I'm a Christian, but probably not the kind you're thinking of.

Too often, Christianity is associated with judgmentalism, magical thinking, moralism, and stale traditions. My spirituality isn't about any of that.

It's not heaven-focused or sin-obsessed. I don't believe in simplistic, Santa-like versions of God, or the idea that anyone had to die for me to be whole.

My Christianity is about humility, not superiority. It's a call to love and serve, not judge. It's about compassion, kindness, and human dignity—a path of meaning, not magic.

I follow a Jesus who cared about people flourishing, especially the lowly and the marginalized, and creating a world based on love.

My style of Christianity prioritizes simplicity. Big-box churches, baroque cathedrals, rosaries, praise bands, cloying Marian devotion, charismatic gifts, and Latin Masses don't resonate. I also find the influence of Evangelical theology on Christian thought deeply troubling. The biblical idolatry, legalism, and fundamentalism it has unleashed are repugnant.

Instead, I strive for spiritual realism, focusing on love and simplicity. My touchstones are silence, meditation, love of neighbor, and simple rituals.

I’m a liminal Quaker.

The word liminal originates from the Latin word limen, meaning threshold. It refers to doorways and entrances, boundaries and blurred lines, and spaces in between.

The Irish concept of a thin place is similar. Thin places are entries and exits, blended spaces with spiritual meaning where one reality starts and another ends.

Like a shoreline between sand and sea, a liminal Quaker spiritual path is a space between traditional and nontraditional practices and thinking. It is a space between interpretations and traditional Quaker customs and stances.

This means I find meaning on Quaker shores, but with one foot in the sand of traditional practice and one foot in the waters of a Quakerism yet to be.

Liminal Quakerism embodies a spirituality on the edges of unprogrammed Quaker practice, embracing it while experimenting with simple innovations, symbols, rituals, and nuances.

It is a spirituality lived on the threshold, holding onto Quaker tradition, practice, values, and identity, yet existing on the periphery as a place of encounter and transformation.

My embrace of Quakerism often surprises my friends—and even myself—given its unexpected place in my life.

I choose Quakerism for its simplicity, humanism, tolerance, and radical mercy—qualities that transcend any minor qualms I may have.

I value the movement’s lasting commitment to Gospel values in their work for abolition, women’s rights, religious tolerance, workers’ rights, poverty relief, prison reform, and peace.

I value Quakerism’s open and dialogical theology, which makes it capable of engaging with today’s post-secular, post-Christian culture.

I value Quakerism because it is critically rooted in historic Western Christianity, without being limited by it, and also avoiding severity, harshness, rigidity, or narrowness.

In short, my liminal Quaker spirituality helps me make sense of the world and my place within it. Celtic Christian insights further deepen this understanding.

Spiritual maturity acknowledges that no denomination, community, or theology is without flaws. To demand perfection is to paralyze progress. The perfect should not be allowed to become the enemy of the good.

Quakerism isn’t perfect. But it also doesn’t claim to be. Yet it embraces much of the West’s cultural story: mysticism, love, scholarship, and social witness.

Simple Christianity defines my spiritual practice.

: I go to Mass, participating without pretense. I don’t challenge the church at my parish or claim to speak on its behalf. I go to pray, not protest.

I find meaning in the liturgy's rhythm, the passing of the liturgical seasons, the public reading of the gospel, and the Eucharist.

Beyond Mass, I engage with several ecumenical Christian groups, most of which are influenced by Celtic Christianity.

These communities enrich my spirituality with their practical mysticism and reverence for creation, a balance of prayer, work, and hospitality. They broaden my perspective, connecting me to a wider Christian perspective while grounding me in practices that resonate with my simple approach.

This blend sustains me, offering depth and meaning without requiring me to engage in theological conformity.

Who hasn’t encountered Catholics who presume to tell others exactly what the Church teaches and then require obedience to and conformity with such?

Such attitudes tend to be accompanied by efforts to exclude and harass those who don’t align with the perceived correct theology.

The problem with those who make up the theology police is that they are often fixated on limited explanations of mysteries. There is a fetishization of certain teachings, particular periods of the Church’s history, styles of worship, and manners of explication.

Reading a few magazine articles, watching EWTN, and occasionally picking up the Catechism does not a theologian make.

Exclusion, rejection, and a lack of charity are not a Christian response to those with whom we disagree.

I don’t begrudge anyone expressing their style of Christianity or Catholicism, but I resist anyone claiming their style to be required and attempting to thrust it onto others.

Those who position themselves as the enforcers of doctrinal purity would do well to revisit the gospels. In the narratives, their counterparts are not the beloved disciples but the Pharisees.

To be a Catholic is to freely and meaningfully immerse oneself in a rich tradition that encompasses the Church’s theology, rituals, practices, and community.

It is not a coerced obligation but a voluntary embrace of a living faith that invites personal and communal transformation. 

To be a Catholic demands a foundational attitude of trust and acceptance toward the Gospels and the Church’s teachings. This stance begins with a default disposition of assent—a willingness to accept the Church’s guidance—coupled with a genuine desire to deepen one’s understanding of its teachings and positions, as well as their rationale. 

However, this attitude should not be misconstrued as a legalistic demand for total intellectual or theological conformity. Authentic spirituality allows room for personal exploration, conviction, and dialogue with the tradition. Complete assent to every Catholic teaching is an unrealistic expectation due to the vast breadth and nuanced complexity of the Church’s tradition. 

While respect for Church teaching authority is essential, blind adherence to its pronouncements without personal reflection or critical analysis can hinder spiritual growth.

To counter this trend, it is crucial to cultivate intellectual curiosity and critical thinking within Catholic communities. This involves encouraging individuals to engage thoughtfully and prayerfully with scripture, tradition, and the Magisterium's teachings. It also requires fostering open dialogue, where diverse perspectives can be shared and debated respectfully.

Christian maturity requires the critical internalization of church teaching in a manner that does not compromise intellectual integrity. Therefore, genuine participation in Christianity does not allow for juvenile shortcuts, such as letting the Church think for you.

Mature participation requires critical evaluation, nuance, and individual internalization of Church teaching. If disagreement or questions arise, one does not need to leave the Church.

Catholicism can only transform and improve us if we allow it to, while also cultivating a critical manner of participation.

Moral legalism, often mistaken for fidelity to truth, distorts truth and love, undermining the essence of mercy and its distinction from relativism.

Legalism is defined as overemphasizing rules at the expense of context or compassion. It reduces moral truth to a sterile code and love to mere compliance.

Legalism is neither truth’s fullness nor love’s transformative power—it’s simply a hollow rigor. Mercy, by contrast, holds truth and love together, neither relativistically lax nor legalistically cruel. It judges sin but redeems sinners —a balance that legalism cannot strike.

Truth and love, thus inseparable, frame mercy as their synthesis. Truth without love ossifies; love without truth drifts. Together, they ensure that mercy upholds reality while extending grace —a balance that relativism cannot claim.

Mercy, then, is truth’s telos—its end and perfection. It neither bends reality nor bows to whim but crowns truth with grace, fulfilling its promise of life (John 10:10).

I invite you to explore the theology presented in the other navigation sections of this site.

I’m not claiming to be a spokesperson for the Church—just a fellow traveler sharing my reflections.

These ideas are still evolving, and I don’t claim to have all the answers.

You don’t need to agree with me; I hope we can find common ground, engage in dialogue with one another, and learn from each other.

I’d love for you to challenge or build upon these ideas. If something resonates or sparks a question, drop me a line—my email address is at the bottom of the site.

Join me in this ongoing conversation, and let’s see where these evolving ideas take us together.