I currently review nonfiction for BookPage, and reviewed fiction for the New York Journal of Books, which sadly shuttered its virtual doors in 2025. Occasionally, I review a piece independently and publish it here. Watch for updates!

Shooting Up

A memoir by Jonathan Tepper | Infinite Books | February 2026

One of the resounding questions in the world of memoir is why does this story matter? As in: What sets this lived experience apart from others? Some memoirs fail to answer that question, but Jonathan Tepper’s Shooting Up proves its place again and again—from the family photo that graces the cover to the quiet dignity that runs through every page.

The son of Christian missionaries, Tepper’s parents raised their children in the San Blas neighborhood of Madrid, dubbed “ground zero of Europe’s drug epidemic.” This wasn’t his parents’ first choice—they’d wanted to “work with students in a world of letters,” but God called them to start a church for the yonkis (the colloquial Spanish term for drug users). Tepper and his brothers were ingrained in the mission from the start, and it seems that God didn’t lead them astray. From small gatherings in their living room, Tepper’s parents would grow their church into Betel, an international program that now has rehabilitation centers in more than 100 countries. 

This book isn’t about that bigger story though. It isn’t about achievement and success. It’s about the very real people Tepper grew up with—the yonkis his parents committed their lives to helping: Raúl, Jambri, Luis, so many others. They became family. There’s no ego here, no savior complex. There are only people helping people. Though Tepper questions his own faith, he never renounces it, nor villainizes Christianity. The work his parents do in the name of the Lord is good work—there’s no denying that. “If God is love,” Tepper learns, “the Christian response to those who are hurting should always be more love.”

In addition to the addiction struggles the family helped people fight, they also found themselves navigating the HIV/AIDS crisis, which ran rampant through the heroin users they were trying to save. Tepper learns of the disease as a child, when it was barely understood, and grows up through its constant presence. The family loses innumerable friends. These losses coincide with others—there is great difficulty and heartbreak here—but the book still pushes us toward hope, and not in a placating sense.

Told in straightforward, inviting prose, the memoir feels nearly like a conversation. It’s genuine and heartfelt and important. Regardless of how readers feel about missionary work in foreign countries, or drug addiction and all that comes with it, Tepper’s story illustrates the strength of faith—not just in a higher power, but in the people here with us.