A Light So Lovely and art, And I quickly realized here was an Walking on Water. iconoclast: a Christian who spoke openly about Jesus yet was also a Newbery Medal winner, no less. I the gift Madeleine was to this mainline can’t overstate evangelical. I was raised in small towns by a Presbyterian minister-father and a mother who was a public-school math teacher. Sometime in my elementary years my parents expe- rienced a charismatic renewal that supercharged our faith. It made us curiously bilingual: we were mainliners, but we could speak with more conservative strands of “evangelical.” My engagement Christianity came through Christian concerts and camps and bookstores and radio stations; I wanted to Amy Grant. But be every day at 5:00 p.m., my parents would turn on National Public and that too was part of our All Things Considered, Radio’s Christian engagement with the world. Then I arrived at Wheaton, where I encountered a small but vocal subset of students who insisted that the of the “things world” and of were divided into strict binary categories. “the things God” And God only worked through the latter. Thus, we could only believe this that: only creation evolution, only faith or or or science, only fact fiction, only sacred secular, only or or conservative liberal, only Scripture nothing, only, only, only. or or For the first time in my life I was being told—continually, fervently, bluntly—what God do. can’t I was baffled. Was this the the good news? evangel, Enter Madeleine. Here was a Christian author who could function quite unperturbedly from inside paradox, who dared to question the assumption that all things must be either/or. Why can’t it be both/and? What is this nonsense about Why “secular”? God use those things if God wants to? Why can’t can’t
A Light So Lovely and art, Walking on Water. And I quickly realized here was an iconoclast: a Christian who spoke openly about Jesus yet was also a Newbery Medal winner, no less. I can’t overstate the gift Madeleine was to this mainline evangelical. I was raised in small towns by a Presbyterian minister-father and a mother who was a public-school math teacher. Sometime in my elementary years my parents expe- rienced a charismatic renewal that supercharged our faith. It made us curiously bilingual: we were mainliners, but we could speak “evangelical.” My engagement with more conservative strands of Christianity came through Christian concerts and camps and bookstores and radio stations; I wanted to be Amy Grant. But every day at 5:00 p.m., my parents would turn on National Public Radio’s All Things Considered, and that too was part of our Christian engagement with the world. Then I arrived at Wheaton, where I encountered a small but vocal subset of students who insisted that the “things of the world” and “the things of God” were divided into strict binary categories. And God only worked through the latter. Thus, we could only believe this or that: only creation or evolution, only faith or science, only fact or fiction, only sacred or secular, only conservative or liberal, only Scripture or nothing, only, only, only. For the first time in my life I was being told—continually, fervently, bluntly—what God can’t do. I was baffled. Was this the evangel, the good news? Enter Madeleine. Here was a Christian author who could function quite unperturbedly from inside paradox, who dared to question the assumption that all things must be either/or. Why can’t it be both/and? What is this nonsense about “secular”? Why can’t God use those things if God wants to? Why can’t