A passage from my forthcoming book, “Two Episcopalians Walk Into a Bar:” The year was 1963, aboard a Yugoslavian freighter bound for Tangier:

I told him, “I suppose I want to believe in God. I want to be a Christian. I want to be an Episcopalian. I’ve grown to love the Church.”

Dr. Meany sat with that for a moment, as if turning it over rather than answering it.

“You know,” he said finally, “C. S. Lewis was always very reluctant to say who was or was not a ‘real Christian.’ He thought that kind of judgment was beyond our competence.”

He glanced at me, not challenging—just steady.

“We see only the surface—what a person says, where they go, how they sound. But the deeper movement of the soul… that’s hidden from us.”

He paused.

“A man who appears very close to faith may, in fact, be drifting away from it. And another who seems far off may be moving toward it—perhaps more honestly than we realize.”

I didn’t say anything.

“The impulse to classify people,” he went on, “to sort them into believers and non-believers—that can be a kind of distraction. It keeps us from the harder work.”

“What harder work?” I asked.

He gave a faint smile.

“Looking at our own lives.”

Another pause.

“Christianity, at its center, isn’t about labeling. It’s about transformation. And that”—he lifted his hand slightly, as if to qualify the point—“is not something we’re in any position to measure in other people.”

I let that sit for a moment, then said, almost quietly, “And what do I do?”

He didn’t hesitate.

“Pray.”

I looked at him.

“I don’t know how.”

“That’s all right,” he said. “It’s an old Anglican instinct—you pray that you may believe.”