Are You A Holy Runaway?

Matthias Roberts on his new book!

Photo by Harris Vo on Unsplash

Friends,

I am so excited to share with you this exclusive interview with author Matthias Roberts about his new book, Holy Runaways!

This book fits so beautifully into the After Church series that we are really diving into starting next week, and I’m so glad to share his words with you. So many folks have been “burned by religion” as the subtitle of the book states, and we are looking for both community but also for care along the way.

Matthias captured so much of my own heart, grief, longing, confusion and complexity in the words of this book, and reminded me that I’m not alone on this spiritual journey, whatever it looks like.

How do we rebuild our lives after the grief and the pain? How do we manage when we realize that there are religious spaces where maybe we weren’t ever fully wanted? How do we hold space for others who are having the same experiences?

I was honored to endorse Holy Runaways. Here’s what I said:

“For anyone who has a traumatic relationship to the often-toxic institution that is American Christianity, Holy Runaways is a book that will hold your hand and remind you that you aren’t alone. The stories and wisdom in this book will help us come home to ourselves and recognize that God (or The Sacred) was here all along, waiting in the wide world for us to learn to deeply love the runaways in ourselves and one another.”

Matthias writes with a clarity and tenderness, and his words are such a gift to every reader. I hope you’ll enjoy our chat below.

I want to point you to his website where you can learn more about his work, and please click the links after the interview to buy the book!

Now, onto the interview!

Tell us more about the title of the book and why it was important for you to frame this idea of “holy runaways.”

One common theme that comes up when I talk with folks about their experiences leaving harmful religion is the pervasive sense that we are doing something wrong by leaving, or running away. It’s almost as if many of us believe we are giving up on something we shouldn’t. That we are the problem. I wanted to reframe that and explore the idea that maybe we are doing something incredibly holy by saying goodbye to the places that have harmed us and searching for something different and better.

What did you learn about yourself writing this book? We all continue to evolve spiritually as we write a book, how did that show up in your life?

That’s an understatement. I feel like any creative undertaking can almost inevitably speed up that evolution. When I first started imagining this book, I thought I knew what I wanted to say. When I got halfway into writing the book, I realized that most of the things I thought I was writing about I didn’t really believe anymore. That led to a crisis, which delayed the first draft by many months (much to my editor’s chagrin.) This is a continual lesson I’m learning: trying to pinpoint a moment of that evolution and put it on a page is an impossible task. Yet it’s worth trying. I had to ask myself, “Am I going to write what I used to believe, or am I going to attempt to be honest with myself and write what I think I believe right now.” I’m still learning how to be honest with myself, and therefore with others. That is not to say I am constantly lying. It is to say, I often don’t know what I think I know.

“I think we are more than just confused, fearful, or misguided runaways. I think we are holy.” I love the power of this quote so much, and I’ve encountered Christians who are so scared for the future of Christianity because they feel so troubled by those who leave. What would you say to the runaways, and what would you say to those fearful Christians?

To both, I’d ask, “When was the last time you rested?” For us runaways, it’s so easy to get caught up in the idea that we have to figure everything out right now. I think that is an extension of the fear you’re describing here, the fear that there’s something inherently dangerous about being in unknown places. I return to the words of Jesus from John 14:27, “Peace I leave with you…do not be afraid.” Do we believe that peace and rest is available to us right now, in this very moment? If so, how might we put down these frantic questions and exhale?

In a nation of so many toxic institutions, how do you think we can stay grounded with The Sacred and our own holy belonging? How do you personally do that?

I think one of the ways we can do this is by leaning into the practices of grief and anger. I believe these are spiritual practices that allow us to get closer to our pain, closer to the places that hurt. We feel these things for a reason, but so many of us have been taught to put them aside. The more we ignore our pain, the less grounded we are going to feel. 

I want to emphasize the “practice” part. It takes time to become familiar with these places in ourselves.

How does your work as a queer therapist and theologian overlap? You write a lot about your experiences and how your story has been shaped, but what does that look like today? What liminal spaces do you inhabit?

It would be reductive to say that most of the harm queer people have experienced is because of poor theology, but, in the same breath, so much of the harm that queer folks have experienced is because of poor theology. This is as true within the church as it is outside of the church. As a therapist, I deeply believe that if we aren’t engaging the collective systems of harm around us, we aren’t interacting with the whole picture. It’s rare that I explicitly discuss theology within my therapy room, I am not a Christian therapist, but there is almost always a theological component at play whenever we start to engage harm.

What was the best part of writing this book? The hardest part?

There’s a single answer here. Both the best and hardest part was trying to write about God.

Imagine someone sitting down to read this book. What do you hope they experience in your stories and your wisdom? How do you hope it changes them, encourages them, challenges them?

My biggest hope is that people will experience companionship as they read. I hope this book will help wrap language around the pain so many of us have carried but don’t know how to describe. The written word is a powerful way to experience community and part of how we heal is by being able to bring our pain into community. I hope this book facilitates a sliver of that.

Share with us a favorite quote or section of the book and what it means to you. 

This is from a chapter called “Wind” and I think it captures both the joy and difficulty I experienced while attempting to write about God:

Recently, I was explaining my work to a new acquaintance, who immediately asked, “So are you still religious then?”

I stumbled and stammered. “Kind of? I’m not sure. Um, I don’t really know anymore.”

And that was the truth.

This is also the truth: When I’m out walking my dog, listening to the wind in the trees and feeling the warmth of morning sun on my face, I breathe in something that is more than just salty Puget Sound air. Something that is big, elemental, and comforting. And as I exhale, I whisper, “Thank you, Jesus.”

Yes, maybe it’s a habit from when I was a kid, a reflex. But in the moment, it’s a sincere prayer arising from somewhere deep within me. In those moments, I do believe.

But there are other moments when I hear someone say something that reveals their religious faith, something that would have been perfectly normal for me to say a few years ago. Something like: “It seems like evil is trying to hold you back from your calling.”

Overhearing this in a coffee shop, I blink, try to make sense of it, and my body jolts as I realize I don’t think that way anymore.

In such moments, I tell myself I don’t believe in God. In fact, I want nothing to do with belief.

And yet there are many other moments when I’m sitting in my office as someone tries to find words to describe horrific experiences of abuse they’ve suffered. I know then, in the core of my being, that I do still believe in evil.

I harbor so many fragments of a faith that once felt whole, now scattered randomly around me. I can pick one up and look at it, thinking, This looks pretty! I’m going to hold on to this. But later I’ll trip over one of those fragments and discover it has cut me deeply, painfully. I’ll curse and ask, “Why haven’t I thrown this away yet?”

My only answer is, “I don’t know.”

Click here to buy Holy Runaways!