Between Heresy and Fairy Tales

I’ve often felt like I live in the in-between.

Too conservative to be considered liberal. Too liberal to be accepted as conservative.

Too abstract to fit in with the scientists. Too rational to be fully at home among the artists.

I can’t seem to find a label that fits. Every time I try one on, it shrinks in the wash or stretches out in all the wrong places.

And this in-betweenness is especially true when it comes to my spiritual life.

There was a time when I thought certainty was the goal—knowing exactly what I believed, being able to defend it, explain it, codify it. But the older I get, the more I find myself less concerned with having answers and more drawn to the quiet space where mystery lives. I’m not trying to rebel or deconstruct for the sake of it. I’m just being honest. The boxes no longer hold.

It’s not that I’ve lost my faith. If anything, something deeper has been forming under the surface—something quieter, but more resilient. But it doesn’t look like the faith I was raised with. And it doesn’t look like the rejection of faith either.

It looks like being caught in the middle.

And honestly? It can be a bit lonely at times.

Sometimes I wonder if anyone else feels this way—like they don’t quite belong to any camp, like their spiritual center doesn’t come with a name tag or a tidy statement of belief. Maybe that’s where you are too.

If so, I just want to say: you’re not alone.

When the Church Calls You a Heretic

I grew up Pentecostal, and in that world, one thing was clear: the Bible is the inerrant, infallible Word of God. Every word perfect, every story true in every detail. It was a foundation—a rock to stand on. To question that was almost unthinkable.

But as I began reading scholars instead of pastors, things shifted. Suddenly, I was confronted with perspectives that challenged this neat picture. I saw how difficult it is, intellectually, to hold to strict biblical inerrancy without twisting yourself into rhetorical pretzels.

For example, the Gospels don’t always agree on the details of Jesus’ resurrection—who went to the tomb first, how many angels were there, even the order of events. Or take genealogies: Matthew and Luke offer very different lineages for Jesus. And then there’s the tension between the Old Testament laws and the teachings of Jesus, sometimes appearing contradictory.

These discrepancies aren’t minor footnotes; they are real challenges to a literal, error-free reading.

Coming to accept this felt like stepping onto shaky ground. In many Pentecostal circles—and in other conservative traditions too—once you start questioning inerrancy, it’s as if you’ve handed in your “Jesus card” and signed up for a one-way ticket to hell.

The label “heretic” isn’t just an abstract insult. It carries weight, fear, and exclusion. I learned this the hard way.

I guess in some people’s eyes, that’s exactly the label they would give me.

When Atheists Say You Believe in Fairy Tales

On the other side of this divide are the voices of atheism—often just as sure, and just as sharp in their critique.

They say, “You believe in fairy tales. Like Santa Claus.”

If I want to be intelligent, rational, and grown-up, I have to put away these childish dreams. I have to stop clinging to stories that can’t be proven, and live fully in the real world—with real facts.

In their eyes, my spiritual yearning isn’t brave or thoughtful. It’s irrational.

They see belief in God or anything transcendent as a kind of delusion—a comforting myth we tell ourselves to avoid the hard truths.

And it’s hard not to feel the sting of that judgment. To have your deepest hopes dismissed as naivety or superstition feels like a kind of exile.

So here I am again—caught between two camps that don’t quite know what to do with someone who won’t pick a side.

To some, I’m heretical.

To others, I’m deluded.

And in the middle, I’m still searching.

The Ache for Something More

Have you ever felt that ache? That quiet, persistent longing for something beyond what we see and know?

You look around and wonder, Is this it? Is this all there is?

Atheists say, “Yes. This is it.”

They offer the world of facts, evidence, and measurable reality. No more, no less.

Churches say, “There’s something more.”

But often it’s described so rigidly, so certain, that the transcendent feels almost like a shadow of the very world the atheists champion—bound by rules, definitions, and certainties.

But what if the middle—the place between certainty and doubt—is where the mystery actually breaks open?

What if it’s in that in-between space that the unspeakable begins to guide us toward truth?

It’s not about having all the answers, or choosing one side over the other.

It’s about listening to the ache, the deep spiritual intuition that there is more than facts can capture and more than dogma can contain.

Maybe it’s here—in this humble waiting, this quiet surrender—that the real journey begins.

Mystics and the Language of the Soul

As I started deconstructing my faith, I began reading far beyond my own tradition. I’d like to say my motives were purely spiritual, but the truth is—it was also an act of defiance. A way to tell my religious heritage, You no longer control me.

But what I found surprised me.

Amid the anger and trauma, amid the tears of frustration, there was a quiet stillness that began to emerge—something patient and gentle holding me until the storm passed. A presence that seemed to say, I’ve got you.

I found unexpected comfort in texts like the Dao De Jing, with its simple yet profound invitation to “Be still and know that the world unfolds in its own way.” Lao Tzu’s wisdom didn’t demand certainty; it welcomed mystery and flow.

In Christian mysticism, voices like Meister Eckhart spoke of a God beyond all words and concepts:

“The eye with which I see God is the same eye with which God sees me.”

Julian of Norwich offered a radical hope rooted in divine compassion:

“All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well.”

Modern contemplatives like Richard Rohr invite us to embrace trust:

“Faith is not for overcoming obstacles; it is for experiencing them—all the way through!”

And Thomas Merton, with his deep yearning for contentment and purpose, reminds us:

“We must make the choices that enable us to fulfill the deepest capacities of our real selves."

These mystics don’t give easy answers or rigid doctrines. Instead, they point us toward a sacred silence, a space where divine love and mystery coexist—where we are held, even when everything feels uncertain.

Their words felt like a balm, a hand to hold in the middle of the unknown.

God Is Bigger Than Our Categories

Here in America, the word God often comes loaded with baggage.

For many, it conjures images of a Zeus-like tyrant — a distant, angry judge watching from above.

Others see a “sky-daddy,” a benevolent but sometimes petty figure who demands obedience.

Or, like a family member once put it, God is “George Washington”—a symbol of patriotism and order.

But these are pale shadows of something far deeper.

The God of the mystics is not a figure to be neatly described or categorized. This God is the Ineffable—the ground of all being, the Great Thought that thinks all minds into existence.

This God is felt, lived, and experienced more than talked about.

It’s a presence beyond words, a silence deeper than any human explanation.

Mystics across time and traditions have tried to gesture toward this truth, but always with the recognition that language falls short.

God is not a box we can check or a concept we can control.

God is the vast mystery that holds the universe—and each of us—within an embrace too profound to fully grasp.

The Middle as Centeredness

Being caught in the middle isn’t just a place of tension—it’s also a place of grounding.

Sure, the middle creates pressure from all sides.

Conservative voices tug one way, liberal voices pull another.

Rationality and creativity vie for attention inside us.

Spiritual certainty and mystery wrestle quietly in the heart.

But tension is not the enemy.

In fact, tension is what the strings of life’s melodies are played on.

It’s in the space between that notes emerge, harmonies form, and music flows.

So maybe the anxiety we feel—the restless need to fit in, to find a clear place on the map—is actually an invitation.

An invitation to slow down.

To soften our gaze.

To listen deeply, not just to others, but to ourselves.

To see not just what’s trying to pull us apart, but what is holding us together.

When we stop fighting to belong to one camp or another, we open the space to be truly centered—rooted in the real, in the mystery, in the quiet unfolding of life.

And that, perhaps, is where we were meant to be all along.

Let Them Try

So let the groups try to label you.

Let them try to pin you down—so they can decide whether to accept you or dismiss you.

They can try to box you in, define you, categorize your faith, your doubts, your longings.

But just as God is mysterious, so are we.

We are not puzzles to be solved, but poems to be read slowly.

We are not static identities, but living questions.

We are not here to satisfy the expectations of others, but to awaken to the truth beating quietly at the center of our being.

And that mystery—that holy, untamable mystery—is where meaning is found.

So stay in the middle if that’s where you are.

Not because it’s comfortable, but because it’s real.

Because it’s where you can hear the music playing on the tension.

Because it’s where the mystery begins to speak.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s the truest place to be.

Still on vacation - no scale.