On Writing Irreligious Books

One of my minor hobbies is ferreting out corners of the internet dedicated to people who want to think about the intersections between Christianity and art, and about how both the consumption and creation of good art are immeasurably beneficial to faith practice. Finding new iterations of this crossroad is always lovely and a little disorienting. Lovely, because these are things I dwell on a lot, and it’s nice to find other people doing the same. Disorienting, because there is a definite tendency in groups like this to focus on a very specific sort of creative as a model for the Good Christian Artist.

By which I mean, the sort of creative who makes explicitly Christian art.

Don’t get me wrong. I love some explicitly Christian art, by which I mean art that proclaims itself to be about Christianity, rather than discussing faith more obliquely (if at all). I have consumed many an inspirational romance in my time, and grew up haunting the church library (but I also haunted the public library and my school library–I am an equal opportunity library haunter). I was raised on CCM (contemporary Christian music, for those who aren’t In The Know) and spent countless hours on the school bus playing Steven Curtis Chapman and Jaci Velasquez on my CD walkman. The Christian Fantasist’s Holy Trinity (CS Lewis, JRR Tolkien, and Madeleine L’Engle) are the bedrock of my existence as a speculative fiction author–though one could make a case that their fiction work is only rendered explicitly Christian in light of their nonfiction writings.

But I also love a lot of art that very definitely does not fit the explicitly Christian framework. My current favorite fantasy series, The Lumatere Chronicles, couldn’t be considered allegorical, even if you squint. Virginia Woolf’s work helped me get through my teens and did more to impact my own literary voice than anything else. When it comes to television, I’m still off-base, as my favorite comfort watch is Star Trek in its many forms. No one would call music by Noah Gundersen or Ingrid Michaelson or Sleeping At Last explicitly Christian, either. And yet I find so much of goodness and truth in all of these things, despite the fact that they contain no stand-in figure for an omnipotent deity. No hands raised in the name of Jesus.

And then there’s me. A person who, as aforementioned, thinks a lot about the interplay of faith and art, and who makes art for a living, but who doesn’t do it in the manner of Good Christian Artists. I don’t write for a primarily Christian audience, or work for a religious imprint–I publish for the secular market. My books aren’t allegories–they don’t even mention any sort of higher power, much of the time. At the end of the day, though, there is this: I am a Christian, making art to the best of my ability. Does the way in which I choose to do so and the audience I choose to render my work accessible to preclude me from being a Good Christian Artist?

I hope not. I’ve never been much good at preaching to the choir. Or preaching to anyone, for that matter.

The conclusion I’ve come to is this: that as a Christian, you can create religious or irreligious art, but both can be done in faith. Religious art is the explicitly Christian kind–the sort that says “Yes, there is an answer to your questions, and this is it.” It’s instructional by nature–a signpost in the wilderness, a map that points to the road out, and tells you what you’ll find at the journey’s end.

Irreligious art, created in faith, doesn’t offer answers so clearly. Irreligious art is about comfort on the road. It’s not a signpost or a framework, but a friend along the way. A companion who says “I know you’re lost, but I think you ought to keep going. I believe there’s something beyond this, and that you haven’t yet fully become what you’re becoming. I trust you’ll get there in the end, though, and I’d like to walk beside you for awhile.” It is, in the literal sense, an act of encouragement. If a piece of irreligious art is truly Christian, the one who’s taken it in should feel a little stronger, a little more hopeful, a little more fit for the journey. They may not have been told what they’re looking for, or why, or how to find it, but they’ll know that the search itself and the act of struggling for transcendence are profoundly meaningful.

I’m not much of a mapmaker, myself. I still feel pretty lost most days, even if I’ve glimpsed the journey’s end. I’m not exactly sure how I’ll get there, and sometimes my faith in the outcome turns to doubt. But I’m a good walker. I can put one foot in front of the other and just keep going, in spite of doubt or darkness or moments of despair. So that’s what I bring to the table, as a Christian who makes art. Not a signpost, but a piece of my own stubborn soul. A companion for the journey–a fellow walker who may not be sure of the road, but who’s headed further up and further in, and wants to pass some time side by side.