When Your Mentor Deconstructs

The summer I was nine years old, I stumbled upon a ball nestled in the tangled bushes by the neighborhood pool—a small, bright orb that could skip across a pool like magic. For a kid who loved baseball and playing in the water, it was like uncovering a buried treasure. That little ball became my summer companion: a small, unexpected joy that I kept with me everywhere, skimming it across any surface that promised a splash or a ripple. 

Near the end of the summer, I took it to the ocean. Beneath an endless blue sky, I discovered a rhythm between me, the waves, and this small, skipping orb. I’d throw it at an incoming wave, timing it perfectly, so it darted over the surface toward the swelling wave. As it crested, the wave would fling the ball back toward me, almost as if playing along. On the horizon, I saw a large wave rising, its dark blue shadow swelling. With all the strength I could muster, I hurled it at the wave’s face. But instead of catching in the wave's crest, it launched off the peak and arced far beyond the sandbar into open water.

For a moment, I lost sight of the ball, until I spotted a small, bright shape bobbing in the gray-blue expanse. I splashed into the water to go after it. But with each stroke I took, the ball seemed to drift two strokes further. The water grew colder and darker, and fear crept in as my feet lost touch with the sandy bottom. I whipped my head around, turned back, and swam to shore in a panic. Once there, I stood helpless, watching as the ball drifted further toward the horizon, carried by the currents to a place I could never reach. A hollow ache settled in as I watched, helpless and hopeless, something I cherished drifting away, unsure if it would ever return. And in that moment, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was somehow to blame for its loss.

This “grief” seems so simplistic that I can only shrug with a gentle smile as I think back on it. But in recent years, I've found myself grappling with a similar grief, not toward something as simplistic or fleeting as a child’s toy, but toward a far weightier matter— mentors deconstructing. And this is a grief I can offer no smile nor shrug toward.

“The story that’s often overlooked in the wake of a person’s deconstruction is that of those standing on the shore—those who watch, perhaps helplessly, as a mentor walks away from their faith.”

"Deconstruction" is a word that seems to have flooded the church, becoming a kind of shorthand for a variety of experiences in one's faith journey. However, it’s worth noting a critical distinction: Deconstruction is not the same as deconversion; the former doesn’t inevitably lead to the latter. For some, it’s a careful process of examining beliefs, dismantling lies, and rebuilding a foundation grounded in truth; while for others, deconstruction means a complete departure from Christian orthodoxy.

I’m not here to analyze the causes or cultural roots of deconstruction. Addressing the complexities of church disillusionment, identity conflicts, the effects of Derrida’s philosophy, or the scars left by real harm within Christian communities would require far more space. Often, it’s not just one, but many factors woven into each individual’s story, and each story carries its own sacredness. But the story that’s often overlooked in the wake of a person’s deconstruction is that of those standing on the shore—those who watch, perhaps helplessly, as a mentor walks away from their faith.

A mentor can come in many forms—a minister, missionary, professor, coach, parent, sibling, or close friend. When one of these figures deconstructs, it can feel as though the very ground beneath us shifts. It’s not the same as seeing a headline about a distant Christian thought leader’s faith and simply thinking, “Wow, that’s surprising.” This is someone who walked closely with us, someone who, in faith and wisdom, seemed miles ahead. Watching them drift away brings a unique sorrow, a sense of anger and blame that shifts with every passing day, and an unsettling uncertainty about what is true anymore. When it is a mentor in particular, difficult questions surface: Can I still trust what they once taught me? Can I even trust what I believe? If my faith has been shaped by theirs, does it remain valid?

I’d like to explore the heartache of these questions, and offer four paths of guidance and a concluding liturgy for those witnessing deconstruction in the life of a beloved friend.

Grieve

Grief is a marathon, not a sprint, and can feel like the vegetables on our plate as children—something we avoid until we’re full, hoping that if we fill up on everything else, we won’t have to touch it. But much like a diet lacking vegetables, failing to grieve loss will leave deep deficiencies within our souls.

What makes grieving a mentor’s deconstruction so difficult is that the grief often feels like a jumbled mess—a mix of emotion and deep theological questioning. Sadness, betrayal, skepticism, and anger—directed at them, others, a community, or even yourself—can all emerge during this grief. Countless times does Scripture affirm that God will sustain his people and comfort those who mourn. Today, that reality may feel far, and what is up may feel down, but God’s Word remains.

Ask Questions, Seek Wisdom

Watching a mentor’s deconstruction is often not a singular event but a series of disorienting moments. Witnessing someone else’s questioning can be an opportunity to reflect on where your own faith truly lies. It’s a good thing to ask yourself, "What do I believe, and who is my faith in?" But here is where the spirit of deconstruction and the spirit of sanctification diverge: We ask these questions, not with destructive intent, but in a way that faithfully engages the Scriptures, openly brings questions to a trusting Christian community, and aims toward being conformed into the image of Christ and prepared for glory. What could have been a beautiful mentorship became a painful and disorienting relationship for David with King Saul. Psalm 54 records David’s prayer for deliverance from Saul, and he ultimately concludes, “Surely God is my help; the Lord is the one who sustains me” (Ps 54:4).

Wisdom may lead you to set boundaries around a person’s influence in your life. This is not a lack of love or compassion but an awareness of the impact their voice can have, for good or for bad. However, your mentor’s deconstruction does not nullify the ways God has used them in your life and the lives of others in the past. It also doesn’t excuse sinful behavior in them or in yourself. Though it may not feel possible in the moment, we can still thank God for the good He brings, even from broken circumstances, and trust that His good will be accomplished one day.

Compassion

Those who have deconstructed without any apparent intention of returning to the Christian faith often expect their interactions with past Christian friends and acquaintances to center on attempts to persuade them to come back to faith. While the intentions may be good, this approach can unfortunately end up pushing them further away. I have found great comfort and conviction from the book of Jude, as he offers wisdom to the church on how to approach those who doubt: “Have mercy on those who doubt” (Jude 1:21). Jude encourages the church to show mercy and actively seek to rescue those drawn to the teachings of false teachers, rather than condemning or ostracizing them. He demands an attitude of grace and love that reflects God’s own character, while still firmly opposing the things that have led someone astray, “hating even the tunic stained by the flesh” (Jude 1:23).

Pray

If you’re still with me, I think I can be pretty honest with you—sometimes when I see "pray" as a heading, I’ll skip over it. It’s easy to think, “I know I should pray.” But if you’re still here, it’s likely because you’ve asked yourself, What exactly do I even pray in a situation like this? I’ve been there—when my words feel inadequate, my anxiety and sadness too heavy to bear, my questions outnumber my answers, and I can hardly summon the faith to cast my anxieties on the Lord, let alone express them clearly. It is from these countless, quiet, fumbling prayers that I’ve crafted this liturgy. While it’s written with the deconstructing in mind, it’s also for you—the one who feels the pressure to keep it all together, the one who feels they should stay strong even when they’re unsure of what’s true, the one who believes but is also full of unbelief.

A Liturgy for When a Beloved Friend Deconstructs 

High King of Heaven,

You are matchless in power and wisdom,
You are before all things, and in You all things have their being.

Spirit, intercede for me with groanings too deep for words.

[Pause for a moment]

No creature is hidden from Your sight, but all stand before Your eyes.
You judge the secrets of the heart.
You are Judge and Lawgiver, King and Savior.
You are gracious and slow to anger.
You will judge the world in righteousness,
and people according to Your faithfulness.
You are the good Judge.

[Pause for a moment]

Today, I bring before You my concern for Your child, [person's name].
May they know You, the only true God, and Jesus Christ whom You have sent.
You are able to save completely those who draw near to You,
for You always live to make intercession on their behalf.

"Lord, do not hold this sin against them."
Bless [person's name] and their journey ahead, and may it be completed in glory.

[Pause for a moment]

Have mercy on me for my sins,
the things I’ve done and left undone.
Forgive me for my judgment and hypocrisy,
for the beams in my eye.

I am tired and burdened.
You are gentle and humble.
Please, give me rest.

Grant me wisdom to discern what is right.
Give me faith to believe that You are near.
Give me hope to trust that You work all things together
for the good of those who love You,
who are called according to Your purpose.
Give me love for those who wander.

[Pause for a moment]

Let it be according to your mercy.
Amen.