Introduction: When Something Stops Working

Kwon Junho

My husband and I had the joy of replacing 3 of our tried and true, 20-year-old kitchen appliances this week. 

The microwave’s cover thingy had fallen off an embarrassingly long time ago. It still functioned okay, but it looked ridiculous. Several burners on the stove had stopped working or developed a mind of their own. And the dishwasher had begun leaking into the adjacent cabinet. Not to mention, all of these formerly white appliances had taken on the yellowish hue that accompanies decades of hard work. 

In the case of the microwave, we ignored the problem. We either removed its state of disrepair from our line of vision or we got used to its “new look.” In the case of the stove, we tried to repair the burners, to no avail (though, we did still use them for many months). In the case of the dishwasher, it broke suddenly and we had to replace it to save our cabinets from further flooding.

Perhaps we should have replaced them ALL long ago, but it’s a hard call to make when they’re still (somewhat) working. After all, new appliances come at great cost — a cost I had not been ready or willing to pay until the crisis of the leaky dishwasher, which threatened permanent damage to our cabinets. Amid this emergency, I counted the cost again and found that it was worth it. 

When Something Stops Working

This experience left me pondering how humans tend to react when something stops working in matters of faith…

 When do we…
1) Remove a belief from our line of vision?
2) Repair it so that it lasts a little longer?
3) Or, replace it, deeming the cost “worth it”?

In my observation, most people (including myself) choose option 1 or 2 when at all possible. 

When something is still *somewhat* working, it’s possible to overlook, put off, or patch up for the short-term. Whereas, replacing comes at great cost (sometimes monetary cost, but more often social) — a cost we are rarely ready or willing to pay. 

I think most of us only consider replacing the old when a crisis threatens permanent damage to our lives. In other words, it’s a last resort —  when we have no other choice.

Counting the Cost

The worldview I grew up with had sharply defined boxes and labels. There was only the binary “in” or “out” — no middle ground, nuance, or gray area. You were conservative or liberal. Republican or Democrat. Fundamentalist or progressive. Theist or atheist. Saved or lost. Orthodox or heretic. Right or wrong.

And if you landed on the “wrong” side of these dueling categories, relational walls went up. Connection and personhood were replaced with distancing terminology. You’d be labeled prodigal, problem, project —  added to prayer lists, but ostracized from the community.

We insulated ourselves into the smallest of concentric circles. This separatist reflex provided a nice protective barrier — an excuse not to listen to anyone “outside” (with their deceitful, dangerous ideas). Or rethink our own. 

I knew the social “rules.” I knew the things I could safely question (i.e. the order of worship), and the things that were off-limits (i.e the age of the earth). So, rather than potentially endanger my place in the community with doubts and questions, I averted my eyes or contorted my logic, to shore up the defenses. 

I practiced this avoidance strategy when I read the Bible too. When I got to a section I couldn’t quite understand or that seemed to contradict another part, I’d rush past it at warp speed. Better not to dwell or question . Better just to trust , and tuck my pre-determined beliefs back in safely. Out of sight, out of mind. 

In addition to avoidance, I made choices to reinforce and secure my pillars of belief. I got a Bachelor’s degree in Biblical Literature, then went on to seminary to get a Master’s. I became an ordained reverend.

I learned the abstract theology in and out, I found all the “right” answers, and I cornered myself into a pastoral career where I could seal up the big, existential doubts forever (“riiiiiight,” I hope you’re saying).

And it worked for a while. Inside the church bubble, surrounded by people who held the same worldview, who understood God the same way, who came from similar backgrounds…the doubts were contained.

It worked…until it stopped working.

And when it stopped working, I was forced to reckon with broken, leaky parts  —  some of which were too far gone to be saved. 

Broken, Leaky Parts

Previous to these emergency moments, I had not been ready, or it had not seemed necessary, to pay the “cost” of social belonging, loss of identity, vocation, or ideological security, to question the logic of my community; but refusing to do so now risked permanent damage to my soul. I counted the cost again, and it was worth it.

I wasn’t looking to be disoriented in my faith. I wasn’t intending to start over from scratch. “Faith crisis" wasn’t something I scheduled or a path I chose out of several viable options. It’s just what happens when something stops working.

It’s been called many things, from “the dark night of the soul" (John of the Cross) to braving the wilderness (Brené Brown); an experience written about throughout time and across many faith traditions. Numerous sociologists, theologians, and philosophers have tried to put their finger on this “process of spiritual development” with language like:

• Packing — unpacking — repacking (N.T. Wright).

• First naivete — critical distance— second naivete (Paul Ricoeur).

• Order — disorder — reorder (Richard Rohr).

• Orientation — disorientation — reorientation (a personal favorite, Walter Brueggemann).

And, perhaps most commonly referenced these days, construction — deconstruction — reconstruction; “deconstruction” being a philosophical idea turned buzzword, both feared by traditionalists and monetized by opportunists. But, again, just one attempt to put words around a common, ancient, and painful experience: trying to name what it feels like to hit a brick wall in your faith.

Or in the language I find myself reaching for: What happens when something stops working.

A Theology of Change

This pattern is all over the Bible too! From beginning to end, God’s people are learning — unlearning — relearning who God is and who they are. The most climactic example being the Incarnation: when Jesus shows the world what God is actually like, contrary to all previous expectations. Jesus’ closest disciples can hardly keep up, even after 3 years of following him. And their learning — unlearning — relearning doesn’t end after the resurrection and ascension! 

The book of Acts tells of Peter’s rooftop vision that leads him to change his mind about the inclusion of the Gentiles. And tells of Paul’s experience via blinding light that sets him on the exact opposite path than he had been walking (in his spiritual zeal and piety).

These moments of faith crisis led to the obliteration of countless beliefs Peter and Paul held dear about God, their world, themselves…and probably felt destabilizing and disorienting at first. But these stories reveal what following Jesus (discipleship) requires in real-time: “keeping in step with the Spirit,” being “transformed by the renewing of your mind” and actively participating in life — death — resurrection by learning — unlearning — relearning, and then starting all over to do it again.

Jesus is always challenging beliefs, for the benefit of souls and bodies — even (especially?) those most “righteous.” So, of course, following Jesus includes rethinking what we always thought we knew.

If, like me, you’ve understood life through a lens of certainty, security, and reliability for a long time, walking into the unknown of “faith crisis” might be the scariest, most painful thing you can imagine! And, I won’t lie to you: your fears are not unfounded. Some of your long-held beliefs might NOT hold up under scrutiny, over time, across oceans, or through storms. They might be in danger.

But, don’t confuse this danger of your beliefs with danger for your soul. Transformation born of “faith crisis” might be the very thing your soul needs most.