I Hate Labels—But I’m an Agnostic Mystic Materialist Liberal Christian.

This is where I landed after 30 years of deconstructing from evangelicalism.

I say I hate labels—but that’s not entirely true.

For a long time, I couldn’t find any that fit me. Or maybe I was afraid of what they meant. But somewhere along the line—after the ground stopped shaking beneath me—I started naming what I believe. Slowly. Carefully. With lots of room to change my mind.

Now, when I call myself an agnostic mystic materialist liberal Christian, I don’t mean it as a declaration of certainty. I mean it as a breadcrumb trail for anyone else wandering out in the woods looking for someone else like them.

But let’s be clear: these are labels I chose for myself. I don’t think we get to label other people without their consent. That’s where things get dangerous. That’s where dehumanization begins.

If you’re still in the wilderness, take your time. Don’t rush to label yourself just to feel less alone. That said… if you are curious about how someone else puts language to belief after deconstruction, here’s where I’ve landed—for now.

Let’s break it down.

Agnostic

Let’s start with the word that tends to make both Christians and atheists uncomfortable. I say I’m agnostic—not because I don’t believe in God—but because I’m honest enough to say I could be wrong.

For me, agnosticism isn’t some vague shrug toward the universe. It’s a humble posture. It’s the acknowledgment that I don’t have the full picture, and I never will.

Yes, I believe in God. But not the bearded man in the sky kind. I believe in God as love, as mystery, as force, as something real but not necessarily personified. Most atheists reject the idea of a unique, personal being—and I mostly do too now. But I still hold a little space for it, just in case.

I’m agnostic because I think even my most sincere convictions might evolve with more experience, more study, more life. That doesn’t make my beliefs weak. It makes them living.

Mystic

If agnosticism is about what I don’t know, mysticism is about what I feel.

I’ve had moments—quiet, inexplicable moments—where I sensed I was not alone. Where love felt thick in the room. Where silence was louder than words. Where I was small, but not insignificant.

I don’t need to explain those moments anymore. I just receive them.

I believe in something beyond me—not because I have to, but because I’ve met it in stillness. I think there are things that none of us understand but have tapped into. I believe in Mystery.

That’s what I mean by mystic.

Materialist

This one throws people off. How can you be a mystic and a materialist?

First, I am using this word as the philosophy of materialism, not as its more common meaning as someone who really likes money and stuff.

For me, materialism doesn’t mean I reject the spiritual. It just means I don’t believe in a separate, floating spiritual realm that overrides the physical. I believe consciousness, spirit, soul—whatever you want to call it—emerges from matter, not outside of it.

I trust science. I trust the body. I trust that meaning can be found in the here and now, not just in some hypothetical afterlife.

It means I am highly skeptical of “miracles” and any story that overrides science. Yet, I hold space for the idea that there may be things that seem miraculous to us. But I believe it is because we just have yet to understand the material reason for them.

Do my materialism and mysticism at times conflict?

Yes.

But I am okay with it. Assuming there is an answer I have yet to uncover.

Liberal Christian (Theologically Speaking)

I no longer see the Bible as inerrant or infallible. In fact, I see it as the opposite.

It’s inconsistent. It's messy. It contradicts itself constantly. And honestly, it was never meant to be a “Book” in the way we treat it now—it’s a collection of writings, compiled over centuries by people with various agendas trying to make sense of God, humanity, suffering, and hope.

I often disagree with it. It no longer holds the unquestioned authority in my life that it once did. But it still has value.

And, having said all of what I just said you might be surprised to hear me say that I love the Bible. The stories formed me. They are part of me and always will be.

I take the Bible for what it is, based on the data I have in front of me. I believe it's deeply flawed and deeply human—but also can be brilliant, beautiful, and worth wrestling with.

I still choose to follow the life and teachings of Jesus, to the best of my current understanding. And I can’t know a lot about Jesus without going to the earliest writings we have about him. But even those are inconsistent.

The Jesus of John is not the Jesus of Mark, or Matthew, or Luke. There isn’t one biblical Jesus. There are several. And now, 2,000 years later, there are a million Jesuses—each interpretation rooted in some historical memory of a crucified rebel rabbi.

Anyone who says they follow Jesus or know Jesus or trust Jesus is saying their truth. But I have found, nearly to a person, each of them have their own unique Jesus. In that sense, there is no true “Jesus.”

I’ve made peace with the fact that I follow one of those Jesuses—one that aligns with love, liberation, humility, and justice. I am fully aware that I have created my Jesus around who I want him to be, as have you.

As has everyone.

Joe, It’s Not That Complicated

This is a common response when I use the labels I just used in an attempt to self-identify. The most common thing I hear from well-meaning believers is something like, “Joe, you’ve made it too complicated. It’s all just giving your life over to Jesus. It’s about loving God and people. Just accept it as good news.”

I get why they want me to think less. It makes it easier for all of us if I think less.

Faith to many believers has come to mean that thinking is the opposite of belief. Some time ago I made the decision to never be ashamed of my curiosity and intellect again.

Let’s talk about you.

Maybe you’re where I was. Maybe you’re scared to name what you believe—or what you don’t. Maybe you’re still swimming in uncertainty, or maybe you’re slowly starting to surface with a new kind of clarity.

Either way, I hope this gives you permission to explore, to wonder, to not rush.

And if you do start naming your beliefs—make sure they’re your labels, not someone else’s projections.

Feel free to change them when you need to. That’s not weak. That’s growth.

Oh, one more thing. I’ve found—without exception—that when evangelical Christians begin to deconstruct, the biggest and most fundamental question is never “Do I believe in God?” or “What do I do with Jesus?”

It’s always this: “What is the Bible, really?”

That’s the question at the center of it all.

And that’s what I’ll write about next.

*This is my second post. If you want to know my whole story, read my first post.