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 comfortable in ecumenical settings and believe that we all must imagine new forms of empowering Christian communities that are organic, authentic, and not institutional.

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 standard customs and stances.

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

I engage from the margins. I don’t pretend to speak for other Quakers.

“Experiment with Light" is a structured Quaker practice based on early Friends' experiences, developed by Rex Ambler.

It's a series of guided meditations focused on connecting with one's inner light and sense of spirituality.

The practice involves stages of "Mind the Light," "Open your heart," "Wait in the Light," and "Submit". It's used both individually and in group settings, often in "Light Groups". 

I’ve engaged in my own Experiments With Light, shaping my manner and style of Quakerism. I practice a Quaker spirituality that includes the addition of the following aspects:

• Simple Rituals - lighting a candle to welcome the sabbath, integrating forms of written prayer and reflection, and engaging with others in a simple Eucharist in the Manner of Friends.

• Celebrating the Seasons - my Celtic influences have instilled an appreciation of the sacramentality of nature and the unfolding of the seasons. I find meaning in nature’s rhythms and cycles. I celebrate the Celtic festivals as well as observing Lent, Easter, Advent, and Christmas.

• Ideas and Discussions - I enjoy gathering people together to discuss ideas and spirituality. Despite the Quaker aversion to systematic forms of theology, I find benefit in reading and writing it.

My Quakerism is unprogrammed, rooted in silence and simplicity.

Despite the Quaker aversion to theoretical and systematic theology, I enjoy and find meaning in academic theology, both reading it and writing it.

The following areas have long been held interests and significant influences on my spirituality and Quaker thinking:

Christian Personalism, particularly through the lens of Gabriel Marcel, John Paul II, John F. Crosby, and Christian Smith, underscores the dignity and inherent value of each person and calls for that dignity to always be affirmed. Personalism resonates with the Quaker conviction that there is that of God in each person.

Historical Jesus Scholarship enriches my understanding of Jesus’ life and teachings. Scholars like John Dominic Crossan, John P. Meier, and Stephen Patterson provide historical context, grounding my theology in the real, human Jesus, whose ministry shapes my commitment to compassion, mercy, and justice.

Celtic Christianity has shaped my spirituality, and I share the Celtic sense of sacramentality in nature and simple rituals. I also value hospitality and availability, two strong Celtic values. Simplicity and silence are core aspects of both Celtic and Quaker spirituality.

Ecumenical, Post-Denominational Ecclesiology broadens my vision of Christian community beyond denominational and institutional boundaries.

Who hasn’t encountered Christians who presume to tell others exactly what true Christianity 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 or set of practices.

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, thinkers, particular periods of church history, styles of worship, and manners of explication.

Reading a few magazine articles and occasionally picking up the Bible or a theology book does not make one a theologian.

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 spirituality, 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 religious and spiritual purity would do well to revisit the gospels. In the narratives, their counterparts are not the beloved disciples but the Pharisees.

Moral legalism, often mistaken for fidelity to truth, distorts truth and love.

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.

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.

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