Here’s a weird confession from someone who’s followed Jesus for a while: I still have doubts.
Not all the time. Not in a full-on, existential-crisis, burn-it-all-down kind of way. But often enough that I’ll hear someone talk about their “unshakable faith” and think, Unshakable? Must be nice. Because mine? Mine shakes. Sometimes it rattles. Sometimes it looks like opening my Bible and reading the same passage three times before wondering, “Is this really supposed to change me?” Sometimes it looks like praying and not feeling anything at all.
And that’s when the guilt starts creeping in. Like maybe I’m not doing this whole Christian thing right. Like maybe the people raising their hands in worship know something I don’t. Like maybe my questions are a liability to my spiritual résumé.
There’s a pervasive myth in a lot of modern Christian spaces—especially the ones we grew up in—that faith is a straight line. That you start with belief, build momentum, attend enough small groups, go on a mission trip or two, and eventually graduate into spiritual certainty. No more doubts, just confidence and clarity and the ability to quote Philippians 4:13 without blinking.
But that’s not how it works. Not for me. Not for a lot of us.
Here’s what no one told us in youth group: Doubt isn’t the opposite of faith. Doubt is part of faith.
Look at the Bible. The entire book of Psalms is full of people yelling at God, questioning his timing, lamenting his silence. Job has an entire meltdown in front of his friends and still somehow ends up being considered righteous. Even Jesus cries out, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” on the cross.
And then there’s Thomas. The guy literally gets branded “Doubting Thomas” forever because he asked for proof before he could believe Jesus had risen from the dead. As if none of us would’ve done the same thing. But Jesus doesn’t shame him. He doesn’t say, “You should’ve trusted me blindly.” He says, “Touch my wounds.” He meets Thomas in his doubt.
If Jesus doesn’t flinch at our questions, maybe we can stop flinching at them, too.
The problem is, many of us were raised in environments where doubt was treated like a virus. Something to quarantine. Something to pray away or, worse, ignore. But ignoring doubt doesn’t make it disappear—it just makes it grow in the dark.
That’s why a lot of twentysomething Christians are deconstructing right now. Not because they want to leave the church, but because they want a faith that’s real. One that can handle honesty. One that doesn’t crumble the second it’s not trending on Instagram.
But here’s the thing: Doubt doesn’t have to end in demolition. It can actually lead to depth.
What if asking hard questions isn’t a detour from your faith, but the actual path forward? What if uncertainty is how you discover what you really believe—and what you were just told to believe? What if the messiness is the point?
Here’s the good news: God isn’t afraid of your doubt. He’s not threatened by your questions. He doesn’t need you to fake certainty to stay in his good graces. The only one asking you to perform spiritual perfection is probably you. Or maybe your old church. Or your internalized need to be “a good Christian” at all times.
But the actual God of the universe? He’s in it for the long haul. He doesn’t bolt when the questions show up.
So if you’re in a season where your faith feels more like a whisper than a roar, take heart. If you’re praying and it feels like you’re talking to a wall, keep going. If you’re reading Scripture and wondering why it feels more confusing than comforting, welcome to the club. That doesn’t mean you’re a bad Christian. It means you’re an honest one.
And maybe that’s what faith is, really—not certainty, but persistence. Not having all the answers, but staying in the conversation. Not building your house on a flawless foundation, but building anyway.
Faith that’s never tested is just ideology. Faith that walks through doubt and keeps walking—that’s trust.
So if you’re asking, “If I still have doubts, am I doing faith wrong?” the answer is no. You’re probably doing it exactly right.
Because the point isn’t to feel certain all the time. The point is to keep showing up. Even when you’re unsure. Even when it’s uncomfortable. Even when you’re doubting with one hand and holding on with the other.
That’s faith. Messy, complicated, beautiful faith. And you’re not alone in it. Not even close.
