If people continue to live lives shaped by love, moved by the story of Jesus, and anchored in meaning—even after letting go of ontological certainty—then perhaps something deeper is still at work. Perhaps the Spirit does not require our perfect metaphysical clarity to move through the world. Perhaps grace still speaks, even when the creed is whispered, or doubted, or reimagined.
You said it beautifully: “The ethic of love and the story of Jesus are powerful.” I agree. And if they still bear fruit in lives of mercy and courage, might that not itself be a kind of testimony?
Maybe the deeper question is not, “Do they still believe?” but “Is love still being born?”
I've gone though several deconstructions in my life. I deconstructed from Catholicism to atheism at 13. A bad drug experience in college resulted in a fast reconstruction to Evangelicalism in my early 20s. After 3 years, I could no longer square that with being gay, so I deconstructed fast at first, then gradually into a sort of liberal Christian / Buddhist blend that I enjoy today. At the ontological layer, I have some I guess provisional beliefs that have been carefully picked and chosen from Christianity and Buddhism. So I definitely have some grounding in the ontological layer, but it's iffy and squishy because I "enjoy" or "suffer from" a profound sense of uncertainty. How can I really know much of anything at all? I believe stuff. There's other stuff I want to believe so I sort of do. But to actually *know* stuff? That is a tall order.
That search carried you through reconstruction, deconstruction, and now into a complex blend that still seeks. Through every turn—Evangelicalism, disillusionment, rediscovery—you haven’t walked away. You’ve wrestled, doubted, unlearned, reimagined. But always with your eyes still open. That, to me, is the mark of someone who has never stopped listening for the voice that first stirred them.
You haven’t lost the Spirit. The fog may shift and thicken, but the light has never gone out. “A bruised reed he will not break, and a smoldering wick he will not snuff out” (Isaiah 42:3). I believe you’re still tethered to something eternal—not because of certainty, but because love holds tighter than fear.
And the road—yes, it is still holy. You’ve walked it with questions, with longing, with hope stitched to doubt. And the footprints show: there were times He carried you. He always will. “Even to your old age and gray hairs I am He… I have made you, and I will carry you” (Isaiah 46:4). Christ is not watching from a distance. He is the companion on the road, the warmth in the breaking of the bread, the one who has never let go.
Thank you Dennis, that's beautiful. And encouraging. Question for you: what you said today and also yesterday makes me wonder if you believe in universal salvation. Do you?
To answer directly, I don’t fully subscribe to the doctrine of universal salvation in a strict sense, but I do hold a deep, abiding hope that God’s love, revealed through Christ, is far more expansive and mysterious than we often allow. The question of salvation is ultimately one of divine sovereignty and mercy, and I trust that God, in His perfect justice and holiness, sees each person’s life with more clarity and compassion than I can. In Christ, God entered into human suffering and imperfection—not to ignore them, but to redeem them. The burden of poverty, addiction, mental illness—these things are not unnoticed by God; they shape who we are, and God knows them intimately.
I believe in the possibility that God, out of His love and understanding of each soul, might create a path to restoration that reflects the complexity of every life. This is not a cheap grace, but a grace that takes the full weight of our lives into account. God does not impose a one-size-fits-all experience of the hereafter, but rather fashions something fitting for each of His children, tailored to their journey and shaped by the love Christ revealed on the cross.
So while I don’t claim to have the mechanics figured out, I hold onto the hope expressed in 1 Timothy 2:4, that God “desires all people to be saved and to come to the knowledge of the truth.” And I trust that His love is more powerful than anything else—more than the pain, more than the judgment. It’s the kind of love that refuses to leave anyone behind.
Thanks. Love your answer. It's similar to what some process or open and relational people say: God never gives up on trying to draw every being into community, but coerces no one in.
Another question? You write, "In Christ, God entered into human suffering and imperfection—not to ignore them, but to redeem them." Do you have an atonement theory you like? I have grave problems with the substitutionary idea, and the idea I do like is very likely heretical. You seem, so far, less heretical than I am, but it also doesn't sound like you see the atonement through a substitutionary lens. Do you, or how do you see it?
After affirming Tim Miller's and Dennis Doyle's comments, I'm moved to add, Richard, that, yes, you are being too harsh. Also too closed-minded and suspicious.
I'm among those you are targeting in the third, postmodern category. But I deny that I got there through a loss of faith. My faith required me to go there. I'm not playing coy. I do not, and I assert that being postmodern does not require one to, abandon all truth claims. What I do not believe is that the truth of the Gospel of Jesus requires one particular metaphysics or ontology. I do believe "that the Christian story is true, ontologically speaking," even though I do not understand its truth in such a literal way as you do.
And here's what I'd ask of you: please be open to the possibility that one who does not share your interpretation of the ontological layer may nevertheless sincerely share with you belief in the same Gospel. Not that everyone who claims a postmodern interpretation of Christian faith necessarily shares belief in the same Gospel, but that it is possible that some may. I ask only that you give postmodern theology more of a chance.
I'll point to one book of many I could name: Dan Stiver, Theology After Ricoeur.
About 15 years ago I began questioning a lot about my faith. But what I went through was more of a part-for-part replacement than a tear down. I'm embarrassed to admit that at the age of 50 I was pretty much a fundamentalist. Back then it was called deconstructing, and people like me were looking to Richard Rohr and Brian McClaren for guidance. 10 years later it looks like most of them deconstructed entirely.
15 years ago I also rebuilt my back deck. It was a part-for-part replacement. I used better materials and made some smarter, intentional design decisions because I wanted the deck to last. I still have a deck.
Echoes Francis Schaeffer and his criticism of neo liberalism subjectivising truth, so for example the bible is not historic truth just "true for you". Excellent article
What's owed, what's right, what virtue quenches thirst,
A polished room where anxious faces turn.
Beneath, the hall of Story, dim and deep,
Where tapestries of myth and symbol cling.
Here meaning blooms from secrets shadows keep,
The soil where Duty plants its fragile spring.
And lower still, the dark foundation stone,
The silent weight of What Is, Real and True.
The bedrock where the roots have burrowed down,
The unseen source from which the structures grew.
The Duty floor gleams bright, but starts to shake.
The mortar's old; fine cracks begin to show.
The Stories fade, like pictures left to bake,
The soil grows thin where nothing wants to grow.
The architects forgot the dark below,
Assumed the upper rooms could stand alone.
But Duty, starved of Story, starts to slow,
And whispers drift of being overthrown.
A hunger rises, sharp and undefined,
For more than rules that ration out the day.
We crave the tale that lifts us from the blind,
The mythic bread to drive the grey away.
Some point towards the fading Story wall,
They trace the patterns, worn but still profound.
They speak of journeys, answering the call,
Of treasures sought on consecrated ground.
They feed the hunger with the ancient grain,
They show the symbols flickering to life.
The upper room feels solid once again,
A respite from the existential strife.
But see! The treasure's shape begins to drift,
The sacrifice grows vague upon the tongue.
Which enemy deserves this costly gift?
For which community is victory sung?
The Story needs the bedrock, deep and vast,
The weight of Being holding symbol fast.
Without that anchor in the Real below,
The noble journey loses where to go.
It twists towards a battle cry of hate,
A sacrifice for "us", not meant for "them".
The Story, unmoored, seals a darker fate,
A hollow echo in a dying hymn.
For Duty starved of Story turns to dust,
And Story without Being floats unbound.
All three must hold, or everything we trust
Will crumble, leaving emptiness profound.
*************^******************
Explanation:
Stanza 1: Introduces the top layer, the "Moral" or "Duty" floor, representing society's rules, ethics, and obligations. It's presented as a constructed space ("built," "walls," "room") that people look to for guidance.
Stanza 2: Describes the middle layer, the "Existential" or "Story" floor. This is the realm of meaning, symbol, myth, and narrative. It's depicted as darker ("dim and deep") and foundational ("soil") for the moral layer above.
Stanza 3: Introduces the deepest layer, the "Ontological" or foundation. This represents the bedrock of reality, truth, and being itself ("What Is, Real and True"). It's the essential, unseen support for everything above ("unseen source," "roots").
Stanza 4: Shows the Moral layer becoming unstable ("starts to shake," "cracks begin to show"). The Existential layer is weakening ("Stories fade," "soil grows thin"), suggesting a loss of the narratives that give the moral rules context and vitality.
Stanza 5: Attributes the instability to forgetting the deeper layers. The architects (society) assumed the Moral layer could stand alone without the support of Story and Being. This forgetfulness weakens Duty and hints at potential collapse ("overthrown").
Stanza 6: Highlights the human consequence: a deep "hunger" arises. People crave more than just rules ("more than rules that ration out the day"). They need meaning, narrative, and purpose ("mythic bread") to combat a sense of emptiness ("the grey," "the blind").
Stanza 7: Introduces figures (like Peterson/Pageau) who respond to this hunger by pointing back to the fading Existential layer ("Story wall"). They engage with ancient patterns, symbols, and archetypal journeys ("treasures sought," "consecrated ground").
Stanza 8: Describes the effect of these figures: they satisfy the hunger for meaning ("feed the hunger," "mythic bread") by reviving symbols. This temporarily restores a sense of stability and purpose to the Moral layer ("upper room feels solid").
Stanza 9: Reveals a problem. Without being anchored in the deepest Ontological layer ("bedrock"), the symbols and stories become vague and open to interpretation ("treasure's shape begins to drift," "sacrifice grows vague"). Crucial questions about application (who is the enemy? who is the community?) lack clear answers.
Stanza 10: States the core vulnerability explicitly. The Existential layer ("Story") requires the foundation of ultimate reality and truth ("bedrock," "weight of Being") to maintain its integrity and direction. Without this anchor, the meaning-making narratives lose their true course ("loses where to go").
Stanza 11: Illustrates the danger. Unmoored from the Ontological foundation, the noble narrative can distort into division and conflict ("battle cry of hate," "sacrifice for 'us'"). The journey becomes self-serving or adversarial rather than universally loving, reducing the Story to a meaningless echo.
Stanza 12: Delivers the final warning. The poem concludes that all three layers are interconnected and essential. If the Moral layer is cut off from Meaning (Existential), it fails. If Meaning is cut off from ultimate Reality (Ontological), it becomes unstable and potentially harmful. The collapse of this interconnected structure leaves only a void.
If people continue to live lives shaped by love, moved by the story of Jesus, and anchored in meaning—even after letting go of ontological certainty—then perhaps something deeper is still at work. Perhaps the Spirit does not require our perfect metaphysical clarity to move through the world. Perhaps grace still speaks, even when the creed is whispered, or doubted, or reimagined.
You said it beautifully: “The ethic of love and the story of Jesus are powerful.” I agree. And if they still bear fruit in lives of mercy and courage, might that not itself be a kind of testimony?
Maybe the deeper question is not, “Do they still believe?” but “Is love still being born?”
I suppose that the question will be whether “something deeper” that “is still going on” is sustainable if decoupled from “the ontological layer.”
Whoever loves is born of God and knows God. (cf. 1 John 4:8-10)
I've gone though several deconstructions in my life. I deconstructed from Catholicism to atheism at 13. A bad drug experience in college resulted in a fast reconstruction to Evangelicalism in my early 20s. After 3 years, I could no longer square that with being gay, so I deconstructed fast at first, then gradually into a sort of liberal Christian / Buddhist blend that I enjoy today. At the ontological layer, I have some I guess provisional beliefs that have been carefully picked and chosen from Christianity and Buddhism. So I definitely have some grounding in the ontological layer, but it's iffy and squishy because I "enjoy" or "suffer from" a profound sense of uncertainty. How can I really know much of anything at all? I believe stuff. There's other stuff I want to believe so I sort of do. But to actually *know* stuff? That is a tall order.
That search carried you through reconstruction, deconstruction, and now into a complex blend that still seeks. Through every turn—Evangelicalism, disillusionment, rediscovery—you haven’t walked away. You’ve wrestled, doubted, unlearned, reimagined. But always with your eyes still open. That, to me, is the mark of someone who has never stopped listening for the voice that first stirred them.
You haven’t lost the Spirit. The fog may shift and thicken, but the light has never gone out. “A bruised reed he will not break, and a smoldering wick he will not snuff out” (Isaiah 42:3). I believe you’re still tethered to something eternal—not because of certainty, but because love holds tighter than fear.
And the road—yes, it is still holy. You’ve walked it with questions, with longing, with hope stitched to doubt. And the footprints show: there were times He carried you. He always will. “Even to your old age and gray hairs I am He… I have made you, and I will carry you” (Isaiah 46:4). Christ is not watching from a distance. He is the companion on the road, the warmth in the breaking of the bread, the one who has never let go.
Thank you Dennis, that's beautiful. And encouraging. Question for you: what you said today and also yesterday makes me wonder if you believe in universal salvation. Do you?
Thank you for asking so thoughtfully.
To answer directly, I don’t fully subscribe to the doctrine of universal salvation in a strict sense, but I do hold a deep, abiding hope that God’s love, revealed through Christ, is far more expansive and mysterious than we often allow. The question of salvation is ultimately one of divine sovereignty and mercy, and I trust that God, in His perfect justice and holiness, sees each person’s life with more clarity and compassion than I can. In Christ, God entered into human suffering and imperfection—not to ignore them, but to redeem them. The burden of poverty, addiction, mental illness—these things are not unnoticed by God; they shape who we are, and God knows them intimately.
I believe in the possibility that God, out of His love and understanding of each soul, might create a path to restoration that reflects the complexity of every life. This is not a cheap grace, but a grace that takes the full weight of our lives into account. God does not impose a one-size-fits-all experience of the hereafter, but rather fashions something fitting for each of His children, tailored to their journey and shaped by the love Christ revealed on the cross.
So while I don’t claim to have the mechanics figured out, I hold onto the hope expressed in 1 Timothy 2:4, that God “desires all people to be saved and to come to the knowledge of the truth.” And I trust that His love is more powerful than anything else—more than the pain, more than the judgment. It’s the kind of love that refuses to leave anyone behind.
Thanks. Love your answer. It's similar to what some process or open and relational people say: God never gives up on trying to draw every being into community, but coerces no one in.
Another question? You write, "In Christ, God entered into human suffering and imperfection—not to ignore them, but to redeem them." Do you have an atonement theory you like? I have grave problems with the substitutionary idea, and the idea I do like is very likely heretical. You seem, so far, less heretical than I am, but it also doesn't sound like you see the atonement through a substitutionary lens. Do you, or how do you see it?
After affirming Tim Miller's and Dennis Doyle's comments, I'm moved to add, Richard, that, yes, you are being too harsh. Also too closed-minded and suspicious.
I'm among those you are targeting in the third, postmodern category. But I deny that I got there through a loss of faith. My faith required me to go there. I'm not playing coy. I do not, and I assert that being postmodern does not require one to, abandon all truth claims. What I do not believe is that the truth of the Gospel of Jesus requires one particular metaphysics or ontology. I do believe "that the Christian story is true, ontologically speaking," even though I do not understand its truth in such a literal way as you do.
And here's what I'd ask of you: please be open to the possibility that one who does not share your interpretation of the ontological layer may nevertheless sincerely share with you belief in the same Gospel. Not that everyone who claims a postmodern interpretation of Christian faith necessarily shares belief in the same Gospel, but that it is possible that some may. I ask only that you give postmodern theology more of a chance.
I'll point to one book of many I could name: Dan Stiver, Theology After Ricoeur.
About 15 years ago I began questioning a lot about my faith. But what I went through was more of a part-for-part replacement than a tear down. I'm embarrassed to admit that at the age of 50 I was pretty much a fundamentalist. Back then it was called deconstructing, and people like me were looking to Richard Rohr and Brian McClaren for guidance. 10 years later it looks like most of them deconstructed entirely.
15 years ago I also rebuilt my back deck. It was a part-for-part replacement. I used better materials and made some smarter, intentional design decisions because I wanted the deck to last. I still have a deck.
This really seems in touch with our time. Looking forward to Part 3.
Echoes Francis Schaeffer and his criticism of neo liberalism subjectivising truth, so for example the bible is not historic truth just "true for you". Excellent article
Correction...Neo orthodox theologians such as Karl Barth
Title: The Three Floors
Yvon Roustan ©
We built the highest floor of Duty first,
With laws like walls, both beautiful and stern.
What's owed, what's right, what virtue quenches thirst,
A polished room where anxious faces turn.
Beneath, the hall of Story, dim and deep,
Where tapestries of myth and symbol cling.
Here meaning blooms from secrets shadows keep,
The soil where Duty plants its fragile spring.
And lower still, the dark foundation stone,
The silent weight of What Is, Real and True.
The bedrock where the roots have burrowed down,
The unseen source from which the structures grew.
The Duty floor gleams bright, but starts to shake.
The mortar's old; fine cracks begin to show.
The Stories fade, like pictures left to bake,
The soil grows thin where nothing wants to grow.
The architects forgot the dark below,
Assumed the upper rooms could stand alone.
But Duty, starved of Story, starts to slow,
And whispers drift of being overthrown.
A hunger rises, sharp and undefined,
For more than rules that ration out the day.
We crave the tale that lifts us from the blind,
The mythic bread to drive the grey away.
Some point towards the fading Story wall,
They trace the patterns, worn but still profound.
They speak of journeys, answering the call,
Of treasures sought on consecrated ground.
They feed the hunger with the ancient grain,
They show the symbols flickering to life.
The upper room feels solid once again,
A respite from the existential strife.
But see! The treasure's shape begins to drift,
The sacrifice grows vague upon the tongue.
Which enemy deserves this costly gift?
For which community is victory sung?
The Story needs the bedrock, deep and vast,
The weight of Being holding symbol fast.
Without that anchor in the Real below,
The noble journey loses where to go.
It twists towards a battle cry of hate,
A sacrifice for "us", not meant for "them".
The Story, unmoored, seals a darker fate,
A hollow echo in a dying hymn.
For Duty starved of Story turns to dust,
And Story without Being floats unbound.
All three must hold, or everything we trust
Will crumble, leaving emptiness profound.
*************^******************
Explanation:
Stanza 1: Introduces the top layer, the "Moral" or "Duty" floor, representing society's rules, ethics, and obligations. It's presented as a constructed space ("built," "walls," "room") that people look to for guidance.
Stanza 2: Describes the middle layer, the "Existential" or "Story" floor. This is the realm of meaning, symbol, myth, and narrative. It's depicted as darker ("dim and deep") and foundational ("soil") for the moral layer above.
Stanza 3: Introduces the deepest layer, the "Ontological" or foundation. This represents the bedrock of reality, truth, and being itself ("What Is, Real and True"). It's the essential, unseen support for everything above ("unseen source," "roots").
Stanza 4: Shows the Moral layer becoming unstable ("starts to shake," "cracks begin to show"). The Existential layer is weakening ("Stories fade," "soil grows thin"), suggesting a loss of the narratives that give the moral rules context and vitality.
Stanza 5: Attributes the instability to forgetting the deeper layers. The architects (society) assumed the Moral layer could stand alone without the support of Story and Being. This forgetfulness weakens Duty and hints at potential collapse ("overthrown").
Stanza 6: Highlights the human consequence: a deep "hunger" arises. People crave more than just rules ("more than rules that ration out the day"). They need meaning, narrative, and purpose ("mythic bread") to combat a sense of emptiness ("the grey," "the blind").
Stanza 7: Introduces figures (like Peterson/Pageau) who respond to this hunger by pointing back to the fading Existential layer ("Story wall"). They engage with ancient patterns, symbols, and archetypal journeys ("treasures sought," "consecrated ground").
Stanza 8: Describes the effect of these figures: they satisfy the hunger for meaning ("feed the hunger," "mythic bread") by reviving symbols. This temporarily restores a sense of stability and purpose to the Moral layer ("upper room feels solid").
Stanza 9: Reveals a problem. Without being anchored in the deepest Ontological layer ("bedrock"), the symbols and stories become vague and open to interpretation ("treasure's shape begins to drift," "sacrifice grows vague"). Crucial questions about application (who is the enemy? who is the community?) lack clear answers.
Stanza 10: States the core vulnerability explicitly. The Existential layer ("Story") requires the foundation of ultimate reality and truth ("bedrock," "weight of Being") to maintain its integrity and direction. Without this anchor, the meaning-making narratives lose their true course ("loses where to go").
Stanza 11: Illustrates the danger. Unmoored from the Ontological foundation, the noble narrative can distort into division and conflict ("battle cry of hate," "sacrifice for 'us'"). The journey becomes self-serving or adversarial rather than universally loving, reducing the Story to a meaningless echo.
Stanza 12: Delivers the final warning. The poem concludes that all three layers are interconnected and essential. If the Moral layer is cut off from Meaning (Existential), it fails. If Meaning is cut off from ultimate Reality (Ontological), it becomes unstable and potentially harmful. The collapse of this interconnected structure leaves only a void.