Tag: church

Faith and Mental Health, Part Two: The Tenderness of Hope

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A solitary figure walks a winding path toward the sunrise, symbolising hope and new creation.

Faith does not erase suffering. If Part I was about honesty in the ache, Part II is about the slow tenderness of hope. Not a hope that denies pain or covers it up, but one that sits with it, honours it, and still dares to believe that God has not let go.

Picking Up the Thread

The Bible’s honesty about despair is matched by its honesty about hope. The psalms of lament often end in trust, but never without tears first. Job ends not with tidy answers but with God showing up in the whirlwind (Job 38). Jesus rises from the grave, but he rises with scars still on his body (John 20:27).

Hope in the Christian story is not neat or fast. It is not the removal of pain but the presence of God within it. Hope does not compete with suffering. It accompanies it. And it points forward, to new creation.

God With Us in Weakness

At the centre of Christian faith is the incarnation. God chose to take on human flesh, not in power but in vulnerability.

The Gospels give us a Jesus who is weary by a well (John 4:6), who weeps at the tomb of a friend (John 11:35), who withdraws to pray alone when the crowds overwhelm him (Luke 5:16), and who sweats blood in Gethsemane under the weight of anguish (Luke 22:44).

This is not a God who condemns weakness. This is a God who enters it.

Paul writes that the Spirit intercedes for us with groans too deep for words (Romans 8:26). When you cannot pray, when the silence feels unbearable, the Spirit is praying in you. When words fail, God does not. This is the same Spirit who raised Jesus from the dead and who will one day give life to our mortal bodies (Romans 8:11).

The Slow Dawn of Healing

Psychology tells us that healing is rarely instant. Trauma does not evaporate. Depression is not prayed away. Anxiety does not dissolve just because we will it to.

Healing takes time, care, and patience. It takes therapy, medication, a safe community, and embodied practices that help the body and mind recover. None of these are signs of weak faith. They are means of grace.

Taking your medication can be sacramental. Going to therapy can be more nourishing than confession. Choosing to keep breathing, even when you want to disappear, can be holy. These are not second-rate versions of spirituality. They are faith lived in the grit of real life.

Theologian Jürgen Moltmann once wrote that hope is not an escape from reality, but the strength to endure reality because God’s future has already broken into it. Healing is like that too. Slow. Patient. Painful at times. But still a witness that God is not done.

The Mystic Thread

Mystics spoke of hope not as triumph but as trust in darkness. St John of the Cross called the “dark night of the soul” not abandonment but the hidden place where God works most deeply. It is love stripped bare, learning to cling when nothing else remains. Hope is not the quick confidence that all will be fixed, but the quiet courage to stay when nothing makes sense, trusting that God is near even when unseen.

Hope, in this sense, is not shallow optimism. It is not pretending. It is a quiet trust that even in silence, even in sorrow, God is present. It is a trust that the story is moving toward new creation, when God will wipe away every tear (Revelation 21:4).

A Community of Sanctuary

The church at its best is not a hall of triumph but a sanctuary for the weary. A place where people can say “I’m not okay” and still belong.

Too often, churches have offered slogans instead of presence and belonging. But the call of the church is to be the body of Christ, scarred, vulnerable, open to touch. The early church carried one another’s burdens (Galatians 6:2). They wept together. They broke bread together. They bore witness to a kingdom where the wounded are not cast out but welcomed.

What would it look like if our churches became places where mental health struggles were not seen as shameful but as part of what it means to be human? Places where therapy is affirmed, medication is blessed, and silence is held without fear?

The world does not need churches that tell people to “pray harder.” It needs communities that sit in the dark and wait together for dawn, trusting that God and his kingdom is already breaking in.

The Shape of Hope

So what does hope look like when you live with depression, anxiety, or the weight of trauma?

Hope is not always joy. Sometimes it is simply endurance. Sometimes it is the quiet conviction that your story is not over. Sometimes it is the love of a friend who does not leave. Sometimes it is the courage to wake up to another day.

Hope is the scarred Christ showing up in the locked room to say, “Peace be with you” (John 20:19). Hope is the Spirit praying when you cannot. Hope is the Father who does not break a bruised reed or snuff out a smouldering wick (Isaiah 42:3).

Hope is tenderness. It does not rush. It does not shame. It does not demand. It whispers: you are not alone. And one day, this tenderness will give way to joy when creation itself is made new.

A Closing Blessing

So, may you know that your sorrow is not a failure.

May you find a small mercy in the day, even if it is only breath.

May the silence not undo you, but hold you,

until you can trust that God is still there.

May hope come like a slow dawn,

not rushing, not demanding, but faithful.

And may you remember that the One who carries scars

carries you, too,

into the promise of all things made new.

Books for the Road: Reading Through Doubt and Deconstruction

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You’re not alone if you’re wrestling with doubt, rethinking your faith, or wandering the winding path of deconstruction. This journey is confusing, lonely, and sometimes even terrifying for many. But you’re not the first to walk it—and you don’t have to do it without companions.

Here are a few books that have offered wisdom, empathy, and even a little light in the dark for fellow pilgrims:

1. Faith After Doubt — Brian McLaren

McLaren gently reframes doubt not as the enemy of faith but as part of its maturation. If you’re deconstructing, this book offers a four-stage model that validates your questions and invites you to move forward with integrity.

2. The Audacity of Peace: Invisible Jesus in a Violent World — Scot McKnight

McKnight confronts the disconnect between the real Jesus and the distorted versions we often inherit. Rooted in peacemaking and justice, this book invites us to rediscover the counter-cultural Christ that many feared didn’t exist. It’s a bold, timely read for those burned by power-shaped religion.

3. The Sin of Certainty — Peter Enns

If “believing the right things” no longer works for you, Enns offers a different take: trust. Drawing from Scripture and his own story, he makes space for a more dynamic, less rigid faith.

4. When Everything’s on Fire — Brian Zahnd

I cannot recommend this book enough. Zahnd speaks to the crisis many face when faith burns down. But rather than leaving it all behind, he makes a passionate case for a deeper, post-deconstruction Christianity rooted in mystery and beauty.

5. Perhaps: Reclaiming the Space Between Doubt and Dogmatism — Josh McNall

McNall argues that we don’t need to choose between rigid certainty and total scepticism. Perhaps is a compelling call to humility and hope—a way to hold convictions while remaining open to mystery.

This isn’t a map—but maybe it’s a stack of trail notes passed from one wanderer to another.

I’d love to hear if you’ve read something that helped you stay in the wrestle.

Following the Winter Sun

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There are seasons in the soul when the warmth of faith feels far off. The glow that once saturated your days with clarity fades into a pale shimmer low on the horizon. These are the winter months of discipleship—when following Jesus feels less like dancing in the light and more like trudging through shadows.

And yet, the call remains.

Christ does not promise us eternal summer (at least in this life). His road leads through the wilderness (Mark 1:12–13), through the long dark of Gethsemane (Luke 22:44), and through the silence between Good Friday and Easter morning. “Take up your cross,” He said (Luke 9:23), not your picnic blanket. Faith becomes less about the brilliance of belief and more about the posture of trust, especially when nothing feels certain.

To follow the winter sun is to trace faint light when it offers no heat. It is to remember that the sun is still rising, even when its warmth is hidden. In the same way, to follow Jesus in seasons of silence, sorrow, or struggle is to walk with Him not for what He gives, but for who He is.

“Your word is a lamp to my feet and a light to my path” (Psalm 119:105). But notice—lamps in ancient times did not flood the road. They lit only the next few steps. God rarely overwhelms us with certainty. Instead, He invites us to walk in rhythm with Him, step by unsure step.

The winter sun teaches us that light is still light, even when dim. Christ is still Christ, even when His presence feels like absence. And sometimes, that kind of trust is the holiest kind.

I have followed the sun
when it was warm,
when it laid itself across my back
like a blessing.
When it sang golden through the leaves
and made holiness seem easy.

But now—
it is winter.
The sun slips sideways
into low skies and long shadows.
It does not warm,
only glimmers.
And still—
I follow.

I do not follow because it is bright,
but because I have seen it rise
from behind the hills
too many mornings
to doubt its return.

I do not follow because I feel it—
most days, I don’t.
I follow because
once, it found me
when I wasn’t looking.
And that kind of finding
is hard to forget.

So I walk
with a stiff wind against my chest,
shoes wet with old rain,
the path uncertain—
but I walk.

Because some loves
are not about feeling
but choosing.

And some mornings
are not about light
but trust.

And I trust
that even this cold sun
knows where it’s going—
and that it is worth
following.

Small Oomphs

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“Earth is so thick with divine possibility that it is a wonder we can walk anywhere without cracking our shins on altars.” – Barbara Brown Taylor


In many traditions, sacraments are the means by which God’s saving grace is poured out: baptism, communion, and Scripture. For some, they also include marriage, confession, ordination, and anointing the sick. These acts are official, sacred, and ritualised. They are meant to tether us to the divine.

But for many of us, church has lost its oomph.

We’re between churches, clinging by a thread, or slowly, quietly slipping out the side door, trying to find God, ourselves, and the world again. We’re not hostile; we’re just tired. Church has become a place of confusion—a lifeless Christianity where we feel like we’re always doing something wrong. We get into trouble when we go, and we get into trouble when we don’t.

And so we drift. Or maybe… we walk.

I see you — not lost, but loosed,
from pew and creed, from tight-bound truths.
Your prayers now rise through silent skies,
no hymnal hand to harmonise.

You carry ash where fire once burned,
a sacred ache in lessons unlearned.
And still, you bless the broken road,
each doubt a stone, each step a psalm.

No steeple shadows where you stand,
yet grace still gathers in your hands.
You’re not alone in holy strife —
this, too, is part of a faithful life.


And yet, grace is not confined to altar rails or sanctuary walls. Sometimes, it greets us in the smallest of things — the steam rising from a morning coffee, the comfort of a well-worn novel, the warmth of soup shared on a cold day. These aren’t just distractions or creature comforts. They can be sacraments too, if we have eyes to see.

1 Corinthians 10:31 — “So whether you eat or drink or whatever you do, do it all for the glory of God.”

To make a cup of coffee with care, to read a story that stirs your soul, to laugh at the dinner table with someone you love — these are not lesser spiritual moments. They are the liturgies of the everyday, the sacred stitched into the ordinary. In these acts, God is not distant. He is here, humming quietly beneath the noise, waiting to be noticed.

Psalm 19:1–3 — “The heavens declare the glory of God… day after day they pour forth speech; night after night they reveal knowledge. They have no speech… yet their voice goes out into all the earth.“

In these wandering years, it’s easy to feel the absence of God — to feel the numbness, the long ache. It might take years before you feel whole again, before you even consider walking into a church.

Maybe you never will.

But as you walk the broken road, remember—

“Taste and see that the Lord is good.” (Psalm 34:8)

Even here.
Even now.

In the small things.

Every Church Needs a Nerdy Mystic

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I once heard Tim Mackie from the Bible Project say that every (local) church needs a bible nerd. I couldn’t agree more. I’ve been a Christian for over a decade and around several churches. Usually, a church falls into one of two categories. They’re either highly focused on worship songs and emotionally connecting to God via the Spirit (both good things), or they’re so Scripture-focused (preaching and teaching the Bible) that Christianity becomes an intellectual ascent to a set of doctrines (again – doctrine is a great thing – I have a degree in it). The problem is that without the Scriptures shaping the local church, it becomes chaotic, messy, and unhinged. Without prayer, music, emotions, and practising the presence of God, the church becomes stale, another club to belong to, and lacks life. I will never go to another church that preaches well but never lingers in God’s presence. I will never go to a church that throws out the Book in favour of fever and emotionalism. Getting the balance right is, of course, challenging. We’re not perfect. But if I have to listen to another TED talk at church just because they have better music, I may as well stay home. If I have to endure another 1-2 hrs of dreariness to hear people take the teaching of Scripture seriously, I may as well listen to podcasts and throw on some Hillsong. Why can’t we have the best of both worlds? Why can’t we have excellent bible teaching (not just surface-level rubbish – meaty, juicy, heartfelt teaching of Scripture), great music, prayer, emotional responses, and God’s presence? Well, maybe every church needs a nerdy mystic (a scary word, I know).

A bible nerd mystic: noun – a person who froths and geeks out over Scripture while lingering in God’s presence and embracing the mystery and transcendence.

It seems that the Bible’s people had the best of both worlds:

Moses was a mystic and loved to teach. He performed miracles (Exodus 4:3-4, 6-7, 30; 7:14-25; 8-12; 14:21-31; 15:22-25; 17:1-13; Numbers 12:13-15; 16:44-50), he taught Torah (Exodus 18:20; 24:3-4; Deuteronomy 4:1-2; 5:1; 6:1-9; 31:9-13), and he frequently spends time in the presence of God (Exodus 3:1-6; 24:12-18; 33:7-11; 34:28).

Jesus was both a massive Bible nerd and a mystic (Jesus is God, so that’s kinda cheating). On the one hand, he went around healing people (Matthew 8:2-3, 5-13, 14-15; 9:20-22, 27-31; 12:9-13) and casting out demons (Luke 4:33-37, 41; 8:2, 26-39). We have Jesus going into the wilderness (Mattew 4:1-11) and into isolated places in nature to recalibrate and pray (Matthew 14:13, Mark 6:31-32, Luke 6:12, John 6:15), and even situations where Jesus hears the voice of God (Matthew 3:16-17; 17:5 John12:28-30). Yet, on the other hand, we have Jesus the rabbi clearly nerding out over Scripture and interpreting it (Matthew 4:4, 7, 10; 21:13; 22:37-40; Luke 4:18-19) and teaching people around him (Matthew 5-7; 13:1-9; Mark 1:21-22; 4:1-2; 6:34; Luke 5:3).

Paul had a list of similar experiences. He healed (Acts 14:8-10; 19:11-12; 20:9-12; 28:8-9) and cast out demons (Acts 16:16-18). He went into the wilderness to recalibrate his thinking (Galatians 1:17-18) and had mystical experiences and visions hearing God’s voice (Acts 9:3-6; 22:17-21; 23:11; 2 Corinthians 12:2-4). Yet Paul still taught the scriptures (Acts 17:2-3; 18:4-5; 19:8-10; 20:7-12) and thought they were important enough for others to continue teaching (2 Timothy 3:16-17).

We don’t need to trade one for the other. Our churches should be filled with a sense of both worlds. We can have the tangible expressions of God’s presence and the deep meat of teaching the Scriptures. One should only be happening with the other, yet they often don’t.