It is a painful truth that to be American today is to be a witness to the deep fissuring and fracturing of common ground. Nowhere is this more evident than in the church, where there remains very little room for loving disagreement about, well, most things. *Maybe* there is space for Christ followers to disagree on the small stuff, but when it comes to the hot button topics of the day—race, abortion, sexuality, gender, etc.—forget about it. If a church isn't lockstep on those things, it'll split down the middle, members will leave in protest, pastors will be fired, or the dream of Christian unity will die some other kind of grisly death.

Painful endings can be quite literally grisly: Christian history is infamous for resolving matters of dispute by burning heretics alive, drowning anabaptists, crusading against non-Christians, and fighting intra-Christendom wars of religion. Though the church eventually traded those horrors for the uneasy truce of denominationalism, the spirit of fundamentalism inspired countless churches to split and then split again from one another in the quest for a dogmatically pure membership. I am writing this review today from a small town in the Colorado Rockies with a population of only 2600 people, yet with nearly 20 churches (including multiples of the same denomination). Denominationalism is better than murdering one another over doctrine, but it hasn't changed the fact that we still have no idea how to disagree without division.

One way that I've seen churches manage to hold together is by diverting attention away from anything whatsoever that might divide and focusing instead on only safe topics. When the country draws battle lines between anti-racism and anti-CRT, you opt out and preach a sermon about biblical principles for managing your finances. When a Christian preacher goes out and murders a sitting lawmaker and her spouse in cold blood for political reasons, you preach a sermon about theories of the atonement. When the people in your pews are desperately seeking wisdom for how to care for their queer cousins, coworkers, or even themselves, you preach a sermon about whether the Millennium is literal or not. And listen, some of that instinct is correct: it's the tail wagging the dog for the news to drive the church's agenda. But the thing is, people *need* to see an example of how to talk about these things Christianly, and they mostly don't get that from fellow Christians. Instead, the only example they see is on the nightly news or on the "discourse" on social media.

Broaching these kinds of subjects is *always* hard (especially with grace and humility), so most of us are content to go along with the red-blue "Big Sort" of America and only talk about these things with people that we know already agree with us. Friends seek out like-minded friends. Preachers preach to the choir. Families move out of a neighborhood when there are too many of "those" signs in front yards. Is there any other way?

## *Christlike Acceptance across Deep Difference*

The answer is yes, according to a new collection of essays from Baker this summer that sets an example of what it can look like to have "Constructive Conversations on Sexuality and Gender," as the subtitle of the book puts it. Edited by Ronald W. Pierce and Karen R. Keen, this collection draws together their voices along with 16 others from both affirming and traditionalist perspectives. Scholars, pastors, lay ministers; Evangelical, Catholic, and Mainline—the very first thing I noticed is just how diverse a crowd this book represents. I confess that I was somewhat worried that it was going to be largely univocal with a token dissenting voice here or there to provide "diversity," but gladly this is not the case.

Through the course of 18 essays, contributors explore:
- What wisdom the Bible can offer us regarding *how* we have the debate
- How we can speak with and about our ideological opponents in a way that conveys a spirit of charity and godliness
- What it looks like to minster to the LGBTQ community, their friends, and their parents

You're guaranteed to disagree with some of the essays in the book; that's what happens when you engage with viewpoints other than your own. The book doesn't seek a definitive answer to the material questions of queer identities/relationships themselves, but rather tries to provide a template for how you and I might *converse well* about them when we find ourselves in similar territory. Furthermore, it pushes us to be more gracious and considerate in how we frame the position of "the other side." Traditionalists tend to want to present LGBTQ-affirming Christians as people who don't care what Scripture says, don't believe it has any authority over their bodies and what they do with them, and as basically just sex-crazed wolves in sheep's clothing. On the flip side, affirming Christians can paint their traditionalist brethren as if they're all bigoted, hateful, graceless legalists on the wrong side of history.

Without changing your convictions, it's possible to give a fair hearing to someone with whom you disagree. It is possible to welcome others and show them conversational hospitality as Christ has welcomed you (Rm. 15:7), similar to how you could cook a meal and offer a warm bed to someone, even if they don't share all of your exact same convictions. It is possible and even *right* to "be kind and compassionate to one another" (Eph. 4:32) and not just to those who are on your side. You can "love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you" (Mt. 5:44) even if you'd rather if everyone was on your side.

Speaking for myself, there are definitely essays in the book that I found relatively uncomfortable to read, in that I just viscerally disagreed with an author's conclusions. Still, I can't help but feel like it's a gift to be able to hear the inner thoughts of someone who in any other context would be unlikely to share them so freely.

The essay I appreciated the most was probably Karen Keen's *Genesis, Discernment, and God's Will.* It's a fresh perspective on an aspect of the *Imago Dei* that I had never thought too much about—that as God's images on earth, we are given "unique power to make consequential decisions." For Keen, this means that we bear responsibility to steward and cultivate the world the Lord has placed us within, and that includes making theological and ethical judgments.

I also deeply appreciated Wes Hill's essay on 1 Cor. 6:9-10 and how to think about the threat of divine judgment. In one of Keen's earlier books, she positioned sexual orientation and gender identity as something on which Christians of good faith could disagree. Hill raises the obvious question, though: How could this be a mere matter of dispute among Christians when Paul says that it is the sort of thing that places one beyond the pale of God's kingdom? Hill comes from a traditionalist perspective, but seeks to speak *to* traditionalists in his essay. His view is that a proof-texting approach to these verses overplays the traditionalist's hand, and that Paul's purpose there is less to instill eschatological terror and more to reinforce baptismal identity. I admire the essay for the way in which Hill sticks to his convictions, rejects proof texting, and interrogates the text as deeply, faithfully, and graciously as he can.

Beyond those two essays, I also very much appreciated the practicality of the middle section of the book: tips and wisdom about how to listen well, how to speak thoughtfully, and how to exist within a church when you don't find yourself all the way on the same page as those around you. A lot of the wisdom in those pages is applicable to far more than just the LGBTQ conversation, honestly. The last section of the book aims at the practicalities of queer ministry, and it is chock-full of learned lessons about how to do it well.

## Does the book succeed at its intent?

While I think it would do great good for as many Christians as possible to read this book, I also must admit that realistically I don't see that happening. Frankly, it's simultaneously too progressive and too conservative for it to ever fly off the shelves. I hope I'm wrong, but I can envision traditionalists passing it over because it gives any time of day at all to those who affirm queer identities and relationships. I can also envision many progressives for whom this book is unacceptable for legitimating viewpoints that threaten their identity.

Even so, I still think that this book will be of benefit to those who engage with it. It represents the kind of Christianity I want to be part of—one where each of us can work out the particulars of our faith with a fear of God rather than a fear of reprisal. Where we can work out our convictions and dialog with folks who see things from a different angle, and yet who also aim to honor God with their lives. Questions of sexuality, gender, and other hot-button topics have been around since the Bible was penned, and they will be long after we're gone, too—it behooves us to figure out ways to discuss our differences without letting them blow up our relationships. Our LGBTQ neighbors aren't going anywhere either, and it's our privilege and responsibility to think deeply and love well in this area instead of just parroting party lines. It seems fitting to me to end this review with a line from Justin Lee's essay, *Grace across the Divide:* "…in a world increasingly unable to communicate across lines of disagreement, our ability to love one another even when the stakes are high may be one of the most important ways we show the world who we are in Christ."

*DISCLAIMER: I received a copy of this book from the publisher for the purpose of a fair, unbiased review.*