Every time I think about why I’m a Christian, the fundamental answer at the bottom of all the other ones is that I’m a Christian because of stories. Because when the world whispers “chaos”Christianity speaks of a narrative, both for all of history and for my day. Because God gets my English-major storyteller’s heart, because he made it and made it to look like his own. So when I look at the world through God-changed eyes, I see a story, with a plot arc and conflict and characters, and it’s a story about God and it’s a story of love and victory.  

This story comes in two forms: the textual and the actual. The textual is the arc laid out for us in Scripture, of Creation, Fall, Redemption and Consummation. The actual is the history that we live, and track by calendars and clocks, and watch unfolding through news reports. One way we know we can trust God’s story is that these two forms of the story match. They affirm each other. This principle is the subject of libraries’ worth of discussion, and miles too deep to cover here, but we can look in a selective, close-up way at a few reasons to trust God’s story.

As Christians, we trust the Bible because we trust the character of God. However, as responsible students, we trust the Bible for the same reasons we would trust other history books. For example, we have far more original manuscripts or manuscript parts of the New Testament than of any other piece of literature from around the same period. This is important mainly because it shows us that what our New Testament says today is the same as what the copies hand-written almost 2000 years ago said. The story hasn’t changed. From this step, the next question is whether the people writing the original manuscripts were telling the truth about what happened. We can tell this through at least three trains of thought: the internal logic of the people writing the accounts, how soon after the events the accounts were written, and whether non-Christian historians of the time tell the same stories.

By the internal logic of the writers, I mean reasons we can believe they are trustworthy by the same kind of standards we would use to trust the people around us. For example, we tend to trust people humble enough to admit embarrassing things about themselves, and acknowledge when they make mistakes. The apostles who wrote the gospels admit that they did not always understand Jesus, that they fell asleep on him in his greatest crisis after he had asked them to stay awake and pray, and that they doubted his resurrection. Hardly a glowing recommendation for their own agenda. So maybe they weren’t trying to give a glowing recommendation. Maybe they were just telling things as they happened. In addition, we trust people who invest themselves. Who are in it through the hardest times and for the longest haul. The boss who puts in the latest hours and does the dirtiest work earns our loyalty. The apostles spread accounts of Jesus across hundreds of miles without cars or airplanes or even high-tech hiking boots , and then stuck with their stories through criticism, persecution, prison, and death. That kind of commitment earns my trust.

For the dates of the books in comparison with the time of the events, we can argue backward from the book of Acts. We conclude that Acts was written, at the latest, around the early 60s AD, mostly because of what it does not mention. Luke, the writer of Acts talks about both Jerusalem and Rome, but does not mention the war between them or the world-changing fall of Jerusalem in AD 70. Similarly, he talks about the activity of Paul, Peter, and James, but stops before their deaths (which are all recorded by other historians to be in the 60s). We can conclude then that Acts was written about AD 60, and that the gospels (specifically Luke, since Luke starts Acts by referring to the previous account) were written before then, putting them well within the lifespan of eyewitnesses who would have influenced and corroborated their accounts. 

Other historians of the time also encourage us to trust the accounts in the New Testament. At least twelve ancient historians (including Jewish writers, Roman historians, government record-keepers, etc.), mention the death of Jesus, happening as the Bible records it. Others mention how he fulfilled the prophecies about the Messiah, his resurrection, how his followers suddenly began preaching, and additional details about his life. Writers who made a living and a reputation by telling history tell us about Jesus, the same as the apostles who lost their lives to tell the same story. Individually, there is reason to trust either of those categories of people. But together? They leave me with nothing to say.

Compared with the Bible, no other religious text meets these criteria. The Qur’an, for example (because it’s the only one I’m sufficiently familiar with) gets its credibility from the claim to be the literal words of God; it never pretends to be a historical record. It tells stories, like about Abraham and Moses and others, but mainly ones that were already ancient, not ones that happened a few decades prior. Never do the accounts include placement details, like the New Testament’s way of saying “when so and so was governor of this province, these events happened in this city,” and so affirmation from writers of the same time is irrelevant. The Hadith, or the accounts of the life of the prophet Mohammed, do little better in terms of corroboration, and have little narrative logic. In other words, there is little relationship between spiritual story and textbook story, and thus little reason to believe that my story fits into God’s.

But when I look at the Bible, I can see God’s story. And it’s the best story I know. 

Obviously, these notes are just a beginning. You could write books on these subjects, and many people have. In writing this, I looked at an essay by Gary Habermas titled “Why I Believe the New Testament is Historically Reliable” in an anthology called Why I Am A Christian and a chapter called “The Top Ten Reasons We Know the New Testament Writers Told the Truth” in Norman Geisler and Frank Turek’s I Don’t Have Enough Faith to be an Atheist (a great and very readable intro to apologetics), in addition to the Qur’an and the Bible. Have a look at all of the above. Compare them with one another. I hope you find the same story I do, and I hope it’s a story that transforms the way you see all of history and the way you see your right-now life.

Because our God is the best storyteller there is. Pull up a chair and listen in.  

Krysitiana Kosobucki, Student in Impact Christian Fellowship at IUPUI

People, senioritis is real.

As the year goes on, it gets harder and harder to justify putting a lot of effort into schoolwork. My grad school applications are already out (meaning no one is going to see these grades, right?), there are people to spend time with whom I might not ever see again after May and, if nothing else, three and a half years of college tell me that sometimes it’s just more important to sleep.

Feeling a lack of enthusiasm for school this semester was no big surprise. But it’s a little more complicated than that. Mostly I think it’s the gap in time between submitting grad school applications and hearing back. The initial work is done. I’m just waiting. 

And waiting is a complicated place.

I’m a planner. Having a schedule makes my life more comfortable, and when a long term schedule just doesn’t exist, I subconsciously retreat into wishes. Maybe it’s a coping mechanism. I have no idea where I’ll be living next fall, but it probably won’t be here. I can spend the time that I would naturally spend in planning what comes next by imagining how life would look if I moved to such a place or if I had such a job or if I got into this Masters program. It’s something I can put mental and emotional energy into, almost as if it was a real plan. And really there’s no harm, right? I’m just waiting anyway.

Except that’s wrong. There is harm. There is deep spiritual and emotional harm in putting my mental energy into pretend plans just because I’m uncomfortable not having real ones. There are a few things that happen.

1. If I invest emotional energy into my imaginary future, my prayers become less about surrendering to God and more about what sounds lovely in my head. But God, Chicago would be fun. Isn’t Chicago a good idea, God?
2. I’m not practicing gratitude. If I’m slipping into daydreams about how fun it will be when I’m somewhere else, that’s kind of like coveting a life that isn’t this one.
3. I’m loving nobody well. Not my professors, if I’m not demonstrating the investment they deserve in return for teaching. Not my friends, if I’m only viewing them as people I’m going to leave soon, as a commodity on which to glut my heart now. Not my family, if I let my worry about the unknown overshadow everyday joy for the last few months I live in the same house with them. (It turns out, a fairly accurate litmus test for the spiritual wholesomeness of a situation is how it causes me to treat the people closest to me. And worry and weariness don’t make me a very good daughter.)
4. My eyes are not open to ministry right here and right now. If I’m emotionally checking out, thinking that it doesn’t matter much what I do because after all I won’t be around much longer, then I’m subconsciously telling God that I don’t trust him very much. That these next few months just aren’t long enough for Him to accomplish anything through me, so I can pretty much stop caring.

These are individual problems, but they point to the general need to practice presence. The need to work diligently, trust God joyously, and love the people around me in practical, un-jealous ways. To trust that God has given me these day and these minutes with as much intentionality as he’s given all the rest of them. And to be thankful.

So that’s what I’m working on this semester. In the fourteen weeks until graduation, as well as in whatever comes after, I’m praying for the grace to be present. In all the unknown, I’m seeking the rest that comes from confidence that my God is faithful. And He’s given me this day.

How do you practice presence in times of uncertainty?

Krystiana Kosobucki, Student in Impact at IUPUI

“It will be great for you!” my mom said. “You’ll meet new people!”
“I like the people I already know,” I replied, with just a note of sarcasm. 

Looking back at my lack of interest in making friends when I started college, the irony is palpable. At seventeen, I could count my close friends on one hand with two fingers still folded under and, frankly, I was skeptical that IUPUI would provide anyone I cared to know.

(Let’s just establish that seventeen-year-old me was neither a very sociable nor a very wise person.)

Fortunately, that attitude changed. As I sat in classes and attended campus events because my mother wanted me to, I realized there were people I cared to know here. There were a lot with whom I didn’t share interests or values, but then there were some who loved Jesus or loved the same things I did. There were even a few that seemed like real friend material. Now the only challenge was that I didn’t live with them. Most people I met freshman year lived on campus, many of them in the same community. I lived in a house I had to go home to every night, where I shared a room with my sister and was expected to update my mom on what happened each day. I’m already an introvert, and I could easily not have built deep relationships with people on campus. 

In retrospect, this is one of many instances where I see how God is faithful to give me what I don’t even know I need. Because he did put me in contact with wonderful people who reached out to me when I wouldn’t have reached out to them. My first semester, I got involved with a Bible study that met on campus and consisted mostly of people who lived there, and who were lovely and thoughtful enough to include me. They didn’t have to do that. But they did, because they were obedient to God’s command to love, and they loved me well.

This feels oddly like product placement, and it isn’t meant that way, but people, my Bible study is awesome. It was awesome first semester when I was just meeting people, desperately trying to belong, and feeling jealous that they got to hang out after I went home. It was awesome sophomore year, when there were some new people, and I got to be part of the group that welcomed them like others had welcomed me, just because I’d kept coming. It was awesome junior year, when we decided to move it to my house, because one of the very best parts about not living with the campus crowd is that I can offer my home as a place for others to get away from campus and to remember that community is bigger and deeper than the people on your hall. Because I have a dining room table just perfect for suppers and card games, a mother with the gift of hospitality in buckets, a father who is so gracious with people singing noisy praise to Jesus at all hours of the night, and a living room that can always hold more people than I expect. 

This community is not just one of my favorite parts of college. It’s one of my favorite parts of my whole life. And it’s a part I didn’t know I needed. I didn’t ask God for kind people to welcome me and for friendships that could start on campus and overflow. I can take zero credit in making it happen. He drops grace right in front of me, and all I have to do is look up. 

Don’t get me wrong, building and maintaining school relationships as a commuter student takes work. It feels like work sometimes to go to an event at the end of the day when I’ve been carrying my backpack around for eleven hours and really only want to go home. It takes grace to know that I simply cannot be part of everything happening on campus, because when I’m there, I’m there for school. It takes patience and attention to balance school and social obligations with the fact that I still live with a family who wants to see me every once in a while. 

Sometimes all those factors are quite a load, and I’m not trying to say that community just blossoms perfectly with zero effort. What I’m trying to say is that God is faithful. God is faithful to put people in front of me who point me to him. He is faithful to give me what I need regardless of whether I know I need it. He doesn’t send people off into voids and then forget about them. Sometimes finding fellowship takes work, and sometimes it doesn’t happen the way we want. But all the “sometimes” moments put together don’t cancel out God’s always faithfulness. 

He is with us. And he gives his children good gifts. 

Krystiana Kosobucki, Student in Impact at IUPUI

As my senior year in high school rolled around, I began to dread the end. I didn’t want to go to college, I didn’t want to be a grown-up, and I certainly didn’t want to go off somewhere into the frightening non-home void and have to figure out what to do with my life. I remember deciding that the only prayer I could pray with honesty was for God to make His desires for these next few years fool-proof . . . because I didn’t trust myself to listen and I would crumble under the weight of choosing for myself. 

God isn’t a prayer elitist. He doesn’t choose to listen only to the wisest or holiest or most elegant prayers, and as underachieving as those prayers from seventeen-year-old me might have been, He answered them. The first thing He did was to rule out every single college on my list except one, IUPUI, either because they didn’t accept me or because they wouldn’t foot the bill and, for my family, those were the conditions. So here I am.

The second thing God did was to put me in a freshman English class with a professor who reveled in challenging the assumptions of sheltered little Christians. In class, I fumed. Outside of class, I thought of all the bold and compelling things I should have said while I was there, and worked hard to say those things in essays. My professor’s attitude could have intimidated me, shaken my faith, or jaded me. What he actually did was inspire me. I wanted his job. He got to stand in front of this whole room full of impressionable freshmen and exhale powerful ideas, neatly wrapped in coursework. I didn’t resent him for challenging my convictions. He didn’t change my opinions; he forced me to claim them. I had to listen closely for the faults in his logic, and sometimes I couldn’t find them. But when I couldn’t, I knew it was my lack of understanding, and lacks are there to be filled. 

By sophomore year I declared a double major in Creative Writing and Philosophy. If you’re looking for a sure way to gain skeptical glances from godly and well-meaning adults (especially mothers), that’s it. Not only does my major not come with a job, but going off to a secular university to study Philosophy is just not a very Christian, pastor’s kid, virtuous-Jesus-loving-homeschooled-girl thing to do. From a distance, I understood the skeptical glances. Up close, they made me sad. I wanted so much to show people, not only that this was not an off-the-deep-end thing to do, but that it was (only in part, because please people, have a bigger vision than classes and grades) what God had put me here to do and to learn.

There’s a quotation flying around the internet from theologian Frederick Beuchner. It says, “the place God calls you is where your deep gladness and the world’s deep hunger meet.” That’s what writing is to me. Deep, deep gladness.  Ideas are strong, and they’re stronger when you have words to express them. 

So that’s why I write. Because I care about ideas, and I want to communicate them well. 
Because I believe that mind that creates and delights in the creation is the image of God, and words are my medium. Because stories thrill me as much as conversations do, and because I see history and that is exciting. And I want other people to see it too. 

The most common question when people find out my major is, of course, “what do you want to do with that?” The second most common is “So you want to teach?” After three and a half years, neither one of them intimidates me anymore. I do want to teach, but even if I didn’t or if I didn’t know, why should I worry? I may feel like writing is what I’m made to do, but I’m going to go back on my words right here and now and say it isn’t. Not fundamentally. Writing is a “deep gladness” and a tool that God has given me to use, but what He deep-down-at-the-core made me to do is to know Him. That’s why He created me. That’s why He created you. That means that if God asks me to follow Him somewhere different than into the university classroom I still daydream about, the classroom dream is going to put itself on hold. My commitment, even as a college student who is supposedly doing well because I have a tentative career plan that genuinely excites me, is not to a plan. It’s to a Person. It’s to a Person who will be as faithful today as He’s been since time began, a Person who wants me and you more than He wants a specific agenda in our lives, but a Person who gives us tools and passions and doesn’t forget about them.

Dorothy Sayers, another Christian woman who also didn’t quite follow the what-girls-are-supposed-to-do norms, said that our work as humans should be “the full expression of the worker’s faculties, the thing in which he finds spiritual, mental and bodily satisfaction, and the medium by which he offers himself to God.” That might be writing or teaching. It might be alleviating pain and sickness. It might be making machines that work. It might be sitting down with person after person who doesn’t believe that they matter and telling them that they do. I don’t care whether your thing is different than mine. Actually I hope it is. I want us to have different visions, because our God is big. But mainly I want us both to be offering ourselves back to our Him. 

Soli Deo gloria. Glory to God alone. 

Krystiana Kosobucki, Student in Impact at IUPUI