Extreme affliction, which means physical pain, distress of soul, and social degradation, all at the same time, is a nail whose point is applied at the very center of the soul, whose head is all necessity spreading throughout space and time.[1]

Weil makes a categorical distinction between suffering and malheur, which can be translated “misfortune,” “tragedy” or, as most of Weil’s translators render it, “affliction.” In English, affliction carries the meaning of persistent distress or pain, such as disease. Weil infuses this word with a sense of inevitability and dread; a kind of ‘dark night of the soul’ which goes beyond, but includes, physical and emotional suffering.

What is remarkable about Weil, and others like her, is her ability to understand suffering without the imposed moralism that typically goes with it. She saw affliction as both a function of necessity and chance. Necessity, in the sense that affliction is part of the normal order of things and thus inescapable, let alone surprising. Chance, in that affliction does not have a moral valence. It is random and not necessarily related to the sin of the one being afflicted.

Speaking about suffering is a challenging thing. The minute you attempt to explain it you risk glorifying or justifying it in some way; minimizing the horror. I respond negatively to any notion of determinism, and Weil’s philosophy of affliction comes close to this, as she describes nature and matter simply being obedient to God. She writes:

All the horrors produced in this world are like the folds imposed upon the waves by gravity. That is why they contain an element of beauty.

I rebel: suffering is not beautiful! And yet the experience of two World Wars must certainly have inoculated Weil against glib expressions of suffering’s beauty. So I begin to examine my own biases and realize once again that I am accustomed to the world bending to my will. I am, after all, a white American male. Determinism or fate has no part in my philosophical framework. The world is malleable. It is what I make it, or so I’ve been taught.

In addition I must grapple with her other statements about affliction, like this one:

Affliction renders God absent for a time, more absent than a dead man, more absent than the light in a completely dark cell. A sort of horror submerges the whole soul. During this absence there is nothing to love. What is terrible is that in this darkness where there is nothing to love, if the soul ceases to love, the absence of God becomes final. The soul has to go on loving in the emptiness, or at least to go on wanting to love, though it may only be with an infinitesimal part of itself. Then, one day, God will come to show himself to this soul and to reveal the beauty of the world to it, as in the case of Job. But if the soul stops loving it falls, even in this life, into something almost equivalent to hell.

Suffering is certainly not romantic or beautiful in the shallow sense but there is, potentially, something at work that keeps it from being absolutely meaningless, as it so often appears in my own experience. I understand all too well the darkness of God’s devastating absence in which “there is nothing to love.” Here Weil even admits that loving is not necessary. Perhaps even “wanting to love…with an infinitesimal part of itself” is enough. This reminds me of the cry of the father of a tormented son, “Lord, I believe; help my unbelief” (Mark 9:24). Loving in the emptiness. It is a challenge but it is not impossible. It is not like believing in the emptiness, or hoping against hope. We can chose to love. To act from love. And when we do, something remarkable is made possible. Her essay ends with these remarkable words.

Affliction is a marvel of divine technique. It is a simple and ingenious device which introduces into the soul of a finite creature the immensity of force, blind, brutal, and cold. The infinite distance separating God from the creature is entirely concentrated into one point to pierce the soul in its center.

The man to whom such a thing happens has no part in the operation. He struggles like a butterfly pinned alive into an album. But through all the horror he can continue to want to love. There is nothing impossible in that, no obstacle, one might almost say no difficulty. For the greatest suffering, so long as it does not cause the soul to faint, does not touch the acquiescent part of the soul, consenting to a right direction.

It is only necessary to know that love is a direction and not a state of the soul. If one is unaware of this, one falls into despair at the first onslaught of affliction.

He whose soul remains ever turned toward God, though the nail pierces, he finds himself nailed to the very center of the universe. It is the true center; it is not in the middle; it is beyond space and time; it is God. In a dimension that does not belong to space, that is not time, that is indeed quite a different dimension, this nail has pierced cleanly through all creation, through the thickness of the screen separating the soul from God.

In this marvelous dimension, the soul, without leaving the place and the instant where the body to which it is united is situated, can cross the totality of space and time and come into the very presence of God.

It is at the intersection of creation and its Creator. This point of intersection is the point of intersection of the arms of the Cross.

Weil’s words are terrifyingly vivid and resonate: “like a butterfly pinned alive into an album.” And, in a sort of dénouement to her argument, she speaks of being “nailed to the center of the universe.” Never before has anyone made being nailed to anything sound appealing. Until now.

For the soul that remains oriented toward God—that is, oriented toward love, which throughout her essay is the very definition of God—there remains the possibility of entering the very presence of God. Affliction is the way. Actually, love is the way. Affliction is simply the (un)usual occasion for the sort of love that pierces the veil separating us from God.

Those who are in the thick of affliction, who feel that a nail has pierced not only their body but also their soul are more likely to think of it as meaningless, but even the famous existentialist, Søren Kierkegaard, wrote,

“What is a poet? An unhappy man who hides deep anguish in his heart, but whose lips are so formed that when the sigh and cry pass through them, it sounds like lovely music…. And people flock around the poet and say: ‘Sing again soon’ – that is, ‘May new sufferings torment your soul but your lips be fashioned as before, for the cry would only frighten us, but the music, that is blissful.”

As I attempt to sort through the seeming meaninglessness and confusion of my own life experience I am encouraged to press deeper into the despair that threatens, at times, to swallow me alive. I am challenged by Simone Weil, Søren Kierkegaard, and others, to stare into the abyss until my eyes begin to adjust, until the darkness becomes a new kind of light.

I am reminded once again that suffering—or affliction—is not the thing, but love. When all else seems impossible, and there is nothing to love in the face of God’s absence, “soul has to go on loving in the emptiness, or at least to go on wanting to love” or risk falling “into something almost equivalent to hell.”

—Ryan Bell

As cultural and economic shifts continue to take place, more people are calling themselves “Creatives.” It seems almost anyone, doing anything, can be a virtuoso, cultural kingmaker, filmmaker, or the catchall “artist.” But whether these people are formally trained, self-taught, or simply seeking value for their uniqueness, the Church has not yet begun to tap into the energy and creativity of congregants who are pursuing their passions. Pews and folding chairs both remain empty as religious leaders persist in thinking that the biggest creative choice they will make this year concerns the color of the carpet.

Genuine creativity is, in many ways, absent from our sacred spaces. The evidence is all around us. More churches are turning to portable buildings and weekend rentals that discourage decoration, stained glass, or anything that might develop into differences of opinion. What is it about congregations, committees, and Christians that sidelines ingenuity, given how many of us are designers, painters, musicians, and creative in some many profound ways? And what if the choice were not always presented as creativity or faithfulness?

Manifest: Our Call to Faithful Creativity is a collection of essays addressing those kinds of questions.

Most of the contributors are from Australia and the essayists are, for the most part, located within the Adventist tradition; this limits the scope of the book somewhat. It is perhaps a testimony to the work of the editors that these essays are at times generalized to apply to other denominations. There are few “That would never work for our church!” moments. The pieces are applicable to churches primarily in the West or rather applicable with a Western mentality, despite the fact that many of the essayists are located in the Pacific Rim It is a truism that depending on what a reader brings to work like this and expects from it – accessibility of ideas, or thorough cutting edge tips tailored to your own tradition – will determine how they see it. Very much like a piece of art.

The writers seem to get the irony of creatively writing about creativity. As Jothan Kingston puts it, “To a certain degree, we write for ourselves. As Creatives, we like the sound of our own voices. We like showing other people our stuff. We like being the Writer, rather than the Reader.” But, at times, the essays are all hype without true content. Kingston, for example, while one of the more revealing and introspective in the collection, attributes the desire to be creative not to our personalities and unique bend, but to a salvific drive. We are creative because the inhabitants of the world “do not know Jesus and are ignorant of their inheritance rights to the universe… This is why we write. This is why we create.”

Not all Creatives have such divine intention. I might have said something similar when I attended youth rallies, but certainly not as a 30-year old living in Los Angeles. Something within me balks at casting my creative energies in those terms. I create because others don’t know Jesus? What? Yet, what I found in reading these essays, sitting with them, and allowing the words to sink in rather than blow past me—rather than rushing through the gallery, so to speak—is that each essayist brought attention to a different way of understanding what it means to have that pull, that divine gift of meaning-making, and what I rejected became something that I am continuing to weigh in my mind days later.

Other contributors, like Ryan Bell’s “Room for the Spirit to Blow Through”[1] are practical, making suggestions of how to best nurture not just Creatives in the congregation, but also to make a congregation of Creatives. Bell shares his insights on working at Hollywood Adventist where creativity is not about art necessarily, but “the creation of something new and valuable to the community” based on the assumption that everyone has a gift or talent worth sharing.  Other essayists share ways in which faith communities tend to locate creative energy among young people exclusively, and children specifically. This should not be so, for creative ideas often come from experience – knowing what blends well, and how to capture a long legacy of wonder.

Overall, the ideal readers for a collection like this are young Christian artists in the West who aren’t sure how to inspire or be inspired. What you will find in this book is passion, energy, ideas, and a collection of writers, musicians, pastors, visual artists, and designers trying to recapture wonder and a sense of beauty for, from, and by the Church. There are so many good, sound, well thought-out ideas here meant to inspire you that I find myself needing a second run-through to feel validated as a Creative myself. If I had a book like this ten years ago when I was working in student ministries I would have felt a sense of solidarity with like-minded Christians and surely would have done a lot more to inspire my students.

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If nothing else, Lillian Daniel has a breadth of experience in her years of ministry! In her book, When “Spiritual but Not Religious” is Not Enough, Lillian takes us along for the ride as she chats with random strangers on the bus, visits prisons and monasteries, philosophizes with her dog about late-night TV evangelists, and deals with family crises as she takes on the task of “Seeing God in surprising places, even the church.” Her quirky anecdotes draw the reader into her inner thought circle, giving the book the feel of a rambling campfire rant among friends. With each section divided into bite-sized chapters, the author challenges many commonly-held beliefs, both in and outside the church, and shows us through her stories that we need to look deeper into the every day fabric of life than we are accustomed to, in order to find the answers to the big questions.

You won’t find quick and easy theological answers to the questions she poses. You won’t find loosely superimposed object lessons, and you won’t find hum-drum do-it-yourself suggestions for cultivating a lifestyle of prayer or confession or communion. The author resists giving you the answers to the test at all costs. Instead, she tells you about her experience with these aspects of spiritual life, and lets you fill in the blanks. In her discussion of communion, for example, one moment, you’re sitting in her financial planner’s office discussing tithing, and the next minute, you’re whisked off to O’Hare airport to discover the joys of impromptu road trips with strangers in snowy weather—and then you’re in her mother’s dining room, waiting to be served roast duck! And, while there is a conclusion to be drawn from her sharing each of these stories in short succession, the author leaves us to draw that conclusion on our own.

The abruptness of her transitions, interjected with the odd chapter where she can’t resist jumping up onto her soapbox, can be disconcerting. Even the conclusion of the book is abrupt. Yet, there is an endearing quality to the way the author tells her stories. A keen mind and gentle heart shine out of every chapter. It is obvious that Lillian Daniel is actively engaged in wrestling with the deep, unsettling questions of spirituality, and even more impressive—she’s comfortable with the patchwork gaps in her knowledge of God, assured that her faith and her experience will continue to fill the gaps. Indeed, it would seem that from her perspective, the only way to allow the gaps to be filled is to continue to experience life through the lens of faith.

If you’re looking for a book that will encourage introspection, challenge complacency, and make you laugh all at the same time, pick up a copy of When “Spiritual but Not Religious” is Not Enough. You never know where you’ll find God.

Holly Messenger Aamot studied philosophy and botany at the University of Alberta, and now work as the Business Manager for the Chokka Center for Integrative Health in Edmonton, Alberta. When she is not working or reading she enjoys writing, crocheting, and making music. She lives in Edmonton with her husband and daughter.

Dale T. Irvin and Scott W. Sunquist changed the academic game of Christian history in 2001 with the publication of History of the World Christian Movement, Vol I. That previous tome reaped several awards and almost unanimous critical praise for its comprehensive look at all facets of Christianity—Latin and Greek, male and female, orthodox and schismatic, from Spain to China, from Scandinavia to Ethiopia. The second volume continues the series with all the vitality and thoroughness of its predecessor – little surprise, as Irvin is President of New York Theological Seminary and Sunquist was recently appointed as Dean of Fuller Theological Seminary’s School of Intercultural Studies. Their scholarship is impeccable.

Volume II begins with the immediate aftermath of Constantinople’s fall to the Ottomans in 1453. It is a tipping point in world history; Latin Christendom, previously preoccupied with a great deal of infighting—politically and theologically—realizes that its sister-state, the Byzantine Empire, is dead at the hands of the Turks. Though Byzantium had long been in decline, its complete disappearance provokes a new and fearful mindset for Rome. The Vatican suddenly is very interested in recent technological developments in seafaring, and the two greatest kingdoms of Christendom—Portugal and newly-birthed Spain—find their navigating experiments for the sake of commerce backed by the Pope. The Age of European Exploration begins with the hope of finding spices, cloth, and the far side of India, but perhaps most importantly—a way to outflank and surround Islam. Ships are equipped with soldiers and missionaries for just such an opportunity as Catholic priests are sent into Islamic territories, looking for Orthodox survivors.

Much to everyone’s surprise—including the reader’s—a vast amount of twists are in store. This history book is not simply about how missionaries “took” Christianity elsewhere during the Age of Exploration while this or that debate raged between the humanists and the Scholastics back in Europe. This book tells of Portuguese missionaries shocked to discover Christians in Ethiopia and India, Orthodox Christianity reviving in Russian exile, and Reformers undermining Catholic doctrine as the Turks march on the Balkans. Even much of this pales in comparison to what probably changed the shape of the world forever—arguably the most powerful nation on the globe destroying its intercontinental navy of 3,500 vessel as China chose isolationism instead of colonialism, allowing Spain, Portugal, and the Netherlands to land, colonize, and evangelize across southeast Asia and Oceana. This book truly looks at the entire scope of Christianity in the massively turbulent years between 1454 and 1800, and thus much of what Westerners have either forgotten or never heard is brought to the fore; from the conquest and “conversion” of the Americas to Francis Xavier landing in Japan, from Martin Luther nailing his theses on the door of Wittenberg to the Babylonian Church’s struggle to survive in Islamic Persia, any and every strand of Christianity is examined and woven together into a tapestry that depicts the Body of Christ at its most volatile, closing right before the shrinking of the world with the Industrial Revolution of the late 18^th and early 19^th centuries.

All of this may sound like a ton of information, and it is. The book is filled with facts and events, dates and conditions of empires and rebellions, heroes and villains. But this is one of the book’s greatest strengths. Often, laypeople—and at times scholars as well—think that events happen in some sort of vacuum, but that is not the case. World War II did not just break out; factors as diverse as the rise of communism and Imperialism, the collapse of monarchical Europe, the Great Depression, and the economic devastation of World War I all played a part in leading up to Germany’s invasion of Poland. This is the same concept that biblical scholars use when studying texts in their original social and historical contexts, and it is the modus operandi for Irvin and Sunquist; they realize it is their responsibility as historians to give the reader the true context of what is happening in the universal Church. That cannot be done without a great deal of “secular” history as a backdrop.

Thus, Volume II follows the stories of the sultans, tsars, Confucianists, Shoguns, and philosophers just as much as the Jesuits, Inquisitors, Reformers, missionaries, and Popes; a thorough treatment of the Reformation is accompanied by crash courses in Russian history, Sikh theology, and Chinese ancestor worship. It is impossible to fully understand one side without the other as the history of the Christian Church is a part of the larger world history. Irvin and Sunquist masterfully situate the former in the latter. The result is a not a list of events and dates—which is always a danger of history books—but instead a web of interconnected stories that spark, catalyze, and inform each other.

Despite this colossal achievement of context and connection, Volume II is easily understandable. It may be dense with information, but Irvin and Sunquist ultimately write it for the layperson and academic alike. Their prose is clear, their lingo unencumbered by academic jargon and instead of the common passive and plodding narrative of text books, Volume II moves with a life that is refreshing and exciting. The book is not just well-written, it is well-composed. Sentences neither leave the reader in the dark nor put them to sleep; the language of the authors does justice to the tragedies and triumphs of the human beings preserved in these pages.

The History of the World Christian Movement series is a much needed voice in the conversation of contemporary faith, and Vol. II might prove more crucial than either its predecessor or its successor. This history gives us a panorama of the Christian world during centuries of immense political, scientific, theological, and economic shifting as the world around the Church was changing. This tome shows us where those opportunities were missed and where they were grasped. Irvin and Sunquist focus our attention on events, debates, and movements that often parallel the challenges we face in the Church today: how should doctrinal dissonance affect cooperation, what is the dividing line between Christian and non-Christian, what is the proper distance between church and state, how should the Church carry itself in the context of the larger culture? Themes such as these run throughout the book, and the contemporary believer will find the volume full of warning embodied in villains and follies while taking encouragement from the heroes and martyrs.  This, coupled with the storytelling that rivals most fiction authors today, makes Irvin and Sunquist’s Volume II well worth the time and energy of a close read.

Reed Metcalf is a writer of fiction, nonfiction, and poetry. He and his wife Monica currently live in Pasadena, CA, where Reed is enrolled in Fuller Seminary’s Master of Divinity program.

In discussing the future of religion, many seek to address temporary concerns or hide behind trendy buzzwords. Those who are especially daring discuss global issues, such as the loss of religious involvement and what we can learn from other cultures. This is, in many ways, both a “daring” and safe decision. The author can indirectly philosophize about what they see taking place in the world. This creates an immediate risk, for if they are wrong, it is readily apparent. It is also safe because, should they speak broadly and make scatter-shot declarations, publishers and readers will be interested in their work for those discussions which are broad and general appeal to a wider audience.

Collected essays like the ones in Jewish Megatrends: Charting the Course of the American Jewish Future (2013) are generally packaged with self-deputized experts.  This is not such a book. The contributions here, from leading Rabbis and Jewish pioneers, are genuinely changing the way Judaism is being lived and embodied. Their thoughts are so challenging but achievable, scholarly but accessible, and aggressive but (at times) humorous that those seeking to find and create new pathways in their respective faith tradition will find allies and stimulating ideas for their own faith.

Rabbi Sharon Brous, in her essay” Synagogues Reimagined” challenges clergy to expect more – not less- from their faith communities. Almost a decade ago, Brous began IKAR in Los Angeles where she admits “there were already several great synagogues.” IKAR has struggled to stay away from institutionalizing their community, instead actively pursuing those disenfranchised, burned out, or listless among a high Jewish population. As she puts it, “Many American Jews – third and fourth generation immigrants – carry within them the distant echo of their parents’ and grandparents’ Judaism. They know that there are stories to tell but can’t remember the major plot lines, let alone the sacred details.”  A Conservative rabbi, Brous candidly discusses the challenges she has experienced while also holding out a map for those who have turned their backs on the tradition their parents aspired to. How do we reclaim a vibrant story, when the one our parents told us is unappealing and foreign to the challenges we see around us every day?

Elise Bernhardt, in the essay “Jewish Culture: What Really Counts?”, discusses ways to revitalize, attract, and support the artistic and creative efforts of those within the community. While there are certainly reasons why culture-at-large is apathetic to “religious” art, Bernhardt challenges that assumption, pointing to the resurgence of meaningful film, personal narratives of artists, and the ability of a religious environment to support the innovators among them. One of the keys to success, she says, is not just proactively affirming creativity, but a “critically important demographic for nurturing and expanding Jewish culture are young adults.” How can Jewish – and other religions – inspire a new generation to support each other? As the Talmud says, “Fortunate is the generation in which the elders listen to the youth.”

The book culminates in editor Rabbi Sidney Schwatrz’s call for a Jewish Renaissance where the dozens of distinct issues and innovations collide into a more engaged global faith – a faith which unites those of distinct cultures and backgrounds and reminds them of their shared hope. For Schwartz, such a Renaissance begins with individuals who are willing to take up the mantle of the forbearers and continue the legacy in new ways.

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Jeff Chu’s book, Does Jesus Really Love Me? charts a new course in the emerging conversation at the intersection of sexuality, politics and Christianity in America. It is a not exactly a memoir (“My life is not interesting enough to warrant a memoir,” he told me). Nor is it a historial or theological exploration of the topic of homosexuality. It is journalism of the best sort—where the journalist does not pretend to be writing in a vacuum, unrelated to the topic. In this book you know the author is present. You feel his pain, you sense his amusement. You are aware, from page to page, that he is personally invested in these stories. The title calls this a “pilgrimage” after all, and pilgrimages are personal. But he is also remarkably fair and generous—something I ask him about in the video below.

With remarkable clarity Chu navigates the widely divergent terrain of Christianity in American to try to understand how faithful Christians are approaching this controversial subject. To his New York Times reviewer, Dan Savage, Chu is far too generous with the Westboro Baptist Church and critical of the Metropolitan Community Church, and to Christianity Today reviewer, Jenell Paris, Chu is, in the end, too critical of the church; too testimonial when he describes the church as “our Lord’s dismembered and terribly dishonored remains.” All this, perhaps, proving the old adage that you must be doing something right when you offend everyone.

I sat down with Jeff Chu following a reading and Q & A at Fuller Theological Seminary, hosted by the student led OneTable organization. You can listen in on our conversation in the video below.

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It all started with the kid in high school who called me “God Boy.”

Justin Lee, co-founder, director, and public face of the Gay Christian Network, has been building bridges between evangelical Christians and lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgender people since the late-1990s. Torn, his memoir, describes his work as a gay Christian to increase understanding between two communities that have clashed in churches, the media, and the courts.

As Justin explains, his goals for writing and advocacy are to elevate love, transcend too-common battles, and work with individual people. In part because of his focus on the individual—a natural focus for an evangelical whose religious tradition emphasizes personal piety—Justin doesn’t offer much comment on the systems of custom, culture, or law that nurture individuals, shape their beliefs, limit how they read their scriptures, and govern whether they feel free to accept people different from them.

During the first half of the book, Justin describes other Christians in gentle language. Whether they accept him as a peer or patronize him as a special class of sinner, he represents them as well-intentioned, misinformed, and always sincere—never “bad people.” [1] Not until halfway into Torn does Justin start unpacking American Christianity’s approach to human sexuality or LGBT people.

Most readers will appreciate Justin’s stories about his teen and college years and how he integrated his religious convictions and sexuality with his parents’ support. Though some might want to dismiss him as an activist, he is never aggressive or rabid; he is only passionate. He narrates calmly throughout, writing as mildly as he speaks. But he is sometimes so charitable that he slips into inaccuracy.

On page 10, for instance, Justin writes that American Christians have been “unwittingly instrumental” in promoting anti-gay sentiment in Uganda and other African countries. In 2009 and 2010, Uganda’s parliament introduced the “Anti-Homosexuality Bill,” a law that became known as the “Kill-the-Gays” bill because early drafts provided for capital punishment as well as life imprisonment. [2] But Christians like Pat Robertson, Rick Warren, Scott Lively, Caleb Lee Brundidge, Exodus International’s Don Schmierer, and the C-Street Congressmen have intentionally shaped Ugandan sexual politics. [3] As recently as November 2012, a US Seventh-day Adventist group took their ex-gay message to Africa: not only are these international engagements deliberate, not only do groups invite American supporters to fund them as mission trips and “the Lord’s work,” but they have continued to happen despite outrage outside the church and from sexual minorities in Africa. Evangelical influence on this climate is not accidental, and it’s not “unwitting.”

In Chapter 10, “Faith Assassins,” Justin turns his attention from the Church’s international issues to its internal ones. Explaining that restaurant wait staffs have come to expect after-church diners to be cheap tippers, he writes:

If our reputation can be damaged by poor tipping, how much more can it be hurt by the perception that we are actively hostile to an entire group of people!
We Christians can say Jesus changed our hearts, but if our reputation is that of uncompassionate culture warriors, why should [non-Christians] believe us? We can say that God is loving and merciful, but if the church isn’t loving and merciful, why would we be in any sort of position to know that God is? [4]

The “we” orientation in this passage is consistent with Justin’s voice whenever he describes the Church: he identifies strongly with its evangelical wing and has no plans to leave it. This may be why his stories about other evangelicals all have such an authentic ring: these are the believers he knows and resonates most easily with. Even when he challenges the status quo, he’s speaking to his own.

But Justin’s comments on other branches of the Church are more one-dimensional. In one story, Justin describes a church whose preacher interpreted a gospel story without reading its supernatural elements literally. For him, the experience was foreign and unsettling; he interprets it and the wider non-literalist tradition as “throwing the baby out with the bathwater” and undermining the Bible’s trustworthiness. Just a page later, Christians like those in the story are advocates of  ”one of the earliest heresies of the church.” Lacking doctrinal clarity, they “fail to stand for anything at all,” and risk “losing the things that set them apart as Christians.” At the end of this assumption chain is a mocking chant that begins “O large Person or Persons of whatever gender or branch…” [5] Its source? A comedy routine.

In the context of Justin’s closing thoughts on “the way forward” (e.g. “Christians must show more grace, especially in the midst of disagreement”) this section fails. It doesn’t increase understanding but does reinforce stereotypes, and it also highlights the limits of the author’s personal experience. Do the bridges between gay and Christian communities require all Christians to treat US evangelical doctrine as normative? Justin is clear that he’ll never be “spiritual but not religious” even if some gay people are, [6] so isn’t it curious that Truth matches evangelical beliefs (except for that gay thing!), and not, say, Orthodox or Unitarian Universalist approaches to scripture or teaching? Who set up evangelicalism as the archetype for faithful Christianity? And why would someone so dedicated to respectful dialogue be satisfied with a “heresy” slam or jokes at the expense of others?

Even though I grew up in a religious and cultural community that was as insular as Justin’s, I felt similarly uncomfortable about his descriptions of and dissociation from “gay culture.” [7] I didn’t know any self-identified LGBT people until I’d left home for college either, but it would be unfair of me to credit my early awkwardness with the community to others’ “lifestyle” or “culture” rather than my own limited perspective. “Egocentric carnality” and “anti-intellectual” attitudes aren’t the preserve of any demographic and gender and sexual minorities have no more of a monolithic lifestyle or culture than heterosexuals do. I wish Justin had been much clearer about this.

Overall, I found Torn an important contribution to the gay Christian memoir genre, not only because of its content but also because its author represents a new cohort of young and fully-engaged evangelicals. Like older memoirists Mel White and John J. McNeill, Justin patiently tells his own story while sharing some basic realities that the Church needs to accept in order to be more effective. His most likely audiences are the wider evangelical community that he calls home and the LGBT people, friends, and allies that are part of the Gay Christian Network and its sister alliance-advocacy groups across denominations.[8]

Ultimately, bridge-building doesn’t have to mean that two populations travel more to The Other Place. It only means that anyone who wants to travel across can. While I question Justin’s skill in engaging non-evangelical Christians based on how he described some of them in the book, I understand that some people are better at working out differences in person than on paper. These are yet early days in the US Church’s bridge-building movement and each community involved needs people who can address it in language they understand. Justin is one such person and I support him in his work.

Keisha McKenzie, PhD, lives in Maryland and supports public sector organizations, non-profits, and educators in and beyond Washington, D.C. She studied technical communication and rhetoric at Texas Tech University, consults in communication and nonprofit development, and can be found at mackenzian.com discussing leadership, education, philanthropy, social justice, technology, the arts, and the Three Taboos: politics, religion, and sexuality.

[1] Compare this to Ta-Nehisi Coatesí reflection, “The Good, Racist People” (2013). Coates wrote: “In modern America we believe racism to be the property of the uniquely villainous and morally deformed, the ideology of trolls, gorgons and orcs. We believe this even when we are actually being racist.” Similarly foggy thinking hovers over prejudice and discrimination against gender and sexual minorities.
[2] Versions of the Anti-Homosexuality Bill circulated in 2009 and 2010. While threatening LGBT-supportive people and groups in and out of Uganda, the bill created a new crime called “aggravated homosexuality” (sex involving an HIV-positive partner, pedophilia, incest, and “serial [homosexual] offenders” in consensual relationships).
[3] Kapya Kaoma, The U.S. Christian Right and the Attack on Gays in Africa, 2009. Also Jeffrey Gettleman, Americanís Role Seen in Uganda Anti-Gay Push, 2010.
[4]†Torn, pp. 137-139.
[5]†Torn, pp. 144-146.
[6]†Torn, p. 157.
[7]†Torn, pp. 149-151; 158-164.
[8] I think especially of faith-based groups like Seventh-day Adventist Kinship International, Affirmation, Dignity, Integrity, and the Believe Out Loud community. (I work with SDA Kinship.)

Chris Stedman is gay. If that proves an uncomfortable introduction, the rest of Faitheist: How an Atheist Found Common Ground with the Religious will continue to unsettle you.

The first four chapters are spent introducing and grounding Stedman in plum evangelical youth culture, with memorable and detailed accounts of altar calls, Bible studies, hushed prayers with friends at school, complete with religious paraphernalia, clothing, and reductionist bumper sticker-theology. But rather than stay there and perhaps explain why he rejected the faith of his childhood for an educated and “liberated” atheism, he begins to tell a different story. Slowly, he begins to introduce what it means to realize you have same-sex attraction in evangelical culture. He tells about his first tentative “dates” with boys, his crushes on television swimsuit models and Justin Timberlake, and his first breakup. Underneath the tension of sin and shame is still another story – how he realized, again ever so slowly, that he had given up on God.

What struck me the most was how relatable Stedman’s experiences are to me, as a straight evangelical. The fear of his “sin” being exposed, the musical interests, the life-long desire for community, frustration with the things done in God’s name, and the lingering resentment of a God who rarely – if ever – shows up. Like a modern Holden Caulfield, Stedman chronicles his journey through evangelical culture, disillusionment and disenchantment, college, first loves, and the screw-ups of the early twenties. But unlike The Catcher in the Rye, Stedman possesses the requisite maturity to make meaning of the chaos. He went to college to study religion, trying to make sense of it all – his life as a gay man, the faith of his childhood, and the irreconcilable incongruency between the two. He find himself working in an assisted-living home, reading the “Lutheran Prayer for Courage” at the request Marvin, a developmentally disabled resident.

I realized that though I couldn’t decipher why the prayer was so important to him, it was. It touched him in a profound way. And because I shared in this significant element of his life, our relationship was more honest and real… I realized that a relationship that didn’t account for this important piece of Marvin’s life was an incomplete one.

Stedman goes on to have an epiphany of sorts. Even though he no longer believes in God, or any god for that matter, he sees the value in helping people – even people who do not believe the way that he does. He decides to devote himself to interfaith engagement, inspired by a copy of Eboo Patel’s Acts of Faith, concluding that,

I wanted to learn from my mistakes and take concrete action to bridge the vast divide between religious communities and the nonreligious. The anger I felt after years of struggling with Christian theology and my sexual orientation transformed into something deeper, richer, and more complex: a combination of humility and empathy, a stance of conviction, curiosity, and compassion.

You’re an atheist who works in interfaith dialogue. How is that even possible?

It started when I was in seminary in Chicago, under the umbrella of the Univ. of Chicago in Meadville and interning at Interfaith Youth Corp – which equips you to do interfaith dialogue on their campus. I worked there as a content developer and adjunct trainer. At the time, I was doing my masters, I was looking at the role of narrative and storytelling in interfaith dialogue, and I noticed there was an absence of humanist and atheist communities at interfaith dialogue. There are many people who are already involved getting connected through their respective faith communities, but the language of interfaith dialogue doesn’t inspire people to get involved. I wondered if there was also a channel for interfaith dialogue for the non-religious. Along the way, the humanist chaplain at Harvard and I started a dialogue to discuss reaching out to religious communities to engage in creating civic ties between religious and non-religious, to challenge the stigma on both sides. Out of that, I was inspired to create “Values in Action” at Harvard.

My responsibilities involve community dialogue and functioning as a community organizer to organize programs. Practically, I have open chaplain office hours for people to talk to someone in a pastoral role, from a secular humanist perspective.

What does that mean for someone like you who would seem, at first glance, to be “outside the circle” of religion to have a seat at the table?

My masters degree was in pastoral counseling, so I’m interested in bringing nonreligious people to make meaning and have life-giving community for identity.

Robert Putnam and David Campbell in their book, American Grace, for example found that religious Americans give more money than the non-religious in society, to charities and non-profits, so there exists this correlation between faith and civil engagement which relates to how involved people are with their faith community. I was convinced that there was some way to connect the faith and non-religious communities, some way to engage both religious and non-religious a compassionate conversation with each other.

You said that you have office hours, where you meet with people in a pastoral role. What does that look like?

Yeah, I get this question a lot. There are 40 chaplains at Harvard from different worldviews, so it is important for nonreligious students to have equal access to resources. But more than that, I’m a halfway point between doing nothing and having a counseling relationship – so crisis intervention. I’ve had a lot of students come to me looking for someone to talk to without the commitment of a long-term counseling relationship.

Many people want a humanist perspective, but more than that I’m able to speak to people who are looking for someone to listen and not try to direct them to a therapeutic diagnosis. I’m able to share from my own experiences, as I deem appropriate, as someone who can understand, and as someone who they can have an experience with through a community service project or interfaith dialogue.

It’s a different kind of relationship than counseling. I try to make it about what they are working through. Sometimes, a person who believes in God will come and talk to me, and I’m able to help them move towards wholeness, happiness and health – whatever that means for them, no matter their religious concerns.

In the book, there is this really touching moment where you talk about the importance of your mother trying to find a spiritual leader to help you when you were younger. Can you speak to what that was like?

That was a pivotal moment that sent my life in a different direction. I am no longer a Christian or involved in that community any more – that is, while I certainly don’t believe in the metaphysical claims of Christians, I’m still engaged with people who are. But, at that time, had someone suggested I not be a Christian, it wouldn’t have connected.

I can definitely see that. You spent the first four chapters really establishing what it was like to be involved in evangelical culture, speaking at youth events and such.

Right, well, what I needed at that time were people who could provide a different perspective on human sexuality. The fact that my mom knew what I needed and could find it for me was an act of love. I’m grateful for what she did, and I still work with people who are looking to create an open dialogue about human sexuality.

What I hope my story can do is to humanize that feeling—utter rejection from your community and the journey of finding a new community that could hold and embrace me in the fullness of who I was.

Looking back, was there something that you needed when you were younger which you are trying to provide the LGBTQ community today?

One thing that I was missing at that point was the ability to move forward. The only narrative that I heard – that I could not be the person I was – kept me from moving forward. Today, there are so many narratives, but back then, I couldn’t envision that kind of life for myself.

If I am able to help people come to terms with their own life, I would be very grateful because if I had heard that story when I was younger, it would have helped me. Thankfully, I had my mother who could find that for me and find resources for me to grow.

Coming back to interfaith dialogue, so much of your book is about the importance of dialogue, of really appreciating those who hold different beliefs. What are some of the great challenges for you, listening to other faiths as an atheist, and what do you see in those engagements that makes you happy and gives you hope?

I think that some people enter interfaith dialogue with neutral language, where they don’t talk about differences but only surface-level agreements. That’s not what I’m interested in or inspired by, even though it serves an important function. People need to be able to listen with a compassionate ear to what those differences are. That can be challenging and risky. It’s often very challenging for me to enter into dialogue with people that I fundamentally disagree with. But to sit at a table and listen to each other’s differences and it not be like television’s talking head is important.

At the grassroots level, people can hear each other and see the overlap. It’s still an emerging field with a lot of research to be done but you can see the changes taking place in society when it comes to marriage and same-sex relationships. Interfaith communities can provide exposure to these differences, can humanize the diversity, to help people see that even if they have few things in common or few shared core beliefs, they are humans who have experienced similar things – things like going to school, growing up, having people you care about. If you’re able to see the humanity in people that you previously only saw by way of their label – whether Christian or lesbian or Muslim or atheist – that is an opportunity to confront those challenges and move forward together on those things.

I guess that’s where I draw inspiration from, seeing it happen in a person’s face, the “aha” moment, where they realize this person that they sidelined and put in a box is someone they can connect with. That realization leads to social change worth advancing. That is something hopeful to me. We encounter religious diversity but we are ignorant of our differences and these are causes for polarization. It’s a transformation that inspires me to see that diversity is possible and can result in some important social change. 

As a gay man, do you see the LGBTQ community as another pocket of faith (ex: Catholics, Bahai, LGBTQ, etc) or are you trying to help leaders recognize how to help those who are already among them (ex: twenty-somethings, divorcees, doubters, etc)? 

It’s not an either/or, it’s a both/and. There is a growing recognition that LGBTQs who are active in faith communities have unique needs. They have experiences that non-LGBTQ people share, but how those experiences occur can be very different . In a sense, they need to learn to engage in those spaces that are difficult to identify. Their distinct identity is like a Venn diagram, there will be overlaps even though there are unique differences.

But yes, there are times and places where the LGBTQ community operate as their own faith community in ways that, historically, faith communities have difficulty engaging with. I’m an LGBTQ atheist, but I’m also a former Christian who was open for a number of years. I recognize those differences and lived through them. It’s going to be different depending on your community, faith, engagement level, and how much they relate to LGBTQ.

What drives you? Why is the thing you’ve devoted yourself to and what wakes you up each morning, inspires you, gives you strength?

I think that what drives me is the work that I’m doing – to see change take place. It’s really difficult to engage these conversations in a public way, particularly as a queer atheist which puts me in a position of not being warmly received – including among atheists who feel that atheists should not engage in this kind of work.

For me, even in the challenging moments, I almost never question what it is that I’m doing in the sense that I feel renewed every day in my sense of this is important work for me and that I find personally fulfilling. I get to meet all kinds of people from different backgrounds and I’m learning new things, being challenged, reaching deep down and find more compassion for people. I couldn’t be satisfied if I weren’t doing what I could to help other people. In some ways, the work I am doing comes from a serious optimism. It comes from a place that believes people can rise to the occasion, that people can care about others as much as themselves. It comes from a place of optimism and a restlessness with the way things are. I wake up each day with Facebook and Twitter and the news, realizing that people are often cruel and don’t listen, but that dissatisfaction drives me to do what I can to make the world a more compassionate place. Those are the two things  – my optimism from all the change I’ve seen in my work, and the real sense of dissatisfaction that the world is not what I’d like to see. As an athetist, I don’t believe that anyone will intervene. No one is coming to save us. So, I feel a sense of urgency to make the world better, the world I am currently in, and I want to do what I can with what I have.

Randall Frederick is editor of The SEMI magazine in Pasadena. He is currently getting his second M.A. in Theology and the Arts at Fuller Theological Seminary.

Rob Bell is in a new place with a new book. What We Talk about When We Talk about God is his first publication since leaving Mars Hill, the off-beat mega church near Grand Rapids, MI, that he founded in 1999. Bell is now writing, teaching, surfing and working on media projects in Southern California.

Despite these changes, people who are aware of Bell’s earlier material—books, speaking tours and Nooma DVDs—will find themselves in familiar surroundings within these newly printed pages. His signature cadence, humor and minimalism remain. Beyond these stylistic cues, major themes from previous works find new traction—the scientific wildness of Everything is Spiritual[i], the moral trajectory of The Gods Aren’t Angry[ii], the assumption from Velvet Elvis[iii] that all truth is God’s truth.

Readers of theology and philosophy will also find continuity with Bell’s established method of interacting with heady theology in subtle ways. Bell avoids the jargon of academia, and he rarely quotes the theologians he is wrestling with, but these thinkers are quite present just below the surface. From a communication perspective, this is one of Rob Bell’s greatest gifts. He guides readers over the difficult terrain of theodicy, epistemology and moral philosophy—all covered in this latest book—in ways that focus us on the important issues without the distraction of opening a theological dictionary. Bell demonstrates that wrestling with life’s most important questions does not require esoteric terminology. Only a certain type of reader can appreciate Peter Rollins’ style of writing in How (Not) To Speak of God, but anyone can understand Bell’s reference to Rollins as “my friend Pete” (95).

Moving from these initial observations to the heart of the book, Bell writes about vision, about seeing and knowing God. “This is a book about seeing, about becoming more and more alive and aware, orienting ourselves around the God who I believe is the ground of our being” (15). This book is neither a traditional Bible study on the character of God (though biblical material is used throughout) nor a treatise on the classical “proofs” for God’s existence. Rather, it is an exploration of what we find when we take a step back from these questions and consider broader themes of human history, moral development, pain and meaning, integration, progressive revelation and implications of resurrection. We find a God behind it all, bigger than it all, connecting it all, and therefore it all matters—“what our experiences of God do at the most primal level of consciousness is jolt us into the affirmation that whatever this is, it matters. This person, place, event, gesture, attitude, action, piece of art, parcel of land, heart, word, moment—it matters” (110).

This journey of seeing and knowing God proceeds by asking three questions: Do I believe God is with me always, throughout all of life’s experiences? Do I believe that God is really for me, that God is for everyone? Do I believe that God is truly ahead of me, calling me to participate in God’s beautiful kingdom of peace and community and beauty and compassion in ways that are in harmony with the long arc of justice?

These are troubling and probing questions with significant ramifications. The chapters devoted to each question left me wanting further exploration. This easily could have become a very long book (otherwise known as a seminary library). As covered in Drops Like Stars[iv], the artist must know what is essential and have the courage to strip away all else. Bell takes quite seriously this philosophy of art, leaving us to take his work further with our own conversations, journals and blogs.

Central to this quest to know God—to see God with, for and ahead of us—is the theme of integration. This notion is explored throughout the book in ways that made me feel like I was holding the Bible while watching Tom Shadyac’s documentary, I Am.[v] Reconciliation, interconnections, interdependence. We are on an amazing quest to holism—to realize and foster our deep connections with God, with each other, with our world, with all creation, and with the dimensions of our own being (e.g., our logic and intuition, our heads and hearts, our doubts and faith, our joy and suffering). Considering this list of couplets, am I open to the paradox of both in my search for truth and wholeness, to “both/and” ways of thinking as Chris Blake teaches?

Given this overview of the book’s major themes (and I admit to omitting many of the contours), there is one topic that will meet with quick resistance in some segments of the greater Christian community—the history of life on earth. Like many Christians, Rob Bell does not require young-earth creationism in order to value God’s work in history. I do not claim to know how exactly Bell understands issues of creation and evolution, but his ideas seem to be some form of theistic evolution. Naturally, this is a point of contention for those who argue for an entirely literal reading of the first two chapters of Genesis. For instance, in the video trailer for the book (below), Bell mentions that some people say we should throw away the entire Bible if we cannot take the first lines of poetry literally. This harkens back to the brick versus spring analogy used in Velvet Elvis. That is, if our doctrines are bricks, the entire wall can come crashing down if we remove one to examine it. However, if our beliefs are trampoline springs, they have freedom for flux as we experience them. I am not going to argue which metaphor is better, but it does seem appropriate to apply that earlier comparison to this present issue.

A range of authors have quite thoroughly covered the scientific and theological implications of this issue—why theistic evolution is compelling to some of us, and why it is seen as heresy by others of us—so I will not attempt to weigh in on that controversy. I simply note that the issue is lurking in these pages, knowing that readers with various understandings will view his assumptions and arguments with their own particular lens. In the end, I do not believe that Bell’s central questions and lines of reasoning are dependent on this one concern. That is, regardless of what one believes regarding how God brought the observed complexities of life into existence, the questions Bell asks are worth contemplating.

May we slow down, meditate deeply on the Word and on our experiences, listen intently, and be open to God’s ever-unfolding revelation of truth about Godself, about us, and about the universe God has placed us in. This matters.

If you’re looking for the key to Will Willimon’s new novel, Incorporation (Cascade, 2012), you can find it here:

More humiliating was his desperate need for this building. For twenty years he had deceived himself, telling himself and the world that Hope was nothing but a hulking millstone shackled to his neck. Tonight he knew it to be the other way around. Tonight he adored every neogothic, incongruous inch of this imposing temple–sunlight streaming through blue windows, the amplitude of the Great Hall, the substantial oak pulpit, the warm domestic intimacy of the Walter Rauschenbusch Lounge. Hope’s plumbing and circuitry, once derided as crumbling and decayed, now seemed immortal. Tonight nothing was eternal except that tower rising before him in the darkness. For ever and ever, amen.

If it reads as potentially over-the-top, then congratulate yourself for your insight. This whole story is ridiculous in the best, most honest way.

I haven’t been a part of a declining mainline church, but if Willimon has (and with his post as bishop in the United Methodist Church one would assume he’s seen plenty) then he ruthlessly lays it open for more posturing, gossipping, power-grabbing and self-righteous do-goodery than I could ever think of. Not that these same maladies don’t affect evangelical churches, but after having experienced other church-focused novels where the pastor in question pours his heart out to the Lord in intimate prayer, it’s quite a shock for senior managing pastor Dr. Simon Lupino to ignore a personal relationship with God and pour our his heart to the divorcee–or more importantly, to himself.

Some of my favorite parts included the several instances of Dr. Lupino’s sermon preparation. His intellectual struggle with the lectionary is Goldilocksian. Lupino is at his best avoiding the most challenging options while wringing the least objectionable/most inspiring out of what’s left. It’s hilarious, illuminating the struggle well-intending pastors face to keep the church going smoothly. Offended parishioners don’t tithe, and even the lectionary can be quite offensive to high-society apostles.

The staff is no help. Choirmaster Glumweltner and organist Grimball run their own fiefdoms. Johnson Quail is the hard-hearted executive pastor. Eleanor is the ignored children’s pastor, Cloe the put-upon executive assistant, Herb the retired pastor volunteer, Sam for building maintenance, and Stephen, the bewildered and awed youth pastor fresh from Princeton Seminary. Though no physical blood is ever drawn in staff meetings, the barbs and jabs around the conference table are sharp.

The church building is no help. Extravagant and old, everything threatens to explode or fall apart, from the pipes to the organ to the wiring. The expensive stain glass windows, depicting great humanists from history, mock Lupino in their achievement of Lupino’s dream: excellence. And then there is the dangerously sweltering organ chamber, waiting to trap those who dare enter.

Though human striving is exposed through the staff, members and church events, I appreciate most it’s relative lack of villainy–or maybe more accurately, its omnipresent villainy. Few characters are consciously doing evil, even if the mental and moral gymnastics to justify their innocence exhausts them. Everybody looks out for themselves–for survival if anything.

It’s the last point that hurts.I take this novel to be a humorous polemic, a silly prophetic parable to those who might get trapped by Hope’s mainline liberal materialist synergy of prestige and religion, but it’s kind of depressing to think that this behavior goes on in churches. Even if no member of any church or church staff had ever approached the mild level of selfishness demonstrated by these characters, something close had to have been experience by Willimon to write of these admittedly trite yet disappointing choices by people who should know better. All of us know–at least tangentially–of worse actions by church folk, but to be exposed to the inner-thoughts that go along with it makes me wonder if there’s any hope for Hope–or any of the other tens of thousands of churches in this country. How can we have a healthy church if everybody inside is sick?

And that’s why the book is a great read. Though it’s slow to get started and seemingly written on a college textbook level, it implores you to feel for these characters, for the church and for your own church staff.

Even as you cringe and pray, “There but for the grace of God…”

David Moore is Continuing Education Manager for the Lowell W. Berry Institute for Continuing Education in Ministry and Editor of The Burner (where this review first appeared) at Fuller Theological Seminary in Pasadena, California. He received his MA in Theology and the Arts from Fuller in 2009. Prior to coming to Fuller, David worked in development and alumni relations for the Texas Tech Wesley Foundation after graduating with a BA in Advertising from Texas Tech University. David lives in Pasadena with his wife, Leah Beth, and two sons, Joel and Silas.