Random House: Bringing You the Best in Fiction, Nonfiction, and Children's Books
Newletters and Alerts

Buy now from Random House

See more online stores - God.com


Extreme Intimacy with an Interactive God

Written by James Alexander LangteauxAuthor Alerts:  Random House will alert you to new works by James Alexander Langteaux


List Price: $7.99


On Sale: March 27, 2013
Pages: 0 | ISBN: 978-1-58860-107-0
Published by : Multnomah Books Religion/Business/Forum
God.com Cover

Share & Shelve:

  • Add This - God.com
  • Email this page - God.com
  • Print this page - God.com
This book has no tags.
You can add some at Library Thing.


God.com is a refreshing, unflinchingly honest approach to seeking our Creator. Witty, poignant, and surprising text draws today's techno-savvy readers to God's "home page," where they can learn to more fully understand and communicate with Him. In these pages, author James Langteaux boldy tackles some of our toughest questions about maintaining a relationship with an invisible being-discussing God as Father, Lover, and Best Friend. God.com helps readers identify and break down walls of fear so they can allow God's love and purposes to change their lives in profound ways. It invites us all to face the piercing, unpadded truth of God's passion for us and respond, reminding us that our maturity is at stake.



God.com is intended to introduce you to the most incredible friend I have come to know. It is meant to show you how, by becoming interactive with the God of the universe, our softwhere will dramatically change—wherever we go.

I hope that this book will speak two languages. On one level, I want to speak to the skeptic who claims not to believe. On the other, I want to challenge those who claim they believe to begin to really live like they mean it.

Although I wrote this book for you, it may have been just as much for me. As much as I thought I believed, in the end the writing of this book has truly set me free.

Now, more than ever, I really do believe.


And the word is B E L I E V E.

We are all dying to believe. And dying because we don’t. I think believing is a little like looking past what we can see to stare into the eyes of God while falling forward into the blackness—forward, ever forward— free-falling until finally we can see. When we do, what we see is what He sees.


Falling into blackness is not my idea of fun, especially when I don’t know when, where, or how the blackness will finally end. Or, more frighteningly still, if it ever will end.

Belief requires a beginning, and that is where we are.

For me, belief began a few years ago with a falling experience— falling from a comfortable life working for a television network; falling, falling nearly off the planet to learn to listen, obey, and trust.

When the God of the universe asks you to believe, your response will ultimately depend on where you are standing, because where you are standing will affect what and how you are hearing.

Monty Python made that point in The Life of Brian. It captured something powerful in the scene where Jesus speaks to the crowd of five thousand. If you think about the logistics of that endeavor in light of the lack of technology, amplification, and lapel mics, you’ll realize that there would have been a lot of people who wouldn’t have heard exactly what Jesus said. What they heard would have depended on where they were standing. Even though Jesus’ words to the crowd were “Blessed are the peacemakers,” the guys in the back heard “Blessed are the cheesemakers, for they shall inherit the earth.”

“What’s so special about cheesemakers?” they asked each
other. An argument ensued—as discussions involving God and
cheese so often do.

The first time God asked me to believe, I was standing knee-deep in the decadent decade of the ’80s. Jesus asked me, just as He asked the rich young ruler, to sell everything, give to the poor, and follow Him. Despite what Jesus said, I heard, “Buy all you can, wave to the poor, and I will follow you.”

So I did. And He didn’t.

God is patient and loving. He waited a while before He asked me again. He waited until my proximity had improved my ability to hear Him. It took me about seven years of moving closer to be able to heed His call. When He asked again, I heard correctly.

This time, however, selling all I had involved letting go of a comfortable job, world travel, a home, car, and friends and moving ten thousand miles from warmth and safety to the bottom of the planet. In short, I had an opportunity to create a new model for television at a quarter of my salary, at a facility with a fraction of the equipment and resources I was used to, at a two-bit TV station on the south island of New Zealand.

It was glamorous and exciting—right up until I landed in Christchurch and was denied the standard three-month visa. Instead I was given three days. This can’t be a by-product of belief, I thought. Following that moment of defeat, my new boss dropped me off at a cold, dreary motel, and through cloudy eyes and with a misty mind, I watched a dark sky begin to gently weep. After twenty-four hours of flying forward and flailing faithwise, I found myself falling fitfully into a dark and dreamless sleep.

Falling off the planet into an abyss called belief is probably the most frightening decision a person could ever choose to make. Maybe that’s why the journey called believe is one people seldom take.

When I woke disoriented, dazed, and confused, with my internal clock completely askew, I wrestled with waking dreams of my friends in the States, at the pub, near the beach where we used to sit late into the summer nights talking endlessly about life, love, God, and friendship. The camaraderie only intensified when I shared my plans to move to New Zealand. It’s funny how people will drop their guard and let their walls fall when they know you are about to leave. Their secrets are safe with you, and they will tell you how much they love you, because you’ll soon be gone, and their vulnerability
will have no consequences.

But this isn’t a story about moving to New Zealand, or anywhere else for that matter. The story of believe involves moving all over or nowhere at all, depending on what your unique calling may be. We all have a purpose and a destiny, but we only begin to see it when we let ourselves go falling forward into the dark land of belief.


As hard as it may be, this adventure is worth every hardship, doubt, and fear you must wrestle with until you come to that gentle place where you can sleep, nestled close to the one who calls you to believe no matter how the storms rage or the waves threaten.

Will you stare deeply into the eyes of God and look past what you can see? Will you fall forward into the blackness of belief while you flail and fight until you learn to rest in the knowledge that you don’t have to see when you truly believe?


And I believe you want to, too, or you wouldn’t be reading these words. But I don’t want to believe that I’m supposed to love a god I’ve learned to fear, a god I’ve run from, and a god I don’t understand— like some bipolar boyfriend who has suddenly moved in with my mom. Just because she loves him doesn’t mean I have to, will, or can.
James Alexander Langteaux

About James Alexander Langteaux

James Alexander Langteaux - God.com
James Alexander Langteaux has worked in many forms of communication and entertainment on an international basis. After receiving his master's degree in communication at Regent University, he worked as writer, producer, and director for The 700 Club for six years. His work on the NBC miniseries A Woman Named Jackie earned him an Emmy Award nomination. In the mid-nineties Langteaux hosted a weekly, four-hour live music television show in New Zealand, where he also promoted mentoring programs for young people. Today he works in Los Angeles with Media International, which creates videos with strong moral messages for public school audiences.

  • God.com by James Alexander Langteaux
  • March 27, 2013
  • Religion - Christian Life
  • Multnomah Books
  • $7.99
  • 9781588601070

Your E-Mail Address
send me a copy

Recipient's E-Mail Address
(multiple addresses may be separated by commas)

A personal message: