Yesterday afternoon, I gathered at O'Lunney's in Times Square with four friends, one blogger pal I'd never met, and four complete strangers for a most unusual event. It was called The Salonica, and it was my attempt to start a salon-style discussion group for people who, like me, wanted a kind of fellowship that, in New York City, is hard to find. It would bring people together who were eager to discuss topics ranging from current events to literature and the arts—and unafraid to do so from a Christian standpoint.

Actually, "Christian-friendly" was the term I used in the description of the event that I posted here, on Mediabistro.com, and on Fellowship in the City. I didn't want to rule out non-Christian participation—in this city, one can't afford to do so—but I stressed that there'd be no debating first principles. What I wanted was relief from the frequent frustration of having to explain myself to Gotham intellectuals who can't imagine why an otherwise bright woman would hold to a faith that they consider outdated and disproven.

Really, what I wanted was relief from feeling oppositional. I always feel like it's me against the godless liberals, me against the godless libertarians, me against the (sometimes) heartless conservatives, me against the atheists/agnostics/New Agers, etc. I envisioned The Salonica as an opportunity, by surrounding myself with lively and intelligent people who agree with me on what matters most, to learn how to be with people, instead of against them.

Needless to say, one can't achieve all those things from one two-hour brunch at an Irish pub with a motley crew of friends and strangers. But I can honestly say that yesterday was a beautiful beginning of something that I hope will continue in a way that will bring warmth and fellowship into several lives.

This Salonica consisted of five men and four women, ranging in age from late 20s to late 40s, and everyone seemed to really take to the format. That is, everyone contributed to the conversation and listened as well. There was an unmistakable air of warmth, respect, and genuine intellectual inquisitiveness over the whole proceeding. In that most basic sense, it was everything one would want from a good salon.

I got things going with a simple question, asking each person to tell about an author who had influenced their spiritual growth. From there, the conversation flowed freely. For example, one attendee cited Ronald J. Sider's Rich Christians in an Age of Hunger as an influence, leading another to recall Jesus' statement about how hard it is for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God. That led in turn to discussion of whether Christians should support income-redistribution means such as higher taxes, a flat tax, or institutionalized giving.

There were a number of views on each side of the issue. What I liked was that, although I had my own strong views on the subject, I didn't feel like I had to put my two cents in every time I heard something with which I disagreed. The others' views were so heterogeneous that I could either contribute or just sit back and maybe learn something.

There was one moment in the discussion that threw me off and very nearly ruined things for me. An attendee whom I didn't know, and who arrived late, had initially been silent during the discussion. Finally it came his turn to tell of an author and book that had influenced him in his spiritual growth. He cited a book he called Unearthing the Bible—though, by his description, I think he meant The Bible Unearthed. And he said it contributed to his spiritual growth in that it drew him away from faith, showing him that the Bible is a political document, assembled by men for worldly purposes. Although he was careful not to use harsh language, he made it clear that, after reading the book, he was left with a sense of disgust over the hoax that he believed the Bible's compilers had perpetrated on mankind.

Now, I know Paul said, "Let us not grow weary of well doing" (twice), but I must admit to some desire to have a corner of my life where I do not have to defend the root of my faith. I had hoped that The Salonica would be such a corner. Unorthodox faith, I was prepared for. Outright opposition, no. So to hear this man whom I'd never met say that, and to know that he'd come to my salon [Proprietary? Moi?] just to lie in wait until he could make his defiant announcement—well, I'm sure one or two people there could spot smoke coming out of my ears.

Somehow, I managed to confine my comments to questions, asking the man things like how long he'd had faith before he lost it. Then, while I was trying to figure out how else to react, other people started to engage him. In fact, one by one, everyone else engaged him. And rather than meeting him with antagonism—which I admit was my first thought—they met him with a spirit of warmth and understanding.

Through that dialogue, some good points came up, particularly in response to a question the man posed asking, if the seven-day creation were not true, why would God have put it in Genesis, knowing that it would drive evolutionists away from religion?

I bristled at the mere thought of such an "if-then" question. As reviewers have pointed out, the whole DaVinci Code heresy is based on, "if this is true, then this must be true," etc. So I wasn't even willing to hypothesize on whether or not he seven-day creation were true. God said it, I believe it, that settles it. Fortunately, I kept my mouth shut, and others said things that were more sensitive and enlightening than anything I was thinking.

One woman noted that the Genesis story is poetry, complete with a songlike refrain. It occurs to me now that her observation is much like C.S. Lewis's description of creation in The Magician's Nephew, where he has Aslan bring forth Narnia by beginning a song with which all his creation gradually joins in.

Another man said a couple of things I really liked, about how there's reason Genesis doesn't begin with, "And God created the subatomic particle..." He explained that the creation story was meant to hold intrinsic truth, not necessarily external truth. As he also noted, the Bible was not written to show us how to program our VCRs.

The Bible Unearthed man listened and was, I thought, surprisingly noncombative. He was more resigned than rebellious. He also let me give my testimony and he didn't argue. Still, even as I felt blessed for the opportunity to share my faith, I couldn't help wondering why he showed up in the first place if he was planning to reveal that he was opposed to what I intended to be the spiritual foundation of the group.

I'm reminded of one of my favorite stories, Hans Christian Andersen's "The Ugly Duckling." At the end, the ugly duckling approaches the swans with the belief that they will kill him. But he feels it would be better to be killed by such beautiful creatures than to live in the poverty and hunger that is all he's known in life.

Maybe that's how that man felt. Maybe, like the ugly duckling, he longed for acceptance and understanding, but was so disillusioned that he would be satisfied if those who had the faith he lacked would simply attack him.

Well, I hope we gave him what he really wanted—or, at least, that it leads to his finding a better path.

Incidentally, the only time I felt anything approaching antagonism from the Bible Unearthed man was when he appeared to scowl at my saying I didn't know the work of Walt Whitman. But it could have been my imagination. If it was indeed a scowl, I have no doubt that I deserved it.