My Personal Statement of Theology

By Donna Lee Henry, Deist, Edited and Republished by Lewis Loflin (2025)

In building my personal theology, I rely on four elements: fact, reasonable hypothesis, belief, and myth, legend, and fairy tale. These form a hierarchy, with items at the top carrying greater weight. Below, I define each element.

1. Fact: This is something provable through the scientific method, yielding consistent results across observations. Facts have enabled realities like space travel, surgery with anesthesia, and the computer I’m using to write this. We’ve observed, for instance, that the Earth is round and orbits the sun, and that smoking cigarettes harms health. You’re free to reject facts—claiming the Earth is flat or smoking is beneficial—but that would make you look foolish at the very least.
2. Reasonable Hypothesis: These are logical ideas lacking formal proof. Galileo’s round, Earth-in-motion theory was once a hypothesis; he was forced to recant, but evidence later confirmed it. Early on, some physicians advised against smoking based on their expertise and observations, without formal studies. Proof emerged later with scientific studies. You can ignore such hypotheses, but I find it wise to keep these "seems reasonable" ideas in mind, as they’re often validated over time.
3. Belief: These are vague concepts with qualifiers like "maybe," "it’s possible," or "it could be." They lack proof and may never be provable. Some might hear my beliefs and think, "She’s nuts!" I don’t hold these arbitrarily, though. I test them against my gut instinct and past experiences, seeking a sense of rightness or at least a possibility of it.

For example, if I get violently ill every time I eat green beans, I might say, "Green beans make me sick, so I won’t eat them." There’s no proof green beans are the culprit—the illness might be unrelated or even imagined. But to avoid getting sick, I steer clear. You’re not obligated to do the same, especially since evidence shows green beans are healthy and you have no such reaction. Beliefs fall outside reason, but given my experiences, ignoring them entirely feels irrational.

4. Myth, Legend, and Fairy Tales: These are human-crafted stories meant to teach lessons, illustrate intangible principles, or explain the incomprehensible at the time they were written. They’re easy to spot in other cultures, but we often mistake our own for reality. Ancient tales offer insight into the mindset of their creators and their modern followers. They may hold wisdom but can also contain falsehoods in light of new knowledge.

They might include real elements—The Wizard of Oz mentions Kansas, tornadoes, and dogs, all of which exist—but that doesn’t make the story true. It remains fiction. I find a gem in it: I already have what I seek; I’m just not looking in the right place. You’re not obliged to see anything beyond its fictional nature. Treating such works as fact is foolish.

This hierarchy shapes my theology. But it’s too lengthy for forms asking about religious affiliation, and no one wants a diatribe just for asking. You could say, "None of your business," but what’s the point of a theology if you hide it? It’s not always appropriate to share—just as I wouldn’t discuss child-rearing, sexual preferences, or food tastes in every conversation. Would you tell a homophobic boss you’re gay when your car’s about to be repossessed, or tell Grandma her six-hour dinner tastes like dog food?

Still, if your theology isn’t used for some worthwhile purpose, why have one? I understand reserving it for the right moments, but keeping it entirely hidden is as good as discarding it. So, to simplify and connect with something larger, I identify as a Deist. My religion is Deism.

A Deist believes in God based on reason and nature, rejecting the superstitions of revealed religions. I’m a Deist, though not a perfect one. I’ve known Catholics who use birth control, Christians who see Jesus as a spiritual teacher rather than the Son of God, and Jews who eat ham sandwiches. If I’m guilty of anything, it’s the same human imperfection as other so-called believers.

Deism offers what revealed religions don’t: the freedom to reject superstition without fear of retribution and the chance to study facts as facts, not fiction as fact. The Creation surrounds us, accessible to all, and is the only work directly attributable to the Creator.

Here’s an analogy to highlight the difference between Deism and revealed religions: Would you trust a heart surgeon who studied the heart, or one whose only qualification is reading a book by an unknown author who fought in wars and saw heart wounds? Much of the Bible consists of war stories by unknown authors about an ancient people who claimed God was on their side, positioning them as God experts. It’s filled with contradictions and claims that don’t hold up to study of the physical universe. Revealed religions insist you study their books to know God, the Creator.

Deism, however, says to study the Creation to know God. This feels more logical. My mind and spirit are as vital as my body. I wouldn’t entrust my body to an unskilled surgeon, nor my mind and spirit to the unlearned faithful.

In summary, I am a Deist. That’s the short version of my theology. The longer version evolves as I grow. Deism, unbound by ancient tales and enriched by expanding scientific knowledge, gives me room to do just that—grow.