Some days, I’m afraid that I’m losing faith in Faith.

I look around at the damage done in the name of God, and the grief comes like a flood.

As a deeply spiritual person, lately I find that I persist almost defiantly, all the while pushing back the nagging questions always nipping at my heels of my belief:

Isn’t spirituality supposed to be a balm for humanity?

Isn’t God supposed to be that beautiful, invisible force that compels us to bring healing and hope and light?

Shouldn’t religion, if it’s worth having, make things better?

Shouldn’t faith leave in its wake a trail of goodness and peace and hope for this hate-weary world?

Shouldn’t it yield equality, decency, and justice for every human being?

Shouldn’t something truly made of whatever God is made of leave people more whole than when it found them?

Because, by and large, that doesn’t seem to be happening here.

Objectively speaking, I’m not so sure religion as an experiment is working on this planet.

At best, the results are decidedly mixed for those who claim faith.

As often as we are the peacemakers, we have been the warmongers.

As many times as we bind up the wounded, we inflict the wounds.

As often as religion has bent the arc of the moral universe toward justice, it has violently pried it away.

For every time religious people have led the way out of bigotry and discrimination throughout history, we have just as often dug in our heels to perpetuate them.

We who claim to be followers of Jesus either have suffered extreme mission drift here, or the whole damn system is faulty.

Many people of my religious tradition will say that Sin is the reason for the brokenness, dysfunction, and sickness in the world, and that this is why we can claim faith and still be terrible people. We are inherently sin-flawed, and so we follow Jesus, but we will still do all kinds of reckless, vile, and hateful things in the process.

I’ll be honest, that answer doesn’t cut it for me anymore.

It feels like sanctified buck-passing and cheap spiritual scapegoating.

And even if sin is the answer, I guess I want a better one.

I want a God that is bigger than any broken system, bigger than the flawed people inhabiting it, bigger than my own personal demons.

I want a God whose perfect love actually infects imperfect people until they become violently allergic to contempt for others.

I want the people of Jesus to be hopelessly hate-intolerant.

Ultimately, I’m praying for a religion that does no harm in the world, and the fact that I can’t have it frustrates me in the depths of my spirit.

It shifts the tectonic plates on which my soul wants to stand, and trying to steady yourself on something shaky is exhausting—and I guess I’m just pretty tired.

I’m tired of seeing the people most loudly claiming faith in Jesus acting the least like him.

I’m tired of religious people who insist on wielding theirs like a weapon.

I’m tired of trying to share the message of Christianity with people while simultaneously helping repair the damage done to them by professed Christians.

I’m tired of always feeling like this faith thing isn’t working like it should be: in me, in my country, in the world.

And you’d think that this would all be enough for me to wash my hands of the whole thing and walk away, but somehow it isn’t.

Despite all my frustration and mourning and anger at what faith doesn’t seem to be doing in people of faith, I still look up expectantly.

In fact, I find in that very unrest within me, the evidence of what right now is only aspirational: that better thing that I believe is still possible, for myself, for my homeland, for the planet.

Maybe one day I will be swallowed up too completely in doubt to resurface, but right now my soul still desperately reaches for what could be, and I find some strange solace in the reaching.

Jesus said that if one has faith the size of a mustard seed, they can move mountains.

Despite everything then, I may have just enough left to do something bold and miraculous...

... but just barely.

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