"You are not required to agree with everything you read. That is submission. But laughing at it and trying to understand something you do not concur with is called being sophisticated."  –Greg Proops

Growing up, my English and history teachers were big on differentiating fact from opinion. Facts were irrefutable; opinions were up for discussion. The key to any debate, any essay, was presenting enough factual support for your opinions that your audience couldn't help but see things your way. My college religion professors added an extra layer to this by differentiating between Truth (big "T") and truth (little "t"), the former being a sort of cosmic fact and the latter being a kind of mortal opinion. To use a religious example, Truth is whether or not God actually exists, fact is whatever evidence we have on the subject, truth is whether we think God exists based on the facts, and opinion is whether ketchup belongs on mashed potatoes.

Society, in my experience, has gotten really good at arguing over ketchup like it's evidence for God.

What I mean is that fact and truth have largely fallen out of the conversation when it comes time to express feelings and pass judgment. I think of the posts I've seen on Facebook that discredit an entire belief system or group of people with a single scathing photo caption. It's the social media equivalent of a drive-by shooting; who's going to come limping after you when you've reduced their complex identity and well-founded beliefs to a punchline? And so we passively exchange potshots until the cleverer caption writer prevails, catching countless friends in the crossfire who were just popping in to post baby pictures.

I also think of the political debates I've seen in recent years, particularly this year's first Republican primary debate. I'm registered Independent; I'll listen to anyone who's got the chutzpah to run for President, but I confess that I had a hard time tolerating so much rhetoric and pageantry. The sheer number of participants on the stage transformed the debate into a zoo, leaving only enough time for each speaker to trumpet a few buzzwords before another elephant trampled over their response. The few people who made any effort to explain the facts and personal truths behind their opinions were the ones who held my attention, and whether or not I agreed with them, they were the ones I respected most.

My wife and I feel the same way about the Food Network shows we watch, such as Cutthroat Kitchen and Chopped, where contestants are judged by professional chefs and food critics on the meals they're forced to make within certain parameters. We cheer whenever chef and restaurateur Jet Tila shows up as a judge, because he's articulate in his feedback and consistent in the criteria he uses to render a verdict. In other words, he backs up his opinions with facts, and his explanations hint at a set of personal truths about cooking and competing that clearly inform his opinions.

This is why my wife and I became so disenchanted with Ramsay's Best Restaurant as the series went on. Sixteen of London's best-rated restaurants, representing eight different cuisines, competing head-to-head in a series of challenges that tested their mettle in circumstances both ordinary and extraordinary. The show started off well, showcasing the personalities of the people involved and highlighting the best and worst of their performance, but either the show's editor or celebrity chef Gordon Ramsay himself seemed intent on renaming the show Ramsay's Arbitrarily Best Restaurant.

Nevermind that any sense of fairness went out the window when the participants stopped being treated equally in the semi-finals, or that the show became preoccupied with everything the restaurants did wrong; Ramsay had consistently criticized one restaurant for trying too hard, then gave them the title of Best Restaurant because they tried so hard. Meanwhile, the other restaurant, which had performed spectacularly in almost every challenge, was deprived of the award with no explanation other than that they had "too much heart."

My wife and I were appalled. Yes, we had wanted the other restaurant to win, but the verdict, as far as we could tell, was completely unfounded. But Ramsay's opinion carries a lot of weight in the culinary world, so this flaky opinion that the one restaurant is better than the other might as well be Truth. Not that any of the previous verdicts were defended like a graduate thesis, mind you; Ramsay's descriptions of the food he sampled were typically limited to "delicious" and a few similarly subjective terms, and every vaguely explained decision was invariably "one of the toughest decisions I've ever had to make."

Opinions themselves aren't destructive; it's the way they're used and presented. "Your favorite movie sucks" is not the same as "I'm not a fan of romantic comedies to begin with, but I really don't get any sense of chemistry between Carrot Top and Judi Dench." And "this is the best restaurant in Britain" is not the same as "Gordon Ramsay, through a televised competition of unclear standards and dubious execution, determined that this is the best restaurant in Britain." Let's be clear where we're coming from when we talk, and let's examine the facts before we call people out on their opinions. Let's be sophisticated.

I was an avid reader when I was younger—I had a fifth-grade reading level in first grade, as I recall, and I grew up with a mother who was only ever seen without a book in hand when gardening, cooking, or giving me a hug—but middle school gradually changed reading from a pleasure activity into a draining, focus-intensive task. Video games filled the leisure void where reading used to be, and it wasn't until I was tapped to play Gilderoy Lockhart at the local library's midnight release of the latest Harry Potter book that I got back into reading. Getting up to speed on the world I was about to enter was more fun than I anticipated, and I continued to devour the series well after my wizarding engagement had ended. In college, I managed to swing Religion as a second major with minimal extra strain on my schedule, and I discovered that reading for class could also be reading for pleasure if the course matter and literature selection aligned with my interests. It took years, but I'm reading again. Mostly just sci-fi, humor, and religion, with the occasional graphic novel, but reading is reading, right?

Some time ago, I was given a book by my long-suffering friend, who has a history of thoughtfully and carefully selecting gifts for me that I inevitably complain about when I finally get around to taking them off the shelf a few years later. While that sounds terrible (and it is), the bigger picture is that his gifts always get a strong response from me, positive or negative—it's a testament to how well he knows me that the best gifts are awesome, and the ones I complain about are video games that would have been awesome if it weren't for one or two major problems that aren't apparent until you're playing the game for yourself. Keeping things on the shelf for years isn't a sign of disrespect or a lack of interest; with an entire lifetime hopefully still ahead of me to pick things up off the shelf, I like to keep things in reserve until I'm in the right time and place to get the most out of them. Such was the case with this book—Gretchen Rubin's The Happiness Project—which reentered my life at exactly the right time.

Life circumstances were stressing me out, and equally importantly, I was recently disappointed by Michael Dorn's Time Blender and needed a new book that preferably wouldn't turn out to be only half a story because the first hundred pages were mostly drawn-out introduction for a sequel. I reasoned that good fiction hinges on too many variables, but nonfiction can get away with less if the topic is sufficiently educational and thought-provoking on its own. What nonfiction did I have on my shelf?

The Happiness Project: Or, Why I Spent a Year Trying to Sing in the Morning, Clean My Closets, Fight Right, Read Aristotle, and Generally Have More Fun had always looked like an interesting read, yet it kept slipping out of sight every time I went digging through my collection. I wouldn't be surprised if a little bit of divine intervention kept me distracted with other books the last several years; I wanted--needed—something to lift my spirits, and if something called The Happiness Project can't, then I'm moving to another universe.

In short, the book is the story of one woman's year-long effort to focus on improving her own happiness in various aspects of her life. The tales she relays about her own successes, the quotes she produces from famous thinkers, and the way she analyzes everything from energy to parenting to friendship have inspired me to reexamine my own situation, apply some of the techniques she's found beneficial, and consider a Happiness Project of my own. In fact, this post is part of a mini-project to write more often, because writing makes me happy. So as to have time to properly digest each chapter, I've only been reading one chapter every day or few days; it's been barely a week, and already I'm seeing a result from applying what I've read.

There's more I could say, but I'd like a little more time for my thoughts to simmer before launching into a full overview of the book (which I'm sure you can find elsewhere) and how it's been moving me to change my approach to my own happiness (which I'm sure I'll write about if I move forward with a formal Happiness Project in the future). The important part is that I'm happy to be reading, and reading is making me happy. For now, I'll leave it at that.

I have a difficult time accepting that someone is open-minded if their words about politics and religion are as uncompromising as what you'd hear from the people they call closed-minded. My wife and I recently went out to see a live performance by comedian Eddie Izzard—a British transvestite with a rambling, ridiculous stream-of-consciousness performance style—who has been one of our favorites for years. Despite his fondness for lipstick and occasionally inappropriate routines, I've seen him appeal to my most conservative and traditional friends as much as my most liberal friends. Izzard's ability to find the absurd amidst the mundane has always kept everyone laughing too hard to get hung up on any cultural or ideological differences; for the duration of the show, all of us are open-minded to good comedy.

Something changed for his Force Majeure tour, or perhaps I've become more sensitive to criticism of religion since making an honest effort to resume my faith journey last year. Religion has long been a part of Izzard's routines, but his bits about the Bible needing an editor and the Holy Ghost running around with a sheet over his head—sacrilegious as they may be—are (arguably) still funny to a person of faith because the humor isn't presented as an affront. Through silly scrutiny, Izzard invites the audience to see the world the way he does, and they don't have to agree with him to enjoy riding those trains of thought. Suddenly, he's peppering his jokes with "...because there is no God," as though the audience should already have boarded that train of thought. Without any real lead-in, he fires off a few clever zingers at the oft-derided Tea Party, takes a few unkind jabs at conservatives in general, and continues jabbing unapologetically off and on for the duration of the show, almost like he's got a chip on his shoulder. I can understand tailoring your performance to better suit your audience, but this felt less like playing to the crowd and more like letting frustrations from his personal life spill over into his act.

That's not to say the show wasn't funny. The performance was more consistently entertaining than a couple of the ones I've seen, I had some wonderful belly laughs, and my wife and I brought home some new favorite Eddie Izzard quotes. But that uncharacteristic emphasis on criticizing religion and politics—not simply making light of certain aspects of the subjects—had the same effect on the show that raspberry sauce has on a chocolate lava cake: some people might like it, but for me, it spoils the enjoyment and seeps into the heart of the experience even after you've scraped it off.

What bothers me most is how he seemed to associate intelligence and open-mindedness with atheism and liberalism. He expressed that we were clearly an educated, unbiased audience to have paid money to hear a foreign cross-dresser crack wise about such erudite subjects as Buddhist monks and European history. Then he proceeded to rag on conservatives and belief in the divine, even during the bits that had nothing to do with them, because he saw it got a reaction from the audience. So the implication was that we, the audience, appreciated liberal, atheist speech because we were intelligent and open-minded. Maybe I'm reading too far into this, but that's definitely how it came across to me.

I'll reiterate that I'm a political moderate (though largely apolitical) and a Christian who's had plenty of exposure to a wide variety of belief systems. Ignorance and pigheadedness are neither exclusive nor inherent to conservatives and believers. Rejecting conservatism doesn't make you open-minded; it makes you liberal. Rejecting faith doesn't make you intelligent; it makes you an atheist. It's how you go about reaching your conclusions that determines whether you're open-minded and intelligent. Can you be open-minded, intelligent, and openly opinionated? Sure. But it's hard to listen to you if your opinions come across as facts that need no support, especially if those opinions hurt or disappoint the intelligent, open-minded people who came to listen to you despite their differences.

When I think about adjectives I'd use to describe myself, I don't know if "happy" is one of them anymore. I think that's a natural part of life, though; it's not that I'm so depressed or angry that I can't be happy. I enjoy my work. I look forward to coming home and seeing my wife. I have a good time when I'm together with friends and family. I like writing and recording and reading and eating and all sorts of other activities. There are plenty of things that make me happy. But happiness, for me, is more subdued and transitory these days.

I've attended more funerals in the last few years than I have in my entire life. I've watched relationships break apart, watched people break apart with the turmoil and loss in their lives. I know what it feels like to be unemployed; I know what it feels like to feel uncertain about the job I do have. Visits to the doctor and the auto repair shop have gone from rarity to routine. I am acutely aware of how dangerous it can be to drive on some of the roads I frequent. I have become so attuned to the regrets and pains and fears of this life that it seems impossible, or at least irresponsible, to tune them out. I can hardly spend money anymore without thinking of how many people might starve to death tomorrow because I wanted to go out for steak, or how every tiny purchase of "just a couple bucks" is ultimately keeping me from saving up for anything I truly want or need. I don't get more than mildly excited about new movies and video games anymore, because past experience has taught me that I'm likely to be disappointed if I expect anyone from the current generation of filmmakers and developers to deliver anything worth getting excited over. I'm too jaded and preoccupied to be the happy, carefree kid I used to be.

What's liberating about being a Christian is the reassurance that I don't need to worry about this life. I could quote scripture about learning to be content in all circumstances and trusting that all my needs will be met, but I try not to preach what I don't always practice. I've learned to be self-sufficient, and it's often a challenge to let go of that need to be the one in control, even when it's a matter that's clearly beyond my control. I have no doubt that I'd be happier to accept things as they happen and make the most of every situation, good or bad...but at heart, I'm too much of an idealist to "go with the flow" when I think things should be different or should be up to me to change.

What do I do, then? Compromise my idealism? I tried that recently, and the only way to live with myself has been to stop caring altogether. "Insensitive, standardless, but happy" isn't really what I'm going for here. I want to have the kind of faith and confidence that's resistant to worry. I need to be proved wrong every once in a while when I start making assumptions about how bad things are or will be. I ought to spend more time with the people and activities that recharge my positive outlook. I can still recognize and process sadness, anxiety, and failure, but I can satisfy that desire for control by doing everything in my power to ensure those feelings don't overtake the happiness in my life. I wager it's just as unhealthy to let something repress your happiness as it is to let something repress the negative feelings that need some room inside you to breathe.

I think that's my big resolution for the New Year: rediscovering the kind of lasting and vibrant happiness I used to enjoy.

I have become acutely aware of my own mortality. I've spent enough time visiting hospitals and nursing homes to last a lifetime; everything from old age to suicide, car crash, fatal illness, natural disaster, and freak accident has claimed, or at least threatened, the lives of my friends and family in the last few years alone. I realize we're all going to die someday. With all the news coverage anymore of killing sprees, bomb detonations, and threats of nuclear war, "someday" feels more and more like it's being measured in days, not decades.

One of the biggest question marks for me is what happens when you die? Aside from the obvious, of course. Maybe this life is all we get; maybe there's an afterlife; maybe I'm destined to be a chinchilla next time around. I'm still figuring out exactly what I believe, and even different sects of the same religion can't always agree about life after death. I'd like to at least be firmly rooted in my beliefs when it's time to go, so that if I'm wrong and am sentenced to hell / nothingness / Pittsburgh, it's not because the buzzer went off before I could respond to the Final Jeopardy answer of, "This is what happens after you die."

Presumably, unless the world is some sort of cosmic Truman Show that goes off the air when I, its star, kick the bucket, life will go on for you after I die. Part of the reason I write so much—aside from the fact that I enjoy writing—is because it's a tangible legacy for those who care about me. Barring a global catastrophe or a drastic shift in data retention policies and capabilities across the Internet and home computing, I've got blog posts and journal entries that, collectively, tell or hint at the story of my life from at least as far back as the turn of the century—not to mention all those videos, photo albums, and all that poetry I wrote in high school. My hypothetical children and grandchildren won't ever have to wonder what I was like, if I expire before they get to know me. And there's more than enough material here for future generations to create a lifelike holographic AI of me, should future generations ever be so foolish.

I won't be here forever, but my life doesn't have to end with my death. As long as someone out there has a memory of me, a memento, even a stupid habit they picked up from me, I'll never truly be gone. Order a steak and ask the waitress for a Roy Rogers. Sit down with a homemade pizza and watch an episode of Star Trek. Spend an afternoon playing Mega Man or Chrono Trigger. Sing along to "Weird Al." Wear a fez on Christmas morning. I'm as good as there with you.

And, just in case, be nice to chinchillas.

Hi. I'm Nathaniel. I'm a Christian. I also play Dungeons & Dragons...Satan's game.

In isolation, either one of these facts might give you an impression of who I am. The first one: maybe I'm a fine, upstanding individual; maybe I'm one of those people who's keeping scientific and social progress locked in the 16th century. The second one: perhaps I'm a just a geek; perhaps I'm anti-Christian, doing exactly what Jack Chick warned about.

I rarely drink, and I've never done drugs. Does that make me a model citizen, or a total bore? I play violent video games, though—how does that affect my identity?

So I'm a sober Christian who plays violent video games and D&D. If you're having trouble reconciling these assertions, you're in good company—I make assumptions about people based on isolated facts all the time. The key is to get to know the people before acting on those assumptions. If I say I'm a Christian, and you say D&D is anti-Christian, then that doesn't automatically make me a liar, or you delusional. We are complex beings, full of secrets and apparent contradictions that make sense upon closer inspection.

We are people, not labels.

Labels are a fine starting point, but a dangerous ending point. When introducing myself to someone new, I'll often profess to be a geek, rattling off a few geeky interests to sow the seeds of conversation. It's not uncommon for those seeds not to sprout, so I've learned to gloss over the "geek" point and talk about my job, my wife, traveling around the world, my eclectic taste in music, etc., and hope that one of the many things I've listed serves as a discussion hook. Even if nothing I say gets a nibble, then I've at least established myself as a person of varied interests and diverse history. "Geek" sums up a lot of my personality, but it's not exclusively who I am, and I would be remiss in letting someone walk away from a conversation without giving them any sense of who I am beyond that.

Sadly, the labels are often all we see. From social and political issues to matters of faith and personal taste, we categorically dismiss or disdain the people who bear labels we don't like. Gays. Muslims. The rich. The poor. The French. The elderly. Politicians. CEOs. Whites. Jocks. Libertarians. Environmentalists. Fundamentalists. Porn stars. Terrorists. Nickelback fans. Anyone who sees the world differently than we do, comes from a different background than we do, is in any way different from us. We as a species reserve the right to stop thinking of you as a person if there's even a single label we can apply to you.

I don't have to agree with you. I don't have to like you. And I don't have to turn a deaf ear to you because of a label.

I just (literally, just a few minutes ago) finished reading Lee Strobel's book The Case for Christ, which takes a journalistic approach to examining the evidence for Jesus Christ as historical figure, God incarnate, and resurrected Lord. Strobel, a former atheist, interviews a series of high-profile scholars who discuss everything from the authenticity of the gospels to the psychological profile of Jesus. In part, the book is a recreation of Strobel's journey to faith, addressing the questions that had previously left him skeptical; in part, it's a beginner's handbook for anyone investigating the topic for themselves.

For me—raised Christian, studied religions in college, searching to solidify exactly what I believe--The Case for Christ was exactly what I had been looking for: a reinforcement of some things I knew or felt were true, and a starting point for an exploration of the points still in doubt or question. Strobel himself says it on page 270, in the conclusion of the book:

"Perhaps after reading expert after expert, listening to argument after argument, seeing the answers to question after question, and testing the evidence with your logic and common sense, you've found, as I have, that the case for Christ is conclusive....On the other hand, maybe questions still linger for you. Perhaps I didn't address the objection that's uppermost in your mind. Fair enough. No single book can deal with every nuance. However, I trust that the amount of information reported in these pages will at least have convinced you that it's reasonable—in fact, imperative—to continue your investigation."

That last part is crucial, and it's something I've believed for as long as I can remember: if there's even the possibility that any of the world's religions are true, then it's of chief importance that you figure out what to believe...and even once you've settled on something, to continue challenging and testing your beliefs for the rest of your life. Truth (capital T) should stand up to any scrutiny; even if your truth (lowercase t) should fall to devastating criticism, that doesn't automatically make your truth false—or that criticism Truth.

In other words, we're doomed to argue about religion until the Flying Spaghetti Monster comes to claim us all.

Religion, like politics, is a subject we humans don't seem to know how to discuss rationally. We can calmly disagree about TV shows, parenting styles, and fashion, but scuffles over religion ironically bring out the worst in us. Too often I've seen atheists categorically dismiss Christians as mentally deficient for believing in something they can't directly measure. Too often I've seen Christians hand out vicious judgment before hearing the other side of the story, as though Romans chapter 14 is just there for decoration. Instead of sharing our beliefs, understanding each other, and helpfully showing the other person the folly of their ways, we too often spit on the visitors to our ivory towers.

Having borrowed The Case for Christ, I went online to find a copy for myself and a copy to give to other people—given how helpful it was to me, and how accessible it is (complete with discussion questions at the end of each chapter), I figured it would be nice to have a spare that I could lend out to any religious searchers, or anyone who contends that you need to shut off your brain to believe in Christianity. Strobel makes it clear that men have been sentenced to death with less evidence than there is for the Biblical identity of Jesus; I think that's a compelling notion that makes for meaningful conversation, regardless of how much Strobel only skims the surface of the subject.

I was shocked to read the reviews of the book on Amazon. The recurring theme was, "Don't give this to an atheist, because they'll hate you." People blasted the book, some going so far as to say that, if this book reflects Strobel's journey to faith, then he wasn't much of an atheist to begin with to be converted so easily—that's not just a criticism of the book; it's a personal attack, and one that I would find offensive if it were leveled at me. While there are hundreds of positive reviews of the book, it's clear that the naysayers—at least, the ones whose comments I read—seem to object to the fact that this is The Case for Christ: A Journalist's Personal Investigation of the Evidence for Jesus, and not Lee Strobel Interviews Everybody in the World with an Opinion About Jesus and Concludes Beyond the Shadow of a Doubt that We Can't Agree on Anything.

I also found a book by Robert M. Price that's a direct response to this one, The Case Against The Case for Christ: A New Testament Scholar Refutes the Reverend Lee Strobel. The cover of the book is the same one Strobel uses, with the impression of a hand with the crucifixion nail hole in it, except it's giving a thumbs-down—so you can tell already this is going to be a polite, respectful disagreement. The book description reads as follows:

"Leading New Testament scholar Robert M. Price has taken umbrage at the cavalier manner in which Rev. Lee Strobel has misrepresented the field of Bible scholarship in his book The Case for Christ. Price exposes and refutes Strobel's arguments chapter-by-chapter. In doing so he has occasion to wipe out the entire field of Christian apologetics as summarized by Strobel. This book is a must-read for anyone bewildered by the various books published by Rev. Strobel."

Bear in mind that, as I was reading this description, I was still in that euphoric "I just read a very enjoyable, thought-provoking book that has helped open the door for me to start thinking seriously about my spiritual life again" mindset. Which promptly disappeared as soon as I got to the reviews, if not by the end of that description. I think one of the reviewers puts it best:

"Unfortunately, those who can most profit from exposure to this book are the ones least likely to read it."

Ooh! Ooh! I can tell you exactly why: Because, even before the reviewers start lambasting Strobel and praising Price, that book description is specifically targeting all those atheists I was warned not to buy The Case for Christ for. I might've been persuaded to read the book if it had read something like this:

"Millions of readers worldwide have seen the evidence presented by Rev. Lee Strobel in his book The Case for Christ, but how many have put that evidence to the test? Leading New Testament scholar Robert M. Price examines Rev. Strobel's arguments chapter-by-chapter, exposing dangerously flawed logic and inaccurate facts that misrepresent the field of Bible scholarship. This book is a must-read for anyone who has taken Rev. Strobel at his word, or who is bewildered by the various books he has published."

See, that would've gotten me interested. Instead, I'm looking at a book that sounds like a fair reexamination of Strobel's book, poisoned by raging personal bias. There's nothing wrong with writing a scathing rebuttal every now and again—and I'll reiterate that I haven't read this book, so I'm only going off of the description and the reviews—but I'm struggling to think of any work refuting Christianity or Christian literature that isn't laced with some sort of venom or smugness. The vibe I get from most counter-Christian arguments is not, "Hey, you're wrong, I'll show you why"; rather, it's more like, "FOOL! You know nothing of reality!" I don't know if pro-Christian arguments sound that way to other people (they probably do), but it seems counterproductive to craft a very intelligent, persuasive argument and completely ignore the sensibilities of the people you're trying to convince.

You know where I'm going from here? Other religions. I'm at the point in my study of Christianity where the questions I have yet to answer are the really complicated or contentious ones; before I spend any more time investigating the faith I grew up with, I want to apply the same critical eye to the rest of the world's religions (well, maybe not all of them, but you know what I mean).

If I call myself a Christian, I want it to be not just because I believe the evidence and arguments and it all feels right, but because I've looked at the evidence and arguments for other belief systems and found them unconvincing. I'd like to think I'm open-minded enough to give other religions, even atheism a fair chance—to give Truth a chance, wherever it may be found—and my next step is to take Strobel's approach to other beliefs. What do we know about Muhammad from historical records? How well have the sayings of the Buddha been preserved? How would a psychoanalyst describe L. Ron Hubbard? I'll do some investigative journalism of my own, and see where that takes me.

Whether Strobel's right on the money, woefully mistaken in every regard, or somewhere in-between, The Case for Christ is precisely what I needed to jump-start my stalled personal faith journey, and to spark my interest again in what is probably my favorite academic subject. Praise Zenithar, may I walk with the Prophets, thanks be to Pelor, and hallowed are the Ori.