The Ruins of a Deconstructed Life

When answering the question What is deconstruction, metaphors succeed where words fail (or bore you to death).

Picture an archaeological dig, uncovering the ruins of an ancient civilization. The temples are buried beneath centuries-old rockslides. As you meticulously remove layer after layer of rock and dust, you come upon the occasional artifact, each one a storyteller. Your revelation of ruin constructs a narrative in piecemeal of a former life and its downfall.

This concept of deconstruction accurately captures the experience of what I could politely refer to as passive deconstruction or, as I wrote in one of my first posts on this site, the sudden implosion of a tower whose integrity had eroded over time.

I often hear ex-Christians or small-r reformed Christians refer to their deconstruction as a choice, an active process of thoughtful analysis. My experience permits me to speak on that to a quite limited extent. I did not consciously desire to deconstruct my faith . . . though I do suppose something within me wanted the charade to end.

But where my personal experience fails to grasp the concept (I apologize, this is going to get a bit meta) the metaphor of fiction does a much better job.

Deep breath.

Okay. Think about your understanding of the world like a work of fiction—not one you write, but rather one you read. The author (whoever it is) builds a world that exists only in this work of fiction yet represents quite a lot about the world(s) outside of this book. It has its own backstory and history and mythology, it has myriad characters and genealogies, and it even has its own languages. My mind goes to Lord of the Rings, Star Wars, or The Series of Fiction That Must Not Be Named.

Think for a moment on the world building involved in creating those universes, those canons. Think of the deeply personal and widely varied (at times even religious) interpretations curated by the fans of those fantastical worlds. Think of all the construction on paper, on film, within our minds, and within entire communities that evolve in the logos, pathos, and ethos of that entirely fictional yet somehow deeply real world.

All of that is construction. For some people, I believe deconstruction is as simple as withdrawing from that world, setting the book on the nightstand, logging out of the chatrooms, and taking a break from their fanfics. You know what I’m talking about, right? You’ve experienced that transition from being deeply engrossed in a world of fiction to separating from it and setting it aside in your mind.

We don’t need to take this metaphor within a metaphor too far. We don’t have to say that faith is fiction in order for this picture of deconstruction to make sense. The idea is, we can understand our personal narratives about the universe and the meaning of life as being something less than the ironclad authority on existence.

One can say, “I understand life and faith and relationships in the same way I understand a good book. I take it in, I get absorbed in it, and I appreciate and love it. And sometimes I revisit it. I don’t expect my story to be the story. I understand a whole version of reality has been constructed in my head. . . . I don’t mind letting those imaginary constructions fade away and taking a fresh look at the world before my eyes. I know all those same constructions in my story will be there if I need them, especially if they’re true enough to survive the onslaught of time and reexamination.”

I confess, I do envy people who deconstruct so simply. It just wasn’t that way for me. Perhaps it’s because I put too much importance on my story. Maybe it’s an ADHD thing, maybe it’s just the stubborn, self-absorbed need to be right about everything. Maybe I was just too insecure to feel comfortable with a fluctuating, evolving sense of reality.

No matter. Be it ruin, rewrite, or reboot, I can see deconstruction as a necessary part of life instead of a tragic end to it. Whether it’s my faith or my whole world, there is joy in the building of it.