The Reality of Relief: Literary Publishing

Relief eschews tidy “inspirational” writing that represses the troublesome and complex dimensions of our lives. Instead we are dedicated to human flourishing through literature. 

To turn away from so-called inspirational writing feels countercultural to the crux of Christian literature. So often in Christian circles, we pass around all-too-predictable fiction pieces and expect readers to be surprised when the ending is exactly the same: the prodigal child returns home, the criminal accepts Christ, the marriage is saved. In Relief, we celebrate writing that embraces the harsh realities of this broken world. 

We are learning to welcome stories where the addict dies of an overdose and there is nothing redemptive except for the fact that his little sister can fold his laundry as a final recognition of his miserable existence. We marvel at works that depict a young boy who longs to shoot his way out of his father’s home; not because the story is tidy or traditional but because it is real. We connect stories to harsh realities of being human, and being human does not always mean a happy ending. Certainly there is hope, but there is also authenticity, and our horizons are broadened when we can count the crosses on the side of suicide-stained railroad tracks and know that these writers are courageous enough to express the complexities of life in a way that is real.

That is not to say that the traditional tales of Christian literature are wrong – they’re just not necessarily authentic. And it is so often in this suppression of realness that people find Christianity unapproachable and unrelatable. I picture a woman whose husband has left her. Their teenage son is strung out on drugs, barely conscious beside a daughter with no desire to live. What solace would this woman find in a story of rescued marriages and family reunions? Such stories seem to be more of a mockery than a ministry, destined to leave her wondering why this God who works miracles for fictional characters is so disinterested in her own disaster.

But when we allow the works of Relief to nudge us toward a fully-embodied reality, we do not have to hide behind guaranteed happy endings that only happen for Karen Kingsbury’s characters. We can accept the fact that life does not always end beautifully and we do not have to paint a rainbow over a story to see a promise of redemption. Sometimes, just telling the hard story is redemptive enough. Christian writing that flees from the valleys and only writes about the hills is minimizing to the God of hills and valleys. 

Through Relief, we are learning that we can be Christian writers who share the fullness of God without ever mentioning his name. Think of the cobbler, a shoemaker who does his Christian duty not by putting crosses on all of his shoes, but by making excellent shoes. By celebrating the complexities of today’s finest literary practitioners, we have the opportunity to glorify God by embracing excellent craftsmanship and telling stories that reveal the hardships of humanity.

We are not interested in neatly-wrapped works with a pretty bow because we are not all guaranteed a pretty bow. We have hope in Heaven, but what is there to remind us of this hope if we do not first tell the story of desperation and destruction? Where is our longing for Jesus if every piece we read is resolved in less than three hundred pages?

So Relief is not going to be neat. It is not going to be warm or fuzzy and you probably will not choose to set it on display in your church library. But it is going to be real. It is going to authentically approach stories of heartache and hopelessness, and just like the cobbler, it is going to be done well. We are developing a celebration of humanity through literature – a celebration that the most deeply troublesome dimensions of our lives might be the only thing we truly have in common.

Cali Saunders

Editorial Assistant