You’re Not Lost — You Are Becoming

A Pastoral Letter for Every Soul in Transition By Rev. Dr. Justin Hurtado

Introduction: You’re Not Lost

Let me say this plainly: You’re not lost. You’ve been told you are. You’ve been told by pulpits and politicians, by families who couldn’t hold your fullness, by a world that wants you simple, silent, and settled. But you’re not lost. You’re becoming.

That ache you feel? That liminal, in-between, “I-don’t-belong-anywhere” sensation? That’s not confusion. That’s transformation.

We’ve confused wilderness with exile. But in scripture, the wilderness is where identity is formed. Jesus didn’t avoid it. He went into it. So did the prophets. So did the Israelites. So do we.

If you’ve been told that your journey away from certainty, or conformity, or old containers means you’ve lost your way— Let me bless your detour. Let me tell you that detours are sacred. That departure can be deliverance. That which feels like unraveling might just be revelation.

You are not a mistake in God’s plan. You are the midpoint of God’s poetry. This middle place—where you are wrestling and wondering—is part of the design.

And I know you’ve been made to feel like your becoming is a crisis. But it’s not. It’s a calling.

You Are Becoming

The Sacred Work of Not Being “There” Yet

I used to think I had to earn my place in the sacred. That I had to be calm, certain, and emotionally housebroken. That holiness meant having it all figured out—or at least acting like it. But God has never demanded polish. Only presence. And it turns out, presence is possible even in chaos. Maybe especially in chaos.

That ache you feel? The uncertainty? The “I should be further by now” pressure? It’s not failure. It’s formation.

Moses didn’t know what the hell he was doing half the time. Neither did the prophets. Mary said yes with no plan. And Jesus? Jesus didn’t rush his timeline. Thirty years of becoming before one public miracle.

So hear me, wherever you are in your story: Faithful or doubting, joyful or unraveling, rebuilding your life or just surviving it—

You are not late. You are not broken. You are not behind. You are mid-transfiguration.

That is holy ground.

So cry. Laugh. Grieve the things that were never yours to carry. Name the dreams that scare you. Bless the parts of you that stayed small to stay safe.

And then? Put your hand on your chest and say, “I am still sacred. Even here.” Because you are.

Becoming Is Not a Flaw in the Design

A Theology for the In-Between

We’ve inherited a faith that’s obsessed with arrival. Certainty. Achievement. Heaven as a prize. God as a reward.

But real theology—living, breathing, Spirit-soaked theology—knows better. It knows that God doesn’t just show up in the end. God is embedded in the process.

From the first breath of Genesis, creation has never been finished. It is ongoing. Expanding. Becoming. So are you.

You weren’t made to be static. You were made to evolve.

The Divine doesn’t demand stasis. The Divine invites transformation. Over time. Through pain. With grace.

And here's the mystery: God doesn't wait for you on the other side of clarity. God meets you in the murk. In the middle. In the mess.

The Christian tradition calls it sanctification. The mystics call it surrender. The desert mothers and fathers called it the long obedience. Whatever you name it—this becoming is holy.

You don’t need to transcend your humanity to touch the sacred. You just need to stay present to it.

Because this God—this fierce, tender, ever-unfolding God—is not found in performance. She is found in process. In your open questions. Your undone prayers. Your body that’s still healing. Your hope that flickers but refuses to die.

Flesh and Bone and Becoming

Where the Sacred Lives Now

You don’t become in theory. You become in your body.

This isn’t just a spiritual journey—it’s a physical one. Becoming lives in your gut, your spine, your tears, your hunger. It shows up in the weight you carry, the breaths you hold, the posture you shrink into when you’ve been told you’re too much.

And for too long, religion has made the body a problem. Too sinful. Too loud. Too fragile. Too queer. Too sexual. Too human.

But your body is not an obstacle to grace. It is the very place where grace shows up.

God doesn’t bypass the body. God inhabits it.

Jesus didn’t come as a metaphor. He came with skin and blood and sweat glands. He ate. He cried. He touched people and let people touch him. He didn’t float above the pain—he moved through it.

So let’s name it clearly: The body is sacred. Yours. Mine. All of them.

Whether you’re neurodivergent or navigating disability… Whether you’re grieving the body you used to have or learning to love the one you’re in now… Whether you’re transitioning, recovering, aging, aching, or just plain tired— You are still holy ground.

Becoming hurts sometimes. The body remembers what the mind tries to minimize. Shame doesn’t live in doctrine—it lives in tissue.

Which means healing can’t just be a mindset. It has to be embodied.

Let yourself rest. Let yourself rage. Let yourself want. Let yourself feel something good without earning it.

Your healing doesn’t have to look like productivity. Sometimes it looks like breathing. Or crying. Or dancing in your kitchen. Or taking your meds. Or letting someone see your scars.

This body of yours? It’s not broken. It’s becoming.

Sacred Belonging

Becoming Yourself Without Losing Yourself in the Crowd

Becoming changes you. But it also changes who you can sit with.

That’s not ego. That’s truth.

As you grow into the full weight of who you are, some spaces won’t fit anymore. Some people will still want the older version of you—the agreeable, smaller one. The one who didn’t speak truth, or set boundaries, or ask hard questions.

And that’s when it gets real.

Because while becoming is sacred, it can also be lonely. We all want to be seen, not just tolerated. We want love that doesn’t require us to shrink.

Belonging that demands your silence isn’t sacred. It’s survival.

And we are not here to just survive. We’re here to belong.

Community isn’t about proximity—it’s about mutuality. It’s about knowing who sees you and stays. People who don’t flinch when you speak the truth. People who don’t shrink when you rise.

It may not be the church you grew up in. It may not be the family that shares your blood. But it will be the people God sends when you start walking in your truth.

You are allowed to bless the door that closed And walk through the one that opened.

What We Leave Behind

Grief as Companion in the Sacred Work of Becoming

Becoming always costs something. Not because you’re doing it wrong— But because you’re doing it honestly.

Letting go hurts. Even when the choice is right. Even when the shift is holy. Even when you wouldn’t go back.

Grief is what happens when love meets change.

I’m not a fan of the “stages of grief” narrative. Not because it’s wrong, but because it often becomes a script. One that suggests there’s a finish line. One that ignores the real, messy, looping, aching nature of human loss.

You don’t get over it. You move with it.

Grief is not failure. It’s fidelity. To what was. To what mattered. To who you were— And who you’re becoming now.

You can grieve something and still bless your future. You can hold the sorrow without surrendering the joy.

Joy Is What Survives

The Sacred, Rebellious Delight of Becoming Fully Alive

Joy is not what comes after grief. Joy is what survives it.

It’s not the prize. It’s the pulse.

Joy shows up uninvited. Sometimes when you’re doing dishes. Sometimes in song. Sometimes at 2 a.m., when you realize you haven’t apologized for existing all day.

Joy is not a mood. It’s a muscle. It’s not optimism. It’s oxygen.

Joy doesn’t erase the ache. It coexists with it.

It reminds you: You’re still here. You’re still sacred. You’re still worth delight.

Joy is not a reward. It’s a right.

Staying With the Work

Resources for the Ongoing Journey of Becoming

Practices

• Body Check-Ins

• Sacred Journaling

• Breath and Blessing: “I am still sacred. Even here.”

Recommended Books & Voices

• This Here Flesh – Cole Arthur Riley

• The Wisdom of the Body – Christine Valters Paintner

• Everything Belongs – Richard Rohr

• Pádraig Ó Tuama – poetry, conflict, and prayer

Community and Support

• @BlackLiturgies (Instagram)

• Disability Visibility Podcast

• The Liturgists Podcast

• Local or virtual spiritual directors, trauma-informed therapists, queer spiritual collectives

Connect With Me

www.iwiga.com

Email me at jhurtado@iwiga.com

Go in Your Becoming

A Benediction for the Road Ahead

You don’t have to be finished to be faithful. You don’t have to be certain to be sacred. You don’t have to be healed to be here.

Your becoming is not a liability. It’s your liturgy.

So go—not when you feel ready, but when you feel real. Go tender. Go fierce. Go unpolished and still a little undone. That’s holy.

You will not always feel brave. But you will always be held.

By the Spirit who never asked you to perform. By the grace that moves at the speed of trust. By the quiet truth that you are enough, not because you’ve arrived, but because you are.

Go with your sacred questions. Go with your body, exactly as it is. Go with your grief and your joy holding hands.

And may the God who became flesh walk with you —not in front of you as a finish line— but beside you, step for step, as you become.

Amen.

Sources Cited

Arthur Riley, C. (2022). This Here Flesh: Spirituality, liberation, and the stories that make us. Convergent Books.

Brown, B. (2018). Dare to lead: Brave work. Tough conversations. Whole hearts. Random House.

Paintner, C. V. (2017). The wisdom of the body: A contemplative journey to wholeness for women. Sorin Books.

Rohr, R. (2003). Everything belongs: The gift of contemplative prayer. Crossroad Publishing Company.

Ó Tuama, P. (2016). Readings from the Book of Exile. Canterbury Press.

West, M. (Ed.). (2006). The Queer Bible Commentary. SCM Press.

Kubler-Ross, E., & Kessler, D. (2005). On grief and grieving: Finding the meaning of grief through the five stages of loss. Scribner.

Herman, J. L. (2015). Trauma and recovery: The aftermath of violence—from domestic abuse to political terror (Rev. ed.). Basic Books.