Where are the literary Christian writers who aren’t overly cynical or overly sentimental? Where are the artful narratives born out of Christian belief?
The more I read The Thorny Grace of It, the more I thought about the failure of my grad school applications. I thought about my loveless, self-indulgent critiques. They had gotten me into an MFA program, sure, but they hadn’t helped my soul. I’d written pages criticizing my tribe, and I was still just as resentful; to call that sort of work “processing” would be a euphemism. But reading Doyle’s essays helped me heal. I bought more of his books and let them teach me. I didn’t want to romanticize my resentment and call it “art” or “important.” I wanted to work, like Doyle had, to wrestle laughter and love out of seemingly barren places.
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“This paragraph:
“Christianity is a house that needs cleaning, a house in which savagery and cowardice have thrived, where evil has a room with a view. But it is also a house where hope lives, and hope is the greatest of mercies, the most enduring of gifts, the most nutritious of foods. Hope is what we drink from the odd story of the carpenter’s odd son.” is why I have not left the faith. I get depressed hearing stories of abuse within the church and living day in and day out in communities that bicker and seem to only grasp 1/10 of the Gospel, but this is what brings me back.” View Highlight 2025-02-25 See also: faith
