Deconstruction in its rawest form is easy.
It requires no apprenticeship. It only needs frustration and a target. Reconstruction, however, is carpentry for the soul. It demands calloused knees, a steady hand, and the humility to measure twice before you cut. When you deconstruct with the intent to rebuild, the process changes. You don’t demolish the load-bearing beams just because they’re scarred. You test them. You ask, “Does this still carry weight? Does it point me to Christ or merely to nostalgia?”
Deconstruction without reconstruction is spiritual arson. You burn the house down, walk away, and call it freedom. But winter comes, and you’re left shivering in the charred foundation.
Reconstruction is slower, messier, humbler. You salvage nails bent by bad theology and straighten them for new beams. You invite carpenters older and wiser (Paul, Athanasius, Basil, Julian, Maximus, Clement, Guyon) who know the process. You pray the Psalms while you work, because vulnerable lament and honest praise both belong in the blueprint.
When the sawdust settles, two things remain: something timeless and something deeply personal.
The timeless is the Gospel stripped down to Jesus, crucified and risen, offering grace to enemies and friends alike. It’s communion shared across denominations because the table is bigger than our tribes.
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