When Discipleship is a Wound

For the deconstructors

A year ago, I wrote a piece published in Christianity Today about the phenomenon of “deconstruction” among evangelicals. I was disappointed with the response. It was mostly mature (and older) Christians who liked it. Few Christians who were actually in the process of questioning their faith seemed to take notice. This letter to my daughter might serve as a letter to the “deconstructors”, wherever they are. One of the core questions they dwell on seems to be- how could following Christ feel so much like desolation? The answer, as you will see- is that it may, and it might, and yet it might still be following the Way.

This letter is especially for D.L., who is tasting the path of desolation that is known to many of us who follow Jesus. It is not fun, but the road leads to maturity and so can be known, at its end, as a means of grace.

Dear A.,

Here’s what it feels like to grow up. You have been, for a time, sheltered and protected in my home. You have been provided with every material need and most comforts. Your dad and I have done our best to provide for your emotional needs, too and we have done all this without the extent of our giving being apparent to you. What you needed just appeared when you needed it. Gratitude had to be taught. “Say thank you”, I’d repeat, after ever soccer practice and birthday party. Without the reminder, you’d think what you were given was yours by right.

The Sunday school stories of Jesus may have felt yours by right, as well. They were given to you from the time you were small in a form you could understand. There were flannel sheep and a Jesus storybook where everything turned out right in the end. Jesus, you were told, was your friend and the one who heard your prayers. He was always with you. You should lay down and sleep in peace.

That Jesus loves you like he loves those flannel lambs does not mean that you will always feel loved. It also does not mean that you will be prevented from harm. Remember the little lost lamb, the one who the Good Shepherd went out of his way to find? She got lost! Her struggle was not prevented. She may have even been harmed in the process. But the Good Shepherd was there, as she stumbled in the thicket, and when the time was right he came to get her.

There was another ram in the thicket, of course, one whose life was not spared. If you want a story about growing up, there is no better one that of Isaac and Abraham and that ram. Abraham’s journey up that mountain with Isaac in tow must have been steep and long. I often wonder whether Isaac knew what was happening before he asked his question. Or was the moment of that dreadful question- “Father, where is the lamb?” the moment of his own reckoning? From what we know, Isaac never spoke to his Father again, after that journey. The question of his provision were his last words to Abraham. Isaac lived his life forever after in silence.

Did Abraham know this? Did he know that this journey of his growth in faith might wound his son so? We know none of this, of course. Perhaps Isaac understood and saw the journey as well worth it. But that question- “where is the lamb?” rings in the ears of every parent who yearns to pass on a rigorous faith.

“Where is the lamb?” when the church leadership fails? “Where is the lamb?” when a trusted adult harms you? “Where is the lamb?” when the nations rage and the people plot in vain? It may feel- it may have felt- that you are the lamb, the sacrifice for your parent’s piety. It may have felt that their following God required you in trade. You may live a life marked by God’s silence.

But there was a lamb and it was not you. There was a lamb and there is a lamb and there will be provided a lamb, the one whose life is on offer in your stead. Assuming you were the sacrifice misunderstands what took place. “Father, where is the lamb?” says that Isaac knew it could not be him. God would not ask for such a sacrifice without accompanying it with provision.

Maturity means realizing that following God is not about our feelings. But “Did God really say?” has been the serpent’s words in the mouths of generations. Growing up means knowing that we all must follow through our wounds, even though the following itself might wound us.

The terrible thing, child, is not that I myself may live years without God’s presence, that I may have to follow God up a mountain I did not choose. The terrible thing is that that you might have to walk a similar road. Asking your children to take this strenuous path of discipleship is no small thing.

I know that following God may mean days, even years, of thick silence between Him and I. I know that you may never again feel as sheltered as you did looking at that Sunday school lamb.

The hope I have for you is that you may have a faith that is not about your feelings. Such a faith may allow you in times of great trial to walk up the mountain of your own discipleship. It may be strenuous and even silent. But in your walking you are joining the great cloud of witnesses who knew the reward of following Christ was in that great company of folks who longed for a different kingdom. The isolation, the loneliness, the collateral damage of this journey will break your heart. Walking with others who abandon the path will wound you. But in this walking you may become, just a little, like the Son, who “considered equality with God not something to be grasped, but emptied himself and became a servant.” In your desolation, in your disappointment, you might catch a glimpse of that heavenly kingdom that I tried to read and sing and teach you about. I haven’t seen it yet myself, but it is what keeps me trudging up that hill. I hope you may ask “where is the lamb” without assuming it is always you. Do not take your wounds on yourself as a righteous cause.

Platitudes will fail you, dear one. Poems about footprints on the sand that are hung about toilets will not be enough to sustain you. They were never intended to be. God’s silence may be the place of your nourishment. If this is how you get to the mountaintop, so be it. Jesus is not yours by right. He owes you no warm feelings, no gentle words. His companionship may feel more like discipline than devotion. Following him may feel sometimes like a wound. You may know his caress only in the life to come. But even unto death is the call of a disciple.

The Christian life is not easy but Jesus remains the Good Shepherd, the lover of your soul, even when his love feels like a wound. He himself will provide the lamb- it is not you. The sacrifice you offer in this journey will bind you ever closer to the one who is himself the offering. For that, and for you, I can only give thanks. I will always pray that you get there, even when I am behind the veil.

With love, always,

Mom