Wrestling with doubt, silence, and spiritual vertigo
Disorientation: Part 2 of 4

If the first blog was about gentle unraveling, then this one is about what happens when the unraveling gives way to silence.

Last time, we stepped out of the familiar. We said goodbye to what once felt rooted. We acknowledged the loss of identity that came when the scaffolding of life fell apart. But what comes next isn't clarity-it's the fog.

And let me tell you, the fog doesn't play by the same rules. This is the season where the old compass spins. Where prayers echo and answers evaporate. Where you wonder if you're wandering...or being led.

When the Words Go Quiet

After I wrote The God of Darkness and wrapped up my study on John 4, the words stopped. Not just creatively-but spiritually. I had blogged for years. Journaled endlessly. Taught from Scripture. I always had something to say.

But now? Silence.
Not a hollowness-more like an emptying.

I could still go through the motions. I sat in church. Listened to sermons. Read my Bible. Showed up. But it felt like I was watching myself do it from the outside. Like my soul had entered some kind of spiritual slow motion. I wasn't angry. I wasn't rebelling. I was just…undone.

And strangely, I knew I couldn't hurry through it as desperately as I wanted to. As someone who's naturally intense and efficient, that was disorienting in itself. But this season wasn't one I could "fix." It was one I had to live.

Sifting and Sorting

My confessional community group, entrenched loved ones, and counselor helped me frame it differently-not as a crisis, but as a sifting and sorting. That became a powerful image.

I wasn't trying to discard my faith. I was trying to examine it. To look at what I had been carrying and ask honest questions:

• Was this formed by Christ or culture?

• Was it fear disguised as doctrine?

• Was this a rhythm of life or just a habit of performance?

The process was slow. And humbling. It required me to admit I didn't have answers anymore-at least not the kind I used to rattle off with confidence. I had to let things sit. Let them be unsettled.

I began to see how much of my spiritual formation had centered on knowing-on being certain. But I hadn't learned how to be silent. I hadn't learned how to be held in the not-knowing.

When Certainty Becomes a Cage

Much of the evangelical teaching I had received-especially in American church spaces-was deeply rooted in orientation. It valued theological clarity, definitive declarations, and the kind of faith that said, "This is what God's Word says."

There wasn't much room for wandering. Or for waiting. Or for the sacredness of not knowing.

And underneath it all, there was a deeper tension forming. Not just about what I believed…but about the kind of gospel I had inherited.

The Gospel of the Right and the Left

Dallas Willard names this holy divide well. He calls it the tension between the "gospel of the right" and the "gospel of the left." On the right, we speak of personal holiness and sin-that Christ came to deal with our rebellion and make us righteous before God. On the left, we emphasize justice and societal restoration-that Jesus came to bring good news to the poor and set the oppressed free.

Both "sides" hold truths. But I began to wonder: Why had I been asked to choose?

Willard wrote in The Divine Conspiracy:

"The gospel is less about how to get into the Kingdom of Heaven after you die and more about how to live in the Kingdom of Heaven before you die."

That single sentence helped me reckon with the here and now.

I had been taught how to confess sin. How to uphold the Bible and prioritize "quiet time." But not how to co-create beauty. Not how to walk with Christ into broken systems and hurting communities and be a holy salve to the souls of others. Not how to live in the now of the Kingdom.

At the same time, I couldn't ignore what Willard says in The Great Omission:

"Most problems in contemporary churches can be explained by the fact that members have not yet decided to follow Christ."

Was I truly apprenticing my life to Jesus? Or just participating in religious culture?

It felt like I was holding two ends of a rope, pulling in opposite directions.
Holiness and justice.
Sin and restoration.
Heaven then and Heaven now.
And in the middle, me-straining, sweating, confused. Wrestling with it all.

Like Jacob at Peniel, I didn't come away from that season with answers. I came away with a limp.