As most people will know, I no longer define “faith” as belief in God as indicated by the church. I’m much more in tune with James Fowler’s Stages of Faith, which has very little specifically to do with institutional religion, or even the assumption of a deity, or adherence to spiritual practices.
That said, each time I mention to churchy folks my disappointments with the church and with God as presented by that church, I get the sanctimonious pitying “Oh, I’m so sorry you’ve lost your faith. I’ll pray for you.” (Please stop that right now.)
Because I did not “lose” my “faith” (as you define it, not as I do). I know precisely where it is.
It’s in the corner, lying quietly, where I shot it with a tranquilizer dart to prevent it from doing any harm while I examine it and decide what should be done with it.
There are multiple ways the decision could go.
I could let it awaken, and be the ravening, destroying beast it once was.
I could shoot it like a trophy kill, and hang it on the wall, and brag for the rest of my life how I triumphed over it.
I could run from it like I once might have run from the fires of hell which I no longer fear.
Or, I could euthanize it, put it out of my misery, cremate it, scatter the ashes, so there is no evidence it ever existed.