Marilynne Robinson's Gilead on the table. Written before Jack, but its events coming afterward. Interesting to a non-believer that the literary artefacts of a worldview foreign to one's own—as in, some religious people, including at least one rather sophisticated author, believe Christianity is literally true—can claim a strong hold on one's attention, and one can respect her religious characters without thinking for a moment that their metaphysical beliefs are true. But here's the thing: maybe it's unsurprising that an author steeped in religion would turn to fiction, because where do you draw the line between them? Does it even exist? If someone is comparable to Jack Boughton, that doesn't mean he's ever going to meet his Della Miles. That is, divine grace or anything resembling it, contra Robinson, is itself a fiction—or slippery enough that it makes no difference—and the concept of it is comparable to the happily-ever-afterism of both fairy tale and Jane Austen.