When I was younger, theology was my passion. That was the lens through which I saw and processed the world. That was my passion. That’s what I thought about, wrote about, lived for. I spent time and money on a Christian studies degree. I never had any set career plans with these interests (can you have a set career plan when you’re a woman with a degree in Christian studies?), but my life, I was sure, would involve at least an armchair, if not a platform, in theology.
I graduated with that Christian studies degree, deconstructed everything, and came out on the other side totally disinterested in theology proper. Do I care deeply about God, spirituality, and Christianity? Absolutely. Have I finished any of the theology books on my Goodreads list? Absolutely not. Have I revisited any of my old online haunts to ask or answer a theological question? Not at all. Do I have any interest in pursuing my teenage dream of writing bestselling theology books? Heck, no.
College taught me I wasn’t an academic — not like the true academics. It burned me out on books so badly that it took me a couple years to even pick up a light novel. I cannot fathom how anyone who valued their mental health went directly from graduation to graduate school.
So now I find myself looking back on a decade of my life and thinking, “Wow, self, we have nothing in common.”
Welcome to my quarter-life crisis!
I’ve been pondering for a while whether my enthusiasm for theology was a true passion, or more of a means of survival. If it was truly a passion, can it shift this drastically? Don’t true passions stick with you for life, don’t they make up the DNA of who you are, no matter what season you pass through or what other interests come and go? If so, me leaving theology on the bus after my last stop in deconstruction is proof that theology wasn’t really something I was passionate in. It took up so much room in my life, crowding out other things that I might be interested in, only because I felt that my eternal life depended on it.
It did. Theology was a matter of life and death. I genuinely thought that if I believed the wrong thing, God would burn me alive in hell forever for failing to follow his clear and obvious truth. That meant I had to be right, on every issue I was exposed to. It was a horrific catch-22: Someone who truly loved Jesus loved to study the Word. So I studied. The more I studied, the less margin of error I had, because someone as educated as I in the Word should know better.
When my beliefs became emotionally, spiritually, and intellectually impossible to hold onto, I had to start over. I started over with unconditional love at the foundation of everything I believe and do. I’m not afraid of God anymore. My faith doesn’t present itself as a mental illness. There is room to be who I am and follow the passions and vocation God gave me.
Theology and I parted ways when it became clear that our relationship was built mostly out of fear and necessity — a bond forged in a traumatic existence predicated on getting everything right, or else. That is what makes me question whether that decade of theological study was a true passion, much less a true (but temporary) calling.
Now my passions lie with something entirely different and entirely out of left field — children’s rights advocacy, particularly in the contexts of respectful, nonviolent, nonpunitive parenting, trauma-informed foster care, and — get this — play- and nature-based early childhood education. (Bailey and nature in the same sentence? Truth is stranger than fiction.) I see the world through a developmentalist perspective. I want to be an early childhood teacher in a needy area. I want to foster children. Whereas my brainspace was once taken up by minute, obscure, unwanted opinions on eschatology, now it’s crowded with minute, obscure, unwanted opinions on sleep training and baby-led weaning.
I want to say that this is my true passion. This is where I am called now that I am free to answer any call that God gives me. This is what I was born to do and what I choose to do out of love, not fear.
Interestingly, I’m only passionate about this ever since I landed a K5 job at a Christian charter school in the inner city (what else what I was supposed with that Christian studies degree?), got pregnant, and realized that I needed to get my act together before I passed on all my vices to the next generation. How much of this new passion is born out of necessity, circumstance, and, sure, a little (lot) of fear about screwing things up? Are those things the drive of passion and vocation? Will this passion last all the way through my kids’ childhoods? Even that long? Will I have to reboot and rebrand in another decade, in a new season?
And if I do, will that mean this passion wasn’t my calling and vocation? Or does it mean that calling and passion grows and changes organically with the whole person? Perhaps the person, her circumstances, her fears and her loves drive the passion and the calling just as much as the passion and the calling make up who that person is?
This is the gist of my quarter-life crisis. I haven’t quite figured out what to do with my past self and my past passions. I still want to write. I still ponder things about God and spirituality…just off-script from theology. Just the other day I was toying with the idea of writing about God and spirituality through the lens of motherhood, which is a very theologicky thing for someone disinterested in theology to consider. For Pete’s sake, I’m writing a whole article on how important it is for me to find out where the heck that Lost Decade of Theology fits into this new me who wants to write about behavior clip charts, eating healthy on a budget, and the best brand of diapers, all in one breath.
Living longer will answer those questions better than trying to puzzle it out now, I imagine. I’m not worried about it too much. I just like having an explicit, cohesive “point” to my existence.
For now, my friend suggested that my forte was speaking about the universal human experience from whatever vantage point I happened to be occupying at the moment…whether it’s from a nerdy, academic, snobbish place of fear or a page out of the life and times of a mom and preschool teacher passionate about children’s rights and a God of love.
There’s a lot of freedom and a lot of grounding in that vocation. I like it.