Steven LaChance Blog

I’ve been reflecting lately on what it means to seek truth in our spiritual lives. Everywhere we turn—on screens, in books, from pulpits—we’re presented with versions of “truth” that often turn out to be very human creations, shaped by culture, power, or the simple march of time. I want to invite you into a conversation about what it really means to know, not just believe, especially when it comes to figures like Jesus, Muhammad, Buddha—or anyone you hold sacred.

Let’s be honest: if you’re a Christian, you probably feel a deep loyalty to the life and teachings of Jesus. But what if I told you that diving into the real historical context of the Gospels—examining who wrote them, why, and when—could actually enrich your faith instead of shaking it? None of the New Testament authors ever sat down with Jesus over a cup of tea; they recorded stories passed down through communities. Their memories, their biases, the politics of early church councils, even the language they chose—all of these things left their fingerprints on the text. Is it blasphemous to acknowledge that? I don’t think so. I think it’s brave.

We also have to reckon with another uncomfortable truth: far too often, those human creations of “truth” have been twisted not to uplift, but to harm. History is littered with examples—from crusades and inquisitions to caste discrimination and sectarian violence—where scripture was bent to justify oppression. These distortions haven’t just been editorial; they’ve given faith itself a bad name. Many have walked away hurt, disillusioned, or fearful because they’ve seen religion wielded as a weapon rather than a guide. Acknowledging this isn’t cynical—it’s compassionate. It means confronting the wounds in our shared story so we can heal.

And this isn’t just a “Christian problem.” Whether you follow Muhammad, Buddha, Krishna, or any other spiritual guide, history is always mediated by fallible humans. Over centuries, doctrines get polished, verses get retranslated (and sometimes twisted), and institutions—whether Catholic, evangelical, Sunni, Mahayana, or Theravada—inevitably bring their own agendas to the table. Quoting a verse perfectly from memory doesn’t prove greater piety; it simply proves a good memory. What really matters is wrestling with the questions those teachings raise: What did they intend? How did their original audiences understand them? What enduring values can we still draw on today?

Here’s the beautiful paradox: the more earnestly you seek the deep, unvarnished truth of your faith’s founder, the more alive your own faith can become. Genuine curiosity honors the spirit of those who first carried the message forward. It says, “I care enough to look behind the curtain.” It reminds us that believing isn’t a one-time transaction but an ongoing journey. Faith doesn’t freeze when questions come knocking—it stretches to meet them.

So where does that leave us? Perhaps instead of clinging to secondhand assurances—or worse, allowing history to be rewritten around us—we return to the heart of the message. For Christ, maybe that means love, mercy, and justice were his truest legacy. For Muhammad, it could be compassion, surrender, and community. For Buddha, perhaps mindfulness, suffering’s nature, and the path to peace. Those values—when explored and lived—are infinitely more powerful than any verse quoted without thought.

In the end, seeking truth isn’t a betrayal of faith; it’s a profound act of worship. It’s saying, “Your message matters so much that I will examine it, question it, and hold it up to the light.” And that, I believe, is how faith flourishes—not in the absence of doubt, but in the courage to face it, to acknowledge both its beauty and its scars, and to let that honest journey deepen our conviction and compassion.