When cats fall from a great height, they twist their bodies, searching to reorient themselves, using their tails to rotate their bodies to an upright position before bracing for impact. This requires a geometrical equation cats know innately and put into practice within the span of two seconds before they land on their paws, give you a dirty look, and strut off, tails held high.

In 2022, I was asked to write a short story for Sunday Morning Transport. I knew exactly what I wanted to write, something I’ve already written in numerous journal entries. In poetry. In snippets scribbled on the backs of receipts. Out loud to friends. To Reddit. Perfect strangers. I’ve told this story over and over again.

“Deconstruction in the Form of a Cat God” was published in the December 23 issue of Sunday Morning Transport, but here I am again, telling this story here as well, because to no one’s surprise, one cannot cram an entire crisis of faith into a mere three thousand words.

The American Heritage Dictionary defines “deconstruction” as a philosophical movement and theory of literary criticism that questions traditional assumptions about certainty, identity, and truth. In these past few years, many American Christians have been experiencing deconstruction within their own faiths, kindled from the emergence of social media and conversations with the queer community, to the rise of the Black Lives Matter and MeToo movements, to the COVID pandemic and the resulting shutdown and mask controversies, and to a certain he-who-will-not-be-named taking office—twice. All of these have created a perfect storm where some Christians saw how others reacted to these upheavals in hateful ways, contrary to everything they’ve been raised to believe; thus, they began to examine their own beliefs. Some changed to more liberal faiths, some changed religions, and others left faith altogether.

The day my faith broke was during an HR meeting at my former day job in 2016. Our organization was about to enforce a Code of Conduct policy that had a theological paper attached to it (because my former day job loved theological papers) defining marriage as between one man and one woman—anything outside of that was sinful. Staff who couldn’t fully agree could no longer work for the organization. Understandably, this alarmed many of our staff, especially those who identified as queer. Then a fired staffer leaked the policy to Time Magazine and everything went kablooey.

Our HR team had numerous meetings to try to weather the storm. During one of these meetings, a co-worker, exasperated by so many people being upset, said, “They should have known what they’re getting into when they applied to work here. They can’t go against the authority of the Bible!” Then she quoted a verse from Paul that’s used to end all conversation about sexuality: God giving people over to their sin and even women taking up unnatural relations, yada yada yada.

Christians are supposed to be loving. They’re supposed to be Jesus in all they say and do. But in that meeting room, I found myself flailing in a room surrounded by people who seemed to know God much better than me, even though that God didn’t look like the God I knew. And I thought, “These staffers are our co-workers, whom we know. They love Jesus just as much as us. And if they can’t work here because they don’t think being queer is a sin, then what the fuck am I following here?”

In the 1960s, the Air Force launched an experiment to measure the effects of microgravity. They placed several cats on parabolic flights and then, as the planes descended, the handlers released their furry subjects into the air. The cats flailed and spun, claws out, tails lashing, seeking to right themselves, but gravity had abandoned them.

Several years later, I met a pastor who liked to read science fiction. I was reading Octavia Butler’s Parable of the Sower at the time; while dark, it was providing me surprising comfort because I didn’t feel like I was suffering alone. The pastor (white, male) had started the book, but couldn’t finish it. “I’m uncomfortable with how she portrays God. Or faith.”

Before 2016, I would have said the exact same thing.

Christianity and speculative fiction always had an uneasy alliance. On the one hand, using metaphor and fantastical imagery to convey deep topics has always delighted Christians. J. R. R. Tolkien and C. S. Lewis are held up as examples in how they integrate their faith with their writing. Madeleine L’Engle ranks up there as well, though I know of some churches who regard her work with suspicion. I have a memory of one of my youth group leaders being upset because A Wrinkle in Time had “good witches,” and every good Christian knows there’s no such thing. Also Meg’s mother was a scientist and cooked dinner while she did experiments at her home. The audacity!

I was told as a Christian that I needed to be careful with what I read. To only read “good” fiction, because some stories could lead you to sin. Or worse, such stories will make you start questioning your faith—the “slippery slope,” as it’s called. Christianity is set up on faith. There’s no room for doubt. Anything outside what’s deemed as Christian will give you a tiny seed that will make you a doubting Thomas, and you don’t want that.

When my faith broke, I decided to find out the history of the Bible. How it was really put together. I read academic papers, talked with people who had studied the Bible in seminaries. I looked up Jewish resources. And what I learned was…way different than what I was taught in Sunday School.

The gist of it is that the Bible is made up of books written by writers, not dictated by God, but normal people writing about what they thought God would say. In other words, they were writers trying to make sense of their world.

Like me.

This may not seem like a big deal to many readers of Uncanny, but to me, this was earth-shattering. I need you to understand this. All my life I was taught that God spoke through the Bible, that you put that first before anything. We were not to trust ourselves because we were inherently evil. The Bible was supposed to be never-changing. God was supposed to be never-changing. But seeing the edits made on manuscripts, putting the books of the Bible in a timeline, and seeing how people shaped the Bible (not the Holy Spirit as I’ve been taught), seeing that the nature of God and Jesus and even the Bible can change depending on who was telling the story—

Well, it messed me up.

The first time I read Catherynne Valente’s “Thirteen Ways of Looking at Space/Time” (Clarkesworld Magazine, August 2010), I was unsettled because she used different versions of creation stories, and my head kept saying none of this is true. The Eden story in the Bible is the real Creation story. But even back then, I was dealing with cognitive dissonance. Because I enjoyed her story. It was fun, and it offered a truth that resonated with me.

That story planted a seed.

Later on, I learned that there are many, many different versions of the flood story found in Genesis. It opened the floodgates in my mind, so to speak . I began to appreciate stories that held similar values, but told in different cultures. Christianity told me to shun these stories, but now I could see that these stories held universal truths. Love, family, struggles, triumphs, failures.

The reason why I’m drawn to speculative literature is that it attempts to explain ourselves, our worldviews, and our cultures through imaginative lenses. In that sense, it’s similar to biblical literature, using creative imagery to help us better ourselves. I used to say that God was speaking to me in stories, but perhaps what was really happening was that I was pulling meaning for myself.

Once I realized that, I saw that I could pull meaning from anywhere. There’s meaning in music. In video games. In tarot cards. In silence and the wind rustling through trees. In a really good book.

And in stories. Especially stories.

Maybe that was how faith worked for me. When I asked myself, “What was I following before?” The answer became clear. I followed love. No matter what. And yes, a lot of that I learned from Jesus, but what really helped me recognize love was good stories. Stories that challenged me, made me think, made me want to emulate, made me hope. It was what made me look at what was happening at my day job and say, “This is wrong. This is not what I follow.”

It wasn’t Jesus who saved me.

It was speculative stories.

A curious thing happened with the cats in space as they attempted to right themselves without gravity. Somehow, they sought a point of reference to determine which way was up. Once they got that, they arched their backs, rotated their legs, and though they still floated, they forced themselves upright.

They did so with no help from the handlers. They did it all by themselves.

During the pandemic shutdown in 2020, I came across a video of this guy explaining the physics of cats by videotaping himself dropping one on a cushion and showing, in slow motion, how that cat rotates its body so it lands on its feet. He kept doing this over and over until the cat got pissed and walked away.

I love cats. I’m also allergic to them, so I can’t have them as pets anymore. That doesn’t mean I can’t still appreciate them. I have many friends who let me curl up with their cats. I take allergy pills before I head over, and I wash my hands after rubbing their fur. I still interact with cats, just in a different way.

I can’t think of a more perfect metaphor for my own faith journey.

Similarly, when I let go of the idea that the Bible was written by God, when faith is simply based on loving and caring for other people, it is freeing. I’m allowing myself to be filled with wonder. I’m also learning to deeply appreciate people and their work.

I don’t know if I can call myself a Christian anymore. But then again, I can’t call myself an atheist either because I still believe in God. God just looks different to me. More expansive. Less confined to Christianity. Some days I’m following love in the shape of Jesus. Other days, I’m looking into Zen meditation.

Currently, I’m reading a Japanese manga called Saint Young Men which has Jesus and Buddha living in an apartment and doing mundane things: going to the grocery store, hanging out in a sauna, riding roller coasters at an amusement park. I’m sure there are many who would consider it blasphemous. I like it though. I like the notion of a Jesus who moves throughout the world, astonished by its beauty. No dogma, no theological world-building. Just loving the world, and loving the people in it, no matter who they were.

Now if Jesus and Buddha had a cat, it’ll be perfect.

Right after I wrote this essay and turned it in for edits, my world was rocked by twin losses. At the beginning of July, I lost my father to stomach cancer, who succumbed to it faster than anyone in our family was prepared for. A week later, my brother-in-law was killed, while biking, by a drunk driver.

In many ways. I am still in shock. One day, I’ll write a blog or an essay or a story to process it all. It won’t have enough words. It will never have enough words.

Here’s what I do know. My faith in the shape of love, which has no name and yet holds every name, still sustains and grounds me now, even—no, especially during this time. It is present in the love of family and friends who have gathered around us in our grief. It is present in the memories of holding my father’s hand during his last day on earth. In the pots of honeysuckle my brother-in-law planted while I was in Chicago with my dad, unknowingly his last act of love for me. It is present when I rage and weep at the unfairness of it all. And it is present when I pull up a fanfic to escape and find myself reading a cyberpunk story of a young man who loses his father, sets out for revenge, and falls in love with a cocky cybercriminal who teaches him to cherish his memories, to put his rage to good use, and most importantly, how to live after great loss.

There are many, many stories out there—on my bookshelf and in my own heart—of people dealing with grief and hardship and change. In reading such stories, I know I’m not alone. I will never be alone.

The cat lands on its four paws and walks away, tail held high.

© 2025 LaShawn M. Wanak