This reflection was originally published on Medium under the “Even Here” publication.
Read it there → Even Here
What does it mean now for me to own my faith here in the in-between?
What does the way forward look like when certainty no longer feels like the goal?
I used to think that to “own your faith” meant being able to explain it. Articulate it. Defend it, even. I thought it meant arriving at answers, standing on solid ground, knowing exactly where I stood on every issue that mattered.
But that understanding has shifted.
Not because I’ve walked away from belief — but because I’ve lived through enough to realise that faith isn’t always about certainty.
At least, not the kind I once thought I needed.
There was a time when certainty felt essential. It gave structure. Security. A sense of alignment with truth. But as life unfolded — through seasons of doubt, disappointment, unanswered prayers, and what I can only hesitantly describe as suffering — I found that certainty could only carry me so far. Not suffering in the sense that others have endured — violent loss, trauma, injustice — but still a kind of inner unraveling that left me spiritually unmoored. Eventually, certainty began to feel brittle. Too small to hold the complexities of life with God.
I didn’t lose faith.
But I did lose the illusion that faith had to be held together by certainty.
What I began to see is that the deeper invitation wasn’t to clarity, but to communion.
Not to possess truth as a system, but to be held by Truth as a Person.
And so here I am — no longer building my faith around resolution, but around relationship.
Not because answers don’t matter, but because love matters more.
Not because theology is unimportant, but because trust is more sustaining.
And now, in this in-between space — where old frameworks feel too narrow, and where I continue to hold faith in a form that’s less rigid, more open — I’m learning what it means to own my faith in a different way.
Not as possession.
Not as performance.
But as presence.
Not a Position to Defend, But a Posture to Live
Owning my faith now doesn’t mean having the right words. It means remaining in the story — even when the narrative doesn’t resolve cleanly. It’s no longer about having theological control. It’s about spiritual consent — saying yes to God, even when I can’t trace His logic (not that I have to, Isaiah 55:9).
I still ask questions. But I’m not chasing answers in the same way. I’m learning to live inside the questions, to trust that Christ meets me in the ambiguity — not just at the end of it.
This is a different kind of faith.
Less declarative. More relational.
Less about being right. More about staying near.
Making Peace with Unfinished Theology
There are things I no longer say with certainty. Passages I once interpreted easily now make me pause. Doctrines I used to assert now feel more like open windows than locked doors.
But owning my faith doesn’t mean tying off every tension.
It means being honest about what I can no longer force, and still choosing to walk in the direction of trust.
I’ve learned that living with theological questions doesn’t disqualify faith. It deepens it.
Not every ambiguity needs to be solved.
Some need to be carried.
And sometimes, what I carry becomes the space where God meets me.
Practicing Presence
I read Scripture — not to extract answers, but to dwell in its complexity and beauty. I let it speak, even when I don’t understand. I pray, but it’s no longer about getting words right, but pouring my heart out. It’s about staying open. Available. Attentive.
I’ve come to believe that prayer is not always a conversation, but a consent — an invitation for God to be God in me, even when I don’t have language.
And I still show up to community. Not because I always feel at home there, but because the body of Christ is real, even when it’s awkward or unfamiliar.
These practices no longer function as proofs of belief.
They are how I remain tethered to grace.
Choosing Hope, Still
There are days when I’m tempted to retreat — to let my faith become smaller, quieter, more self-protective. I know how to live with spiritual minimalism. I know how to nod politely at belief without engaging it.
But hope keeps rising in me — not because I’m certain of outcomes, but because I trust in the character of Christ.
Even when everything still feels tomb-like, I believe resurrection is possible.
Even when silence stretches long, I believe God is still speaking.
In what feels like a low-grade ache of the soul — I am learning to hope.
Hope doesn’t erase the ache. It doesn’t compete with deeper grief.
It simply chooses to remain when walking away would be easier.
Living with Responsibility
Still asking, still uncertain — I find myself walking with others. Mentoring. Listening. Sharing what light I’ve found, even if it flickers.
I used to think I had to be whole to be helpful.
Now I know that broken bread feeds others too.
Owning my faith doesn’t mean I have all the answers.
It means I carry what I have with integrity.
It means living faithfully even when I feel unfinished.
It means offering presence even when I lack clarity.
It means saying, “I don’t fully know — but I’m still here. And God is too.”
A Quiet Kind of Ownership
So no, I don’t have a polished theology or a tidy testimony.
I don’t always feel at home in the categories others use.
But I’m still showing up. Still seeking. Still saying yes.
And maybe that’s what owning faith looks like in the in-between.
Not control, but surrender.
Not certainty, but communion.
Not loud declarations, but a quiet, resilient, unfolding “yes” to Christ.
Owning my faith now looks like:
Staying in the tension
Trusting without resolution
Praying without performance
Hoping without guarantees
Loving even in ambiguity
It may not look like much from the outside.
But it’s real.
And it’s mine.
A Question for the Journey:
What does owning your faith look like — not in certainty, but in surrender?