I Am Not a Christian Writer

The reason why I first joined In Via as a freshman was because I wanted to embark on the path of being a “Christian writer.” To me, that meant becoming like C.S. Lewis – the celeb of Christian thought whose books line the bookshelves of countless pastors, including my father’s, and whose famed fiction series The Chronicles of Narnia has enchanted countless childhoods, including mine. As someone who committed her life to Jesus Christ at a young age and wanted to become a novelist since the second grade, it became my dream to see my two greatest loves become the vision and purpose of my life.

It was with the same desire that I signed up for The Veritas Institute 2023, which I attended in Washington D.C. this past June. The annual conference is put on by the Veritas Forum, which runs the network of student journals of which Emory In Via is a member, and trains students to use writing as a means to share Christian thought with the modern world. This again was my dream, but it is here that I learned my personal vision to become a “Christian writer” was not all that benign or God-inspired.

Also, sometime in the weeks before my trip, I felt compelled to pray to God and ask that He humble me through the experience. At the time, I imagined being blown away by the intelligence of my peers, which I undoubtedly was – not to mention their kindness and commitment to Christ – but God had some surprises for me, as I often find when I make such prayers.

On the first day of Veritas Institute, the theme of which was “Is there such a thing as the good life?”, we had a guided discussion about whether it was moral to pursue academics in the ivory tower when there were pressing physical needs all over the world. I shared to the group that I felt a need to make my writing “Christian” somehow because of guilt. For others, it seemed like college was an ordeal to overcome before getting a financially stable job, whereas I was getting an exciting – and in-person – college life on scholarship. Others were studying organic chemistry to become life-saving doctors and nurses, and here I was writing stories about princesses and ghosts.

My ability to consider creative writing as a potential career path was a privilege, not to mention my ability to pursue this goal at Emory. So I decided that my writing career had to serve a nobler purpose than just my enjoyment. And what could be more noble than evangelism? That must have been when the phrase, “Christian writer,” appealed to me. If I could write stories that helped others learn more about God, then my work would not be selfish or indulgent. In this way, I used my Christian faith as a false justification for pursuing the arts. And I did not realize it until I said it aloud to the group.

This newfound awareness was only the beginning of a change in my perspective. Months after the conference, I would take a closer look at one of the assigned readings for that night. “Learning in Wartime” is a sermon that C.S. Lewis gave to Oxford students at the onset of World War II. In it, he argues that academic work during a time of warfare is not frivolous, just as the life activities of Christians are not always dealing with the impending reality of heaven and hell.

Through this reading, I realized that I was imposing a fanciful amount of spiritual significance onto my writing where it was not appropriate. I saw myself as a bright-eyed writer hoping to use her artistic passion to serve the God she loves, but in love, God let me hear the voice of my heart: God, You are so lucky that You have a talented writer like me choosing to use her whole career for You when she can gain money and popularity by writing so many other things! Instead of being grateful and humbled by the creative passion, talent, and opportunity God gave me, I created a reason why He needed to give them. I thought, God would not bless me for no reason. He must need me to become a good writer so that I can serve His greater purpose!

Although my perspective was skewed by pride, it did not mean that my writing had no spiritual significance whatsoever. In “Learning in Wartime,” Lewis explains that God created the human hunger for knowledge and beauty for a reason, which means that pursuing such things for their own sake will still advance His vision. Lewis states, “Humility, no less than the appetite, encourages us to concentrate simply on the knowledge or the beauty, not too much concerning ourselves with their ultimate relevance to the vision of God. That relevance may not be intended for us but for our betters—for men who come after and find the spiritual significance of what we dug out in blind and humble obedience to our vocation.”

True humility means that I worry less about being a Christian writer and more about being a good one. I must pursue excellence in my writing, trusting that this work has value that I cannot see or create on my own. There is something inherently good about storytelling, and I can be confident that the pursuit of that goodness will inevitably lead me again to God.

Over the next few days, my peers and I attended sessions with industry professionals, professors, and writers for a mix of career talks, philosophy lectures, and writing workshops. In one philosophy lecture, we read John Milton’s poem, “When I consider how my light is spent.” Milton is a Christian poet who desired to write poetry for the Lord, but whose sudden blindness made that difficult to do. In the poem, the speaker describes his writing as “that one Talent which is death to hide,” then states that God “doth not need man’s work or his own gifts.” The professor leading the lecture then asked us, “Do you have a talent which is death to hide?”

I was struck. I never imagined living a life without writing, and the thought of it at that moment disturbed me to my core. Then I realized that the one talent I dreamed of using for God might have become an idol I placed above Him.

For years, writing was a haven where I could escape into my imagination during times of loneliness. It is strange to realize how often I have intermingled these two sentences in my mind: “It was God who saved me from my depression” and “Writing is the only thing that got me through those times.” Subconsciously, I thought the two played similar enough roles in my life to be interchangeable, as both provided a quiet place where I felt understood. I was wrong.

Writing has helped me, and it continues to bring me happiness. But I cannot save myself with an activity that I do. It is only when I cried out to God in prayer that He gave me victory over depression. While it is true that writing feels similar to praying – a reaching out, a reaching within – it does not compare to the God who actually hears my prayers and answers me.

Through God’s promptings and my reflections, the quiet convictions and thought-provoking moments at The Veritas Institute have grown into a new outlook on my artistic passion. My greatest identity is not as a writer – nor as a Christian writer – but as a child of God who has been bought with the blood of Jesus Christ. If I do not learn to accept the latter as the identity I am most proud of, then I will be exchanging the living God who saved me for a wooden statue I made with my own hands.

By teaching me to surrender my writing to Him, I believe God is allowing me to receive it again as the gift it was always meant to be.