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Guest Post by Sarah Bacaller
Writing can be a powerful tool for processing difficult experiences. For me, writing has always been an essential mode of self-expression; I can hear myself think on the page. Writing offers space for agency and exploration when conversation space feels constricted.
As I moved from young adulthood to early parenting, I found many of my long-held Christian beliefs about God, truth and the world beginning to shift. It was imperative for this movement to occur for the sake of my well-being. There were many ‘Christian’ ideas that were, for me personally, inextricably linked with relational mistreatment. These had become debilitating. But to find the frameworks of my existence shifting beneath me was rather terrifying.
As I gradually shifted from ‘crisis mode’ into a semblance of stability, I felt an overwhelming drive to consolidate my learning—and to share my journey. Ideas have ethical implications whether tacit or explicit, and the life-diminishing aspects of my previous beliefs were surfacing. But I faced a dilemma. Firstly, I had learned enough to know that ideas which are liberating for one person in one context are not necessarily so for another. Secondly, I didn’t want to burn bridges—I valued my relationships with friends, family and colleagues for whom my shifting ideas may have caused confusion or grief. I did not want to weaponize my experiences.
So, I turned back to the page. I wrote a novella: The Fault Lines Founding Liberty. To piece together the narrative was to piece my new self together. My interpretations of previous experiences shifted. Where I had previously looked for an ultimate foundation for existence, for absolute truth, I was now coming to realize that the fault lines of existence—the unknowns, the risks, the wagers of life—were essential to freedom.
My novella is about two women in very different stages of life. As an unexpected friendship unfolds after a serendipitous meeting, the experiences of the older woman begin to resonate with her younger friend, who is plagued with ongoing guilt and anxiety. The younger has ‘backslidden’ from an earlier, passionate faith. The older has left behind a faith that became debilitating. Both must face the tragedies of life and death, learning through companionship amidst uncertainty.
There are many advantages to exploring theological ideas through narrative. Good stories are enigmatic; they are invitational. And while readers may be tempted to equate a protagonist’s experiences with those of the author, the reality is never that simple. If someone reads Fault Lines hoping to find a clear statement of my beliefs, they won’t find one. They’ll find something more. And that leaves space for me (and readers) to change and grow in their own beliefs.
Fiction is not a new forum for theological exploration; in fact, the genre is something of a throwback to eighteenth and nineteenth century Western European literature. Back then, some authors—for example, the German scholar Frederich August Tholuck (1799–1877)—used the literary form as a mask for preachy dogma. The result was not endearing (the title of Tholuck’s work is, Guido and Julius; or, Sin and the Propitiator Exhibited in the True Consecration of the Sceptic). Tholuck’s work belongs within the emergence of a wider literary movement, the Bildungsroman or coming-of-age novel. This genre is often said to have begun with Goethe’s Wilhelm Meister’s Apprenticeship (1795–1796). As Enlightenment ideas, Romantic reactions, political ideologies and traditions of Christian belief tussled in a new age, fictional narratives became one field in which to experiment with new ideas.
And in nineteenth century Britain, women could write novels even if they could not become ‘professional’ theologians or philosophers—and they did so to great effect, using novels to explore deep theological and philosophical ideas. For example, Mary Augusta Ward’s Robert Elsmere (1888) was immensely popular and was partly styled on the British idealist and social activist, Thomas Hill Green. And George Eliot (Marian Evans) demonstrated infinite skill in her ability to write narratives in which philosophy, theology and the narratives of human life unfold in seamless harmony, as if from the same seed. This type of writing is quite different from the ‘Christian bookstore’ phenomenon where Christian ideas furnish a setting for a story but themselves remain unchallenged.
In a world where inflammatory polemic polarizes people and entrenches tired oppositions, we need good stories—stories that invite readers to think without being
confrontational or threatening. We need stories that compel us to learn and grow alongside characters who are bold enough to ask the questions that hover, ever-present, within us.
