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Both of these books are intriguing and well-written. Both are thought provoking. Both were written by young Christian men. Both are personal memoirs. Both struggle with the question of how to be not only a cultural Christian—one living mindlessly by the obligation of social custom within the Christian community—but a true one, and what exactly that means. Despite these similarities, the two books head along different trajectories and end up in very different places.
My Faith So Far recounts the author’s conversion to Christianity and the semi-deterioration of that conversion during his first two years of college. Dodd’s work is enjoyable but excruciatingly awkward. It’s chief virtue is the frankness with which Dodd exposes the skeletons in his spiritual closet. But it is haunted by a spirit of cynicism and doubt that is fully revealed by the book’s end.
In high school Dodd had been non-religious and wayward. He smoked pot, got drunk, made out with girl after girl, and generally got up to no good though never getting into any real trouble. Then a series of events leads him to commit himself to Christ and he enters college full of hunger for prayer, the Bible, Christian music, and church. I found myself envying the account of his early days as a Christian when he is full of enthusiasm, eager to study the Bible, constantly making exciting new discoveries, fully in love with God, and surrounded by like-minded friends. His dedication eventually motivates him to matriculate to Oral Roberts University where he expects to grow by leaps and bounds. But soon he begins to notice cracks in the face he thought was Christianity: difficult Bible passages, oddball Christians, and a supposedly miracle-wielding university president who has all the appearances of being a huckster. Soon, his enthusiasm and faith plummet as the edifice of cultural mores and theological assumptions it is built upon starts to crumble. The books ends there, with his faith still alive but gravely wounded.
It is an interesting read, but the question I am left with is, why did he write it? What did Dodd hope to offer the world in describing his experiment with faith? In some ways it was a dangerous book to write. It is more likely to promote doubt than faith. Those fringe Christians who find it sympathetic and comforting will probably not really be moved forward by it, either toward firm atheism or faith. It is highly critical of Oral Roberts University and says little that is complimentary of Christianity in general. Was he writing it by way of personal therapy, oblivious to its likely effect on others? Or did he think it would somehow aid others in their own quests of faith? Whatever his intent, Dodd has served mainly to muddy the waters and expose Christianity to further poorly-considered skepticism and faith-bashing.
It’s not that I think no one should question Christianity or dare to air out its dirty laundry. You only need read this blog to see that I’m not above either of those activities. The real problem is that Dodd attempts to attach cosmic significance to what is fundamentally a commonplace experience. Dodd’s wild love affair with Christianity is hardly unique in his or any prior generation. Young men having been falling madly in love with Christianity, along with many other things, and later having their dreams and assumptions crushed since time immemorial. That he believes his own experience of obsession and disillusionment worth telling is a mark of his postmodern culture, which holds every story as unique and valuable, celebrates plurality, and embraces confusion. Although there is a great deal of overtone in the book that hints at how the reader should interpret events, there is almost no abstract commentary. This too marks the book as postmodern, where stories are valuable but interpretations elusive and personal. I am sympathetic to many of the impulses of postmodernism, but here I think it has failed us. Dodd’s story is nothing more or less than the story of a young man’s mistake, a mistake that many young men (including me) have made and gotten over. Dodd seems not to have gotten over his mistake, which is a further mistake, and yet he ennobles his folly in a book.
Christian faith, properly considered and carefully founded on experience, reason, history, and Scripture, is nothing like fragile. It is steel-clad and potent, truly mountain-moving. Great men have done great things with that sort of faith for millennia; the world we now inhabit, particularly in the west, is substantially their creation. Faith is not so fickle a thing as young Christians--or older folks who have lost their faith--imagine. The trouble is that people call all sorts of things “faith,” and many of them are other by another name “arrogance.” The true faith that the Bible praises comes only through humility and patience: mainly humility, where it can be shaped by God rather than by the dreams and fears of the recipient.
What Dodd experienced was simply quick, young, fragile faith. He got thoroughly invested before he knew what he was investing in. His faith was formed rapidly, violently, with a great deal of heat and light but without real challenge or exposure to the realities of life. When it was exposed to reality it was shown to be brittle, and so crumbled. In a sense, Dodd in his two years of intense Christianity had not truly discovered faith in God. What he had discovered was faith in faith, and it was his faith in faith that failed him and shattered. Because he thinks he had true faith and it betrayed him, he thinks his story may be useful and important. In reality, he has—or had, as of the time of the events told in the book—never tried real faith, and he has little to contribute on this subject.
Older Christians and Christian leaders would benefit from reading My Faith So Far, not least because it is an enjoyable story, but also because it exposes one of the darker facets of postmodern Christian thinking—one that leads toward crippling skepticism and pluralism. New Christians and those of college age and younger would probably do better to avoid it. Everything the book has to offer you can be summed up here: Don’t mistake Christian emotion, enthusiasm, or friendship for truly knowing and loving God. Allow God to build up your faith at his own pace and in his own way. Let it be his project and he will not let it fail.
Under the Overpass is one of the most riveting books I have ever read. Not since Harry Potter have I found a book so difficult to put down: indeed, I read it in two long sittings. It is the true account of how the author and a friend undertook the project of becoming homeless and living among the down-and-out for almost half a year. They spent this time in five cities, spending about a month in each location before moving on. This progression provides the underlying structure for the book. The story is told in a series of vignettes, each centering on a particular person or event. Virtually all of the vignettes are concluded with a commentary, insight, or homily by the author. These commentaries are clearly designed to make the lessons and message of the book unmistakable. Most of them are wise and moving but some of them feel obligatory: the story would have been stronger without the moral having been made explicit. This, however, is the one fault I found with an otherwise outstanding book.
Yankoski brings you up close to the grime, stench, and suffering of the homeless. It’s a place I knew I needed to go even when I didn’t want to. I have always had an awkward mix of pity, repulsion, and curiosity about the homeless. How many of them are strung out on drugs? How many are insane? How many are dangerous? Should I give money to beggars? How can I effectively help the homeless? Yankoski’s book shines a lot of light on these questions both through his direct experience and personal reflection. Yankoski’s experience of God through those difficult days is also intriguing as he learns to lean on God to meet his needs and struggles to extend grace to the truly depraved.
The message I found most compelling was Yankoski’s warning to the church. He and his friend did encounter a few generous Christians during their time as homeless men, but many of the Christians they met were unhelpful or even hostile. Yankoski and his friend kept the habit of attending church each Sunday. After one service, a few men come over to them to talk and make sure everything is “OK.” Yankoski’s shoes are worn through; he has hurt his foot earlier that morning and a gash on his toe is still seeping blood. Without directly asking for help he makes his plight obvious to the churchmen, binding up his shoe with duct tape while they watch. Do they offer to help him get first aid for his foot or replace his worn shoes? They do not. They wish him well and send him on his way. This is typical of several experiences that Yankoski recalls with sadness and I read with shame.
If you’ve ever felt a hint of compassion for the homeless or wondered how you should help them, you can do no better than to read this book. Christians of any stripe, young and old, will both enjoy it and be challenged by its message.
It is interesting that Under the Overpass, while dealing primarily with action and service—Christianity lived outwards—ends up being far more profound and inwardly transforming than the navel-gazing, inwardly-oriented My Faith So Far. Under the Overpass is driven fundamentally by compassion. My Faith So Far is driven fundamentally by a kind of egotism. My Faith So Far burns out on its own self-obsession, while Under the Overpass soars to great heights of insight and encouragement even while groveling among the filth and despair of homeless America.
..posted at 6:41 PM
