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God still wasn’t speaking directly to me very often when, crawling out of Freshman year into Sophomore, I began to trust Him again. I was faithfully attending a tiny Church of Christ, a member of multiple Bible studies, a sometimes-worship-leader for a small group—and it was finally starting to touch my spirit again. That was when, just as I’d been planning to find a new church, I heard Him speak: in the middle of dressing for church on Sunday morning, something certain in my spirit said Go to Church of the Vine.

Continue reading “Testimony II | Prepared to Give an Answer” →

One year ago, the words “Kimberly, be sealed with the Gift of the Holy Spirit” were spoken over me—and nothing has ever been the same.

I’ve put off writing anything about my first year as a Catholic because it feels so – so big, you know? And it really is. In very Christian-ese fashion: I can’t begin to total the growth, the spiritual formation, and the ways Christ has made himself known to me in new & unexpected places. I think, though, that my real reflection this Easter season is the opposite of that. 

When I think back on the last year—big things and all—I think about how quiet everything has become.

My conversion was not an easy one. I went kicking and screaming, begging God to lead me anywhere but the Catholic Church; every free moment, every quiet hour I had was spent listening to podcasts, watching debates, reading articles and books and forum discussions and Twitter threads, trying to decipher what God’s will was and where the truth lay. I didn’t give official notice to my parish that I would be received last Easter until less than a month before the day it would happen—because I was just that terrified.

It was exhausting. And then—it was over.

This year has been, primarily, one of great Rest. The decision is over; the searching is finished. I’ve been able to rest in a way I hadn’t for the previous two-and-a-half years (and, considering even the non-Catholic wrestlings of my faith journey, far longer than that.) I’ve never once regretted any of my journey, nor any ounce of my decision. It’s been a year of quietly treasuring up all of the things of my Church in my heart.

I know it can be difficult to really get it when someone has “found peace/joy/rest” in a decision you don’t share or even necessarily understand; that’s okay. I just wanted to share the answer I’ve been giving more frequently as people ask, “So, how has it been being Catholic?”

It’s been so peaceful and full of joy, friends. 🙂

Christ is risen! Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia!

The easiest place to start this particular story is to jump to the start of the era: my first year of college. 

Much of my faith was deeply formed in my later high school years – my graduating class had something of a dramatic, charismatic revival in our senior year – and that will be relevant later; but for now, I’d like to start with the very first college assignment I ever received, the summer before I entered my freshman year: my university’s Honors Program had us read the entirety of St. Augustine’s Confessions.

St. Augustine changed my world.

He opens his part-autobiography, part-philosophical meanderings with the question of whether we should know God before we call upon him, or whether we should call upon him first to know him: having recently been troubled by whether my own conception of God was “correct enough,” I scribbled, “Is this guy me?” in the margins. Thus began an immediate kinship with a man who lived nearly a millennium ago.

Someday, I’d love to write a memoir of how so much of my journey mirrors St. Augustine’s; we have defining moments of innate sinfulness from our childhoods, strong ties to rhetoric and academia, incredibly gradual conversion narratives, and a deeply-rooted struggle with the same sinful temptation. For now, though, it’ll suffice to say only that his writing gripped me. Here was someone who had the same questions I did, a journey I saw myself on, and the same inability to express profound ideas with brevity. (I say this with the deepest love – neither Augustine nor I know how to be succinct!)

All this to say – perhaps my very first gateway to Catholic theology was discovering that “the Great Cloud of Witnesses” had real people in it, people whose stories I’d never been told but found utterly compelling. “The Communion of Saints” that we recite in the Athanatian creed felt more accessible than it ever had.

Subtle Scruples

Perhaps the second-most notable part of my journey in this same time period was my struggle with what some call “Scrupulosity” – or Religious OCD.

In my senior year of high school, the faith communities I was a part of began to run very charismatic; there was a lot of prophesying, visions, healing, and a general connectedness to the Holy Spirit I’d never encountered before. I learned to hear from God in new, far-more-present ways, and it was a whirlwind of a spiritual high.

Somewhere in the middle of my first semester of college, though, I began to realize that some of the little tugging sensations I’d felt in my brain during those times… weren’t God. The little things that had “just felt right” began to grow into more and more nonsensical ideas – you need to go sit with that man over there right now or he won’t know that God loves him; if you don’t fully explain exactly why you were late to lunch, you’ll be lying and a horrible Christian – that didn’t align at all with what Jesus would say or do.

And if those thoughts weren’t from God… how could I trust anything God might be trying to tell me?

I prayed and prayed. There was no clear answer. Eventually, I threw up my hands and cried, “Fine. God, if you’re not going to speak to me in a way that’s clear, I’m not going to speak to you.”

I never lost my faith, but I effectively crossed my arms and turned my back on prayer for a long while – for most of my second semester of college – and fell into a deep pit of apathy. Why wasn’t God speaking to me? What was wrong with me? If that voice wasn’t God, then what was it?

Finding Hope

So much made sense when I started seeing a therapist. As it turns out, a lot of the ‘promptings’ I’d thought were from God were instead a form of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, or OCD, called ‘Scrupulosity’ (or Religious OCD). It’s characterized by intense compulsions and feelings of guilt directly linked to morality, goodness, and one’s own personal faith – in my case, Christianity. I would feel like I was sinning or disobeying God if I didn’t act on my compulsions – often things like talking to people who sat alone in the cafeteria, or picking up litter on the ground. Learning that there was a name for this and that I wasn’t just “bad at hearing God’s voice” or a “Bad Christian” was more liberating than I can say.

I came out of that period of time, like most who experience dark seasons, a stronger person. I knew myself better, and I knew more of my own mind. What I still didn’t know (and what I’m still learning) was how to re-engage with some of the more mystical, Holy Spirit-borne gifts and experiences I know I engaged with when I ran in more Charismatic circles. Would God still give me leadings that were from him and not OCD? Could I still get specific words from him? It felt like stepping out onto the ice; I moved slowly, not wanting to fall through the surface into the frigid fear of thoughts that weren’t mine.

The heart, I’d learned, could well and truly be deceitful above all things; which was why, unsurprisingly, when the Great Books program I was studying under began to introduce texts that made up the ancient pillars of Christian Theology, I was more than ready for something solid to cling to.

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Next post in this series: Sacramental Theology

Previous post in this series: Introduction

This summer, I was introduced to a term I’d never heard of but understood somewhat intrinsically–deconstruction.

It’s a term many Christians (or former Christians) are using to describe their journeys of systematically analyzing and departing from some or all of their faith. While I’ve never done a full deconstruction, implying a complete re-evaluation of every aspect of my faith, I’m no stranger to systematically taking apart aspects of the Christian religion in an attempt to make sense of them. I’ve come out of these phases with my faith intact–others, however, aren’t so lucky.

I’ve been listening to a podcast this summer called The Liturgists, run by Michael Gungor and Mike McHargue, two men of faith who had dramatic phases of deconstruction and then atheism before slowly returning to belief in Christ. Their stories are incredible, and it’s been such an encouragement to my very cerebral, why-isn’t-there-proof-for-everything soul to hear from like-minded people who have found comfort in Christian Mysticism and the mystery of faith rather than proofs or facts. One of the things essential to embracing mysticism from an intellectual standpoint, though, is having the freedom to ask questions–and this is where we’ve done so much wrong to people like Joshua Harris.

For the newcomers to this conversation, Joshua Harris, author of 21st-century cult classic I Kissed Dating Goodbye, just announced a divorce, support for LGBT+ marriage, and that he can’t consider himself a Christian by his own definition of the term, all in the span of a couple of days. That’s a pretty crazy trip, and not just for those of us reading it. Imagine what it must be like to be Josh Harris.

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DON’T QUESTION IT

It’s an unfortunate truth in many Christ-centered communities that, when something doesn’t make sense to you, you’re not supposed to question it. This isn’t the way we’re meant to practice faith.

When Jesus is describing how parents give gifts to their children, I wonder if he had this sort of thing in mind.

“Which of you, if your son asks for bread, will give him a stone?” Which of you, if your daughter asks why the gospels don’t seem to tell all the stories in the same order, will slam your fists on the table and tell her to stop questioning God’s Word?

In the same vein: when God’s actions in the Old Testament suddenly start to inspire fear over love, flipping over to Galatians shouldn’t be a “quick fix” you use to just erase that image of God from your mind. When a verse doesn’t seem to make sense, we can’t train ourselves to throw up mental blockades, ignore it, and chant, “Your ways are higher than my ways” until we stop feeling uneasy.

Rigid faith, when bent, will break.

Of every ex-Christian I have spoken to, all of them, without exception, speak of the pain they felt at not being allowed to ask questions in church. They describe church leaders scolding them, yelling at them, asking them not to come back because of the genuine questions they asked, so heart-breakingly often being told this as children. We are yelling at children who have real questions and training them to either a) mentally shut their minds down whenever something begins to confuse them, which is a tactic cults use to keep followers from questioning, or b) we teach them that their questions aren’t welcome in the church and, as a result, neither are they.

Joshua Harris has got to be in this hole right now, and he inadvertently helped put himself there, what with publishing a book at age 23 that quite literally launched the “courting” movement in conservative Christian circles. His entire brand was centered around a fairly strict set of social and theological norms–to question anything would be to question his entire career. And when you don’t allow someone–or yourself–to have the freedom to change their mind, you risk their beliefs becoming brittle and fragile, hardened by years of “just have faith”s and “God’s thoughts are not your thoughts”, right up until everything shatters.

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ASK, SEEK, KNOCK

God made us curious.

We’re commanded to ask, seek, and knock. That’s not just for material things–that’s for answers, for faith, for encouragement.

Exodus 12 tells the Israelites to answer their children when they come with questions: “When your children ask you, ‘What does this service mean to you?’ you are to reply, ‘It is the Passover sacrifice to the LORD…”

Jesus stayed up with Nicodemus all night, answering questions. Mary was honored for asking, “How can this be, since I am a virgin?” The Psalms are filled with laments of why and how and where.

God didn’t create us to simply take everything lying down–he doesn’t expect us to sit silently in a pew with our hands clasped for our entire lives. Did the disciples just sit quietly by without questions when Jesus told a purposely vague parable? Would Nicodemus ever have come to faith if he hadn’t come to ask Jesus questions in the night?

The truth is, all the Pharisees unwilling to question their own beliefs and laws were the ones who got hurt in the end.

That is why, friends, when I read about Josh Harris’s deconstruction, the first thing I did was breathe a sigh of relief.

Why?

Because he’s free now. He can ask the hard questions. He’s not being pressured anymore to stay quiet for fear of hurting his marriage, his followers, his public image (well, he is–but anyone trying to shame him now sure isn’t going to get anywhere.) He doesn’t have to put on a facade and live a lie, pretending to happily go to church each Sunday, successfully embittering and further alienating himself from any faith he might have had.

What I’m hoping to illustrate through all of this is simple: if Josh Harris was asking these questions before being open about them, it’s almost guaranteed he was hurting himself more than he was helping anything. Stifling the questions indefinitely is never healthier than asking them.

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FOSTER THE QUESTIONS

Now, I’m not claiming I know with certainty that Josh Harris left Christianity because he wasn’t allowed to ask questions. Not even his past close friends know what’s led to Josh’s deconstruction, and they’ve cautioned against speculating on it. Though I see a very large trend of unanswered questions leading to a departure from the faith, questions may have had nothing to do with it: many believers in very open, free-thought-promoting settings still walk away from the faith, and many believers in more heavy-handed congregations learn to find peace in the mystery of Christ.

But what I am saying is that, firstly, the Church is complicit in so many stories like Josh Harris’s–and that, more importantly, deconstruction isn’t the end of the world.

Church, we must foster a culture where questions are welcome. Even if that means we can’t always answer. There is importance in resting in the mystery, but there is also importance in questing for answers. Something I’ve often been told is, “God can handle your questions.” Sometimes, in my mind, that phrase has become, “If God is real, he can handle my questions.” And that’s okay, too–because God can handle my doubts.

If a question or doubt makes us uncomfortable, that’s understandable, and you can admit as such without compromising your faith. It’s also an opportunity to grow in your knowledge or grow in your faith, not to shut down whatever or whoever raised the question. If we can foster this sort of community, we might prevent the dramatic crises of faith we’re seeing among people who break suddenly and emotionally from the Church.

We must also stop viewing deconstruction as a bad thing. I know that sounds absolutely crazy–but understand that forcing someone to pretend they identify with a belief they no longer hold is never helpful, and allowing someone to question, doubt, and seek answers almost always is. If someone is having an intense wrestling match with their faith, we can’t control that–but we can control how we react and whether or not our reactions are helpful.

Josh Harris’s deconstruction may just be the best thing that’s ever happened to him. “I can’t join [Christians] in your mourning. I don’t view this moment negatively,” he’s said in his post. We can mourn the loss of faith–I know I certainly do–but friends, we shouldn’t mourn the questions, and I’m afraid people are confusing the two.

The questions are wonderful. They’re what makes Scripture engaging, they’re what brings believers together to discuss them, and they’re what has shaped my faith for most of my life. They can also be stumbling blocks that trip us up or even prevent us from going on; but they are vital to faith in Christ.

Josh Harris absolutely did the right thing by being honest about where he is in his faith.

However, I’m not seeing a loving response from so many Christian news outlets or fellow bloggers; instead, I’m seeing people attacking his views on the LGBT+ community, attacking things he’s said in the past, criticizing him for the decisions he’s making in regards to his divorce, and so much more. Debate and theology lessons in the comments are not what this is about. What I wish we were seeing is believers taking this opportunity to commend Josh for asking hard questions and to encourage one another to find answers other than the trite ones we hear over Karen’s meatloaf at the potluck.

Don’t be afraid to ask yourselves hard questions, friends. They aren’t a reflection of unbelief, not being “good enough”, or poor character. And don’t be afraid of other people asking the questions, either. Use them as the diving board for drawing your children, drawing your congregation, drawing yourself closer to the truth–and the truth, as we should be able to quote, will set us free. No matter where it leads, we are in God’s hands.

To join Josh in quoting the Christian mystic Julian of Norwich, “Sin is [inevitable], but all shall be well, all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well.”

“Are you sure you can do this?”

At the concerned look on my friend’s face, the signed Change of Major form burned my fingertips even as my stomach turned to ice. This was his first reaction to my new major? I hesitated for a moment before giving a strained shrug.

“… Yes?”

Not exactly the most promising start to my computer science career.

It’s a good thing, then, that my career actually started over a decade ago with a flamboyantly late-90s children’s book titled Make Your Own Web Page – for Kids. A family friend had dropped off a box of old books for my sister and me to look through, and the title instantly sparked my attention. I coded my very first lines of HyperText Markup Language (HTML) along with Elena, the book’s “main character” who learns to build a web page along with the reader as the book progresses:

<html>
<head>
<title>Kimberly's Webpage</title>
</head>
<body>
Hi! My name is Kimberly Horton, and I live in Washington.
</body>
</html>

I was hooked.

I carried the book with me everywhere like a prized possession, even when there weren’t any computers around to code on. I distinctly remember bringing it with me to church once or twice (though I had to leave it in the car – my parents’ rules!) After working through all of the lessons the book contained, I recall avoiding reading the very end because I didn’t want it to be over – and I never actually ended up completing the final step of uploading my files to a server. This didn’t stop me from designing and creating web pages locally on our clunky Dell laptop; the coding was so fun to me that I didn’t feel the need to put the sites up publicly, and once I discovered free web hosting sites like webs.com it was merely an added bonus.

I created websites for my Girl Scouts troop, a Biology Project, and a club my sister and I formed with our close childhood friends (which I can’t find, unfortunately.) They’ve got some ‘wonderful’ table layouts and broken image links, but the poor design choices were  certainly nullified by the fun I had in creating them.

After switching my major, I fondly recalled the little book that started it all. I found it for pretty cheap from a used book store on Amazon, so I ordered it to keep on my shelf and remind me of where I started.

In classes at college, we’re not doing much front-end. I went into my first class wondering if I’d still enjoy “real” programming like I did HTML; and after my decision to continue on in the coursework (“maybe I’ll get a minor in it,” I thought, “this is pretty fun”) and months of my school’s CS professors playfully haranguing me to switch my major, I finally caved; and the “are you sure?” scenario I detailed above transpired.

Am I sure now?

Absolutely.

I love programming. I didn’t realize it back then, but I was hooked on HTML for the same reasons I’m hooked on Java and Python now; and it wasn’t just because I wanted to become Tank from the Matrix or that I liked graphic design.

Programming is a study in logic. Computers are perfectly algorithmic. As a professor of mine roughly said it,

If the computer isn’t doing what you’ve told it to, it is doing what you told it to–you just don’t know what you told it to do!

In terms of functionality, there is no subjectivity–your program is going to do the same thing every time (except for those mornings when you open your IDE and discover everything you did last night has gone haywire…) There might be more than one solution to a problem, but each solution is consistent, 100% of the time.

When I run into a problem, there’s pretty much never a time I can blame the computer. It’s always me–and then it becomes a challenge to find out where I went wrong.

Along that line of thinking, programming is a puzzle. Albeit it’s a lot easier to think this way when there’s not a deadline breathing down my neck, but whenever I hit an error, it becomes a really engaging scavenger hunt across space, Stack Overflow, and time to figure out what isn’t working. Isn’t this the most frustrating part of programming? Well, yeah. It is, not gonna lie. But it’s also 1) the part that engages your brain the most and 2) it’s the most rewarding.

In his book Geek Sublime, Vikram Chandra describes the feeling of code working as “a little jolt of joy”. If you’ve ever programmed–even just printed “Hello, world!” to the console–you know exactly what he means. There’s just something undeniably satisfying about finally nailing down the problem and fixing it; there’s fun amidst the fury.

Both Mary Poppins and I are firm believers in gamifying tasks–making work feel more like meeting game objectives–so I like to use her words: “In every job that must be done, there is an element of fun; you find the fun and–snap!–the job’s a game!”

Programming is brimming with possibilities. For heavens’ sake, its possibilities have possibilities!

I realize the word “possibilities” has been relegated to a rather vague buzzword these days, but it is what I mean–the possible places you can work, the possible problems you can solve, languages you can learn, apps you can write, sites you can design… in such a computer-saturated world, programming can put you nearly anywhere doing nearly anything. Remote positions aren’t all that rare anymore, so you could be travelling the world, if you wanted to!

And to those of us who prefer a little novelty, the thought that my career is pretty much guaranteed to morph over time is actually an exciting prospect. It’s not as though I’ll pick a language or two to use, settle down at a cubicle, and churn out the same thing for the next 50 years; languages improve, projects change, job descriptions upgrade, and it’s truer than ever that just getting your foot in the door can open up opportunities in different departments or even fields.

So programming means you’re always learning. Whether it’s a new CSS attribute to play with or a whole language to learn, or even puzzling out how to use features you already know how to implement, programming is constantly learning and re-learning skills that will make your work dynamic and engaging for the rest of your career.

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The computer science industry is hard.

I’ve wrestled with Imposter Syndrome since my very first day as a CS major when my friend asked me, doubtfully, if I was really sure I could do it. It took a full year of classes and a summer internship of feeling like I knew less than everyone else before I finally started to feel like, maybe, I was worth something in the field, too.

I’ve found a proverb from my debate coach to be incredibly true in this field: “You’re going to feel stupid until you don’t.”

Even now, as it’s internship application season and I stare at some of the big names like Amazon, Microsoft, and Google, there’s a little voice that tells me I don’t have a chance at working somewhere like that, not when there’s young, modern-day Zuckerbergs and CalTech undergrads and that one brilliant guy in my class who’s been programming since he was five, all applying for the same places.

But my resume, my classes, my love of the field makes it that much easier to ignore the Imposter Syndrome telling me all those things and to pursue what brings me joy. 

I love computer science! And because of that, because of all the reasons I’ve waxed eloquent on above: the answer is yes. Yes, I’m sure I can do this.

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