Perhaps the most important stretch in my long journey to God involved searching for absolute truth. Does it exist? If so, how can I find it? 

Given the political situation in our country today--and actually, around the world--I thought this excerpt from my memoir would be particularly apropos. It's from chapter 13, "What is truth? Your guess is as good as mine," on pages 88-90. 

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When I was younger, “truth” was a personal concept meaning whatever made me happy; there were no absolutes of any kind.  For instance, when I was in my early 20s, my truth said that recreational drugs, alcohol, and tobacco were perfectly safe. That a good sex life and a high-flying career were every woman’s right. And that evolution had proven religion a crock, so let’s eat, drink and be merry, for one of these years we were all going to die!

Truth was, after all, completely subjective.

Not that I’d been born a relativist. I had once known certain things to be true – my Granny was the best, there were parts of the world where it never snowed, lying to Momma about sleeping over at Rosie’s so that we could sleep out in our back yard was very dumb, and starving children in China would be grateful for my rutabaga.
But somewhere along the line, I had fallen for the idea that your interpretation of truth was every bit as valid as mine.

How this happened, I’m not sure. It might have had something to do with studying Russian History at UWM and doing a term paper on the Soviet definition of “Pravda,” which apparently means “truth.” In the course of researching this subject, I learned that to the Communists, truth was anything that was good for the Communist Party. To write my paper, I had to get to the point where this definition made some sense to me; maybe the mental gymnastics this exercise required had impaired my ability to recognize objective truth.

Or maybe it was the fallout from an analysis I did, for another college paper, on the Big Three news magazines’ treatment of the Thomas Eagleton affair in the 1972 presidential campaign.

“I don’t know what’s true anymore,” I’d told a classmate I’ll call Ginny on the way out of class the day we turned our papers in.

“Because Nixon won after all?” she asked, remembering that my paper had had something to do with the McGovern campaign.

I shook my head. “Because I discovered that U.S. News & World Report is the most objective of the news magazines.”

“Ha!” Ginny laughed delightedly; she was the first conservative kid I’d ever known, and I hadn’t yet taken the Econ 101 class that would show me the error of my ways. U.S. News was her magazine of choice; Time was mine. “Let’s go get a drink and you can tell me all about it,” she added. 

We headed over to a dive on Oakland Avenue–one of my favorite bars, it featured a grungy atmosphere, largely disgusting clientele, and great prices.

“So tell me about it,” she said after we’d seated ourselves in a booth with our drinks–a Lite beer for me, a rum and coke for her.

“You remember Eagleton, don’t you? McGovern’s vice presidential candidate?”

She grinned and nodded. “I remember.”

“Right,” I said, wondering how someone I liked so much could have been on the wrong side in the McGovern/Nixon race. “So you remember when it came out that Eagleton had been treated for depression?”

“Yes – with electroshock, I think. Pretty scary that McGovern would choose someone with that kind of past as his running mate.”

“I don’t know about that,” I said. “But what was scary was that at first the news media were all over McGovern for saying he would stand by Eagleton – all of them, even Time and Newsweek. U.S. News, too, of course – that was to be expected.”

“McGovern was practically a Communist,” Ginny said in apparent defense of all three magazines.

“Separate issue,” I said evenly, saving that argument for another time. “My point is that when McGovern caved in to their pressure, and replaced Eagleton with Shriver, all of a sudden the press went nuts on him for dumping on the mentally ill! All of them, that is, except for U.S. News & World Report.”

“They stuck to their guns?”

“Yes,” I admitted, though it pained me to say so. “U.S. News said that McGovern had done the right thing.”

“Objective reporting is alive and well somewhere,” she said. “I’m glad to hear it.”

“Objective reporting?” What a funny thing to say. “Of course it’s alive and well. And it always will be. How can you doubt it?”

--Heaven Without Her, Harper Collins/Thomas Nelson, 2008, pages 88-90

If you’re a born-again Christian who takes Christ’s last command seriously, you’ve no doubt tried witnessing to atheists now and then.  These encounters are not for the faint of heart, are they? No matter how friendly you may be, and how hard you try to capture the unbeliever’s imagination, it’s all too often a lost cause—at least for the time being. Here’s what happened during one such encounter in my novel The Song of Sadie Sparrow, starring Bible teacher Jamie and nursing-home Activities assistant Meg, an intractable atheist. 
 
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Jamie sat at Lucy’s desk and started chatting about a lot of nothing, as far as Meg could tell. He told her that he’d seen some old Frank Lloyd Wright letters and drawings appraised for $75,000 on Antiques Roadshow and that his sister had just gotten herself a yellow lab puppy. He then asked her how the biographies were going.

Trying to show me you’re just a regular guy, Jamie? You are not, and you’re annoying me.
           
So tell me this,” Meg said, ignoring his question and smiling smugly. “Have you always been so perfectly self-righteous?”
           
He was shocked into speechlessness, she was pleased to see.
           
“Wow, Meg,” he said finally, looking into her eyes and no doubt finding hostility there. “I almost don’t know what to say.”

“Then—”
           
“No, wait. I said ‘almost.’ I’d really like to address this with you, because you have it all wrong.” He grinned at her ingratiatingly, then continued in spite of her refusal to return the smile. “Like any genuine Christian, I’m the antithesis of self-righteousness. That’s the whole point of being a Christian, in fact—we know that we’re not good people in our own right, and never will be, and that the only good thing about us is Christ living in our hearts.”
            
Oh, brother. Why’d I even go here?  
           
“I wish you wouldn’t smirk like that. It’s pretty rude.”
            
But it won’t shut you up, will it? 
           
“In fact, if you look at the subject honestly, you’ll find that it’s unbelievers who are self-righteous,” he said, emphasizing the word “self” and sitting up a little taller as he warmed to his subject. “I used to be like that. I thought I was a pretty good person, and that if there was a heaven, I’d get in by virtue of my good deeds.”
           
“You doubted there was a heaven?” Meg asked casually, genuinely curious but unwilling to show any great interest.
             
“I was an agnostic at best until I was almost thirty.” Jamie leaned back, hands behind his head. “I’d learned to party hard in college and didn’t quit after graduating. I sold trucking services—not the most exciting work, but it’s a super-competitive business and I did a lot of drugs in those days, uppers to get through the day and downers to get to sleep at night. Then on the weekends I’d drink to escape the pressure and to bury my anger.”
           
He really was beginning to sound like a regular fellow, Meg realized. She could identify with anger, anyway, and the need to bury it.
           
“I was, in fact, a very angry guy. Whenever anything went wrong, which of course is daily in the business world, I’d find someone to blame for it—my boss or a competitor or the waitress who’d blown my customer’s order the previous week. If I forgot to get a quote in, it was the secretary’s fault, never mine, because she should’ve reminded me. And I didn’t suffer in silence; I let people know they’d let me down. Finally lost my job because I had such a short fuse, and it was getting shorter by the day.”
           
“And all this time you thought you were a good person?”
           
He laughed. “Yeah, go figure.”
           
“So you turned to Jesus,” she said, “and you all lived happily ever after.”
           
“Not exactly.” Jamie flashed dimples Meg had never noticed before. “I’d gone into this dive of a bar on Bluemound Road one afternoon—it must’ve been a weekday, because I was the only customer—and was just starting to get quietly loaded when the bartender asked me if I wanted to talk about it. Turned out that he knew exactly what my problem was. ‘I used to be just like you,’ he said. And he told me all about his past, and it was like that old song about ‘singing my life with his song’—do you know it?”
           
“Yes, it was a Roberta Flack song. One of my favorites back in the day.”
           
He nodded. “That’s the one. So he claimed that he’d investigated the Bible on a dare with his brother, and found out that it was true. Challenged me to try it myself—said the science alone would astound me, but what did him in was prophecy. We talked about that a long time—as I think I mentioned, I was a history major in college, so I found his claims about prophecy pretty interesting.”
           
Meg didn’t know what he was talking about but didn’t want to get him going on that subject. She just nodded enough to show she was listening, not enough to indicate great interest.
           
“To make a long story short—and it was a long one, since I had a lot of time on my hands at that point—I took him up on his challenge, figuring I’d be able to prove him wrong fairly easily. But I failed. Instead, I found out that what he’d been claiming was the truth.” Jamie shook his head, as if he still had a hard time believing it. “To cut to the chase, I finally had to bow my heart to Jesus Christ as Creator and Savior and Redeemer and everything else these born-again types said He was. And at the same time, to address your original point, to acknowledge what a total loser I was, repent of all my rebellion against God, and make amends with the people I’d hurt.”
           
He finally fell silent, his expression deadly serious.
           
The wall clock said it was almost eleven, time for Meg to help bring residents back to their rooms for pre-lunch preparations. She cleared her throat.
           
Jamie didn’t seem to notice. “And the amazing thing is that everything started changing for me,” he went on. “Most notably, my anger vanished. Maybe it was a miracle, or maybe it’s just what happens when you quit making excuses for yourself and acknowledge that you’re a total jerk. It really humbles you.”
​

*  *  *  *  *  *  *
        
"It really humbles you,” Meg said mockingly on her way home that night. “Humble” was the hot new verb, it seemed, with every celebrity talking about how humbled he or she had been by the latest awards and accolades. But how could adoring fans possibly humble you?
           
They couldn’t. It’s just another lie.
         
Except that Jamie hadn’t been talking about cheers from the crowd. He’d been talking about realizing he was perhaps not quite as good a person as he’d thought he was.
           
Did that make this brand of humility the real deal?
         
​She flipped the radio on to an oldies station and joined Jim Croce in “Bad Bad Leroy Brown.” It wasn’t her favorite Croce song, but it was better than thinking that maybe this creepy Christian wasn’t such a bad guy after all.
           
--The Song of Sadie Sparrow, pages 264-268

 
My friend C. O. Wyler has released a sequel to her best-selling novel Untaken: 12 Hours Following the Rapture. If you’re interested in what happens after Jesus removes born-again believers from this fallen world, you’ll want to consider her highly entertaining thoughts on the subject.
 
Untaken, Too: 12 Days Following the Rapture picks up where Book One left off, with protagonist Sarah Colton lying injured at the foot of the stairs in her condo. She has broken some bones but her hostility toward the things of God is alive and well and on full display as her friends band together to help her move on with her life.
 
I won’t spoil the story by telling you what they do over the next twelve days. But I will say that their concerns are relatively mundane, given what we know has happened, and what will soon happen. Not that its plot is mundane; far from it. I suspect, however, that Wyler’s ideas in this regard are probably accurate—more so than some of the more frenetic and dramatic scenarios that other authors have imagined. 
 
In Untaken, Too, Wyler has retained the features I liked best about her original Untaken—in particular, Sarah’s sometimes insufferable first-person narration. She’s still a self-absorbed control freak, still a feminist atheist, still viewing everyone and everything around her through her own selfish heart. (And again I marvel that Wyler, who has been a Christian just about her entire adult life, was able to so accurately portray such a cold, secular psyche. Sarah definitely rings true for me. And I ought to know, having been a feminist atheist myself until my late 40s.)
 
In Untaken, Too, we learn some unpleasant new things about Sarah’s character. She’s an enthusiastic pioneer in Artificial Intelligence technology, for instance. She’s incredibly mercenary, willing to do the unthinkable for the sake of money. And she might also be a bit of a megalomaniac, convinced that what she’s doing for this money will contribute to the betterment of mankind for millennia to come.
 
(If this all sounds a little vague, I apologize. It’s not easy to write about these things without introducing spoilers into this review.)
 
Wyler has also done an interesting job of revealing her characters’ personalities through their speech: Sometimes their words are pretentious, sometimes uncaring, sometimes almost pompous or dogmatic. It’s an unusual—and brilliant, I think—application of the “show, don’t tell” rule of effective fiction writing.
 
And then there is some really engaging writing to be had in this novel. For example:
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• Wonderful images: “…I visualize him in a seedy back alley, trying to score some pot from shady men in oversized dark leather coats and carrying small black guns.”
• Surprising plays on familiar phrases: “When he leaves, I force myself to ignore the elephant in the drawer ...”
•  Clever ways of concisely working in current and soon-to-unfold events that should be alarming to these still-oblivious characters, but are not: “Jeremy has started breakfast, sticking to his usual routine of asking Alexa to list the top five news headlines of the day. She reports: ‘… A new strain of Disease X has been detected and is twenty times more contagious than COVID-19, plus it has a higher death rate …’”

Untaken, Too is a thoroughly Christian novel. As such, it includes a summary of God’s plan of eternal salvation at the end of the book, making it a potentially compelling evangelistic tool today—and, just as important, a persuasive leave-behind for those who are “untaken” when the Lord returns to fulfill 1 Thessalonians 4:13-18. 

You’ll find Untaken, Too in paperback and ebook formats at all the usual outlets, from Amazon to Barnes & Noble, as well as at select independent bookstores nationwide. Hope you’ll check it out soon!

I often think about the mind-blowing brilliance of the Bible, about how the Creator of the universe managed to explain, without error or contradiction, everything we need to know in this life. Those who feast on its 66 books, who trust and treasure and meditate on its content, will find the answers to every important question a human being can ask.  

That includes the questions that great philosophers throughout the ages have recognized as the most important of all: Where did we come from, what are we doing here, and where are we going?

And it includes the most profound questions that humans have been asking almost since the beginning of time – for instance, if God is good, why does He allow suffering? Why do the wicked prosper? How might I be saved for all eternity?

In fact, I have yet to think of an important question that the Bible does not address completely and authoritatively.

So here’s the kicker: It does all of this in under 800,000 words. That’s for King James; in its original super-efficient languages of ancient Hebrew and Greek, it uses just over 600,000 words.  

How does this compare to other popular books?

• Tolkien’s The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings trilogy weigh in at about 550,000 words; add Dostoyevsky’s Crime and Punishment to this short stack, and you’ll be ingesting roughly the same number of words used in an English Bible.
• It took Ayn Rand about 875,000 words to tell the stories of The Fountainhead and Atlas Shrugged – roughly 100,000 more words than God used, and the only question she really answers is “Who is John Galt?”
• For War and Peace and Anna Karenina, Leo Tolstoy needed 937,000 words to tell tragic tales of the 19th century Russian aristocracy.
• For lighter reading, many turn to combo’s like Margaret Mitchell’s 418,000-word Gone with the Wind and Larry McMurtry’s 366,000-word Lonesome Dove; together, their counts roughly equal the Bible’s.  

 
The trouble is, even if tales like these stick with you for some time, they’re pretty much empty calories. They provide very little in the way of the life-transforming wisdom that is standard biblical fare. 

But it’s still a free country, and we can each decide how to spend our literary calories. We can have a great time chowing down spiritual junk food. Or we can reach for the Lord’s far more nutritious revelation of “the mind of God, the state of man, the way of salvation, the doom of sinners, and the happiness of believers.” 

C'Mone Skye grew up on the mean streets of Chicago’s West Side, where she routinely witnessed sad, bloody and terrifying events. Here, she spent way too much time bearing the burden of her twin brother’s crimes. “Where’s Sloane?” friends would ask her. All too often, her answer was “He’s back in prison.” It seemed that by his teens, he had become trapped in the cycle known as recidivism.
 
Decades later, C'Mone was living in Milwaukee, 90 miles north of her hometown. It was during one of Sloane's rare periods of freedom that she got a call from a Chicago police officer. He was hunting for her twin, and this time the charge was serious enough to put him away for many years.
 
It was then that she set out on a quest for the truth: Why was Sloane repeatedly in jail? How could she help him make this incarceration his last? And what exactly did his problems have to do with her own?
 
One product of her quest is her new book A Prisoner's Pardon, which blends memoir, criticism, investigative research and the supernatural mystery of the Gospel. C'Mone looks at her family through the lenses of home, government, and church, three institutions that had always played significant roles in their lives. She discovers that she and Sloane were suffering from “twin sins.” And she finds the solution in the biblical story of Joseph, whose experience as a prisoner in Egypt unveiled legal and spiritual lessons pertinent to recidivism--not only for her family but for anyone trapped in its clutches.  
 
That solution? A prisoner’s pardon.
 
A retired energy-industry analyst, C'Mone is now a passionate advocate for prison reform—reform to transform the incarcerated from the inside out. She hosts the weekly Prisoner’s Pardon Podcast, in which she interviews experts on various strategies for ending recidivism—including ex-cons, police officers, correctional officers, and others involved in the criminal justice system.