What I wish deconstructionists knew...

A cautionary tale in pursuit of something beautiful.

Our house nearly burnt down two weeks ago. No, that’s not a cheesy metaphor for something. Our house really did come close to flames. If you follow me on Notes, you’ll know a bit more of the story.

It happened while I was cooking dinner, the night before I was due to travel up to Edinburgh. I went into the pantry for some salt, and that’s when the smell of burning plastic assaulted my nose. It came on strong and fast, and considering the pantry housed our boiler and electrical boxes, there was reasonable cause for alarm. 

We turned off the power and called an emergency electrician, who told us to call the fire brigade, who then told us to get out of the house immediately and to wait. So we did.

With Humphrey in tow, my husband and I sat out in the car (a suuuper warm option in the middle of November, obvs), waiting for help to arrive. Within five minutes, two fire trucks turned up, blocking our entire road and giving our neighbours a bit of Thursday-night excitement.

When the fire chief came in to assess the situation, his thermal reader found that our main electrical box was 80°C (about 176°F) – and that was after ten minutes of the power being off, giving the thing a chance to cool down.

Long story long, we waited for three hours in a house with no electricity until the power company turned up. They arrived at 10:30pm and soon discovered the issue: apparently the box which pulls power into the property was so old that certain pieces had come loose, creating a live, exposed arc of electricity as the current strained to make a connection. Only at this point did I discover how genuinely lucky we were that our house was not on fire.

The next day, I was on a train bound for Scotland with one of my closest friends and arguably the one person who has the deepest understanding of the pains I’ve endured since leaving my Derbyshire home three years ago. 

We spent the day meandering coffee shops, churches, and book stores. And as the sun set on the streets of beautiful Edinburgh, I broached a topic that had been burning away at the edges of my brain – something that only she had the insight to unpack with me. 

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Despite growing up in a Christian household, I was astoundingly ignorant of the “Christianese” and ritual practices of many Protestant denominations. I had to Google the phrase “charismatic” the first time I heard it used outside the context of “someone who has charisma.” I’d never heard anyone pray in tongues until I was in my mid-twenties. And I had never heard of, nor been exposed to, the concept of deliverance ministry¹ until four years ago.

Sharing the story of how I was introduced to deliverance ministry would no doubt add more weight to this essay. I have a Master’s Degree in creative writing: I know how to pull on the heart strings to tell a story. I also know that breaking down my experience would quite likely give many readers the opportunity to identify with me, relate to me, trust me, and to understand where I’m coming from in all of this. I could tell that story. I could do it right now.

But I’m not going to.

Because right now, something in my gut says that this is still a scab, not a scar. My feelings around these memories are still too emotionally charged. My heart is still wrestling with forgiveness. My mind is still resisting bitterness. And I cannot allow my story to be a prettily crafted weapon.

So for now, you’ll have to bear with the ambiguity, because for the purpose of this piece, all you need to know is that my first experience of deliverance ministry was… questionable. But I couldn’t have articulated that at the time.

While I did have red flags the first time that I was prayed for under the context of “deliverance,” I ignored my instincts. Because I trusted the people who were praying for me. And for years, I continued to ignore this feeling in my gut which told me that something wasn’t right about the theology of deliverance which was forming in my head – even when that gut feeling poked valid questions at me like “Where is that mentioned in the Bible?” And “Is that in alignment with the God you know?”

Because this was an entirely new area of theology for me, I blindly trusted those who had introduced it to me as loving and safe authorities. I had nothing against which I could compare it.

But that niggling feeling of uneasiness never really went away: I’d felt it while sitting on a couch at 3am, being brought through a series of deliverance prayers which lasted five hours; and I still feel it four years later as I try to unpack why, if at all, my entire theology around deliverance now feels broken because of those experiences.

This facet of my Christian belief system has been a tangled ball of confusion, and I am finding the task of “untangling” it to be exhausting. What’s more, within all the practical questions of discerning what was true and what wasn’t, I still feel a staunch anger towards the people who taught me – the people who I allowed to teach me.

I realise now that the idea of deliverance, in the way that it was presented to me, looked a lot like a pseudo-mystic Christian ritual which served to evoke paranoia in the one being “delivered” and pride in the one “doing the delivering.” And so as an academic, I’ve been hell-bent (‘scuse the pun) on pinpointing exactly what it was about this “deliverance theology” that felt so in conflict with the rest of my theology. As if there was one simple weed which, if uprooted, would help it all make sense.

Truthfully, my desire was to throw the baby out with the bathwater and declare the entire concept of deliverance to be a shambles. There was so much that was taught to me which I still, to this day, cannot find evidence for in Scripture. But then, there were other aspects for which I can easily find Biblical evidence.

It feels impossible to navigate these murky waters of half-truths with any sense of clarity or safety or peace.

And as I wrestled through this with my friend, she brought something to my attention which should have been obvious to me, but it wasn’t:

“Christina, your heart is for the deconstructionist. And right now, you’re deconstructing.”

I must add that she was very kind for not tagging on a “duh” at the end.

Because DUH.

For all the time I think about the person going through the trenches of deconstruction, I haven’t consciously experienced the trenches myself in a while. 

I ripped my entire faith apart and rebuilt it at 16, then again at 27, and while I continuously ask questions and feel safe enough to be curious in my faith, I no longer struggle with three of the most fundamental beliefs which keep me rooted in my Christianity: God is real, God is good, and His Son, Jesus, is who he says he is.

What I am deconstructing now is not an entire belief system but ONE secondary issue in my theology. Granted, this issue holds weight because it influences how I relate to the idea of sin and spiritual warfare. But whether I believe in deliverance, reject it, or remain unsure of my stance, my whole worldview will not come crashing down.

Nevertheless, I suddenly understood those familiar feelings of frustration, anger, fear, and desperate need which is so prevalent to all who are brave enough to deconstruct everything they once held true. I am frustrated by the way that answers remain illusive. I am angry with those who taught me this broken version of deliverance and angrier still at myself for allowing it. I am fearful that the ugliest parts of this theology might somehow prove true. I feel a desperate need to figure all of it out.

And I’m tired.

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This is where I do indeed transition into cheesy metaphor. And honestly, it was handed to me on a silver platter. How could I resist?

It may have taken me four years to realise that I needed to deconstruct and reconstruct my theology of deliverance, but I’m at a point now where I can confidently “smell the burning” and “turn off the power” before the whole house burns down.

See where I’m going with this?

Anyone who has had deconstruction explained to them will have heard the metaphor of our faith being compared to a house. We build our belief system, brick by brick, over many years, adding on rooms here and there with time and experience. Deconstruction happens when we discover that one of the bricks (or maybe an entire room) was built on faulty foundations and is therefore at risk of falling down. So in order to save the structure, we have to tear that section apart and rebuild. Some Christians might even feel that their whole “house” was built on dangerous foundation, so they tear the entire thing down and start over.

Each deconstructionist decides how invested they are, then, in the rebuilding. Some carefully place each new brick down again, studying their Bible and bravely asking uncomfortable questions, while others might decide that the house isn’t worth their time, and they walk away.

I’m playing off this idea because it beautifully illustrates what my fire scare and my Edinburgh weekend had in common: through both, God reminded me to “turn the power off the minute I smell smoke.”

Put simply, I believe that so many Christians who have walked away from Jesus did so because by the time they needed to deconstruct their “house,” it had already burned to ash. There was nothing left with which to rebuild. Whether by abusive pastors, damaging church structures, or manipulative use of theology which went on for far too long, I ache for those who now associate Jesus with cruelty, coercion, and trauma.

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When we are repeatedly told not to trust our instincts, it creates a cognitive dissonance which virtually fractures our mind, body, and spirit. Reconciling to our Creator involves reconciling to ourselves and learning to trust the instincts which are in fact a gift from God.²

So many people from my cultural generation, the evangelical millennials, have been taught to suppress the “smell of burning” in their faith. We were told that our flesh is inherently evil and our spirit inherently good³ without a further definition of what is meant by the terms “flesh” and “spirit”; so we took it to mean that our instincts must always be sinful and wrong. When our bodies reacted to abuse by sending us signals associated with trauma, we were told to ignore them. When our curiosity posed conflict to the sermons which we were taught, we were urged to sit down, be quiet, and “trust God.” Panic attacks became a sign of weakness. Questions were coined as “dangerous.”

As a fierce believer in the goodness of the Church, I also have no problem stating that certain churches have encouraged an anti-intellectual faith, desiring instead a congregational ignorance which is submissive not to God but to the system of belief that benefits a select few.

And the smell of burning has filled our nostrils for so long that we no longer recognise when our house is on fire… until all that is left is ash.

But here’s the honest truth: we’re the only ones who can pull the plug before it all burns down.

I write this publication because I believe in better for the Church. I believe that God is all good, all powerful, all knowing, all loving, and all righteous – enough to heal our broken hearts, repair our dangerous theology, and reconcile our yearning for holiness and truth. I believe that the deconstructionist can reconstruct. I believe that the weary, long-suffering Christian can still find joy by the grace of the Holy Spirit. I believe that even if your house is a pile of ash, what Christ bore on the cross is enough to bring you home again.

I wish deconstructionists knew, before they reach the point of burning the entire house down, that they are allowed to trust their God-given instincts.

When you “smell your theology burning,” it’s okay to “turn the power off” and reassess before it all burns down. If something that a leader is doing does not sit right with you, don’t ignore it. If something about your belief system appears to be in deep conflict with the God of the Bible (as revealed to you through personal study and revelation by the Spirit), follow that thread. If your church is producing poisonous fruit, trust your gut.

I cannot express how vital it is that your relationship with God is personal enough that you feel safe bringing your curiosity and concerns to Him. Your understanding of Him must not hinge on the character of one leader, pastor, or even church. This is the only relationship hierarchy that will allow you to feel safe asking questions before you reach the point of “burning it all down.”

Your instincts are not sinful. Your intellect is not dangerous. Your Bible can and should be a place where you and the Holy Spirit commune and “build your house” together.

And one more thing – you deserve friends (like my friend who spent 5 hours patiently unpacking these things with me on the streets of Edinburgh) who know your heart enough not to baulk at your questions. Friends who will allow you to safely assess the smoke signals without handing you lighter fluid and matches.

You are allowed to explore (and grow!) your faith now. You don’t have to wait for everything to fall apart. Because I truly believe that this is what faith is: the act of building and re-building, in partnership with the Spirit, as part of a greater commission to dwell within Our Father’s House, of which there are many, many rooms…

All my love,

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1. Deliverance ministry in a nutshell, is the spiritual practice of one person or a group of people praying over an individual to “deliver” them from spiritual bondage. What constitutes bondage, the “root cause” of the bondage, and whether or not that bondage is the effect of demonic oppression is all a bit theologically hazy depending on who you are speaking to. The practice of deliverance can be found in various denominations, both Protestant and Catholic. But I won’t attempt to define it any further because I am still working out my own understanding of what deliverance ministry is (and isn’t) in accordance with Scripture.

2. Aundi Kolber, a Christian therapist, wrote a brilliant book on the subject of how our body’s trauma responses are in alignment with how God created us. It’s called Try Softer, and I highly recommend it.

3. This is a broken teaching based primarily on Galatians 5:17, in case you were curious.