Imagine you are standing in a train station. Different tracks radiate from the station in every direction. You have enough money for a one way ticket. You find a train that you like, and you pay your fare. Onto the train you go, filled with excitement at new beginnings and dreams of distant shores.

You love the train and the destination you picked, and you're not sorry to have chosen the way you have, but can you be blamed for feeling a bit of regret at the tracks not taken, the trains you did not choose?

I've recently started to feel this way about my own faith. After years of squinting at maps and timetables, I chose a way for myself, a path that will lead me someplace; where, I'm not exactly sure. I am deeply moved by the elegant beauty and mystery of the Christian steam engine, and I adore my travelling companions. But I wonder how many people I'm leaving behind at the station.

There are my friends and family, most of whom have been terrifically supportive of me. But there are also some friends, I think, who feel that a distance is growing between us. Maybe they're afraid that I'm going to become pious and sanctimonious. I suppose that fear is understandable. If you're having a big drunken bash, do you really want to invite the pastor? Do you want him to join your rock band? Do you want him around when you're trying to meet girls? I think not. Which is sad because I like parties, and I'm a really good bass player, and . . . well, I don't have any need to meet girls at this point in my life, but you get the idea. I know that some of my non-Christian friends, who knew me when I was an atheist, feel as though I've gone off the deep end. Maybe they're afraid I'll proselytize to them or something.

Then there's the general public, including website readers. I have another website where I write things, and I started writing Correction here because I didn't want to inundate that mostly secular readership with a bunch of stuff I knew they didn't really want to read. But I was also scared; scared that they wouldn't accept me, scared that I wouldn't live up to their expectations of me, scared that they would try to talk me out of it. Just scared. So I made up a false name and started another website. A few people, then more people, found the site and made me feel really at home here. And I found myself writing about Christian ideas and the Christian walk and so on, and you've been gracious enough not to point out just how woefully unqualified I am to write about such things.

But now I realize that I've come further than I thought I would. I live an ever-more Christiany life, where I talk with other Christians and feel more comfortable with my faith than I ever have. But the bitch of it is that I'm starting to feel less comfortable with non-Christians. I never thought that would happen. I don't want that to happen. I don't want to be secluded in an hermetically-sealed faith, where no word from the outside world ever seeps in. I want to be on good terms with the philosophers and the scientists. But I also want them to be on good terms with me. When I read in Richard Dawkins that he feels no more compelled to believe in God than he does to believe in Santa Claus or fairies, I have a difficult time not taking that personally. And those intellectual barbs sting; they open tiny little wounds of doubt and insecurity. Believing in God is not always easy; it's not the same as believing in the existence of hydrogen, say, or even of love or justice. Almost everyone believes in hydrogen and love and justice. Lots of very intelligent people don't share my faith. And it makes me sad; not because I think they're going to hell or anything, but because I don't want this to come between us. I want to assert the love of God for those who have faith in Him through Jesus without implying that I want nothing to do with those who make no such assertions. I don't just want to get my agape on with other Christians.

Here's an example of what I'm talking about. I have a great friend named Roger (not his real name). He's a dyed-in-the-wool, card-carrying atheist. Sees no use whatsoever for God or religion, but doesn't have a problem with those who do, so long as they stay out of his face about it. We get together for lunch maybe two or three times a week and we talk about movies and politics and even religion sometimes. We joke around, we make cracks about each others' mothers, the usual stuff. And I know that we'll remain friends no matter what, but what troubles me is that I find it ever more difficult to keep my faith out of my daily life, and I know that Roger has no place for faith in his life. Does that make any sense? For instance, I say grace at every meal, but I know Roger would be mortified by it, so I say it quickly and quietly in my head when the food arrives. What's he going to do if I show up one day wearing a collar? Methodist pastors aren't required to wear them, but some do; and in Seminary there's a required course in which you're asked to wear a collar for six weeks to see what happens.

In the movie Saving Silverman, the saving grace are the pair of lifelong buddies played by Stave Zahn and Jack Black. At some point in the film, Steve Zahn's character realizes that he is gay. Enthusiastically, he exclaims to Jack Black. "Hey, I have an idea! Do you want to be gay with me?" The offer is refused, but they remain friends.

That's the thing. I know we're going to remain friends, but I still want everyone to come be Christian with me. And I seriously doubt that's going to happen. It's just that it would be so much fun if it did. I want to share this joy with everyone, and I know some don't want it. And it kind of bums me out, that's all.