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Sam Alvord's article "But Is He a Christian?" [September/October] caught my attention from at least three directions: one, its provocative title; two, from my interest in novelists who are attempting to write, at least, "Christianly"; and, finally, the fact that I have a daughter studying humanities at Houghton College.

My question, as I read the article, was similar to that of Alvord's students. Not, however, having read any of David James Duncan's novels or short stories, I found that my argument rests, at least for the moment, not with Duncan but with several statements or assumptions made in the article.

One paragraph, in particular, arrested me:

Still, I honor the question, because my students come from homes or churches or colleges where the evangelistic imperative has lofty status. I demean them and their history insofar as I scorn it. Where else for them to start to gain their bearings as independent seekers? For most of them, I realize, an answer to this question is tantamount to establishing true north as they strike out as adults into a culture that offers passage to many diverse spiritual and philosophical compass points. I must not confuse my personal resistance with their essential right to begin their journey from their home.

Of course, these students, my daughter included, must become "independent seekers." But Alvord seems to call into question whether there is, indeed, a "true north." Since Houghton College, in its doctrinal statement, affirms the Scriptures as "fully inspired of God and inerrant," as well as "of supreme and final authority for faith and practice," I have felt it safe to assume that there is a true north to be sought—and found. Are there really "many diverse spiritual and philosophical compass points"? Are we free to choose from any of them? How will an "independent seeker" know when he or she has found the right one?

I seem to recall that Jesus made the statement, "By their fruits you shall know them" (Matt. 7:20, emphasis mine). And it seems to me that the rest of the New Testament spends an awful lot of time and words telling us how that should look and be acted out in our personal lives, with our neighbors, our mates and our children, in the rest of society, and, begging everyone's pardon, in the church.

I find, too, at least a hint of an implication in the little phrase "from their home," that a child must necessarily make this journey philosophically as well as physically and emotionally. If my husband and I are attempting—no, struggling—to teach and model truth as we see it based on the Scriptures, must our children depart from our teachings? (Whatever happened to the "faith of our fathers"?) And, if they do depart, what "truth" will they find? Why are we sweating so much blood and tears building up "the Christian home" if it is a given that our children are going to depart anyway?

I have heard two Christian college presidents say, in their charges to incoming freshmen, that this moment signals a departure from their parents. Is it beneath our intellectual pride, even our Christian intellectual pride, to suggest that just perhaps they may also return?

Lest you suspect otherwise, I am not against reading such novels; quite the contrary. Yet, I think we have a distinctly clear compass point against which to measure whether our boat has wandered off course or, indeed, foundered. How can Alvord's students go out into the world with a confused identity and expect to make followers of Christ?

Vivian Hyatt
Budapest, Hungary

I am sure the motivation for Kelly James Clark's recommendation for a "modest transcendence" [September/October] was a positive one. I am sure he intended to "summon us to a quiet confidence" in God and remind us of the partial character of all knowledge. However, Clark's proposal of a modest transcendence makes a number of important theological mistakes.

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