Deconstructing Faith, and Reconstructing It

Come join me in my office. I am the part-time minister of a 285-year-old suburban New England congregation. We are right here on the main thoroughfare, and lots of traffic goes by. My guess is that most of the people in those vehicles fly past without glancing at this building at all; it’s merely a part of the background landscape of their lives, like the river or the school yard. If they do think about this church, most would say it is not relevant to their lives, and neither is the faith it represents. 

Sitting with me, you’ll notice two stained glass crosses hanging in my office window. My sister had them made for me from the stained glass windows of the church in rural Wisconsin where our mother was baptized in 1928.

Out of pain and righteous anger I took apart the stained glass windows of my childhood faith. Over time I looked more closely at the glass shards at my feet and chose to reconstruct my faith life.

That church was torn down several years ago, but an imaginative cousin of ours collected the pink and green glass from those windows and fashioned them into these lovely crosses that now reflect the light here on the East Coast. 

A Halo Effect

For me, the crosses are a present reminder of the dramatic changes in the religious landscape of the United States since my mother’s baptism nearly 100 years ago. According to Faith Communities Today, which has been tracking declining church attendance trends for years, at least half of the surviving 350,000 congregations in the U.S. now have just 65 or fewer people in attendance during weekly worship.^[1] In the Northeast it is very common to see churches converted into historical society buildings, public art spaces, or simply closed up and abandoned. 

The repercussions of these changes have become a focus of my professional life. Not only am I a minister, but I also consult with struggling congregations to determine whether deeper collaboration with other faith communities could create a clearer pathway for continued mission. I do this because, unlike many of those driving past my window, I still believe that the Christian faith and the local church hold relevance for people’s lives. 

As we sit here in my office, we can observe cars turning into the driveway, evidence of the church’s actual daily involvement in vital local life. Someone is dropping off a child at the nursery school, picking up food at the food pantry, coming to an AA meeting or the Red Cross blood drive, carpooling to the Cub Scouts den meeting, or depositing clothing in the donation shed in the parking lot. All these activities demonstrate the positive socio-economic impact the church has on this town. This dynamic has been coined the “halo effect,” and it disappears each time a church’s doors close for the last time.^[2]   

The “Not Me” and Me

I believe that many of the people who come here, for any of the reasons just mentioned, are also in search of God. My personal understanding of the meaning of that so deeply controversial word “God” is something akin to Anne Lamott’s description of the great “Not Me.”^[3] The “Not Me” that created sunrises, waterfalls, and a mother’s love. The “Not Me” that somehow moves me to be more courageous, more loving, more giving, more forgiving, more accepting, more gracious, more understanding, more hopeful, more peaceful, and more present than I think I have the capacity to be. Without my Christian faith, I am certain that I could still marvel at the beauty of creation, and touch a bit of the compassionate force for good, through literature, art, music, and human connection. But for me, my faith, and in particular the teachings of Jesus, is my inexhaustible source of courage, hope, and comfort.

That was not always the case. The Christian doctrine as taught to me as a child was filled with the proverbial hell and brimstone. Now, like so many others, I view those experiences from my adult perspective as psychologically damaging. Indeed, I remember as a 7- or 8-year-old child, lying in my twin bed at night under my bedspread with its colorfully printed hot air balloon pattern, praying that I would not die in my sleep because I was certain I would spend eternity in a literal hell of torment and flames for some “sin” I had committed that day. But at the same time I had a sense that a truer understanding of God was more akin to the buoyant energy that would keep that vibrant hot air balloon aloft in my imagination, rather than some judgmental presence that would send me plummeting to hell. After years of conscious and unconscious faith deconstruction (which might have actually begun that night in my twin bed), I came to believe that the wind keeping my metaphorical hot air balloon life afloat was my connection to the great “Not Me.”

Challenges of an Ordinary Life

Through that boundless connection I was able to navigate a loving but complicated childhood with parents who were each dealing with their own personal struggles. In adulthood, that same connection gave me courage during my diagnosis with multiple forms of cancer. Relying on that bond I found hope during the darkness of a loved one’s mental health and addiction struggles. It gave me comfort when I faced debilitating long-term injury. Over the course of my 60 years, in other words, my faith has given me the tools to deal with the challenges of an ordinary life—to keep the hot air balloon afloat. I sense that I am not alone on this journey of life, that something other than my frightened ego is in control, and if I trust myself to that presence, sooner or later I will know what to do and how to respond. 

A glimpse of this connection is what I attempt to offer to the people who turn into the driveway of this church. Every single person in those cars passing by is facing the same frailties—health challenges, financial uncertainty, relationship struggles. My experience tells me many of them have likely gone through their own faith deconstruction, but have been unable to find a way to “reconstruct.” 

Refilling Our Hot-Air Balloons

And yet, reconnection to the great “Not Me” is available to us all. On any given day, inside this office or out, my faith guides me to provide counsel in interpersonal relationships that helps individuals discover the source of courage, allowing them to turn toward each other again; offer grace to the remorseful that reveals the source of hope for a future life better lived; and listen to the grieving, who touch that source of comfort that brings healing. Without fail, these moments of connection fill their inimitable hot-air-balloon lives with much-needed air. 

Today all of our hot-air-balloon lives need filling. In a rapidly changing America, isolation and distrust are endemic. Communities of faith can provide a unique antidote. A congregation is one of the few multigenerational places in society where the whole person and the whole life cycle are embraced and celebrated. From welcoming newborns through baptism, to celebrating the life and service of a recently deceased 90-year-old, it is the church family that offers courage, hope, and comfort to each other. Ideally, it is here that we practice respectful and courageous conflict resolution, share our burdens, and create a space that welcomes our authentic selves. Here we encounter the great “Not Me.” 

I invite you to gaze at the stained glass crosses with me again. A century after it was built, that original church in Wisconsin with its charming windows had lost its relevance and was torn down. But out of the rubble, a curious creative soul brought something new and beautiful into being. Like those crosses, my faith was created through the rigorous work of deconstruction and rebuilding. Out of pain and righteous anger I took apart the stained glass windows of my childhood faith. Over time I looked more closely at the glass shards at my feet and chose to reconstruct my faith life. Perhaps like me, you have dismantled that which no longer carries spiritual relevance for your life. May you embrace this moment to pick up the pieces and recreate a life of spiritual beauty of your own. 

The Rev. Dr. Sandra L. Fischer ’12 M.Div. is a United Church of Christ minister in East Granby, Conn., and the founder of Congregation Collaboration, which consults with congregations seeking to revitalize their ministries by engaging or merging with other churches. She has a B.A. in economics from the University of Wisconsin-Madison, a Juris Doctor from Washington and Lee University School of Law, and practiced law in New England before following a call into Christian ministry. Besides her YDS degree, she received a Doctor of Ministry from Hartford Seminary (now Hartford International University for Religion and Peace).