Forty Months in the Wilderness
The number forty is symbolic throughout the biblical narratives, representing significant periods of testing, transformation, and preparation. Rain pelted the ground for forty days and nights, the Israelites spent forty years wandering in the wilderness, and Jesus faced forty days alone in the desert. Each story highlights an unsettling journey— where faith is tested, identities are shed, and clarity begins to emerge.
Forty months ago, I was thrust into the wilderness. I wish I had chosen this path with courage, but let’s face it: change rarely occurs that way.
Often, it's the unexpected struggles that shape us the most.
Like the Israelites, I felt suddenly catapulted into my wasteland, cut off from my faith community, and left without a voice. In an effort to preserve the church's unity, I quietly sought restoration by reaching out to the elders and a few individuals with whom I had formed closer relationships.
I genuinely appreciate the courageous individuals who took the time to respond and engage in meaningful conversations with me. Their willingness to listen and share provided a ray of hope amid the silence. However, I discovered that these interactions were far from the norm. The majority of my attempts went unanswered, leaving me with a deep sense of confusion during a time when I longed for understanding and support. Over time, I accepted this fate, thinking, "A good Christian woman wouldn’t cause a scene."
Yet, here I am, compelled to share a fragment of my story, hoping it might spark hope in others wandering in a wilderness, feeling discouraged by their faith traditions.
Hardships can dismantle the false narratives we've built around our self-worth and beliefs.
Though the journey is painful, it's also essential for genuine transformation.
But first, a disclaimer: when tragedy strikes, you don't need to rush to find the deeper meaning. First, you need to feel. I screamed. I sobbed. Somedays, I still do. Anger rattled me to the core. I felt betrayed and baffled at how easily it seemed that I had been cast aside. I am still grieving the loss of friendships and the future I assumed I would have.
But I also found that my life was confined in a box. The boundaries that once comforted me ultimately stifled my heart's potential to grow. I cherish my religious upbringing for laying the groundwork of my faith, but it also imposed limitations—a misconception that we can neatly confine God into our understanding. This rigid mindset also crafted exclusive boundaries around who belongs and who doesn't. Although I never had much certainty, I felt comfort believing those in authority and leadership held the correct answers. And as a pastor's wife, I was supposed to be one of them.
Some of the most challenging moments in the wilderness come when we are left to face the darkness within ourselves. In this barren landscape, I had to face my hypocrisy, learn to accept the parts of myself I had kept in the shadows in hopes of receiving the approval of others, and grieve how much fear had kept me on the sidelines of my own life.
But it was also in these gut-wrenching moments that my heart began to awaken to a profound sense of empathy, allowing me to see myself and others through a lens of grace.
After wandering the wilderness for forty years, Moses told the Israelites, "God has not given you a heart to know, and eyes to see, and ears to hear, until this day" (Deut. 29:3-4). That's precisely what this wilderness experience has given me—a deeper understanding. The desolate days in the wilderness have challenged my previous limited perceptions. I began to face the reality that most leaders, although well-intended, often regurgitate what they have been taught. In a world that prizes charismatic youth, snappy sound bites, and instant success, countless religious leaders find themselves on the frontlines, guiding their communities without first engaging in the deep, transformative journey that the wilderness demands.
The Israelites faced frustration, doubt, and rebellion in the wilderness, but they also learned to depend on God in new and profound ways. Manna fell from the heavens, water gushed from a rock, and a guiding cloud led them day by day. In the thick of their struggle, they discovered grace. Similarly, as I found myself in life's wilderness— excluded from my friends and community and grappling with hurts from my faith tradition— I was given the chance to rediscover what truly sustains me. It didn't look like food falling from the sky or other grand miracles.
Instead, it was the quiet reassurance of my worth, the healing strength of authentic relationships, and the freedom to redefine my faith.
I've been pleasantly surprised by the grace I've encountered in the most unlikely places. This grace was unexpected because I was taught it could only flow from within the walls of the church or from the "faithful." Yet, I found incredible kindness from those with different beliefs and even from individuals who claim none at all. Spiritual conversations I once deemed sacrilegious have become a source of liberation. Some may see this as rebellion. But in my darkest moments, God provided "manna" in ways that challenged everything I once believed.
Sadly, exclusion often feels like the norm within the church. It's so ingrained that those on the inside usually don't even realize it's happening. I've experienced both sides of religious exclusion and understand the justifications cloaked in righteous language. It's easy to rationalize that tough love means letting others feel the weight of their mistakes.
While God does discipline His children, we must tread carefully not to assume His role.
God doesn't need us to carry out His judgments. He doesn't ask us to wield swords in His defense; instead, Jesus urged us to put our swords down. He called us to take up our cross and follow Him—to love our neighbors, our enemies, the stranger, the orphan, the widow, and ourselves. We are invited to practice mercy. Significantly, the parable of the true embodiment of love is illustrated by the Samaritan—an excluded outsider rather than the 'pious' religious leaders. The good neighbor is "the one who had mercy on him." Jesus follows with the call to "go and do likewise."
For those wandering through a desolate wasteland, take heart—the desert eventually leads to renewal. The tests you're enduring bring about transformation.
It's perfectly okay to mourn what was lost and grapple with your disillusionment about what once sustained you.
And remember, there is no timeline for grief.
The journey might seem unending, but it's filled with purpose every step of the way. Amidst the challenges, may we discover glimmers of hope. Through the trials we face, may we undergo a profound transformation. Even in the wilderness, there's a chance to uncover a faith—and a sense of self—that feels authentic and complete once more. Embrace the journey; it's where true growth happens.
