I knew myself chosen and loved by a God who roared through the pages of the King James Bible, danced in passing hurricanes, and sang in the blue eyes of the girl with light brown hair in the church youth group (the woman I later married). Such a God was never “safe,” but always good, as Lucy learned from Mr. Beaver in C. S. Lewis’s The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe.15 This was a God of wild beauty, very different from the God of savage predictability I occasionally encountered at church.
