The news last week of a new guideline for federal workers that allows religious evangelization to other employees had me in a bit of a tailspin. This is something that’s pushed my buttons since I was 18 years old, when I first came face to face with someone seeking to convert helpless freshmen to her particular brand of Christianity.
I grew up in an East Coast suburb in the 1970s, in a mainline Protestant denomination. Evangelism just wasn’t a thing. So when a fellow student showed up in my freshman dorm at Virginia Tech, telling us that unless we accepted Jesus Christ as our Lord and Savior we were going to hell, I was stunned.
I hadn’t been prepared for that kind of religious certainty. I hadn’t been prepared for that kind of exclusion of others in the name of religion. And I definitely hadn’t been prepared for someone telling my Catholic friend she wasn’t a real Christian.
That moment cracked something open in me, but not in a way that brings healing. I was mad ... but I was also curious. What kind of God did she believe in? That God didn’t feel particularly loving. And trying to get agreement based on fear of a theoretical afterlife of woe didn’t seem logical to my math-loving brain.
But, more importantly to me, what kind of God did I want to believe in?
My roommate and I made an appointment to talk to the pastor of a nearby United Methodist church. We sat in his office on a bright spring afternoon, asking our questions: What about people who’ve never heard of Jesus? What about babies? What kind of heaven only lets in certain kinds of people?
I don’t remember what he said, but I remember I left there very convicted:
If God excludes anyone from heaven, that’s not a God I want to worship.
For me, it was win-win. Either everyone gets in, or the country-club version of heaven is one I’d gladly avoid. Something about manicured lawns and wrought iron fences to keep people out makes my hair stand on end.
I decided I was open to all belief systems — except those that insisted there was only one right path. I didn’t realize at the time the irony of that. I lived with that paradox for decades: open to all perspectives, except the closed ones.
Then something happened that cracked me open in a different way. Not in anger or rebellion. But in grief.
It was a Sunday in 2002. Just an ordinary day. I went to worship, came home, and then got a call. My brother had died. Suddenly, inexplicably. The day was a blur of travel, phone calls, and tears.
Then, in the middle of this turmoil, something else happened. Something that divided my life into before and after. I was sitting on the floor of their living room, dazed, and I heard my deceased grandmother’s voice calling my brother’s name in that musical way only she had.
But it was more than just the voice I heard. I felt an overwhelming presence of love and joy so intensely, I felt engulfed and carried away.
I hadn’t expected this. In that moment, I knew something no theology could teach me: Love doesn’t die.
I felt it in the very fiber of my being. My brother wasn’t gone. Not really.
And in the days and weeks that followed, I kept experiencing things I wasn’t supposed to believe in. Dreams. Messages. Other voices. But they were real. Undeniable. Saturated with Love. Not harmful to me or anyone else.
These experiences made me want to find ways to feel that love whenever I could. In meditation. In slowing down and being present in moments with others. In nature. I wanted to live in alignment with that Love. Not to convert anyone to my beliefs.
So I continue to choose Love. I choose the kind of spirituality that doesn't require gatekeeping. That doesn't imagine the Transcendent as petty or vindictive. That grows fruit instead of fences.
That’s what eventually led to my creating Spiritual Geography: a space where people can explore their unique connection to the Infinite — however they name it. God, Spirit, Source, the Universe, the Divine Mystery. The name matters less than the fruit it bears.
Because I believe that’s the test of any spirituality. Not who’s right. Not who gets in. But what kind of life it leads us to live.
I ask two questions when working with someone’s spirituality:
How is this belief or practice life-giving to them?
Does it hurt them or anyone else?
That’s it.
The first question is how I work with the person – to use their own spirituality in a way that allows them to grow and heal, within themselves and within their relationships. Not to change or demean what they believe and what they do.
Instead I look for ways to enhance their existing beliefs and practices. And to create connections to the ultimate Love, however they envision or name that Love.
The second question is more for me, to keep my judgment at bay. No matter how far out I may see their beliefs or practices, if it makes them more loving, more just, more patient, more free—then I accept their faith as good for them, even if it’s not my cup of tea.
But far too often I’ve seen how certainty in one path to God can hurt others. These beliefs can cause people to shame others, to close their heart to those who are different, or to justify psychological and physical harm in the name of correcting beliefs. And then I have to ask: Is this really about what God wants? Or is it about control — using God’s name to justify power?
That’s why evangelism still unsettles me. Not because I think people shouldn’t talk about their faith. But because I’ve sat with too many people who’ve been wounded by that kind of certainty.
People who’ve been told their sexuality is sinful. People who’ve been cut off from their families. People who flinch when they hear the word “saved.”
And now, with this new guideline encouraging federal workers to evangelize at work, I’m hearing echoes of that same old story: Certainty masquerading as care. “I want you to be ‘saved’ so I’m working really hard to convince you you’ll go to hell otherwise.”
But love doesn’t need a sales pitch; Love just needs to be lived.
Let your life whisper: "There is more love here. You’re safe. I accept you. I see you as worthy. "
All these years later I still don’t understand evangelism. But I do understand this:
The Transcendent doesn’t need our certainty. Only our courage to grow more love.
But to be honest: growing more love isn’t always simple.
Especially when the loudest voices are shouting about who’s right. Especially when coercion is cloaked in the words and gestures of compassion.
It takes courage to live authentically, especially when the world tells you you’re wrong.
So when I say, “Grow more love,” I don’t mean something soft or sentimental. Love is a force more powerful than fear. I’m talking about the kind of love that listens longer than it speaks - open to new ideas. The kind that stays at the table, even when it would be easier to walk away - willing to be uncomfortable.
That’s the kind of faith I want to bring into the world. A faith wrapped in Love.
Not one that demands agreement — but a faith that bears fruit, one that is life-giving.
So if you bring your faith to work — or anywhere else — let it be the kind that heals. Bring it as patience. As kindness. As listening. As humility. Not as force.
Let it whisper safety.
Let it build trust.
Let it open hearts.
Because certainty isn’t what changes the world.
Love is.
Joni Miller, Ph.D., is a writer, researcher, spiritual coach, and speaker who uses her knowledge, education, and love of all things spiritual to help spiritual wanderers find a place they can call home, navigating by the light of Love. www.SpiritualGeography.net
Photo by Elias Tigiser: https://www.pexels.com/photo/photo-of-trees-at-golden-hour-1083342/
