This is the perhaps startling presumption behind Conversations with God: not only does a deity exist, but he deigns to reveal himself directly to mankind. And on multiple occasions, has done so—to Neale Donald Walsch, author of the series of books published under that same title. No plot points are spoiled by spelling this out; it’s all right there on the theatre marquee.

What may surprise fans of Walsch’s book—all of the various millions of them—is that this movie is less about those legendary conversations than it is about the path that led Walsch to those precious (and yet perfectly mundane) metaphysical moments.

After an opening sequence that very obliquely hints at where the story is ultimately headed, the film introduces us to Walsch’s ordinary middle-class existence. He leads a life of “quiet desperation,” as Thoreau put it; but he is not destined to take his song with him “to the grave.” Instead, his life crumbles even further; already having alienated his family, he loses his job and finds himself literally out on the street.

With some kind of sense that his ex-wife will bail him out, he takes a bus from Portland, Oregon, to Medford, but loses his nerve on the rainy doorstep. Instead, he finds his way to a campground on the outskirts of town that caters to the victims of homelessness. There, a sequence of improbable coincidences puts him back on the path toward stability—but Walsch, played particularly well in these understated scenes by Henry Czerny, still manages to get himself in the way of the Grand Design.

And then, as he cries out to the cosmos in frustration and anger, the cosmos answers. In a voice that he can hear. With words that he can write down and share with others.

The last third or so of the film brings the story full circle. The climax is not so much Walsch’s divine encounter; the narrative payoff is the contrast of Walsch’s former life of fear and his newborn life of love.

C.S. Lewis once wrote of “certain inhibitions” that had “paralyzed” much of his childhood religious experience. “Why did one find it so hard to feel as one was told one ought to feel about God or about the sufferings of Christ? I thought the chief reason was that one was told one ought to. An obligation to feel can freeze feelings. And reverence itself did harm.” Certainly, Walsch found himself in a similar place when he bottomed out. He believed in God, but didn’t much care for the God he’d been taught about. He operated, on a spiritual level, almost solely from fear of retribution and that sense of obligation. Where the artistic experience enabled Lewis to “steal past those watchful dragons” and restore the “real potency” of the spiritual life, Walsch found potency in the divine voice. And that spiritual renewal allowed Walsch to thrive right where he was—to finally, as a fully grown man, be free of the self-destructive habits and addictions that had nearly destroyed his life.

Oh. And those pearls of wisdom that Walsch scribbled down also sold millions of books. Interestingly—and fortunately—this part of the story is really only a cinematic footnote.

Director Stephen Simon brings a marvelous visual eye and narrative pace to the film. Particularly impressive are the visual conceptions of the film’s opening and closing scenes—sequences whose metaphysical implications are sure to pique the ire of those who don’t particularly buy Walsch’s “God is within you all” line of inquiry—as well as the simple, gritty realism of Walsch’s experiences on the street, which reminded me of Martin Bell’s American Heart (1992) and Tim Hunter’s The Saint of Fort Washington (1993). This ain’t Factotum or Barfly land, which is good, because there’s no hint of ironic self-indulgence or sarcastic humor in Walsch’s Conversations.

Simon also wrings a heartfelt, warm, and convincing performance out of Henry Czerny, whose résumé in no way suggests that he’s capable of carrying a film as he does here. He’s always been a solid ensemble player, but here he absolutely shines. Whether he fully captures the real Neale Donald Walsch is irrelevant (and I couldn’t tell you if he did). What he does here is merely what Simon set out to accomplish: paint a sympathetic warts-and-all portrait of an Everyman in need of salvation.

And fortunately, Eric DelaBarre’s script doesn’t get overly preachy. Yes, the final third does have some public appearance scenes, when the newly successful author Walsch gets to say things like, “We are the ones we’ve always been waiting for,” “You are your own rule maker,” and “Don’t worry about what others think about you—think about what you think about you.” On paper (and in theory) that all sounds like a pretty narcissistic spirituality; but in the context of the movie, Czerny’s performance, and a sound grounding in more orthodox theology, there’s at least a ring of truth to it all.

What are refreshing, at the very least, are writers and filmmakers who take spirituality seriously. This film is by no means glib or second-rate.

And in hearing God’s voice, Walsch is at least in a tradition that stretches back to Paul’s Damascus Road vision and beyond, and manifests itself even in Facing the Giants’ hallway prayer warrior. Conversations’ Neale Donald Walsch and Giants’ Grant Taylor have more than just a little in common.

Now, I don’t really see eye-to-eye with Walsch’s “paper pad, ear of mine, and voice of Thine” theology. But I also know that I don’t yet line up with God, either. This, among other things, is what Walsch and I have in common. To the extent that anyone is interested in artistic fare that challenges spiritual complacency, Conversations with God could be a welcome, if perhaps too-gently couched, starting place.