Back in December, a friend gave me this book, Transcendent Kingdom by Yaa Gyasi, and I couldn’t put it down. I’ve been wanting to sit down and write out some reflections ever since. It was a deeply thought-provoking read for me—so rich, in fact, that I don't think one blog post can do it justice. Anyone who has known me for a longer length of time might also know how much I deeply love and respect Ghanaian culture. I adore my Ghanaian "mom" who was my neighbor for years. So for many reasons, this story drew me in.
The novel touches on important themes: understanding and welcoming foreigners, getting a glimpse into the struggles, heartaches, and hopes of an immigrant family adapting to life in the U.S., third culture kids searching for identity, racism, addiction, grief, loss, mental health, and more. It made me think more practically about how I want to see, welcome, and cultivate friendships with foreign-born friends—in the ways I would hope to be treated if I were in their shoes. All of these themes deserve some air time.
But the part that struck me most was how Gifty, the main character, wrestled with suffering, faith, addiction, and neuroscience. As I reached the end of the book, I couldn’t stop thinking about another book I read a few years ago that was just as captivating and hard to put down: Anatomy of the Soul by Dr. Curt Thompson, a Christian psychiatrist who explores how neuroscience and faith intersect to bring emotional healing. I found myself wishing that Gifty could have read his book—and wondering how his insights and research might have impacted hers.
Though these books are very different in genre and tone, they both address some of the same deep questions:
- Can faith and science coexist, or are they fundamentally at odds?
- Does belief in Jesus hold up in the face of suffering?
- Is faith just a set of moral rules, or could it be something far more transformative—something that reaches even the deepest wounds of our souls?
Gifty’s Struggle: When Faith Feels Shallow
In Transcendent Kingdom, Gifty grows up in a strict Ghanaian Christian household in Alabama, where faith is largely presented as a set of rules and moral obligations. When tragedy strikes—her brother dies from an opioid overdose, and her mother spirals into deep depression—Gifty finds that the faith she was raised with offers little comfort or real answers. The leadership in her church, and the broader Christian community she’s part of, seem emotionally disengaged from their pain. Though there is a semblance of "community" around them, they mostly feel isolated and lonely. There’s a huge disconnect between Gifty’s lived experience, the longings of her heart, and her perception of God and faith.
So she turns to neuroscience. If she can just understand the biological mechanisms behind addiction and depression, maybe she’ll make sense of her family’s pain.
But science, too, comes up short. Understanding brain chemistry doesn’t erase grief. Studying addiction doesn’t bring her brother back. Even as she immerses herself in research, she still secretly prays. She still aches for something more.
The novel paints faith and science as opposing forces, and Gifty is caught in the tension—unable to fully embrace either, but unable to fully let go.
Having lived in Togo for nearly a decade (right next to Ghana), I got a good taste of Ghana's “churchy” culture. Having grown up in Florida in a few different church contexts, and now living further north in Alabama, I’ve also witnessed some of the flavors of a "Bible Belt" version of "churchianity" around me. I’ll be honest—I don’t think Jesus is thrilled with any of it. This system of behavior modification and self-righteous culture is not what He bled to obtain. Sometimes, not everyone's stories and there are lots of nuances and complexities here, but I think often when people are deconstructing their faith after growing up in church, they are actually coming to terms with parts of their upbringing that Jesus didn't like in their church environments either, but the tragedy is that they end up abandoning the heart of the Gospel itself instead of disentangling what was unhealthy, false, or even abusive, from what were actually grains of goodness, truth, and beauty.
A.W. Tozer once said, “We have been inoculated with a mild form of Christianity that has made us immune to the real thing.” Moralism is not the gospel. Moralism falls short of addressing the real issues of brokenness, dysfunction, pain, and the longings of our hearts.
I don’t think Gifty ever truly encountered the Gospel—Creation, Fall, Redemption, Restoration- the good news of a Jesus who enters into our sinfulness and pain, who knows us deeply, who spilled His blood to lavish the riches of His grace and kindness on us, who comforts and heals and transforms, and who invites us into a family where we belong, no matter our background, and where He is making all things new.
A Different Picture of Faith: Healing from the Inside Out
Dr. Curt Thompson, in Anatomy of the Soul, offers a radically different picture of faith—not one of moralism or rote belief, but one rooted in relationship and transformation. He argues that our spiritual lives and our brains are profoundly connected, and that healing—what Scripture calls being “renewed in our minds” (Romans 12:2)—is not just theological, but biological.
Thompson weaves together insights from neuroscience, attachment theory, and Scripture to show how our thoughts, emotions, and relationships shape how we experience both God and the world. He emphasizes that:
Our earliest relationships (especially with caregivers) shape how we understand love, trust, and even God Himself.
Trauma, neglect, and shame can rewire our brains in ways that make it hard to feel safe—with others, and even with God.
Spiritual practices like prayer, confession, repentance, and worship are not just “religious activities”—they actually reshape our neural pathways, leading to real healing.
Vulnerability and community are essential for transformation—our brains are wired for connection, and deep change happens in the context of safe, trusted relationships.
Rather than seeing science and faith as at odds, Thompson shows how neuroscience supports and deepens our understanding of spiritual truths. The way God made our brains actually aligns with how He calls us to live. The very structure of our being points to a God who heals.
I read Anatomy of the Soul during a season of deep pain and loss—partly the loss of my own brother—and in the midst of counseling and inner work. It was a time when I was experiencing the nearness and comfort of Jesus in profound ways. I think one reason the book resonated so deeply was that I was experiencing the healing, the “rewiring,” happening in real time during that season. The book left me with a feeling of awe and wonder at the intricacy of how God designed spiritual practices and our brains to intersect.
Faith That Holds Up Under Suffering
One of the biggest differences between these two books is where they land on the question of suffering.
For Gifty, suffering remains a problem without a satisfying answer. Faith didn’t explain it. Science couldn’t fix it. She’s left with unanswered questions, unresolved grief, and a longing for meaning.
Thompson, on the other hand, shows how the Gospel doesn’t erase suffering—but it transforms it. Jesus meets us in our pain. He enters our wounds. And through relationship—with Him and with others—our brains and hearts can actually be healed. Faith isn’t a crutch. It’s not a simplistic answer to deep pain. It’s the very thing that allows us to move through it, not alone but held.
What If Gifty Had More?
As I sat with both of these books, I kept coming back to this question: What if Gifty had encountered the kind of faith and faith community that Thompson describes?
Not a faith of cultural expectations or rigid moralism, but one that is deeply personal, healing, and alive.
What if she had known Jesus not as a distant deity, but as a comforter, a counselor, a healer of trauma and grief?
What if she had seen a faith that didn’t shy away from the hard questions, but held space for them—a faith that could withstand the weight of sorrow not by giving answers, but by offering presence? The presence of a God who weeps with us, walks with us, and is not intimidated by our doubt?
What if she'd had the chance to be a part of a grace-filled, healthy, vulnerable, authentic church community that embodied the good news of being honest about how flawed by our sin we are but how unconditionally loved we also are? A community where people could be real about their struggles and addictions and family dysfunction without judgment, with hope. A community where the pain and holes left by the brokenness of what our family members couldn't be to us is met with the comfort of those within the church becoming like parents and siblings and mentors that walk through life with us.
I don’t know how Gifty’s story would have changed. But I do know that in my own suffering, I’ve found the friendship of Jesus and authentic church community, this being deeply known, to be incredibly healing.
And at the end of the day, faith isn’t just something we believe or do. It’s Someone we know and are known by. Someone we treasure.
The Image by Matt Redman describes so well this treasure we have in relationship with Jesus—a reminder that we are not just brains or brokenness, but image-bearers, deeply known and dearly loved by the God who enters our suffering to redeem it.
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