Christian: Do you even read, bro?

Some entirely unsolicited advice for Christians who would like to embark on a literary adventure in 2023, but aren’t sure where to start

In the ‘real world’, no one likes unsolicited advice. No one likes that person who always wants to let you in on some ‘productivity hack’ that’ll help you work out while boiling the kettle or brushing your teeth or whatever, or that guy at your gym who keeps explaining how you’re a ‘beta’ if you don’t invest in his totally legit crypto project (“seriously, bro—I’m HODLing this one hard”).

In the land of the Very Online, creators are wise to this fact, and have learned to conceal their hunger for sharing views that no one asked for by making what they have to say seem like a much-desired commodity. “Hi guys!” they’ll start, their eyes alight with an earnest desire to meet the needs of their insatiable followers, “so, many of you have been requesting this video / blog post / article for months, and I’ve finally got around to putting things together for you guys!”

But you never asked, did you? Nope.

This is not one of those posts. I have neither the follower count, nor the level of qualification to claim that any views I espouse are any more than spurious, feelings-based, unhealthily introspective ruminations. I do, however, deeply, profoundly, enthusiastically love literature, and love watching others love literature, which isn’t so much a qualification as it is a weird, annoying kind of calling—and recently, that calling has become ever more insistent.

Let me tell you why:

Anyone who follows this blog in any capacity will know that I’m a Christian (the heavily expositional Bible posts will, I expect, have been a bit of a giveaway)—and I have noticed a troubling trend in my community over the years. It started with my own Dad.

Growing up, it was my Dad who stoked the flames of my literary passion. He used to read to me every night, usually some kind of story set in a posh all-girls boarding school, and he would always pause dramatically in the right places, doing all the characters’ voices with impeccable precision. He read to me, I believe, for my benefit, to raise me to be a reader—but he, himself, was not quite so interested. I remember trying to get him to read Harry Potter, only to be told that it was ‘rather a waste of time’, and ‘not really for me, I’m afraid darling.’ When I read Pride and Prejudice for the first time, I bossily insisted that he ought to read it too, only to have him suggest we just watch the BBC adaptation together (which, to be fair, is superb—and I will not hear a word against it, mmkay?). I remember trying to encourage him to pick up some David Foster Wallace or Joseph Heller or J. D. Salinger, only to be told that he was too busy reading some theological tome, or book on apologetics, which he figured were far more useful to his service as elder of our church.

I accepted this at the time, but I always longed to be able to talk to him about the novels and poetry I had read, and what they had taught me about people, about history, and about, well, life.

Jane Austen, I think, felt much the same about the disdain for novels among men in particular, a frustration which inspired this magnificent line in Northanger Abbey defending the form:

“It is only a novel... or, in short, only some work in which the greatest powers of the mind are displayed, in which the most thorough knowledge of human nature, the happiest delineation of its varieties, the liveliest effusions of wit and humour, are conveyed to the world in the best-chosen language.”

(As a side note: Austen’s novels are still subject to the same kind of criticism she fought against, often pigeonholed as trivial ‘women’s stories’ by the ignorant and unimaginative).

The thing is, for one reason or another, people have always been ashamed of reading fiction, or anything that is not purely informational. This is not new. Perhaps you have received the message growing up that novels are a waste of time, and that you’d be better off with your noses in our science textbooks and history books where you can get a grasp on the Important Things. What use is a novel in the workplace, after all? Can you learn how to generate a pivot table from Oliver Twist, or how to fix someone’s plumbing from Pride and Prejudice? Since when did reading a story get you a promotion, or boost you up the corporate ladder?

So, naturally, every now and again, I encounter a fellow Christian who states, as a kind of boast, that they don’t read fiction. Or, I meet a Christian who, like my lovely Dad, feels their time would be better spent on something else. Usually, these types are more concerned with what they consider to be important books; books bristling with theology, tomes full of instruction and FACTS. Serious books for Serious Christians. Why use up valuable time on idle stories when you could be delving into great Christian works?

If the above describes you: Welcome! You are my Target Market, my Preferred Customer, my Ideal Reader.

Firstly, I’d like to acknowledge that people like you are really important to the church. You’re likely disciplined with your reading because, frankly, the kind of books you are reading already aren’t exactly easy-breezy beach reads. You probably care about the church very much, which is why you invest your time pouring over books trying to draw wisdom from the deepest wells of Christian thought out there. Perhaps, like my Dad, you are pastor or elder wanting to protect a vulnerable flock from spiritual attack. Maybe you’re a parent wanting to ensure you’re able to share your faith well with your kids, or at the school gate. Maybe you’re just an ordinary believer, blazing with passion to deepen your faith.

I see you.

Secondly, thanks for taking the time to read this blog. We both know that you are spending valuable reading time on me, taking a chance on my humble little blog when you could be feasting on Calvin, munching on Luther, or digesting St John of the Cross.¹ Seriously, thank you for your time.

If you’re still reading, I’m guessing there’s a good chance that you want to hear me out. I think you have your foot over the threshold already. I think you are interested in stories and literature. In fact, if you’re interested in the Bible, you’re already halfway there—as Richard Bauckham puts it:

“Too often we think of authority either in relation to commands or laws which we must obey or in relation to doctrines we must believe […] But the Bible is not primarily a book of timeless doctrines or a book of moral laws. It is primarily a story.”²

So, for my own pleasure, I will be openly and unapologetically throwing my literature-based views around like they’re going out of ruddy fashion, in the hopes that one or two of you might possibly inspired to pick up that dusty copy of Atonement that your sister got you for Christmas 2011, or that barely-cracked copy of Great Expectations you were supposed to read for GCSE English back in ’05, and venture beyond the first three sentences. Perhaps 2023 will be your ‘Year I Discovered That Fiction is Not, In Fact, a Waste of My Precious Time.’

So, this year, I’ll attempt to produce at least one post per month laying out a seasonal smorgasbord of literary morsels for you to feast on. I’ll try to include a variety of styles, periods, and forms—from Victorian novels to Modernist poetry to Dystopian fiction—so that you can work out what really gets your eyes moving across the page like a pinball. Perhaps you’ll find that Shakespeare’s comedies feel empty and kind of weird, but his tragedies give you levels of cathartic pleasure that both surprise and alarm you. Maybe Austen’s quippy, satirical style will leave you as cold as Mr Darcy’s dancing shoes, but Emily Bronte’s descriptions of blustery heaths and unfulfilled longings will leave you all a-flutter. Or maybe the dry land of Hardy’s verdant Wessex will leave you bored, and you’ll long for Melville’s salty-sea dog tale of white whales and incomprehensible prose (I mean, each to their own). Whatever ends up adoring your bedside table is up to you—no judgement here.

I’m confident I can convince you that novels, short stories, plays, and poetry are well worth your time.

Well, I’ll try, anyway.

1. You’d need a truckload of Rennies after that meal.

2. Bauckham, Richard, God and the Crisis of Freedom: Biblical and Contemporary Perspectives, (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox Press, 2002).