When the Pack Moves On Without You

Faith, Doubt, and the Cost of Asking Honest Questions

By LONNIE KING

You’ve probably seen the scene—maybe on Planet Earth, or back in the day with Marlin Perkins and Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom.

A herd of animals moves steadily across the plain. The camera pulls back to reveal their beauty in motion—instinctively coordinated, powerful, alive.

And then, something shifts.

One animal stumbles. A limp. A wound. Maybe it was born a little different, or maybe something happened along the way—something that slowed it down or left it vulnerable.

The herd keeps moving. The wounded one can’t keep up.

You know what’s coming, even before the soundtrack changes. The animal cries out—not to ask for help, but to scare off whatever it knows is watching. It shrieks into the open, not because it’s brave, but because it’s terrified. It makes itself loud, hoping the noise is enough to hide the pain.

Every time I saw that as a kid, I felt sick. Not just because of what was happening to the animal—but because of how quickly the herd just… moved on.

I think about that imagery a lot these days.

Not because I’ve been watching documentaries.  But because I know what it feels like to fall behind the pack—not physically, but spiritually.

There was a time in my life when I could have recited every book of the Bible in order, told you who wrote each one, and explained why they all fit together as one perfectly inspired whole.

I didn’t just believe in the Bible—I believed in how I’d been taught to believe in it. That the ink was sacred. That the canon was closed. That certainty was holiness, and questions were cracks in the armor.

And so, like many others, I stayed armored up.

I learned how to raise my hand with “safe” questions in Sunday School—ones that showed I was engaged but not dangerous. I learned which passages to quote and which ones to avoid. I learned that asking how we got the Bible was acceptable, as long as I already agreed with the answer.

I didn’t stop believing in God. I just stopped believing I was allowed to be honest about my questions.

The Safe Kind of Doubt

In my teenage years, I was introduced to the concept of “biblical criticism,” split into two categories:

• Low criticism (the good kind!) asked, “What’s the original text really say?”
• High criticism (the bad kind!) asked, “Who actually wrote this, and can we trust them?”

One was framed as faithful curiosity. The other, godless rebellion.

And that stuck with me—probably more than anyone meant for it to. So, I kept my distance from “dangerous” questions. I didn’t dive into church history, canon formation, or the politics of translation. Not because I wasn’t interested. But because I was afraid.

Afraid I’d lose something. Afraid I’d lose everything.

It wasn’t until well into adulthood that I started to revisit those off-limits questions:

• Who decided which books were in and which were out?
• Why do the Gospels tell different stories?
• What do we mean by “inspired,” and who gets to define that?

And maybe the scariest question of all:

What if I’m not as sure as I used to be… is that okay?

The Grief Beneath the Certainty

I didn’t know that asking honest questions would cost me relationships.

I didn’t know that sharing my evolving thoughts—sometimes gently, sometimes clumsily—would make me feel invisible to people who once considered me trustworthy, even “spiritually mature.”

I didn’t know how deeply my sense of usefulness was tied to saying the “right” things in the “right” ways.

And I didn’t know how many people would shake their heads and quietly move on—not because I was unkind or divisive, but because I was honest in ways they didn’t know how to make room for.

Truthfully? Some days, it hurts so badly that I find myself getting snarky toward the faith systems I came from—not necessarily because I hate them, but because I still feel wounded by them.

I lash out like that wounded, cornered animal—not to hurt others, but to hide the fact that I’m still bleeding.

If you’ve ever found yourself “attacking” the beliefs you once held, maybe it’s not anger.  Maybe it’s grief wearing armor.

The Cold Space Outside the Circle

When you live for a long time inside a faith community, it becomes more than a place to worship. It becomes your pack. Your people. Your safety net.

And when you start to change—when you admit that you don’t know anymore if Paul really wrote 1 Timothy, or if Genesis was ever meant to be read literally, or if the canonization process was more political than holy—you start to feel the pack pulling away.

Not always in anger. Sometimes just in silence—and, frankly, that might hurt worse.

There are days I still miss the shared language, the inside jokes, the assumed closeness.  There are days I want to unlearn everything just to be “useful” again.  And there are days I wonder if this version of faith—this stripped-down, raw, uncertain thing—is even worth holding onto anymore.

But to get any or all of those things back, I’d have to give up the one thing I don’t want to surrender: my personal integrity.

But I’m Still Here

Hey kids, I haven’t walked away from God.

If anything, I feel like I’m walking toward something deeper—something less performative, more honest.

I still open Scripture, but I no longer pretend it has to be perfect for it to be meaningful.  I still pray, but it’s more like groaning than declaring. I still believe—but it’s a belief stitched together with silence, longing, and an open hand.

And yes, it’s lonely sometimes.

But in this loneliness, I’ve discovered something surprising:

There are others out here too.
Not shouting.
Not condemning.
Just quietly, bravely, trying to live a faith that’s honest—even when it’s misunderstood.

So, if you’re where I am—if you’re aching for truth but scared to say what you really think—just know this:

You are not godless.
You are not faithless.
You are not alone.

You are brave enough to believe that God isn’t afraid of your questions.

And maybe that’s where faith really begins.

Grace and grit to you!  — LK