A Reflection on Barbara Brown Taylor’s “Leaving Church”
It began, as all great adventures do, with an inexplicable yearning. I was six, or perhaps eight—numbers blur as one ages, like ink left too long in the rain—and I remember sitting as still as a statue during a funeral service for a family member. All I vaguely remember is feeling a sense of awe and an imperceptible presence arresting me in this holy place. This presence—call it God, call it the Holy, call it Gerald (if you must)—brushed against the edges of my being and whispered, “You’re not alone.”
That moment, that ineffable hush, became my compass. I set off like a knight errant in search of the Holy Grail, though rather than dragons, I found dusty commentaries, questionable potluck suppers, and an overabundance of “mission statements.” I studied theology, took up ministry, and surrounded myself with holy things—icons, and moderately enthusiastic hymn-singing. I believed, quite sincerely, that I had found God.
Yet I was felt like a man who confuses the map for the land. I mistook the scaffolding for the cathedral. I was, as Miss Taylor might say, “so full of God that there was no room for God.”
So I had to grow up, Mature and in that process began to question the texture of the paper I had as the pathway to God. In some ways it felt like what Rev Taylor names “Losing God”. The losing, I must confess, did not come with a thunderclap. There were no flaming swords or dark nights of the soul that could be sold in hardcover at Lent.
One day, after years in ministry, I realized I was attending committee meetings about the colour of the sanctuary carpet while the world was bleeding just outside the vestry doors.
And so I left. Not just the pulpit, but the familiar metrics of piety. I stopped praying with words. I stopped defining God in terms too small for the mystery. I lost certainty, and along with it, I feared, I had lost the Holy altogether.
But here’s the odd thing: I found that the absence became its own kind of presence. In the vacuum of religion-as-performance, the wind of the Spirit began to blow. I met God in the wilderness—sometimes in the quiet despair of a stranger’s eyes on their sick bed.
Losing God, it seems, is often the first step in seeing God everywhere.
Now, do not mistake me. I have not solved the divine equation, nor bottled transcendence like an aged sherry to be uncorked at special occasions. If anything, I have learned to keep the Holy not by grasping, but by noticing.
I keep God in the silence before dawn when the kettle hisses and the whole house holds its breath. I keep God in the laughter of my nieces and nephews and the in long, aching pauses of poetry. I keep the Holy transcendence in my pocket like a smooth stone—not flashy, but grounding.
Transcendence, as Taylor writes, is not something we possess, but something we practice noticing. And that noticing, I’ve come to believe, is a form of love. Not the grand, orchestral love of angels and hallelujahs, but the quiet fidelity of turning one’s face toward the light, even when one’s spectacles are smudged and one’s theology has gone a bit threadbare.
So here I am, a middle-aged man with a heart full of wonder, still in pursuit—not of certainty, but of presence.
Because the Holy- God, isn’t a prize. God is a presence that arrives when you stop trying to earn audience with God. In the most unexpected of times God slips in through the cracks, settles in your coffee, and waits with a patience far greater than our own. Waits for us to notice and acknowledge, that right here right now God is present, and that a Holy moment, worthy of our Halleluiahs.
And that, my dear friend, is a very good reason to keep going.
This text is in English. Here’s a comment in English:
This reflection is deeply moving and resonates with the struggle of redefining faith outside traditional structures. I admire the honesty in admitting that losing certainty can lead to a more profound sense of presence. The idea of finding God in the mundane—like the hiss of a kettle or a child’s laughter—feels both comforting and revolutionary. But I wonder, how do you navigate the tension between this newfound spirituality and the expectations of those still rooted in organized religion? Do you ever feel the pull to return to the familiar metrics of piety, or has the wilderness become your true sanctuary? Your journey feels like a quiet rebellion, but also a return to something ancient and essential. What would you say to someone who fears losing their faith in the way you describe? Your words make me think, and I’d love to hear more about how this shift has shaped your daily life.
Thank you kindly for your generous words—and for posing such thoughtful questions. You’ve seen to the heart of the matter with a precision that feels both intimate and kind. I’m grateful.
There is indeed a quiet tension between this expansive sense of the Holy and the more defined expectations of traditional religious communities. I find myself, at times, moving between two worlds—the well-worn pews of inherited faith, and the open, wind-swept spaces of unknowing. The former offers rhythm, familiarity, and the beloved cadences of hymns I’ve sung since childhood. The latter brings something wilder, less predictable—a God who surprises me in silence, in suffering, in trees waving in the wind.
Do I feel pulled back? Sometimes, yes. But not out of guilt or nostalgia. Rather, it’s like returning to a childhood home. One sees both the charm and the cracks in the walls. I belong to a religious community—indeed, I value it deeply. But I no longer mistake that community for the entirety of God. That’s the distinction I’ve come to cherish. The church, for all its goodness and gravity, is a vessel—not the sea itself.
To someone who fears losing their faith, I would say this: losing what you thought was faith may be the very path by which real faith begins to take root. When the scaffolding falls away, you discover whether or not there’s still something beneath your feet. In my experience, there is. It’s quieter, humbler, perhaps, than what came before—but it’s also more durable. Like the silence between notes in a great piece of music, this kind of faith makes room for mystery.
Losing certainty is not the same as losing faith. Quite the opposite—it often means trading brittle certainties for a more supple kind of trust. One that can breathe.
And how has this shift shaped my daily life? Well, there’s far more wonder in it, for one. I now see prayer less as a task to accomplish and more as a kind of listening. I look for the Holy not just in scripture or sacraments, but in the slow turning of seasons, in conversations like this one, and yes, in the morning kettle as it begins its low, pre-boil murmur.
This way of seeing has made me slower to speak and quicker to marvel. It’s also made me more forgiving—both of others and of myself. We are, all of us, pilgrims with partial maps. Sometimes we walk by lantern-light; sometimes by starlight; and sometimes, when we’re lucky, the clouds part and a moment of radiance breaks through.
So no, I haven’t abandoned the old paths entirely. But I no longer walk them because I believe they are the only paths. I walk them because I find companions there—and sometimes, if I’m paying attention, the quiet footfalls of God alongside mine.
Thank you again for your words. They’ve given me cause to pause and reflect, and I hope these thoughts offer something in return—if not certainty, then perhaps a bit of companionship along the road.
Warmly, and with gratitude,
A Fellow Pilgrim