Books from Books
In the process of writing The Gospel According to Doubters and Traitors, I took inspiration from other writers whose novels deal with big questions about God and humanity. I’d like to share those I returned to as I wrote my book.
The Chosen by Chaim Potok. Upon finishing this novel when I was eighteen, I handed it to my father. We both read it in less than a week. Like me, he loved the story about devout Jewish fathers and sons in Brooklyn. It made sense my father and I would resonate with the story—primary themes include what does it mean to become a man, and how does a father raise a son into a deep soul? It was surprising, however, that my father and I connected so easily with the book. We were Gentile Christians living in a small farming town in Central California at the end of the 20th century, far from the debates between Orthodox and Hasidic Jewish groups in New York in the 1940s as they wrestle with World War II, the Holocaust, Talmudic interpretation, and Zionsim. In The Chosen, the more specific Potok’s details, the more universal his book becomes.
Gilead, Home, Lila, and Jack by Marilynne Robinson. In Gilead, the first novel of the series, an aging minister writes long letters to his young son, to help him understand his family and the father who will not be there for most of his life. I read Gilead just after finishing seminary and Robinson’s handling of Christian theology surprised me. Her ability to weave together deep conversations about Karl Barth and John Calvin with a compelling family narrative is astounding. Like Potok, the more specific her character’s views, the more universal the story. John Ames’s theological explorations never remain in his head, but shape how he interacts with his family and congregation. Put another way, his theology has legs. The other three novels in the series follow people in Ames’s life, and while none of the characters may quote Barth, their questions about Christ and grace are every bit as rich.
Silence by Shusako Endo. Two Portuguese Jesuit priests arrive in 17th century Japan in search of their mentor who has gone missing and who is rumored to have apostatized. In this harrowing novel, Endo unflinchingly describes the persecution of “Hidden Christians” at the hands of the Japanese government. Is suffering mandatory for Christian faith and how does Christ meet one in the midst of it? How does one watch maintain their commitment to Christ while people they love suffer? How many times can one abandon Christ and return? Endo’s characters do not have time to sit with Bibles open on their laps and debate passages. They pray, serve, and probe the bounds of God’s mercy as they hide from oppression. One has the sense that Endo, a Japanese Catholic, wonders, how did my people—the Japanese—persecute my people—the Catholics?
The Power and the Glory by Graham Greene. Like Silence, Greene’s novel tells the story of a Catholic priest on the lam, except the authorities in question are the Radical Socialists running the state of Tabasco in 1930s Mexico. The priest has severe moral failings, carries doubts wherever he goes, but remains committed to minister to the people, at significant risk to himself and others. Greene shows the call of God fundamentally changes a person. The Spirit moves in mysterious ways, often through weak, flawed, sinful people.
The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoevsky. Perhaps the greatest novel about faith and doubt and family and, well, just about everything else it seems. Sprawling, long, with many characters and storylines—a complete murder mystery occupies a section of the book. Two characters sitting down and having a long conversation about evil and God can hold the reader’s attention as well as any battle in another book. Doestoevsky’s characters present some of the best arguments against God’s existence in literature, arguments that one cannot refute with words. Instead, slow, quiet, attentive ministry of presence offers the counterpoint against God’s nonexistence. The characters express their emotions in an over-the-top manner, but the larger case for active love is subtle. “One cannot prove anything here, but it is possible to be convinced.”
