Train up a child in the way she should go . . .

There are days where I wake up and think to myself, “why do I even continue to believe when this path often causes me so much heartache?” It is in these moments that I remind myself that the core of my faith isn’t wrapped up in how I interpret niche theologies but rather a heart that loves God and loves people. And while I’ve become deeply interested in untangling the web of which brand of philosophical teachings I align with, I am much more invested in living out my faith than perfectly narrating it in the form of a well-argued dissertation. My testimony draws from my life and experiences more than a singular set of ideals. I wish I could say that I have been perfectly consistent in my beliefs, but my life has been messy and chaotic. Thus, my experiences with the Divine has also been more of a rollercoaster than a cruise. I may not hold the same beliefs I did as a younger Christian, but I believe they were important building blocks that brought me to where I stand today. To that end, I find there may be value in putting to paper my experiences as child growing up in conventional American Christianity.

My first memories of church are as a preschooler. I attended the pre-school hosted by our home church, a predominantly Chinese/Chinese-American non-denominational church in the 626 area of SoCal. My memories of this time are hazy, but I have distinct memories of Christmas performances were the pre-K class were dressed up as angels singing a discordant rendition of “Hark the Herald Angel Sing” to an auditorium of eager parents. From day one, it was drilled into my head that Jesus was our Savior and to be Christian meant we get to go to heaven. These messages were sprinkled throughout a Sunday school curriculum featuring fantastical tales of whales, lions, and giants (oh my!). Even after moving several times, our family was quick to find itself folded back into a church community. In this way, I developed my cursory knowledge of the Bible, its stories, and their interpretations.

Sunday school built me up to become an incredibly devout ten-year-old. A lifetime of church, coupled with my almost pathological need to be the teacher’s favorite, granted me the metaphorical “gold star” of Sunday school. By twelve, I was “recruited” to join the youth group. Apparently, having received a recommendation by a Sunday school teacher, I had reached the “spiritual maturity” to level up to the coveted teenage group a whole year early. I was over the moon when the youth pastor spoke with my parents. Seeing as how God was obviously calling me into a higher purpose, I quickly signed up for the earliest baptismal classes and I was off the races as soon as my head bobbed back up from the baptismal hot tub. That year, I attended my first sleepaway retreat, signed up to play piano on the worship team, and vowed to complete my daily “QT” without fail (there was, in fact, much failure on the last one). When it was good, it was great. The friendships I made are for life, and I still jump on any opportunity to jam out with a band.

With the youth group, the content of our Sunday messages deepened. We weren’t just talking about surface-level takeaways from an illustrated children’s Bible, we read from a standard-issue “adult” NIV Bible and derived personal applications from the texts. I appreciated how my pastor introduced critical analysis of biblical texts early on in our faith journeys, challenging us to derive our own conclusions from our weekly readings. However, he was also staunchly unrelenting on certain “Christian values” that had become a hallmark of American Christianity. Every few months, we’d venture into these controversial topics and the conclusions were always the same. The foundation of my conservative Christian values had already been laid – sex was a dirty thing (except in marriage?), same-sex attraction was definitely ungodly, and abortion was akin to murder. The worst part is, I can’t even remember when I learned these values. My moral compass was programmed before I could even read through a chapter of the Bible without stumbling on a word or two. The teachings that had been most insidious in my entire faith life took root without my knowledge and were reinforced during my most vulnerable teen years.

In deconstructing as an adult, I often asked myself how I could have been so absolute in my thinking. I am appalled with my past comfortability in passing judgment on others, but I try to catch myself in these moments and offer myself grace. Even as I pull my hair in frustration at what conservative evangelical Christianity has become, I empathize so deeply with their afflictions of hate and judgment because I was one of them. I fully bought into WASP theology even when every answer I received from my pastor only raised more questions and when none of the hate felt right in my heart. Every concern was made to be study my Bible harder and every doubt a sign of disbelief. It took drastic events in my life to force me to take off my own blindfold, but that is a story for another day. I praise God that I was able to break free from that worldview by exposing myself to new ideas and people who challenged me, because I shudder to think of what would have become of me had I never questioned these values.

My own deconstruction gives me faith that the truth of God is not so easily evaded. In giving us Jesus, God provided living proof of what love on Earth could look like and a blueprint for how we could live our lives. And while loving my neighbor isn’t always easy, it sits easier with my soul than living with constant shame and decompressing through self-righteousness. If you, dear reader, resonate with anything I said, I will leave you with something positive I heard from a fellow progressive Christian friend of mine.

“Truth doesn’t require constant propaganda and reinforcement to propagate. Trust that even speaking one minute of truth to someone can counter even a lifetime of lies.”