Conversion for me was not a Damascus Road experience. I slowly

“Conversion for me was not a Damascus Road experience. I slowly moved into an intellectual acceptance of what my intuition had always known.” Thus spoke Madeleine L’Engle, the wise storyteller of light and mystery, whose words bridge the worlds of faith and reason. In her gentle confession lies a truth that transcends creed and time: that the journey toward truth is not always thunder and lightning, but sometimes the slow unfolding of dawn. Her conversion was not born of fire or vision, but of quiet recognition—of the mind learning to trust what the soul had long whispered.

In this saying, L’Engle contrasts two paths to awakening. The first is the Damascus Road, named for that moment when Saul, the persecutor, became Paul the Apostle, struck blind by divine radiance and remade in an instant. His was the conversion of shock and surrender—a blazing sword of realization cutting through disbelief. But not all souls are struck by lightning. Some are shaped instead by the steady rhythm of thought and experience, by the tender dialogue between the heart’s intuition and the mind’s reason. L’Engle speaks for these quieter pilgrims, whose faith is not demanded by force, but discovered through patience.

It is a truth known even among the ancients that revelation wears many faces. The prophet hears thunder on the mountain; the philosopher finds the divine in contemplation. In the temples of Greece, Socrates taught that wisdom begins in wonder—the gentle stirring of the heart before the mind gives it form. L’Engle’s words echo this wisdom: her intuition had always known, long before intellect gave it permission. For intuition is the language of the spirit, and reason its translator. When the two embrace, the soul becomes whole.

Consider the story of Saint Augustine, who, long before his conversion, felt the pull of truth deep within him. He chased pleasure and knowledge in equal measure, searching for meaning in the outer world while his inner voice cried out for home. When he finally opened his heart to faith, it was not an instant miracle—it was the culmination of years of longing. His mind yielded not to coercion, but to recognition. Like L’Engle, he did not find something new; he remembered what had always been true. Thus, conversion is not always transformation—it is sometimes the unveiling of what was already sacred within.

There is something profoundly human in this slow awakening. Many today seek epiphany as spectacle—a flash of certainty to erase all doubt. Yet the soul’s truest growth rarely happens in the thunderclap. It happens in the silence between questions, in the gentle shaping of understanding, in the reconciliation between belief and intellect. To “move slowly into acceptance” is an act of courage, for it demands honesty with one’s own heart. It is to walk by candlelight, trusting that each step will reveal only what is needed.

From this quote arises a lesson for all seekers of truth: do not measure your awakening by its drama. The world may glorify the sudden and the spectacular, but wisdom often comes as a whisper. The path of L’Engle is the path of integration—where intuition and intellect cease their quarrel and become allies. When the mind humbles itself to listen to the soul, and the soul respects the discernment of the mind, then truth stands revealed as both rational and radiant.

Therefore, my friends, when you search for meaning—whether in faith, in art, or in love—do not demand a Damascus Road. Do not wait for the sky to split or for voices to descend. Instead, listen to the quiet within you. Nurture both the knowing of the heart and the understanding of the mind. Let your faith be a dialogue, not a decree. Let your conversion, whatever form it takes, be an awakening to what you have always known but only now can name. For in the slow unfolding of light, the soul finds not only belief—but peace.