Why I Don’t Use The Word Christian

Read the post before you burn me.

5:00 a.m. Friday morning of Storyline in rainy San Diego and I can’t sleep. Curled up in bed daydreaming of the day when I stand on stage to discuss my book. My story. The one I’m writing now.

The golden crowd takes my breath away. Then the q & a portion begins and my daydream takes a sudden left turn. A man in the back of my daydream room stands up and grabs the mic from the facilitator.

“How can you write this book and still call yourself a Christian?” His face is a mess of anger, disdain, and judgement.

In real life, I might hesitate. In real life, maybe I wouldn't be as bold. In real life, I sometimes falter.

This was a daydream. And words, true words, flowed from my soul.

“I’m so glad you asked me that question. The truth is,”

and I don’t hesitate. I say this statement calmly. Even though I know people may throw stones. They may string me up at the edge of the parking lot. That the distance of 400 years from witch burning doesn't seem far enough for the statement I’m getting ready to make.

I don’t use the word Christian. Maybe I don’t fit the firm lines and smooth edges that make up it’s outlines. Maybe it’s not strong enough phrasing for me. After reading my book, you know the truth. My heart may be too wild for that word.

I’d rather just tell you about Him.

He pursued me. Relentlessly.

And when I sat alone, grieving. In the parking lot facing the mountains. Arms wrapped around myself to hold the pieces together. And all I had left were the salty residues of tear stains on my soul.

He found me.

And on the worst day of my life. The day I found sisterhood with a hooker who had just been beaten up by a john. He used her voice to say, “You’re gonna make it girl. You’re gonna be alright.”

He came for me.

And when I walked away. Again. To learn to breathe on my own. And my heart was ripped from the center of my being. He held out his hand and said there was more sky and air then I could imagine if I would just keep walking.

He fought for me.

And when the arms of a stranger held my tear soaked face to their chest in a moment of absolute brokenness. He used their voice to sing over me grace and restoration.

He began to redeem my story.

Can you understand why I don’t use it?”

He pursued me. Relentlessly.


Maybe it works for you. And that’s okay. But for me. It isn't enough to tell you how far He continually goes capture my heart.