Ch. 1, Pt. 3: The Relief of Reconstruction

Jesse Adair

Click, click, click, click, click, click. The SheiKra climbs the 200-foot incline, and my legs swing freely, nervously. I check again that the seat restraints are securely fastened, as tight to my body as possible. Oop, maybe too tight.

I had stored my flip-flops in a cubby hole before strapping into the roller coaster, so my feet now dangle, disturbingly bare and breezy. I take deep breaths to soothe my racing heart as we make our ascent up the track, closing my eyes to the sun’s blazing rays. Click, click, click, click, click, click.

As we level out at the summit, the whole of Busch Gardens and the city of Tampa come into view. The expanse is beautiful — especially here on the front row! All is peaceful for the four, maybe five seconds it takes to round the bend and reach the edge of the 90-degree drop. And break to a halt.

One, one thousand.

We hang suspended.

Two, one thousand.

Forced to look DOWN.

Three, one thousand.

The anticipation is agonizing, terrorizing. There’s nothing you can do but lean into it. Wait for the free-fall.

And…drop.

Hanging Suspended

Entering a faith crisis can feel like hanging suspended 200 feet in the air, not knowing if the ride ahead offers life or death. The anticipation kills.

A palpable fear of the unknown can cause us to look away or only look through squinted eyes, and demand an exit! Get me off this thing!!!

We might find ourselves reaching for resolution and equilibrium before we’ve even dropped into the crisis. We might start “reconstructing” before we’ve “deconstructed” much at all.

Emergency Exit Ramp

Hearing loss was my first crack at “faith crisis.” Or, maybe better said, it was the first time I allowed myself to notice cracks in my faith. It was the beginning of the shattering of my childish ideas of the world, which forced me on the path to building necessary grown-up ones.

But. I had not built up much tolerance for sustained discomfort or uncertainty yet. I could only briefly glimpse the growing pile of questions, through squinted eyes, before the dissonance overwhelmed me.

Practically speaking, I was a Biblical Literature major, months away from college graduation. I was a soon-to-be fiancé of a fellow pastor, planning for a lifetime in ministry. I did not have the emotional, relational, or spiritual bandwidth to identify and replace what had stopped working. I (thought I) needed to wrap things up and get back to my life.

With my beliefs intertwined with my identity, I found myself very attached. Rather than pursue truth (at whatever cost), I pursued relief from the perceived threats to my safety.

Rather than face the free-fall, I took the emergency exit ramp that is reconstruction.

Can you relate?

…to the nervous, heart-pounding adrenaline of questioning God and/or your spiritual community?

…the unwanted exposure and vulnerability that come with interrogating beliefs tied to your identity?

…hanging suspended, forced to look at doubts you’ve long ignored or avoided?

…the desire for restraints, security, protective boundaries, over bare and breezy freedom?

…the impulse to look away, demand an exit, reach for relief and resolution? Anything but the free-fall!

Reconstruction as a False Bottom

When I reflect on my reconstruction response to this first crisis (to come in pt. 4), it seems forced, rushed, a little dodgy. Oversimplified. More like patching things up than being truthful with myself.

As Justin Gentry (a fellow veteran of faith crisis) describes: “I purposefully choose to not use the word ‘reconstruction’ because I don’t think that is the goal. Reconstruction, at least in my experience, is another false bottom.”

False Bottom Indicators

I resonate with this idea of reconstruction as a “false bottom” in relation to my hearing loss for a few reasons:

ONE: I and my life remained relatively unchanged. I may have felt the cognitive dissonance of the questions that emerged from hearing loss. I may have taken some of my beliefs apart intellectually. But I rushed to put as many back together as possible, so that (aside from the new and perpetual “inconvenience” of single-sided deafness) my life didn’t have to change.

TWO: I have much more to deconstruct around this particular crisis. Eleven years since my “diagnosis” and I still get squeamish wondering why my ear stopped working. The tinnitus (like the “sound” of a seashell, that gets louder and more whistle-y with stress) freaks me out, so I distract myself. I am only just beginning to reckon with the embarrassment and frustration I have about my single-sided deafness in the workplace, AND notice the ableist ideas I harbor, in general. I was not even close to “the bottom” of my deconstruction.

THREE: The bottom (predictably) DROPPED OUT a few years later — placing me back on the roller coaster.

Hello, free-fall!

As it turns out, I like the SheiKra. It makes me panicky on the way up and at that moment on the edge — no matter how many times I ride! But the free-fall itself is exhilarating! And the rest of the ride — with its speed and its smooth loops — is like FLYING! The wind in my face at 70 mph is actually REFRESHING! Invigorating! Freeing! Worth facing my fears and leaning into the drop. Eventually, I would come to feel similarly about faith crisis.

But first I would opt for the emergency exit ramp. The false bottom. “The Illogical Re: Solution,” coming in part 4.