My “Deconstruction” Story

My friend, Jennifer Garcia Bashaw, and I are teaching a course for pastors sponsored by the fine folks over at The Bible for Normal People. It's called ... wait for it ... Pastors for Normal People. (Get it? Brilliant, right? Pete and Jared are nothing if not clever.)

Here's the sales pitch: the course is for pastors who are having to learn how to pastor from a new place (most likely, while also being employed to serve a local congregation).

“A new place.”

That's pretty ambiguous, but really, what (or better, who) we are after is the minister who, for whatever reason— maybe it's a book, an experience, a series of conversations ... a podcast (wink)—is beginning the painful and sometimes lonely process of unlearning and relearning.

Some people call this process, at least the unlearning bit, "deconstruction." 

In preparation for the course, I've been thinking about my own experience with deconstruction, though, I'm not entirely sure if I would call it that.

When I graduated Bible college, I started working with local churches. I took on a lot of different roles from college and career pastor to worship leader to director of Christian education. And, at the time, I fit pretty comfortably in the evangelical world. Any "controversial" ideas I may have had back then were pretty mild. It was Bible trivia type stuff like ... "Did you know that the Bible doesn't tell us how many wise men there were? It says there were three gifts, but it doesn't say how many people there were to give the gifts. We just assume it was three. So EVERY CHRISTMAS PAGEANT YOU'VE BEEN IN WAS A LIE!"

Yes. I was that insufferable person, chock full of “gotcha” Bible facts.

I was also an ardent defender of orthodoxy, or, at least, my version of orthodoxy. 

I remember a friend of mine decided to enroll in a liberal arts Christian college. He was (and is) super smart. Halfway through his first semester, he told me about one his biology professors, who was a Christian, but also believed in evolution. And I. WAS. CONCERNED. (My friend was not.)

In fact, I think I told him he should leave because that wasn't what I was learning at my Bible college. (He graduated with honors.)

So, I mean, all told, I was a ton of fun at parties. Bible trivia? Yes. Reject science? Yes. Not drinking alcohol? A given. 

And then something happened. 

Honestly, I don't know when or where or how. 

I can remember learning about some stuff that messed with my brain at every level of my education (even Bible college!) … but it wasn’t one thing or one discussion or one topic. It was a bunch of things, steadily, over time, like waves.

And because I’m such a nerd, I loved it. I loved the process. I loved rethinking things. It never felt unsafe or dangerous. It felt … right?

I guess my experience with deconstruction is comparable to the old adage about the frog getting boiled. It happened slowly. And it happened without me really noticing. And then, before I knew it, I was dead and on someone's plate for dinner covered in hot sauce. 

Woah! That got dark. Many apologies. Also, it's not even true.

Despite my ongoing process of unlearning and relearning, I have never had a true crisis of faith. I haven’t had a dark night of the soul. I know I’m biased—I’m a pastor—but I’ve never wanted to leave the local church (only certain denominations of the local church) or reject Jesus (only certain misrepresentations of Jesus).

In other words, I didn't die in the pot. Or if I did, I resurrected to new life.

Ok. This frog analogy is really carrying some weight, isn't it?! Can we move on?

However I paint the picture of my experience, I'm a nearly 40 year old man, who now believes everything the ardent 19 year old version of myself was afraid of, including, yes, the bit about evolution.

To make matters worse, a lot of these commitments were born and raised, while I was serving in church ministry, some even during my tenure as a senior pastor. (I don’t anticipate this stopping anytime soon. We are always unlearning and relearning. We are always “deconstructing” something.)

And all I’ve ever wanted to do is tell everyone!

Parts of this journey have been hard. I don't want to lie about that.

I've had to quit jobs, and turn down opportunities, and learn what it looks like to be a person of integrity, with and without a microphone in my hand.

Some people have written me off for the things I believe (and now preach) — close friends, colleagues, family members. 

Some people have written our church off — former ministry partners, for example. One time, a local church wouldn't let us borrow their baptismal because I don't believe in a historical Adam.

Others have "warned" our parishioners of "the heresy," (which I guess is my heresy).

Just last week, I was called a "false prophet." (It’s an honor just to be recognized.)

It seems that a good number of people think I am going to hell and that I'm leading others to join me there on a weekly basis.

It's a wild time to love Jesus in public.

I can poke fun of it here, on a blogpost. That’s pretty easy. But it’s just a defense mechanism. (I’m a softy.)

When I lay my head down at night, the accusations sting ... on a personal level. 

“Is this what people really think?”

When people leave the church you pastor because of a sermon or a belief or a stance, it stings too. 

“Is my ministry equivalent to this one thing that people disagree with me about?”

“Was the relationship we had so tenuous that it could be broken over this?”

For me, these sorts of wrestlings lead me to ask bigger, scarier existential questions about faithfulness and self-worth.

It's also super frustrating to be dismissed out of hand by, say, a 90 second YouTube clip or a podcast episode railing on "the progressive church and all its dangers," after dedicating one's life for the past two freaking decades to careful (and I'd say, prayerful) scholarly work in the field of biblical and theological studies. 

Some days I feel like that is where my "deconstruction" has gotten me. 

It has cost me a lot.

And if I let myself, I can feel like a failure. 

But, then I consider where I am internally … individually … spiritually?

I also consider all the people who love me and are on this journey with me.

I feel like I'm/we’re on the other side (of something), and now I/we get to help people get there too.

I get to help people see that you don't have to check your rational mind or your integrity at the door ...

that you don't have to believe "this" or else ...

that you can unlearn some stuff that (in our best estimation) is wrong and unhelpful ...

that you can love your neighbor better ...

that your life isn't *simply and solely* (or even primarily) about where you will go after you die because we've got quite a bit to do here and now. 

My job (get this) is to sit with people, who can't fathom the hypocrisy of the church, and say, "I agree."

I get to drink coffee with people (oh, let's imagine us having a nice double cortado with a splash of oatmilk), hear their struggles with the Bible, and show them a different way, a better way, sometimes a more ancient way of understanding the text.

Hey children of the 90s, you know that scene in Seinfeld when Kramer stops wearing underwear, and he says, "I'm out there Jerry ... AND I'M LOVING EVERY MINUTE OF IT!"

That's me. 

Wearing gabardine pants with no underwear. (Geez. I'm so sorry. My analogies are awful. I'm not even sure I should be allowed to be a pastor with analogies this terrible. Deep breaths. Let's salvage this...)

My journey ... has led me here. 

And I'm thankful for all the brave souls who are also "out there" and have showed me a different way.

It's made a difference. 

I think for me, it's made all the difference. 

———————-

So this class ... we'll talk about how to process these monumental shifts, while working within the local church, with your paycheck and your financial security and your relationships and your status and integrity and respectability all on the line.

I've made my choices. And I've dealt with the consequences. 

If I can be of help to another minister ... if I can be one of the brave souls who are "out there" and show someone a different way ... if I can even say, "Here's what I did, and it blew up in my face" ... then I will feel as though I am stewarding my experiences well. 

Pastoring, in the best of circumstances, is hard.

Pastoring, in an election year, in a pandemic, in a society that is divided by nearly every topic, while also navigating massive personal theological shifts is nearly impossible. 

So if that's you, join us. 

We'll give you some practical information, but (maybe my pastor hat is a bit too snug here) our real hope is to encourage you ... to remind you, that you are not alone. It does get better. And your journey is worth the cost.

God knows we need bold ministers willing to take risks for the sake of others.

I believe that with all my heart.

And I pray you can too.

Josh James (PhD, Fuller Theological Seminary) is a commissioned Church Starter in the Cooperative Baptist Fellowship and one of the pastors of The Restoration Project. He has written a book about the ethics of the Psalms.