Tag: Jesus

Moving Beyond Biblical Literalism

Camaron G. W. SmithLeave a comment

The Bible Is Not One Kind of Book

“The Bible was not meant to be read merely literally. It was meant to be read literarily.”

For many Christians, ‘taking the Bible literally’ is often seen as a sign of faithfulness. Questioning a literal reading can feel like doubting Scripture itself. But this idea quickly runs into trouble, since the Bible is not just one type of book, written in a single style or for a single purpose.

The Bible is a library. Even the word itself reflects this reality. It comes from the Greek phrase ta biblia, meaning “the books”. From the beginning, Scripture was understood as a collection of writings spanning centuries, cultures, authors, and literary styles.

Within its pages, we find poetry, wisdom literature, parables, prophecy, apocalypse, genealogy, narrative, law, and song. Some passages are historical. Others are metaphorical. Some invite reflection. Others provoke imagination.

Psalmists speak of rivers clapping their hands and mountains singing for joy (Psalm 98:8). Jesus says faith can move mountains (Matthew 17:20). Revelation describes beasts rising from the sea. Few Christians insist these are literal descriptions. We instinctively recognise genre.

The issue is not whether the Bible contains truth, but what kind of truth a passage is communicating.

Modern readers often approach Scripture with assumptions shaped more by post-Enlightenment Western culture than the ancient world. We expect precision, science, and factual reporting. Ancient authors were often doing something else.

Old Testament scholar John H. Walton argues that modern readers ask questions that the biblical authors were not trying to answer. These texts are often concerned with meaning, purpose, and theology more than technical description.

This becomes especially clear in books like Genesis, Job, the Psalms, and Revelation. They are not merely reporting information. They are inviting readers into reflection, wisdom, and participation in the story of God.

As Tremper Longman III notes, responsible interpretation requires attention to genre. Different kinds of texts communicate differently.

“Good interpretation asks not just what happened, but what the text is trying to say.”

Literalism, in its modern form, often flattens Scripture into something it never claims to be: a single genre document written with modern expectations in mind.

Biblical Interpretation Has Never Been As Simple As We Imagine

“Modern biblical literalism is often a reaction to modernity, not a reflection of historic Christianity.”

One of the great myths surrounding biblical literalism is that Christians have always interpreted Scripture in a single, straightforward way. History tells a different story.

From early Judaism through the Church, Scripture has been read with depth and diversity. Ancient interpreters saw layers of meaning. A passage could be historical and symbolic at the same time. Jewish traditions long before Christianity engaged Scripture through poetry, symbolism, and pattern. This continued into the early Church.

Origen argued that some passages were designed to push readers beyond surface meaning (On First Principles). Augustine warned against rigid readings that ignored reason and reality (The Literal Meaning of Genesis), even cautioning Christians against making foolish claims about the natural world.

Even the Reformers did not read Scripture the way modern literalism often assumes.

Martin Luther read the Song of Songs not simply as romance, but as a picture of Christ and the Church (Lectures on the Song of Songs). John Calvin argued that God accommodates revelation to human understanding (Commentary on Genesis). He noted that Moses described the world in ways people could grasp, not as a scientific explanation. When Scripture speaks of the sun rising, it uses ordinary human language, not astronomy.

For much of Christian history, interpretation included multiple layers:

  • literal
  • allegorical
  • moral
  • anagogical

Scripture was seen as capable of communicating on multiple levels at once.

This does not mean agreement. It means diversity has always existed.

“There has never been a single, universally agreed ‘plain reading’ of Scripture.”

Modern literalism often emerges as a response to scepticism, treating the Bible like a document that must defend itself through precision and certainty. Ironically, this imposes modern expectations onto ancient texts.

Even Jesus and the New Testament Do Not Read Scripture Hyperliterally

The New Testament authors often interpret the Old Testament in ways that do not fit modern literalism. This is not because they take Scripture lightly, but because they take it deeply. They see patterns, symbols, and trajectories pointing toward Christ.

Jesus regularly moves beyond surface-level readings. When he speaks of destroying the temple (John 2:19), his listeners think in physical terms. John tells us he meant his body. Literalism misses the point. Jesus also teaches through hyperbole and metaphor: mountains moving, camels through needles, eyes torn out. These are not instructions. They are invitations to deeper reflection.

Paul continues this pattern. He reads Sarah and Hagar allegorically (Galatians 4), and describes Christ as the rock in the wilderness (1 Corinthians 10:4). These are theological readings, not literal ones.

Matthew does the same. He applies Hosea 11:1 to Jesus, even though Hosea is clearly referring to Israel’s past. Matthew reads typologically, presenting Jesus as embodying Israel’s story. He does something similar with Jeremiah 31:15, applying it to Herod’s massacre (Matthew 2:17-18). This also echoes the Exodus narrative, where Pharaoh kills Hebrew children.

Matthew is not just quoting predictions. He is drawing patterns.

  • Israel suffers.
  • Israel comes out of Egypt.
  • Israel enters the wilderness.

Jesus relives this story.

This was normal in the Jewish world of the first century. The issue is not seriousness. It is recognising the kind of reading Scripture invites.

Literalism Often Creates Fragile Faith

“Many people do not lose faith because Scripture failed, but because their framework for reading it could not hold.”

Modern literalism often tries to protect Scripture but ends up weakening faith. When every passage must function as science, history, or precision, the system becomes fragile. One challenge can feel like everything is collapsing. This is especially clear with Genesis.

Many were taught it must function as a scientific account of origins. When that clashes with modern knowledge, people feel forced to choose between reality and faith. But this is a false choice created by the framework, not the Bible.

John H. Walton argues that Genesis is concerned with function and meaning, not scientific mechanics.

The same issue appears elsewhere:

  • Proverbs are treated as guarantees.
  • Revelation is treated as a predictive code.
  • Poetry is treated as science.

Literalism often shrinks Scripture, and when cracks appear, people feel betrayed. A richer understanding of Scripture does not weaken faith. It strengthens it.

When Literalism Becomes Harmful

“The question is not just what a text says, but what it produces.”

The problem with literalism is not just intellectual. It can become harmful. Throughout history, rigid interpretations have been used to justify abuse, control, and injustice. This is not a problem with Scripture itself, but with how it is read. A flat reading struggles with the Bible’s movement and development. Scripture is a story moving toward Christ.

Jesus consistently resists rigid interpretation. He prioritises mercy, restoration, and human flourishing. “The Sabbath was made for man” (Mark 2:27). In the Sermon on the Mount, he deepens the law beyond behaviour into the heart. Literalism can confuse faithfulness with control. Texts become tools of enforcement rather than tools of transformation.

This is especially damaging around:

  • shame
  • power
  • mental health
  • fear

“People are often taught how to be afraid of being wrong, rather than how to love God.”

This raises a deeper question:

What kind of person is this interpretation producing?

Scripture points to Christ. And Christ becomes the lens through which Scripture is read. The goal is not information, but transformation.

Toward A Better Way Of Reading Scripture

“Scripture is not just meant to be understood. It is meant to form us.”

Rejecting literalism does not mean abandoning Scripture. It means reading it more faithfully. The Bible is not a modern textbook. It is a collection of human texts through which God reveals himself.

Reading well requires asking:

  • What kind of text is this?
  • What is it doing?
  • How would it have been understood?
  • How does it point to Christ?

It requires humility. No one reads Scripture neutrally. It requires comfort with mystery. The Bible does not offer simplistic certainty. It invites wisdom, trust, and transformation. Historically, Scripture was meditated on, not just analysed.

A healthy reading holds together:

  • literary awareness
  • context
  • theology
  • community
  • formation

Its poetry deepens. Its tension becomes meaningful. Its humanity becomes part of its beauty. The Bible was never meant to produce certainty alone. It was meant to form a people capable of love, wisdom, justice, and communion with God. And perhaps that is not a departure from Scripture, but a return to reading it well.

What Is Religious Trauma?

Camaron G. W. SmithLeave a comment

In many Christian communities, trauma and pain are often overlooked or explained away with spiritual answers. Churches struggle to support people whose wounds do not fit into familiar theological boxes. Even now, in 2026, common mental health issues like depression and anxiety are sometimes dismissed as a lack of faith, not praying enough, or not believing the right things.

The National Church Life Survey (NCLS) found in 2021 that in Australia, one in five Christians faced mental health problems like anxiety and depression. Of those, 38% said their church did not know they were struggling. The study does not explain why, but from my own experience and conversations with others, I can guess some reasons. People may fear being judged or dismissed, worry their struggles will be given only spiritual answers, or feel afraid of being isolated and losing friendships. Some even fear losing their ‘salvation,’ especially if leaders see their struggles as a problem.

What is even more concerning is that these mental health issues are only part of a bigger problem. Stories of religious trauma and years of spiritual, institutional, and sometimes even physical or sexual abuse are becoming more widely known. From Mars Hill to Bethel, there are many accounts of church leaders using their power to manipulate or harm people in vulnerable situations. Sometimes it feels so overwhelming that I want to ignore it all and disconnect from social media. This reality can be discouraging, leading many people to feel disillusioned, question their faith, or even leave the Church. Clearly, we are not doing a good job of representing Jesus.

In this post, I want to make room for us to think about religious trauma and the misuse of power in our churches. I hope to define it, name it, speak against it, and share some ideas for a better way forward.

Not Everything That Hurts Is Trauma: Religious Trauma Defined

I once heard someone say that life is a series of traumatic events we learn to manage. For many of us, that feels true. Some people go through more pain and hardship in a few years than others do in a lifetime. Still, not every hard experience in life or church is trauma. The word ‘trauma’ has become a buzzword lately and is often used for any distressing or uncomfortable experience. Using it this way can actually take away from the real struggles of people who live with true trauma every day.

This is also true when we look at the Church. Christianity is meant to change us. It challenges us, reveals our flaws, and helps us grow. This kind of transformation is often uncomfortable and sometimes painful, as we are shaped into the likeness of Jesus (John 15:1-5; Romans 8:29). But trauma is something very different. Here is how I define religious trauma:

Religious or spiritual trauma is psychological, emotional, relational, or physical harm that is caused, intensified, or sustained within a religious context, particularly when people in positions of spiritual authority or influence misuse their power, or use God, Scripture, or their role in ways that distort truth, override personal agency, or damage a person’s sense of self, safety, or relationship with God.

Questions to Ask Yourself

With this definition in mind, we can ask ourselves some pressing questions to help us discern the difference between something that looks to transform us and something that causes genuine trauma.

Honesty

  • Do I feel safe saying what I actually think and feel here?
  • What would happen if I said something that disagreed?
  • Am I editing myself to avoid consequences?

Pressure

  • Do I feel free to take time and think, or do I feel pushed to respond quickly?
  • Would saying “no” feel genuinely acceptable, or risky?
  • Do I feel like I am being led, or steered?

Fear

  • Am I more motivated by love and trust, or by fear of getting it wrong?
  • Do I worry about disappointing God or specific people in a way that feels heavy or constant?
  • Do I feel watched, evaluated, or measured?

Clarity

  • Do I understand what is being asked of me, or do I feel confused but still expected to comply?
  • Am I allowed to question and process, or is that discouraged?

Authority

  • Can leaders be questioned without tension or fallout?
  • Do certain people carry a weight that makes disagreement feel unsafe?
  • Is “God said…” or “the Bible says” ever used in a way that shuts down conversation?

Sense of Self

  • Do I feel more grounded in who I am, or more unsure of myself over time?
  • Am I becoming more honest and whole, or more careful and guarded?
  • Do I feel like I am growing or shrinking?

Relationship with God

  • Do I experience God as someone I can trust, or someone I need to manage?
  • When I struggle, do I move toward God, or pull back?
  • Is my spiritual life marked more by connection or pressure?

Pattern Over Time

  • Is this an occasional moment of challenge, or a repeated pattern?
  • Am I becoming more alive, or more exhausted?
  • Do I feel freer now than I did before, or less?

A Final Question

If I were completely honest about my experience here, would I feel safe, or would something in me expect consequences?

My Experience

In the early years of my faith, I was part of a church, and I use that term loosely, that placed a heavy emphasis on spiritual warfare. It was the kind of environment where there seemed to be a demon behind every bush. There was a strong us-versus-them mentality. We knew where the evil was. Others didn’t. At the time, it felt intense, even meaningful. However, over time, there were moments that stayed with me.

I remember being told not to read certain books or listen to particular teachers because they were spiritually dangerous. Even things like clothing, music, and movies were treated with suspicion. I have a vivid memory of my mum buying me a simple leather ankle bracelet from a market. I wore it without thinking much of it. Not long after, I was told it carried something spiritually attached to it. A curse. Something only certain people in the group could discern. I was told I needed to cut it off.

So I did. I was young. I trusted the people around me. But even then, something in me felt uneasy. Over time, that environment began to shape what was happening inside me.

I felt constant pressure to perform, to be a certain kind of Christian. I became hyperaware of everything, believing evil could attach itself to ordinary things.

It was exhausting and fear-based. Looking back, some in the community genuinely believed they could see demons or curses at work in everyday things, believing their spiritual insight was unique.

Was it group delusion?
Was it control from leadership?
Was it a mix of both?

I am still not entirely sure. What I do know is this: I began to see the impact it was having on people. I watched others get hurt and leave. Something in me, perhaps a stubborn resistance to control (I’ve always been a contrarian at heart), began to push back. Eventually, I decided to leave.

I remember walking along the beach with my best friend. We had both been deeply involved in the same group. And I told him that the moment I decided to step away, I felt something I had not felt since first becoming a Christian. Freedom. And I really did.

Common Examples of Spiritual Abuse

To name these patterns more explicitly, spiritual abuse in Christian settings often looks like:

  • Using God or Scripture (particularly Scripture misread and taught out of context) to control behaviour.
  • Discouraging questions or framing doubt as rebellion.
  • Leaders who cannot be challenged or held accountable (this happens when there is unhealthy leadership in the local church).
  • Fear-based teaching about hell or judgment used to drive compliance.
  • Pressuring obedience over personal conscience (Romans 14:5).
  • Shaming or silencing people who raise concerns.
  • Equating loyalty to leadership with loyalty to God.
  • Creating environments where leaving results in relational or spiritual threat and isolation.

None of these, on their own, always constitute trauma. But sustained exposure to these patterns can.

The Role of Power

Where there is trauma, there is usually an imbalance of power. Not always overt power. Sometimes it is subtle. Cultural. Assumed. It is usually found in a leader who cannot be questioned. A community where leaving means losing your salvation, your friends, and your family. A system where blind obedience is equated with faithfulness and being a part of the ‘in crowd’.

In those environments, the ability to say no is removed and twisted so that the person feels they’re not giving their all to God. And that is important to understand, because healthy spiritual formation always preserves agency. It invites. It does not coerce. It calls, but it does not control.

When a person cannot disagree, say no, or question without consequence, something is wrong.

What It Does to a Person

These environments don’t just shape beliefs. They reshape a person’s inner world.

Psychologically, it can look like:

  • Persistent anxiety.
  • Chronic guilt or shame.
  • Hyper awareness of failure.
  • Seasons (even years or entire lifetimes) of depression and anxiety.
  • Isolation from community, friends, and relationships.
  • Grief.
  • Exhaustion and burnout.

Spiritually, it can look like:

  • A constant sense of fear of God and separation rather than trust
  • Difficulty praying without tension
  • Confusion about what God is actually like

Relationally, it often leads to:

  • Loss of community
  • Fractured relationships
  • Difficulty trusting others

And perhaps most disorienting of all, it can destabilise identity. If your sense of self was formed within that system, leaving it can feel like losing yourself entirely (Herman, Trauma and Recovery).

People struggling with these things are often lost, unsure where to find help. They stop attending church. They stop reading Scripture. They stop praying. They isolate themselves, exhausted and unable to properly process what they’re experiencing.

To everyone else, especially those in positions of power and authority, the person struggling is seen as unspiritual, faithless, and rebellious. The answer to their problems, after all, must be prayer, faith, and church.

A Theological Line We Cannot Ignore

At this point, the question becomes theological, not just psychological. What is the fruit? The New Testament gives us a remarkably clear vision of what life in Christ produces.

Life in Christ looks like freedom. Not just freedom from guilt, but freedom from the powers that enslave us (Galatians 5:1; Romans 6:6–7). It looks like a life marked by love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, generosity, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control (Galatians 5:22–23). Not as ideals we strive to perform, but as fruit that grows as we are united to Christ. It looks like a renewed mind. A way of seeing the world that is no longer shaped by fear, anxiety, or cultural pressure, but by the truth and character of God (Romans 12:2). It looks like becoming more fully human. Being conformed to the image of Christ (Romans 8:29), who reveals what true humanity actually is. It looks like love that is patient and kind, not easily angered, not keeping record of wrongs, rejoicing in truth (1 Corinthians 13:4–7). It looks like a community where burdens are shared, where people confess, forgive, and restore one another (Galatians 6:2; James 5:16). It looks like peace replacing hostility, reconciliation overcoming division, and walls of separation being torn down (Ephesians 2:14–16). It looks like boldness without fear. Confidence to draw near to God, not shrink back from Him (Hebrews 4:16; 1 John 4:18). It looks like life. Not just survival, but participation in the life of God Himself. A life that is described as abundant (John 10:10).

So when we ask what a Christian environment should produce, the answer is not unclear. It should produce people who are becoming more alive, more whole, more grounded in love, and more free. If the consistent outcome of a system is fear, control, and shame, we have to pause. Not everything that uses the language of Scripture reflects the heart of God. This is not a new problem.

In the Gospels, even Satan quotes Scripture. In the wilderness, he uses the words of God in an attempt to distort the will of God (Matthew 4:1–11). The issue is not whether Scripture is being used, but how it is being used, and to what end. And this pattern has not stayed confined to the pages of the Bible.

Throughout church history, there have been seasons where theology, grounded in biblical language, has been used to justify control, harm, and exclusion. Often this has happened when the Church has become entangled with power, status, or empire. The more there is to protect, the easier it becomes to distort.

So we have to be honest. Biblical language, on its own, is not proof of truth. Even Scripture can be weaponised. Which means the question is not simply, “Is this biblical?” The question is, “Does this reflect the character of Christ?”

Formation or Distortion?

We are always being formed. The question is whether that formation reflects the life of Jesus or does it conform to the way that those in positions of power want us to live? The goal of Christian formation is to become the kind of person who naturally lives in the way of Christ. A person whose inner life is marked by faith, peace, and love.

But formation can be distorted. When fear becomes the primary motivator. When control replaces invitation. When conformity is valued over transformation. The process may still be called discipleship, but it no longer reflects the kingdom.

The Gospel Still Leads to Freedom

Talking about religious trauma is not an attack on Christianity. It is, in many ways, an attempt to take Christianity seriously. Because if the gospel is what it claims to be, then it cannot be the source of fear-driven control. If the Gospel is about Jesus dying to free us from that which oppresses and enslaves us (sin, satan, death), to unite us to God in Christ, and to transform us into his image, then being part of a community that preaches a gospel that disintegrates life, that’s seeded with anxiety, fear, and depression is nothing short of anathema. If something consistently leads away from freedom, it is worth asking whether it truly reflects Christ.

Moving Forward

If we are honest about the problem, then we also need to be honest about the responsibility. Creating safer, healthier spaces in the church does not happen by accident. It requires intention, humility, and a willingness to change. So what might this actually look like?

1. Create cultures where honesty is normal, not risky

People should not have to edit themselves to belong. That means leaders modelling honesty first. Naming their own limits. Admitting when they do not know. Creating space for people to speak without immediately correcting, fixing, or spiritualising their experience. If people only feel safe when they agree, the space is not actually safe.

2. Teach people how to think, not just what to think

A healthy church forms people; it does not control them. This means encouraging questions. Letting people wrestle with Scripture. Making room for disagreement without labelling it as rebellion. When people are trusted to engage, not just comply, their faith becomes their own.

3. Be clear about power, and accountable with it

Where there is unexamined power, there is always potential for harm. Churches need visible, functional accountability. Not just in theory, but in practice. Leaders who can be questioned. Structures where concerns can be raised safely. Processes that do not protect reputation at the expense of people. Authority in the kingdom is meant to serve, not control (Mark 10:42–45).

4. Separate conviction from control

The Spirit convicts. People do not need to be coerced into transformation. There is a difference between being invited into truth and being pressured into conformity. One leads to life. The other leads to fear. A healthy environment allows people to move at a human pace. It does not rush, force, or manipulate decisions in the name of spiritual urgency.

5. Take mental health seriously, not spiritually

Depression, anxiety, trauma, and burnout are not signs of weak faith. They are human experiences that require care, wisdom, and often professional support. Churches should be places that normalise this, not minimise it. Sometimes the most spiritual response is not prayer alone, but referral, rest, and practical support.

6. Protect people, not systems

When harm happens, the instinct is often to protect the church, the leader, or the reputation. But the call of the church is to protect people. This means listening well. Taking concerns seriously. Acting decisively when needed. And being willing to name failure without defensiveness. Truth builds trust. Silence destroys it.

7. Centre everything on the character of Christ

Not every environment that uses Scripture reflects Jesus. So we return to Him again and again. Does this community reflect His posture? Is there gentleness here? Patience? Freedom? Truth without fear? Jesus does not coerce. He does not manipulate. He does not crush the bruised reed (Isaiah 42:3; Matthew 12:20). If our spaces do not look like Him, then something has gone wrong.

A Better Way Is Possible

The goal is not to create a perfect church, because that does not exist. But we can build healthier churches. These are places where people can be honest without fear, where questions are welcome, and where leaders serve others. In these communities, spiritual growth leads to freedom, not control. Such a church does more than avoid harm—it becomes a place where people can heal.

The Wide Work of Christ

Camaron G. W. SmithLeave a comment

Through him God was pleased to reconcile all things to himself
things on earth and things in heaven
making peace through the blood of his cross.

Not some things.
Not only the worthy things.
All things.

The hidden fracture in the world
the quiet estrangement in the human heart
the long ache of history
the violence we inherit and the wounds we carry
none of it lies outside the reach of Christ.

The cross is not a narrow doorway for a few
but the deep center where everything broken is gathered.

Here hostility is unmade.
Here distance is crossed.
Here even what resists love is slowly surrounded by it.

The peace of Christ is not fragile agreement
but a steady, patient restoring
like roots pressing through hard soil
like light finding its way into a closed room.

And so reconciliation is not only a doctrine to believe
but a reality to inhabit.

We learn to live as those already being gathered
already being healed
already being brought home.

The cross stands at the center of all things
not as a sign of defeat
but as the quiet place where the world is being made whole.

Deconstruction Led Me to a Deeper Orthodoxy and Faith

Camaron G. W. Smith2 Comments
A warmly lit study with a wooden desk and chair, an antique table lamp glowing on the desk, stacks of old books, and tall bookshelves filled with leather-bound volumes lining the walls.

When Faith Stops Feeling Life-Giving

I once managed belief like a fragile museum piece, feeling the weight of maintaining it rather than living it. Before deconstruction, my faith felt exhausting. Not because I didn’t believe, but because the answers I had adopted stopped helping me live freely or flourish. Over time, they settled into a shallow kind of idea-ism, a way of thinking about faith that meant my spirituality, my questions, and even my own human experience had to be constantly filtered through categories that needed defending, maintaining, and keeping in order. Faith became something to manage rather than inhabit. Something to defend instead of embody.

Unresolved Theological Tension

Faith started to feel like something that needed constant attention instead of bringing rest. I carried a lot of unresolved tensions. The sharpest was the contradiction of a loving God who was also described as perpetually angry. It was difficult to reconcile the message of the cross as good news with explanations that felt wrong to me. I was told to trust Scripture, but only within rigid boundaries, which impacted how I viewed science and historical contexts. These tensions weren’t just ideas. They manifested in politics and in divided groups. Faith increasingly felt like an exercise in picking sides to stay ‘biblical.’ Underneath, I was sorting people: who was orthodox or heretical, faithful or compromised, who belonged and who didn’t. None of it felt life-giving. All of it carried weight, and over time, that weight became unbearable. Eventually, I didn’t just feel strained. I stopped altogether. I stopped engaging. I stopped trying to hold everything together, not out of rebellious spirit or a hard heart, but out of exhaustion.

Why I Stepped Away

It wasn’t some hidden sin I wanted to justify that led me to deconstruct. Rather, it was the heavy burden of traditional evangelism, a way of holding faith that was slowly hollowing me out rather than giving life. I needed distance. Not dramatically or all at once, but carefully. Slowly and surely, I removed myself from it. Stepping back didn’t feel brave. It felt disorienting. I wasn’t replacing one system with another. I was letting go of the constant explanations and seeing what was left.
At first, stepping back felt uncomfortable, but also freeing. Without my old ways of thinking, I didn’t know what to do next. My prayers changed. I stopped trying to say the right words and just sat with my feelings, embracing these moments as a form of silent prayer or centering. This contemplative posture allowed me to talk less at God and be more present. Faith didn’t come with easy answers anymore. There were no safe categories or certain words. The mystery I used to fear started to feel interesting instead of scary.

Deconstrucion Research

As I went through this, I noticed I wasn’t alone. Increasingly, I realized that deconstruction was happening everywhere. Research shows that about 42 percent of adults have questioned the faith they grew up with, and many still call themselves Christian. Barna’s research says about a third of practising Christians have seriously re-examined their inherited beliefs without leaving their faith. This shows that deconstruction isn’t simply about leaving Christianity. For many, it’s a personal reckoning inside the Church. Commentators such as Scot McKnight helped me understand this further. In Invisible Jesus, McKnight says that much of modern Christianity has replaced the real Jesus with other versions: a political Jesus, a nationalist Jesus, a moral enforcer, or a doctrinal gatekeeper. When people deconstruct, they’re often not rejecting Christ, but these distorted versions, hoping to find the real one.

Deconstruction as Reformation

Seen this way, deconstruction begins to look less like collapse and more like correction. Building on this, it almost ironically carries the marks of reform and renewal. Historically, movements that return people to the centre of faith are rarely neat or reassuring in the moment. They disrupt settled systems and force hard questions. Consider Martin Luther’s 95 Theses in 1517, which challenged the practices of the Church and sparked the Protestant Reformation, a period of profound religious renewal born out of significant disruption. Today, deconstruction feels like that kind of moment. As Brian Zahnd has often said, the future Christian will likely be a mystic, not someone chasing spiritual novelty, but someone formed by presence rather than control, encounter rather than certainty, love in place of fear. Taken together, the data and lived experience tell the same story. Deconstruction is not about killing Christianity. For many, it is about clearing away what is brittle and broken, so that something more ancient, deeper, and more Christ-centred can emerge.

Deconstruction as Formation

When I stepped back, not everything disappeared. In fact, some things stayed, not because I fought to keep them, but because they were never tied to the frameworks I had let go of. Christ stayed. Not as a system to defend or a set of conclusions to maintain, but as the person I kept returning to. Even when I wasn’t sure what I believed, Jesus himself remained compelling. His way of being in the world. His closeness to those on the margins. His refusal to grasp for power. Whatever else shifted, I couldn’t shake him. Sometimes, in silent prayer, it felt like Jesus whispered, ‘I’m here with you.’ It was as if he was telling me, ‘It’s okay to ask questions, to seek understanding. I am with you in your doubts and your discoveries.’ Scripture stayed too. And in many ways, it became more profound. I never stopped loving the Bible. I’ve always been a Bible nerd. What changed wasn’t my affection for the text, but the way I read it. As I let go of the lenses I had adopted, Scripture stopped being something I approached primarily to extract answers or defend positions. It became sacramental. Life-giving. Formative.

Deconstruction and Orthodox

I came to recognise the Bible not as a puzzle to solve, but as a place to meet God. Reading it this way made me slow down. It shaped how I think and what I care about. It worked deep inside me, not just in arguments. The text didn’t always answer my questions, but it kept bringing me back to Christ and to living more like him. That didn’t weaken my faith. It made it stronger. Orthodoxy came back, but it felt different.

What I eventually realised was that orthodoxy really is about healthy boundaries. In its earliest expressions, orthodoxy existed to confront heresy and guard the heart of the Christian confession. The creeds and confessions were shaped in conflict because what was at stake was not abstract correctness, but the truth about God, Christ, and what it means to be human. That work mattered. It still does. What surprised me was discovering that those boundaries were never meant to suffocate faith. They were meant to protect life.

Reading the early Church Fathers made this clear. Figures like Athanasius and Gregory of Nyssa were deeply orthodox and fiercely committed to doctrinal clarity, yet their theology was never anxious or thin. For Athanasius, orthodoxy mattered because if Christ is not truly God, then humanity is not truly healed. Doctrine was inseparable from salvation. Gregory of Nyssa, equally committed to the creedal faith, insisted that God always exceeds our concepts. Orthodoxy did not eliminate mystery. It required it. Doctrine named the centre, but it also opened the soul toward continual growth, desire, and transformation.

From there, the tradition opened rather than closed. I found this same orthodoxy expressed across several streams of the Church, in the earthy devotion of Celtic Christianity, in the depth and union spoken of by Catholic and Eastern mystics, and even in modern voices who continue to live this faith attentively and sincerely. Each tradition nurtures humility and compassion, drawing from the same well of Christ’s love and teachings. What united all of it was Christ, not as an idea to defend, but as a life to enter.

Deconstruction didn’t take me away from orthodoxy. It led me into a deeper kind of orthodoxy.

To Those Watching Other’s Deconstruct

That’s why I want to offer a word of caution to those watching others deconstruct: how we respond matters. Treating deconstruction as betrayal, danger, or moral failure does not protect faith. It reinforces the very wounds that made faith unlivable in the first place. If the goal is depth, maturity, and Christlikeness, then fear-driven responses are counter-formative. What deconstructing people need is love, not suspicion. Curiosity, not control. Space to ask honest questions without punishment. Orthodoxy was never meant to be enforced through fear. It was meant to form people into the likeness of Christ.


I didn’t lose my faith. I lost a version of it that could not carry life.
What remains now is not certainty, but commitment. Not answers I can deploy, but a way of living I am learning to inhabit. Christ abides at the centre again. Scripture is sacramental. Orthodoxy is formative. Mystery is no longer something I rush to resolve. For the first time in a long while, faith doesn’t require vigilance. It asks for faithfulness. Faith now feels like breathing, not balancing plates. It sustains me quietly, like a gentle rhythm that I can finally rest in. And that feels like something I can truly live with.

What I Enjoyed Writing This Year (And What It Did to My Faith)

Camaron G. W. SmithLeave a comment
A minimalist photograph of a vintage black typewriter with a blank sheet of paper inserted, centred against a clean white background, evoking reflection, writing, and the quiet act of putting words to page.

The soft rustle of pages turning, the faint smell of ink on paper, and the gentle glow of a lamp late at night frame this reflection. In these quiet moments, I discovered that this year’s writing is not a “best of” list, but a meditation on how it revealed the quiet, patient ways faith grows when I linger with attention and presence. It is a confession of where my attention lingered, and what that lingering did to my faith.

Looking back over my writing, I see a pattern I never planned. Certain themes kept circling back, like the sun lingering at the edge of morning. This single metaphor captures the persistence and gentle growth of my reflections, allowing the essence of faith’s slow, patient unfolding to shine through.

These are the pieces I enjoyed most. Not for their performance, but their honesty. In writing them, something in me grows.

Following the Winter Sun

Writing “Following the Winter Sun” slowed my pace in a way that theology rarely does. It made me honour the Southern Hemisphere, letting winter, darkness, and diminished light shape my imagination instead of borrowing someone else’s spirituality.

What I valued was resisting the pull of urgency, letting theology breathe with the seasons, and sensing God nearer to decline than to growth.

The winter sun does not conquer the darkness. It traces it faithfully.

That piece taught me faith does not always surge ahead. Sometimes it simply turns, just enough to catch whatever light is offered, without demanding more.

Faith and Mental Health: Part I (and 2)

This was among the most vulnerable things I wrote all year, and I could feel that vulnerability in every keystroke.

Here, I was unflinchingly honest, naming spiritual struggle as exhaustion, trauma, or simply a nervous system doing its best to survive.

Writing this clarified something essential for me:
God is not disappointed by wounded faith.

This piece loosened my hold on language that moralises suffering. It let me speak of faith not as pressure, but as permission—permission to heal, to name pain, to stop pretending obedience can skip over the inner world. It offered a holy act of self-compassion, bridging the gap between theology and psychological care. This is where the language of self-kindness finds its sacred place, encouraging readers to apply it to themselves and embrace their healing journey.

Why Christians Should Celebrate Halloween

I was surprised by how much joy I found in writing this one.

I reclaimed imagination from fear, pushing back against the idea that darkness is only dangerous. I reminded myself, and others, that Christianity knows resurrection and twilight both.

Writing about Halloween became a way to name something larger: the Church’s forgotten gift for sitting with death, mystery, and the in-between. We hurry toward light, rarely learning how to walk through dusk.

This piece reminded me that faith, stripped of imagination, grows anxious. Christ’s victory does not ask us to deny death, but to walk through it unafraid.

Healing Before Obedience

If any piece captured the heart of my year, it was this one.

I loved writing Healing Before Obedience because it finally named what I have seen quietly wound people for years: the belief that God wants compliance more than wholeness.

This was the piece where theology and pastoral concern fully met.

Writing it clarified my conviction: obedience without healing breeds distortion, not holiness. Jesus did not demand alignment first, but restored dignity. Transformation flows from love received, not pressure applied.

This post reframed discipleship for me, not as behaviour to be managed, but as the slow mending of a fragmented inner world in God’s presence.

Advent: Maybe Christ Is Waiting for Us

I loved writing this because it turned the usual script upside down.

Instead of us waiting anxiously for God, Advent became a season where God waits patiently for us—to notice, to arrive, to finally stop outrunning grace.

This piece wove the year together: slowness, attention, presence. God is not a void to be filled, but a presence waiting to be recognized. What if Christ has been waiting all along?

Writing it reminded me that Advent is not suspense, but hospitality.

And that Christ is not late.

What These Pieces Taught Me

Looking back, I see what I was really circling all year:

  • God is not in a hurry.
  • Healing is holy work.
  • Fear is not wisdom.
  • Imagination matters.
  • Faith matures through honesty, not performance.

I enjoyed writing these because they let me breathe, felt like careful truth-telling, and helped me resist the urge to hurry toward answers.

Writing did not tidy up my faith this year.
It made my faith gentler.

For the first time, that gentleness feels like real progress.