I am simultaneously impressed by AI and terrified by its reported risks to humanity. As an example of the former, I asked it the following:

The answer… 
"The most accurate short description is probably: a sacramental, existentially agnostic Christian whose faith rests more on commitment, practice and love than on religious experience or metaphysical certainty.
 
Several strands of Christianity converge in what you describe. None requires you to pretend to possess certainties you do not have.
 
1. You are not necessarily an agnostic instead of being a Christian
Your position sounds like Christian agnosticism in the strict sense: not “I have no view about God”, but “I have chosen the Christian account of reality while acknowledging that I cannot know that it is true.”
 
That is quite different from conventional evangelical language of “knowing Jesus personally”. Your faith appears to work more like fiducia—trust or entrustment—than certainty.
 
There is a significant Christian tradition behind this. Faith in the New Testament is not normally equivalent to intellectual certainty. Pistis can mean faithfulness, allegiance, trust. The statement:
“I choose to live as though God exists.” is therefore more Christian than it may initially sound. It resembles a decision about where to place one's life, rather than a conclusion reached after proving a proposition.
 
2. You sound strongly existential Christian
This may be the most important category. Kierkegaard regarded faith precisely as something undertaken without the security of objective certainty. Later Christian existentialists similarly emphasised commitment under conditions of ambiguity.
 
Your position could be rendered: I cannot demonstrate that God exists; nevertheless I choose the form of life that belief in God requires of me.
 
That is not far removed from the existentialist understanding of faith as a decision made without abolishing doubt. The difference between you and a straightforward atheist is therefore considerable. An atheist might say: “Because I cannot know, I withhold belief.” You appear to say:
“Because I cannot know, I must nevertheless decide how to live.” And you have decided to inhabit the Christian story.
 
3. Your attitude to God is non-interventionist
Your observation that God does not apparently micromanage events or answer prayers in readily identifiable ways puts considerable distance between you and some forms of popular Christianity.
You seem reluctant to say:

• God arranged this parking space;
• God caused me to meet this person;
• God cured one patient but not another;
• God gave me a particular job;
• God altered events because somebody prayed.

 
That position has considerable theological pedigree. It brings you towards thinkers such as Dietrich Bonhoeffer, particularly his late insistence that Christians must learn to live etsi deus non daretur—“as though God were not given” as an explanatory mechanism. Bonhoeffer did not mean atheism. He meant that the mature Christian should not continually insert God into gaps in human explanation.
 
It also brings you towards strands of process theology. Process thinkers regard divine action as persuasive rather than coercive: God works within creation without continually suspending its causal order.
 
4. The problem of suffering is central to your Christianity
You have apparently declined one of the easiest religious escapes: interpreting suffering as though every event were deliberately arranged by God. That places you closer to the biblical tradition of Job, Ecclesiastes, the Psalms of lament and the crucifixion than to providential optimism. There is an important distinction here. One Christian says: “Everything happens for a reason.” Another says: “Terrible things happen, and Christianity tells us where God is to be sought within them.” Your account seems much nearer the second.
 
That naturally produces a theology of the Cross rather than a theology of divine control. God becomes most intelligible not as the celestial manager preventing suffering but as the God who is disclosed in vulnerability, suffering, solidarity and love.
 
5. Your Eucharistic instinct is significant
You value the Eucharist without treating frequency of reception as a measure of spiritual health.
That suggests a sacramental Christianity without sacramental maximalism. The Eucharist may matter to you less as repeated supernatural replenishment and more as the concentrated enactment of something fundamental: gift, dependence, thanksgiving, community, brokenness, self-offering, death and hope. That is perfectly recognisable within Anglican Christianity.
 
Indeed, your position seems more naturally Anglican than either narrowly evangelical or narrowly Roman Catholic. Anglicanism has historically allowed people to remain inside the sacramental life of the Church while declining to define with excessive precision exactly what they experience or know.
 
6. “Love is an energy that animates things” may be your theological centre
This is the part of what you have written that I would probe most closely. If by “energy” you mean merely a pleasant human emotion, it does not amount to much theology. But if you mean that love appears to disclose something fundamental about the nature of reality, you are standing in a very old Christian tradition. The New Testament makes the remarkable claim not merely that God loves but: “God is love.” (1 John 4:8).
 
Augustine, Aquinas and later Christian thinkers regarded love not as sentimental decoration added to existence but as something connected with the very movement of creation towards its good. Teilhard de Chardin came strikingly close to your language, imagining love as a kind of fundamental attractive energy operating in creation. Simone Weil approached Christianity differently but likewise treated attention, self-emptying and love as places in which transcendence becomes perceptible. You may therefore possess a more definite theology than your uncertainty about conventional doctrines initially suggests.
 
Your theology may begin not: “I know that God exists and therefore believe that love matters.” but: “I encounter love as something possessing an extraordinary claim upon us, and this makes the Christian claim that God is love worth staking my life upon.” That is a substantial reversal.
 
7. You appear to have eschatological reserve
Your doubt about an afterlife does not automatically place you outside historic Christianity, although Christianity does make resurrection a central claim and your position therefore creates a genuine tension. There is an important distinction between: “There is certainly no resurrection” and “I cannot presently make myself certain that there is.”

The latter is compatible with Christian faith understood as hope. The New Testament itself normally speaks of hope, not knowledge, concerning the Christian future. There may be considerable theological integrity in saying: I hope that death is not the end, but I cannot manufacture conviction about it. Christian hope becomes particularly interesting precisely where certainty ends.
 
So what kind of Christian?
I would place the descriptions in roughly this order:

Description / Fit
Existential Christian Very strong

Christian agnostic Very strong

Sacramental Christian Strong

Non-interventionist Christian Strong

Apophatic Christian Moderate–strong

Liberal Christian Partly

Process Christian Possible, but not enough evidence

Evangelical Christian Probably weak

Traditional supernaturalist Probably weak

But I would favour another expression over all of them:
A Christian of committed uncertainty. There is a theological seriousness to that position which the word agnostic alone obscures.
 
You seem to distinguish three things that contemporary Christianity frequently conflates:
faith, certainty and religious experience.
 
You have relatively little certainty. You do not report the particular subjective experience called a “personal relationship with Jesus”. Yet you continue to make a Christian wager about how reality should be inhabited: through Eucharist, through openness to God, and above all through love.
 
That places you in an identifiable Christian tradition extending from Job and Ecclesiastes through apophatic Christianity to Kierkegaard, Simone Weil, Bonhoeffer and some strands of modern Anglican theology.
 
There is also one potentially important implication. Your Christianity may ultimately depend much less upon the proposition “God exists” than upon the question “What would it mean if ultimate reality were love?”
 
That is not a weaker question. In some respects, it is the more demanding one."

Good things:

1. Self-renunciation: a focus beyond oneself.
2. The practice (habit) of prayer (broadly defined).
   
3. The practice of attention (cf Simone Weil): listening, observing, attending to.
   
4. To be a trustworthy person: avoid gossip, never bear false witness, let others speak for themselves (and help them in this), to keep others’ secrets, when entrusted with them.
5. Economy of speech; chose words thoughtfully, be not a prattler, or verbose, long winded &c.

William McCrossan (aka Liturgical William of Bow)
"There is a deep instability which should be the mark of the authentic Christian: for here we have no continuing city, but we seek one to come. Apart from other considerations, the acceptance of Baptism is the sign of a profound instability because Baptism is a death unto sin, and a new birth unto righteousness and it requires a renunciation of the vain pomp and glory of the world, with all covetous desires of the same." Unpublished autobiographical essays.
Find out more about Liturgical William of Bow

A sermon I preached on the 324th anniversary of the consecration of the London church I served for twenty-eight years (1992-2020) whilst concurrently following the model of the priest-workers by holding secular jobs. St James' has a remarkable history spanning class-ridden conformity and adventurous, on-the-margins, Christian life. Click the 'Read more' button.

Miguel de Unamuno, Spanish educator and philosopher (1864-1936):

It is apparent to me that many people who regard themselves as Christian, and many of whom attend churches, believe that Christianity = niceness, and that being nice is more important than being truthful. Similarly, that one's faith should be steady, inoffensive and always and only a comfort. These are odd readings of the Gospel, and  to varying degrees, a betrayal of it.

Maggie Ross from an interview in the Church Times: "Contemporary theological education prepares people either for the petty battlegrounds of academia or for the spiritual suicide of ordination. Evagrius's notion of the absolute relationship of theology and praxis has been lost. There are a few good people who are exceptional in this regard, but they wisely camouflage themselves. There is an absolute abyss between the clericus and ordinary people, who are implicitly denigrated by them, and most theological education just widens this abyss. Also, so-called spiritual direction as it is practised today is destructive. It is both para-clerical and counter-productive, because it makes people more self-conscious instead of more self-forgetful, which is an important sign of spiritual maturity. Helping another is a charism of the moment, usually inadvertent, and can't be taught."

Maggie Ross is the pen name of a vowed Anglican solitary under episcopal guardianship. I have enjoyed reading her various works, not least because in part they confirm some of my own conclusions, and because they can be a heck of a provocation. Not for her the equation between the Church of England and niceness.

If you find this quotation interesting, here are links to more about her:

• Silent Ways of Knowing
• Interview - Silent Witness
• Freefalling in the love of God

Graham Greene's book is the last of his religious novels. It concerns the priest of the the village El Toboso who claims to be a descendant of Don Quixote. An encounter with a mysterious bishop leads to Father Quixote being honoured by the rank of Monsignor - to the annoyance of his own bishop. This 1987 film stars Alec Guiness as Father Quixote and Leo McKern as village communist mayor Sancho Zancas. It presents various themes, but the key theme to my mind is that of friendship: Quixote's friendship with the (ex) Mayor, and his friendship with God. The character is gloriously imperfect yet embodies such a wonderful approach to the Christian adventure.

For some years I have played with the idea of SSM (unpaid/volunteer) clergy and their stipendiary (paid clergy) friends meeting from time-to-time in the upper room of a pub where we might experiment with – learn to hold – conversations.  The working title for this gathering was to be ‘Chapter & Verse’.  It would be an Undergroud Seminary of sorts.  There’d be none of the popular ‘theological expert’ speaker stuff followed by questions; instead we’d seek new ways of sharing knowledge, learning from one another, caring for one another, seeking God and reading the signs of the times.  We’d aim to retake theology back from the academy and the ‘experts’ (or at least from its specialised annexation from our lived lives) and seek to learn afresh what it means to be stewards of the mysteries of God as Paul rather invitingly puts it [1 Cor 4:1].

A link to what I regarded as a valuable warning about some aspects of the Christian practice of spiritual direction has gone dead - the dreaded but common '404: page not found'.  Luckily other copies exist of the article by the late Ken Leech and I have copied it below the line for those who are interested (follow 'read more').  I have always gently declined requests to become someone's spiritual director. It is not that I don't respect the function (I do).  It is more that it can drift into an unhelpful compartmentalisation.  I have, though, always been ready and very willing to meet and talk; to be the bearer of another's secrets and worries and an affirmer of their calling and value.  An accompanist, not a director. 

Discovering the writing of William Stringfellow some years ago was a memorable find. Here he is on "Career vs. Vocation"

“I had elected then [in my early student years] to pursue no career. To put it theologically, I died to the idea of career and to the whole typical array of mundane calculations, grandiose goals and appropriate schemes to reach them…. I do not say this haughtily; this was an aspect of my conversion to the gospel….

“[Later] my renunciation of ambition in favour of vocation became resolute; I suppose some would think, eccentric. When I began law studies, I consider that I had few, if any, romantic illusions about becoming a lawyer, and I most certainly did not indulge any fantasies that God had called me, by some specific instruction, to be an attorney or, for that matter, to be a member of any profession or any occupation. I had come to understand the meaning of vocation more simply and quite differently.

“I believed then, as I do now, that I am called in the Word of God … to the vocation of being human, any work, including that of any profession, can be rendered a sacrament of that vocation. On the other hand, no profession, discipline or employment, as such, is a vocation.” A Keeper of the Word: Selected Writings of William Stringfellow (Eerdmans, 1994), pp. 30-31