve felt the Lord’s pleasure during those times. What I wish I’d seen earlier, however, is that He’s not looking for a stunning resume. Maybe He’s longing for my heart, complexities and all.
Maybe God doesn’t look at me differently than He did when I worked for a church. Maybe He values my heart attitude more than my church attendance. Maybe He knew it would come to this, even during those years of poised perfection.
Maybe somewhere during this freefall of a year, the Lord saw my despair and set me free.
What I Know to Be True
If you’ve read along this far, kudos to you! I am honored that you would want to hear what I have to say. Truthfully, I feel like this is a bit of a mess, but I’m resisting the urge to go back and further organize my thoughts. The bumpy cadence and paragraph structure is a nod to humanity; an ode to the flavor of chaos that is life.
Perhaps you’ll realize, like I have, that this downfall is a remarkable grace gifted by a God who loves you.
It’s also a reminder to you that you are welcome just as you are, despite what experience or individuals like myself have demonstrated.
I haven’t been the person whose proclaimed that message, and that is one of the reasons I feel so strongly about sharing this message. The person I pretended to be was not only false, she was incredibly unwell–spiritually, physically, mentally, and emotionally. I need you to know that living is not easy, especially when we choose to ask the hard questions about our existence and identity. I need you to know that you aren’t the only one who feels shame. For whatever reason, we all carry a bit of shame and it’s only when we expose the bulging weight that we can lighten the load, bit by bit.
Maybe God doesn’t look at me differently than He did when I worked for a church. Maybe He values my heart attitude more than my church attendance.
So let a little curiosity seep in to your heart today… perhaps you aren’t a failure. Perhaps you’ve “fallen” for such a time as this (Esther 4:14). And perhaps you’ll realize, like I have, that the downfall is a remarkable grace gifted by a God who loves you.
If that’s all you remember from my words, that’s enough.
Love,
Hannah
A Grateful Life Lived 
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