My latest: a review of Tara Isabella Burton

I’m in the latest issue of Commonweal with a longish review of Tara Isabella Burton’s latest (nonfiction) book, Self-Made: Creating Our Identities from Da Vinci to the Kardashians. Online, the title is “Have We Become Gods?” In the magazine, it’s “The Brand Called You.” Here are the opening two paragraphs:

I am what I want, and I have the power within myself to make myself what I want to be, if only I find the will to activate this inner potential—or rather, to manifest this authentic identity. Such is the thesis under review in Tara Isabella Burton’s new book, Self-Made: Creating Our Identities from Da Vinci to the Kardashians. The thesis is not a new one. It has a long history, which, in Burton’s telling, begins around the fifteenth century. Though she finds its philosophical culmination in the eighteenth, with the Enlightenment, most of her story covers the past two hundred years: from bon ton and Beau Brummell to “the two most prominent self-creators of the past twenty years,” Kim Kardashian and Donald Trump. Across Western Europe and the Anglophone world, self-creation as both a transcendent possibility and a moral imperative trickles down to ordinary people’s lives and self-understanding, mutating in tandem with religious, economic, and technological changes. Since creation is traditionally the prerogative of deity, Burton’s story is ultimately about “how we became gods.”

Burton is a reliable chronicler. This book continues a theme explored in her 2020 work, Strange Rites: New Religions for a Godless World. There she argued that rumors of religion’s death in the West have been greatly exaggerated. The God of Abraham may be on life support, so to speak, but other gods are alive and well. We haven’t refuted religion so much as “remixed” it. Postmodern spirituality is a potent cocktail of magic, money, and memes; a hybrid made possible by the internet, the dynamic power of capitalism, and the loss of authority once vested in religious institutions and their ordained leaders. America, at least, is not a land of atheists or even agnostics. It’s full of witches, cosplayers, crystals, fangirls, Proud Boys, and Goop. Is SoulCycle a religion? What about wellness culture? The borders of religion turn out to be porous. Accordingly, Burton suggests we’re misreading the signs of the times. We don’t live in a secular age. The gods haven’t vanished; they’ve migrated. Our age is as religious as any other. You just have to know where to look.

Read the rest here. And take note, please, that the URL for the review concludes in this way: “burton-trump-kardashian-east.” Go back a decade and find me somewhere in New Haven, nose buried in a book, prepping for comprehensive exams on systematic theology, and tell me that one day I’d write an essay with those names in the URL. My assumption would have been that something had gone terribly, terribly wrong in my career…

The smartest people I’ve ever known

have all been religious. Most of them have been devout Christians. Whether within the academy or without, my whole life has been full to the brim with brainy, well-educated, introspective, self-critical, “enlightened” folks who also believe in an invisible, incorporeal, omnipotent Creator of all things who became human in the person of Jesus and who calls all peoples to worship and follow him.

The fact that a bunch of believers are also intelligent and well-informed doesn’t, in and of itself, entail anything about the truth of Christian faith. Perhaps they’re all wrong, just as Christians suppose atheists are all wrong. It doesn’t make a lick of difference that atheists include educated, thoughtful people. If Christianity is true, then all the smart atheists are dead wrong (at least about God)—and vice versa. On the topic of religion, as with any other topic, a lot of bright people in the world are wrong; their brightness doesn’t ensure their rightness.

I say this to make a point I’ve made before: It is a strangely persistent myth, but a myth nonetheless, that sincere faith or religious belief or devout piety is a kind of maturational stage that persons above a certain level of intelligence inevitably leave behind given enough time, education, and social-emotional health. It isn’t true. Anyone not living in a bubble knows it’s not true. Yet it endures. Not only among tiny scattered remnants of New Atheists but also among graduates of elite universities, the types who congregate in big cities and fill jobs in journalism, academia, and politics. The types who love to celebrate what they call “diversity” but look down on anyone who, unlike them, believes in God and attends church, synagogue, or mosque.

The joke isn’t on the dummies who keep on believing. The joke is on people whose social and intellectual world is so parochial that they’ve honestly never read, met, or spoken to a serious religious person—one who’s read what they’ve read, knows what they know, and “still” believes. Better put, someone who’s read and knows all those things and continues to believe in God because of the evidence, not in spite of it. Someone whose reason points her to God, not someone who has sacrificed his intellect on the altar of faith.

Christians and other religious folks in America are fully aware that there are people unlike them in our society. They know they’re not alone. They know that atheists and agnostics and Nones include geniuses, scientists, scholars, journalists, professors, politicians, celebrities, artists, and more. They’re no fools. They know the score. They don’t pretend that “intelligence + education = believing whatever I do.”

Yet somehow that equation is ubiquitous among the secular smart set. I’m happy to leave them be. They’re free to continue in their ignorance. But I admit to being embarrassed on their behalf and, yes, more than occasionally annoyed.

Every fantasy a comedy, every comedy a theodicy

Recently I wrote about returning to Osten Ard, the fantasy world of novelist Tad Williams in his two series Memory, Sorrow, and Thorn and The Last King of Osten Ard. One of the things I’d forgotten about the first series, a trilogy written from 1988 to 1993, is its interest in theodicy. Multiple characters throughout the books wonder, both aloud and to themselves, about the existence of God (or the gods); about their power; about their goodness; about the supposed truths taught by priests and monks; about the myths of old, handed down for centuries; about whether a world such as theirs—namely, a world of unremitting pain, illness, suffering, violence, and death, all apparently senseless, random, and unrectified—is one a just God would either create or sustain. As the lead character Simon realizes at one point: he no longer feels himself capable of praying to such a God even if he does exist. Yet this very realization is itself an indication that there is no such God, since he would not correspond to “the old stories.”

I do not know whether Tad Williams, the author, believes in God, nor can I say just what his aim was in posing these theodical questions throughout his trilogy. I’ve not yet re-read the second half of the third book in the series, so my memory may be wrong, but I don’t recall him resolving these questions in a clear or satisfactory way. That’s fine. Theodicy is usually a dish best served incomplete anyway.

Here’s the thing, though. Williams’ story wraps up beautifully. Every narrative thread is woven, by story’s end, into a gorgeous tapestry clearly thought through and planned out from the beginning. This is what makes the epic tale so marvelously told. There is not a character forgotten, nor a plot device left by the wayside. By the final pages, it’s as though behind this seemingly senseless drama stands an author, an author with meaning and purpose, whose design may have been hidden before but has now been made manifest.

It seems this way, because it is this way. The author isn’t a hypothesis we are forced to postulate in order to make sense of a story we otherwise couldn’t make sense of. We know the author’s name. The story is a novel. He wrote it. He planned it. He designed it. Duh.

But there’s the rub. If, outside the text, there stands an author, then inside the text, within the story, there must likewise be an Author. The perfect pleasing blueprint of the thing works because there is an architect. The fact of there being an architect is itself an answer to the characters’ ponderings about God. The characters wonder to themselves whether they are living in a meaningful story or a meaningless chaos. Well, we know: it’s the former, not the latter. The end of the story clears that right up. More to the point, the fact that they are characters inside a story written by an author for readers’ pleasure is as direct an answer as one could have. It may not be an answer available to the characters, within the story, but it’s a meta-textual answer available to us, the readers of their story.

In this way, Williams is unable to render a negative answer to the theodicy his narrative is meant to embody, however ambivalent his own intentions may be. Merely by authoring the story and having it make some kind of sense, he answers his own question: Yes, there is a God. In a word, it’s him. He’s the deus ex machina. He’s the one behind the curtain. There’s someone pulling the strings. It’s him. And if he exists, then the existence of God (or the gods) within the world he’s created is a given. Of course he (they) exist. Otherwise the story wouldn’t unfold the way it does; wouldn’t be orchestrated and choreographed in such a supremely fitting and satisfying manner.

This, in turn, becomes an extra-textual answer about our world, not just Osten Ard. There is a God in our world just as there is in that world, as evidenced by the fact that we make worlds like Osten Ard. Human sub-creation imitates and exemplifies divine creation. In the words of poet Franz Wright:

…And the way, always, being 
a maker 
reminds:

you were made. 

What I mean is this. Insofar as a fantasy is a comedy, it is also a theodicy: it poses and answers whether there is a God and, if he exists, whether he is both all-good and all-powerful. There is and he is, fantasy replies. For in a comedy, the Good triumphs in the end—ultimately, in some way, to some degree. This is why Dante’s masterpiece is called, simply, La Commedia. It’s the comedy, and therefore the divine comedy. This world is a comedy, for all its evil and suffering. It is not a tragedy.

For modern fantasy to avoid theodicy, it would have to embrace tragedy. Not darkness, not “grittiness,” not violence and sadism and gratuitous sex and playing footsie with nihilism. Actual, bona fide tragedy. I’ve not encountered fantasy that does that. And even then, if there’s a human author doing the tragedy-writing, there’s a case to be made that it can’t fully escape the pull of theodicy. It seems to me you’d have to go full Sartre and write a fantasy akin to La Nausée. But what world-building fantasist wants to do that? Is even capable of stomaching it?

We write because we are written. We make because we are made. We work providence in our stories because providence works in ours. We give the final word to the Good because the Good has the final word in our world—or will, at least; we hope, at least.

This is why every fantasy is a theodicy. Because every fantasy is a comedy. And comedy is a witness to our trust, howsoever we deny it or mask it, of our trust that God is, that God is good, and that God will right all wrongs in the End.

Sin, preaching, and the therapeutic gospel

Regular readers will have noticed a regular theme, or convergence of themes, on the blog over the last few years. In a phrase, the theme is the question of how to be and to do church in a therapeutic age. This question includes a range of issues: evangelism, liturgy, sacraments, preaching, class, education, literacy, exegesis, culture, technology, disenchantment, secularism, functional atheism, and more.

Three constant conversation partners are Richard Beck, Alan Jacobs, and Jake Meador (the persons and the blogs!). A fourth is my friend Myles Werntz, whom I’ve known for more than a decade, whom I’ve had as a fellow Abilenian for more than five years, and whom I’ve had as a colleague at ACU for almost three years. His Substack is called “Christian Ethics in the Wild.” You should subscribe!

His latest issue is on holiness, prompted by a conversation with an undergraduate student. The student earnestly asked him the following: Why doesn’t anyone—at church or university—ever talk about sin? Neither the student nor Myles is sin-obsessed. They just find themselves wondering about the fact that, and why, sin-talk is in retreat.

They’re right to do so. Sin is a byword these days. There are many reasons why. Much has to do with generational baggage. Boomers, Gen X, and even some older Millennials do not want to reproduce what they understand themselves to have received: namely, an imbalanced spiritual formation, whereby believers of every age, but especially youth, are perpetually held out over the flames of hell, rotting and smoldering in the stench of their sin, unless and until God snatches them back—in the nick of time—upon their confession of faith and/or baptism. Such ministers and older believers do not want, in other words, young people to feel themselves to be sinners, tip to toe and all the way through. Instead, they want them to feel themselves beloved by God. For they are. They are God’s creatures, made in his image, for whom Christ died.

But there’s the catch. Why would Christ die for creatures about whom all we can say is, they are beloved of God, and not also, they have sinned and fallen short of God’s glory? The more sin drops out of the grammar of Christian life, the more the cross of Jesus becomes unintelligible. So much so that children and teenagers can’t articulate, even in basic terms, why Jesus came to earth, died, and rose again.

There is much to say about this phenomenon. As ever, the church’s leaders are fighting the last generation’s war. The result is extreme over-correction and, however unintended, the mirror-image mis-formation of the young. Instead of believing they’re worth nothing, being filthy sinners whom God can’t stand the sight of, they now believe they’re worth everything, and therefore utterly worthy—sin being a word they’d barely recognize, much less use to describe themselves. Moreover, this is where therapy enters in. Self-image and self-esteem and mental health having taken over load-bearing duty in Christian grammar, replacing concepts like sin and righteousness, holiness and justification, atonement and deliverance, the Christian life comes to be understood as the achievement of a certain well-adjusted standing in the world. The aim is to find emotional, physical, financial, relational, vocational, and spiritual balance. The aim, in a word, is health. And it is utterly this-worldly.

Note, in addition, the burden this places on the believer. When sin-talk is operative, it does a great deal of work in making sense of one’s unhappiness, one’s sense of there being something wrong, not just with the world but with oneself. Whereas when the message is simultaneously that (a) God affirms me just as I am, so that (b) I don’t need God to move me from where I am to where I’m not, then (c) the upshot is a sort of therapeutic Pelagianism. Or, as Christian Smith has popularized the term, Moralistic Therapeutic Deism (MTD). God is there to observe and to affirm, but neither to judge nor to save. And this is a burden, rather than a relief, because all of a sudden I seem to, need to, matter a lot. Yet one look in the mirror shows me that I don’t matter at all. I’m a blip on the radar of cosmic time. I’m nothing. So I keep upping the ante of just how much God loves and values me, even though I and everyone else I know sense that something is amiss. But saying “something is amiss” sure smells like shame, guilt, and sin … so I turn back to the latest self-help Instagram influencer to help me see just how worthy and valued I am.

In sum, a therapeutic gospel that has excised sin from the Christian social imaginary not only reduces God to a bit of inert furniture in a lifelong counseling session. It’s also bad for mental health. This shouldn’t surprise us. If original sin is true—if you and I and every human being on earth is conceived and born in bondage to Sin, Death, and the Devil, so that we cannot help but sin in all we say, do, and think and thus desperately need deliverance from this congenital moral and spiritual slavery—then pretending as if it were not true could never be conducive to a life well lived. The concept of mental health, as with any form of health, presupposes the concept of truth and therefore of a truthful, as opposed to false, understanding of ourselves and our condition. Sin is part of this condition. We cannot understand ourselves without it. Cutting it out, we lose the ability not just to understand ourselves, but to help or be helped, in any way, by anyone. Denial of sin is, in this way, a form of willful self-deception. And self-deception is the first thing we need to be freed from if we would pursue either mental or spiritual health, much less both.

If, then, preaching is the first (though not the only) place where the grammar of Christian life and faith is fashioned and forged for ordinary believers, then how should the foregoing inform preaching today? Put differently, how should preachers go about preaching the good news of Christ instead of a therapeutic gospel? What are a few simple marks of faithful proclamation in this area?

I can think of four, plus an extra for good measure.

First, preach God. This is a no-brainer, but then, you’d be surprised. As I’ve written elsewhere, God should be the subject of every sermon, and ideally the grammatical subject of most of any sermon’s sentences. God is the object and aim, the audience and end of every sermon. A sermon is not advice about life. It is not commentary on current events. It is the announcement of what God has done in Jesus Christ for his beloved bride, the church, and in and through her, for the world. The rule for every sermon is simple: God, God, and more God. The living God, the triune God, the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. No one should ever walk away from a sermon wondering where God was, or supposing that the onus lies on me rather than God.

Second, preach salvation. Likewise, this one surely seems a strange suggestion. I might as well recommend using words when preaching. But the therapeutic temptation is strong; MTD has no soteriology, because it lacks both a savior and a condition to be saved from. So the god proclaimed ends up being an inert deity, a lifeless idol, a bystander who at most serves as cheerleader from the sidelines. He’s not in the game, though. He doesn’t act in your life or mine. He isn’t up to anything in the world. He certainly hasn’t already done the marvelous work of redemption. But this is a flat denial of the gospel. Preaching ought therefore to be about salvation from beginning to end. Both the act and the effect of salvation. God, the saving God, the delivering God, the rescuing God: He has done it! It is finished! You are saved! You, right there, in the pews, worried about debt and anxious about your kids, you have been saved by God, are saved, even now. Rejoice!

Third, preach (about) sin. To be saved, as we’ve already seen, entails something to be saved from. Preaching that fails to mention sin thereby fails to proclaim the gospel of salvation and, ultimately, fails to proclaim the God of the gospel. Sin—though not only sin—is what we are saved from. Not his sin or her sin, but yours and mine. I am a sinner. Like David, I was a sinner from my mother’s womb. I was born into quicksand, and the harder I struggle the deeper I sink. God alone can help me. No one else. What can wash away my sin? Nothing but the blood of Jesus.

This is the promeity of proclamation. It is pro me only so long as I’m personally in the condition that needs resolving, and no one but God can do the resolving. I need to know it, to feel it in my bones. Not to see myself as a disgusting wretch whom God can’t bear to look at. God loves me. I’m the prodigal. But like the prodigal, I’m a thousand miles away, lying in the mud, eating pig slop. Sin has reduced me to porcine living. I yearn for the Father’s house. The Father yearns for me to be in his house. But I need to be lifted up, to be rinsed and washed and cleaned of the sin that clings so closely. I need to be freed of these chains, chains that I all too often prefer to freedom. God is ready to liberate. He is the great emancipator. He is standing at the door, even now, knocking. But if preaching never shows me my bondage, how can I ever ask God to unshackle me, much less accept his offer to do so? Preaching, rightly understood, is nothing other than the weekly heralding of this very offer: the offer of freedom to sinners.

Fourth, preach heaven. It is in vogue these days to avoid talk of heaven. Again, I’ve written about this elsewhere, but the reasons have to do with class, education, and baggage. The baggage is an upbringing that made the gospel exclusively about the next life, with nothing to say about this one. One’s postmortem destination exhausted the church’s message. As for education, it concerns an influential turn in evangelical scholarship the last two generations, represented symbolically by N. T. Wright. This turn uses the already/not-yet eschatology of the New Testament, wedded to a certain understanding of the new creation, to subvert colloquial talk of “this world/earth” and “the next world/heaven.” Instead of this schema, because heaven is breaking into earth, because God is going to renew all creation rather than burn the earth to ashes, it follows that we should care about this world and not only the next. Practically, this means focusing on social issues like poverty and homelessness as well as matters of culture, like the arts, film, TV, and so on. On the ground, the effect can be a kind of embarrassment about old-school evangelism. After all, isn’t that passé? Haven’t we learned that the gospel isn’t about leaving this world for the next, abandoning earth for heaven?

Well, no, we haven’t. For ordinary believers, “heaven” may be mixed up with imperfect eschatology—they may imagine it as disembodied and distant rather than redeemed and resurrected, God dwelling with us forever in the new heavens and new earth—but what it mainly signifies is the next life, beyond death, with God, minus sin, death, suffering, and evil. And that is as right as right gets. There’s nothing to correct there. Further, ordinary believers are right in their instinct that if this is what “heaven” means, then heaven is a big deal, even the main thing. Eternal life with God, beyond this vale of tears, is what the gospel brings to us. It is the good news. Yes, we have a share of it in this life: a glimpse, a foretaste. But it’s nothing in comparison to the real article. This is why the Christian life is defined by hope. Yet if the church does not give her members anything to hope for, truly to spend a lifetime yearning for with a deep hungry ache, then she has failed in her task. Preaching, accordingly, should proclaim this hope: with gladness and without apology. Just as preaching should form listeners over time to understand themselves as sinners saved by almighty God, it should also form them to understand themselves as pilgrims journeying from earth to heaven, from the city of man to the city of God, from this life of injustice, idolatry, sin, suffering, illness, and death, to eternal life free of every such enemy, all of which God himself has put away and destroyed, forever. Such is hope worth living for. Such is hope worth dying for.

Finally, preach (about) Satan. One test for preaching that seeks to avoid reducing the gospel to therapy is whether it mentions the Devil, demons, and evil spiritual forces. Show me a church that talks about Satan, and I’ll wager it also talks about sin, salvation, heaven, and God. Show me a church that never talks about Satan, and I’ll wager that next Sunday’s sermon won’t mention sin or heaven. Such a church is on its way to disenchantment, secularism, a therapeutic gospel, and functional atheism. The point isn’t that talk of devils is spooky, though it is. It’s that talk of devils presupposes and projects a universe with stakes. I didn’t mention hell above, but the popular imagination pairs heaven with hell. If there’s a good destination, then there’s also a bad one. Matthew 25 suggests as much. And if there’s good at work in the world—his name is God—but also Sin to be rescued from, then there must be some kind of agency that does Sin’s bidding—his name is Satan. Heaven and hell, God and Satan, angels and demons: this is the language of spiritual warfare, of cosmic stakes that hold all our lives in the balance. For ordinary believers, this cashes out in how they understand their daily lives. Are they living in enemy territory? Are they constantly under assault by the Enemy? You don’t have to be charismatic to think or talk like this. But preaching makes evident whether this is the right way to experience the world.

Here’s the fundamental question: Is following Christ like living in wartime or in peacetime? The flavor of a sermon tells you all you need to know. And if, as I began this post, therapeutic preaching finally serves to reassure disenchanted professionals in the upper-middle-class that God affirms them as they are—that a well-adjusted life is attainable, though ennui on the path is to be expected—then we have our answer: there are no demons; there is no war on; we are living in peacetime.

Such a message may be the best possible way to lull believers to sleep. Not literal sleep (a TED Talk can be entertaining), but spiritual sleep. Jesus commands us to be alert, to be watchful, to stay awake as we eagerly await his coming. The command, in short, presumes a wartime mentality. Peacetime is thus a myth, a lie from the Enemy. Each of us forgets this at our own peril, but preachers most of all.

I’m in FT on Andrew Root and “the church in the immanent frame”

Today First Things published my review of Andrew Root’s new book, Churches and the Crisis of Decline: A Hopeful, Practical Ecclesiology for a Secular Age. Here’s how the review opens:

If there is one thing everyone agrees about in America, it is that churches are in decline. Agnosticism and apostasy have, as ideas and as habits, been trickling down from Western elites for three centuries. First they came for the mainline; then they came for Catholics; now they have come for evangelicals. The “nones” are rising and long-time parishes are shuttering. One hears of consultants being brought in to help local churches “die well.” Even in the Bible Belt, for every thriving congregation there are five on hospice care.

Andrew Root’s new book is therefore a timely one. Titled Churches and the Crisis of Decline, it speaks directly to churches and pastors looking to survive, if not thrive, in a time of disorienting collapse. The book offers a theological vision for faithful pastoral ministry and church life that draws upon the writings of a young Swiss pastor who lived in similarly trying times a century ago: Karl Barth. Root wants us to see Barth’s theology—especially his commentary on Romans—as pastoral above all: that is, written by a minister for ministers tasked with the proclamation of the gospel and the care of a congregation. Just as St. Thomas wrote the Summa Theologiae for the practical tasks of his fellow Dominicans, so Barth wrote the bullet-stopping volumes of the Kirchliche Dogmatik for fellow preachers of God’s word. Rather than leave Barth to the systematicians, Root wants to reclaim him for the pastors.

Click here to read the rest.

Beliefs of the post-Christian West

Early on in Mark Sayers’ 2016 book Disappearing Church he outlines, in the form of propositions, the social imaginary or set of presuppositions that suffuse and animate the contemporary post-Christian context in the West. Sayers is sophisticated; he doesn’t suppose that millions of people wake up in the morning, sign a form with these beliefs outlined in black and white, then go through their day consciously attempting to put them into practice. Rather, they form the tacit backdrop of our common life, the largely (though far from entirely) unquestioned and presumed fabric of society. It’s the water we swim in, the are we breathe. We are certainly able to recognize, articulate, revise, and/or reject them. But they’re there, in us, whether we like it or not.

Here they are:

1. The highest good is individual freedom, happiness, self-definition, and self-expression.

2. Traditions, religions, received wisdom, regulations, and social ties that restrict individual freedom, happiness, self-definition, and self-expression must be reshaped, deconstructed, or destroyed.

3. The world will inevitably improve as the scope of individual freedom grows. Technology—in particular the Internet—will motor this progression toward utopia.

4. The primary social ethic is tolerance of everyone’s self-defined quest for individual freedom and self-expression. Any deviation from this ethic of tolerance is dangerous and must not be tolerated. Therefore social justice is less about economic or class inequality, and more about issues of equality relating to individual identity, self-expression, and personal autonomy.

5. Humans are inherently good.

6. Large-scale structures and institutions are suspicious at best and evil at worst.

7. Forms of external authority are rejected and personal authenticity is lauded.

This seems basically right to me, with three amendments: (a) I would make the comment about technology its own separate thesis; (b) I would nix the faith in the internet and leave it more broadly as a comment about technology as such; (c) I would rewrite #6. The pervading spirit of the age is suspicion about structures and institutions, yet a sizable percentage of the population hopes not to abolish their sheer existence, but to seize, conquer, colonize, and control them from within. That’s violent language, to be sure, but the vision underlying the aim is sincere and, for its adherents, benign: if the institutions that guide and govern society are doing so poorly, then we ought to reform them (whether modestly or radically) so as to administer justice rather than injustice, righteousness rather than corruption, flourishing rather than oppression.

With those minor changes, I’d readily sign off on this list as a reliable description of the Zeitgeist. Nor are spheres of life defined by the contrary of this list immune to the beliefs it comprises. Churches imbibe and embody these views as much as and sometimes more than other institutions. This list’s name is Legion, and the exorcisms it calls forth are never a completed task but a daily necessity.

Having said all that, I do wonder to what extent the smoothness with which this list goes down as a diagnosis of our social context is a sign of living in an echo chamber—or at least, reading and writing among like-minded folks, especially Christians of a certain sort. Yet it seems to me that even secular (classical) liberals, non-religious folks, and members of the Left could and, in many cases, would and do agree with this list, granting that they might use different words or strike a different tone than Sayers (or, as the case may be, offer different solutions to the problems it presents). That’s the appeal, I think, of the work of scholars like Bellah, Berger, Lasch, MacIntyre, Taylor, Milbank, Stout, Casanova, Asad, Mahmood, Žižek, and so many others. Sayers is attempting to summarize, synthesize, and render in plain English, for a lay Christian audience, an account of what the church is facing in the West that is not merely, and preferably not at all, a defensive reaction from a newly embattled minority. (He’s writing from Australia, it’s worth noting.) Yet how would others respond to this list? What would they add? The book has me curious to know.

UPDATE: A friend writes to add a fourth amendment: Strike through “tolerance” in #4 and substitute “recognition.” Checks out.

Burkeman’s atelic self-help

Oliver Burkeman’s new book, Four Thousand Weeks: Time Management for Mortals, is well worth your time. It is a splendid meditation on what it means to be a finite creature and what follows for making decisions, down to the most mundane, about how to spend one’s vanishingly small allotment of hours in this, our only world, with this, our only life. Like all Burkeman’s writing, the book is crisp, clear, well-researched, offered to the reader with a sincere smile of solidarity as well as a light touch. Like his other exercises in anti-self-help, Four Thousand Weeks is a gold mine for people obsessed with productivity, self-improvement, and endless to-do lists. That gold mine has a simple goal: for such people to cut it out. That is, to accept their limitations and to do what they are able, with pleasure, in the time they have with the people they love and the values they affirm. For the efficiency-obsessed, this message is doubtless a necessary tonic.

As I approached the end of the book, however, a single glaring weakness stuck out to me. It is a weakness shared by other entries in the genre today, including the very best. That weakness is simply put.

Neither Burkeman nor his other self-help authors can tell us the purpose or meaning of life.

Now, that may sound like rather unfair criticism. Who among us can articulate the purpose or meaning of life? Must it fit in a tweet? Be reducible to clickbait? How about the long title of a memoir?

But no, I’m not being unfair. Here’s why.

Burkeman wants his readers to see two things. First, that our lives are far shorter, far more limited, far less consequential, in a sense far less significant than we usually want to admit. We will almost certainly make no lasting difference in the world. The world will keep on spinning; the human race and/or the earth and/or the universe will endure perfectly well in our absence.

And that is true. But Burkeman goes on, second, to insist that this dose of reality is not (or should not be) depressing or frightening. Rather, it is a revelation, and a liberating one at that. It frees me from my narcissistic and false sense of my own self-importance. It bursts the bonds of my illusion of infinitude. Emancipated to see and accept my limits, I am enabled thereafter (and thereby) to live within them. And surely to live within the hard limits that bracket my life, whether or not I believe in them, is a recipe for happiness by comparison to the alternative.

But that “surely” is doing a lot of work in the previous sentence. Burkeman provides not one reason to suppose that human beings are built for happiness, living in accordance with our finitude or otherwise. Perhaps, instead, we have been programmed by natural selection to live a lie, the lie being our unbound immortality, and only so long as we believe in that are we (a) satisfied and/or (b) maximally productive. Perhaps we achieve great things only when we believe falsehoods about ourselves, our desires, or the world as a whole. Burkeman appears to be agnostic or atheist himself, which means that he must believe this to some extent. For most of civilization’s highest accomplishments—in music, art, architecture, and so on—have been conceived and produced by communities driven by zeal for God, for transcendence, for eternal life. Are we in a position to know, even and especially if we are secular believers in no intrinsic purpose apart from what remains after natural selection has done its work, that such ostensible illusions are not the requisite (false) premises for human and cultural greatness, not to mention happiness?

The answer is No, we are not. But there is more to say.

*

Burkeman rightly remarks on the pleasures of “atelic” practices. Walking in the woods, for example. There is no “point” to such a walk except the walk itself. It doesn’t lead to a product; there is no “winning” at such an endeavor. It is nothing but itself, and experiencing it is the only point of the practice: the telos is the doing of it, not something beyond or following it.

The problem is that Burkeman supposes, or assumes, that life is atelic: that the meaning of life lies not beyond itself, for it is its own point. The purpose of being human, on this view, is just the doing of it: to be human. But this doesn’t work, even on Burkeman’s own terms. There are at least three reasons why.

First, if an ordinary human being asks, What is the point or meaning of life?, it is inadequate to answer, The living of life. For the premise of the seeker’s question is that something beyond one’s life gives that life meaning, or purpose, or a point. So unless one is satisfied to reject the terms on which the question is asked, something more is required.

Second, then, Burkeman might have recourse to a constructivist answer: namely, that the purpose of one’s life is what one decides that purpose is. So the question remains meaningful but is turned back on the asker: Well, what do you value? But this answer fails in multiple respects. For one, it makes life’s meaning arbitrary, even relative. By the same token it suggests a fearsome causal sequence, as if the meaning of my life were what I value, and what I value is what makes it meaningful. In other words, my apparently random act of valuing (whether received from my genetic and social inheritance or chosen autonomously as a mature adult) carries an impossible burden: to create life-level significance where there is none in itself.

Does Burkeman, or anyone else in the self-help crowd, believe that ordinary human beings are capable not only of this purpose-conferring power but of self-consciously wielding it, that is, of engaging knowingly in making their lives teleological from within? As a matter of fact, while plenty of that crowd does believe this, I don’t think Burkeman does. But then, whence his confidence in essentially atelic normies self-bestowing meaning on their otherwise meaningless lives, underwritten by the active self-awareness that they are doing so while they are doing so?

This is not even to mention that, absent some antecedently given and shared human telos—some basic but substantive account of the goods and ends common to human life—“what I value” or “what I make the point of my existence” or “what I find meaningful in human life” or “what I want to spend my 4,000 weeks doing” may with perfect consistency be evil. Perhaps my self-constructed telos is serial murder, or ferocious avarice, or treating women like objects to be used and disposed of, or belittling children, or making the earth uninhabitable for future generations. When “the good” is a function solely of my own will, it is transmogrified into something called “value,” which is just another name for whatever I happen to want, prefer, or take pleasure in. The realm of “values” is paradise lost, which is to say, it is hell; as Milton has Satan declare:

All hope excluded thus, behold, instead
Of us, outcast, exiled, his new delight,
Mankind, created, and for him this World!
So farewell hope, and, with hope, farewell fear,
Farewell remorse! All good to me is lost;
Evil, be thou my Good: by thee at least
Divided empire with Heaven’s King I hold,
By thee, and more than half perhaps will reign;
As Man ere long, and this new World, shall know.

Third and finally, therefore, Burkeman has no answer or antidote to despair. It occurred to me, as I was writing this, that I’ve written about Burkeman once before, in a post responding to his review of a book by Jordan Peterson. I note the very same problem there. Burkeman seems genuinely not to countenance the seriousness of the problem of despair, precisely as a philosophical or theological problem. Imagine a young man who reads Burkeman’s book and finds himself persuaded that life is short, each of us is unimportant, and the whole shebang is without any meaning except what we bootstrap for ourselves. Far from embracing limits and finding, to his pleasant surprise, that he is even more economically productive than before, he kills himself instead. After all, he came to the conclusion that life is meaningless, and his self-assessment was just: he was neither impressive nor sufficiently special to manufacture enough meaning to get on with life without unmitigated pain, self-loathing, and anguish. Best to avoid that, all things considered. Whom will it affect, anyway? The universe goes on, without so much as a flinch.

There is not a doubt in my mind that such a scenario would fill Burkeman, who seems enormously decent and thoughtful, with sadness, compassion, and lament. Obviously he does not want anyone to commit suicide, not least someone who reads his book. He intends his message, as I said above, to be one of freedom, not bondage.

But I see no reason, given the parameters of his project, to forestall the judgment that atelic finitude is a cause for despair rather than joy. Why view limits as anything other than chains? Many people have seen them as just that, including some of the wisest of our writers and thinkers. Indeed more than a few of them, consistent with their principles, chose suicide as young or middle-aged men and women for this very reason: to escape the bonds of life, which held them in sway the way a despot might. Only by forcing death’s hand could they exert real agency in the sole respect that mattered: how and when one goes out, and on whose terms.

I don’t mean to pick on Burkeman (who in any case is safe and secure from being picked on by anyone, let alone me). Every other self-help and productivity guru is far, far more liable to the charges I’ve laid out than he is. But in another way he is the most guilty of this lacuna, because his book takes on board many of the ideas that despairing, existentialist, relativistic, constructivist, and nihilistic philosophers have proffered throughout the last two centuries. So he ought to know better. Yet he seems honest-to-God incurious about the fork in the road he constantly faces. The reader knows that he sees it as a fork, because whenever he comes to it, he reassures the reader, in assertive and consoling tones, that the annunciation of their atelic finitude is good news rather than bad. That implies the possibility of interpreting it as bad. Yet apart from his own confidence and kindness, we are provided no reasons to share his cheerful demeanor, at least no reasons that are not question-begging or that do not fall prey to the criticisms outlined above.

*

Two dissonances mark the book from beginning to end, and it is these dissonances that illuminate, not to say justify, the book’s failure to reckon with the terrifying possibility (a) that life is in fact meaningless or (b) that some, perhaps many, people, faced with a life made meaningful only by their own self-generated efforts, would judge it to be meaningless (whether or not they would be right to do so). Those dissonances are politics and religion.

Burkeman’s politics are clearly left-liberal, if of a moderate bent. Numerous times he admirably allows the convictions to which he has honestly come, about finitude and the unknown future and the relative unimportance of my or your life in the grand scheme of things, to override or modify political convictions he might once have believed or might, in the present, feel social pressure to maintain. Nevertheless, there are odd occasional interruptions of his otherwise steady emphasis on that one tiny sliver of a time-bound life you and I have to live. These interruptions almost always concern what he calls (always with nodding approval) “activism,” but especially climate change. It seems to me that he needs it to be true not only that the earth today is in dire straits (a premise I have no reason to doubt or dismiss) but also that urgent cooperative political action on its behalf, namely, making every effort to keep it from becoming worse, makes intuitive and even self-evident sense. But the truth is that it does not. Not, at least, on his own terms, terms he believes you and I may and ought to share. There are quite a few additional premises, premises that might call into question some of his own, required to cross that particular logical finish line. Yet he seems not to notice. Why?

I think it has something to do with his calmly but firmly non-religious beliefs. I call them “non-” rather than “anti-” religious because he doesn’t have an axe to grind against religion, and he is laudably open-minded about learning from religious and spiritual authors. (The self-help crowd may be alone among our public-facing and popular writers to read religious and theological texts seriously.) For example, I was delighted to see Burkeman quote Walter Brueggemann’s book on the Sabbath. He is also an avid reader of Buddhists and other adherents of Eastern, non-Abrahamic, and spiritual-not-religious thinkers. Again, I say, this is all to the good.

Burkeman himself, though, is non-religious, or at least presents himself as such. There is no God, at least one we may know or name. There is no afterlife. There is no soul, no eternity, no transcending the confines of this life, this world, these 4,000 weeks. Now Burkeman makes no arguments for this perspective, nor even alludes to them. He takes it for granted. So far as I can tell, he takes it for granted not only for himself or his readers but for all “modern” people living in the secular West.

That’s fine. He’s certainly not obliged to be a believer, or even to take seriously the counterclaims of Jewish, Christian, and Muslim theology. But I do think the shortcomings of his book would be alleviated were he to do so. He would see that it is not obvious that a finitude absent God and ruled by death is a live worth living, much less a life capable of being made meaningful by one’s own labors. In this St. Paul and Nietzsche are of one mind. If Christ is not raised, Christians of all people are most to be pitied. Why? Because, as Paul says only a few verses later, death is the enemy of God—the “last” enemy, as he puts it—which means that death is the enemy of life, for God is the source and sustainer of life. Life without God is life without life. Or as St. Augustine puts it (anticipating Heidegger, but drawing a different conclusion), life defined by the inevitability and overawing power of death is not so much a life lived toward death as itself a living death. Which is no life at all.

That is why Burkeman is wrong to agree with the climate activist Derrick Jensen that life without hope is the only life we have, such that hopelessness is a spur to living life to the full rather than a sap to life’s vitality. To write such a thing is to betray a profound ignorance of actual human beings. Even if it were true—that is, even were it an undeniable and objective fact that there is no God, no hope, no meaning in life except what we construct of it and for it—it would be a recipe for despair for most of us, for all but the most heroic, most stoic, most self-possessed. Whether or not that tells us anything about the proposition’s likely truth or falsehood, to suppose that it is actually, really, believe-me-I’m-giving-it-to-you-straight a relief from unhappiness is pure folly. I share with Burkeman the premise that the truth sets one free. But I have grounds for believing it. He does not. His philosophy desperately wants, even needs, objective truth and personal happiness to be positively correlated. They may not be, however. The relationship between them might be inverted: the more of one the less of the other. Maybe there is no relationship at all. Best to face that uncomfortable fact, to admit it at the outset as an ineliminable question mark set next to all of one’s most cherished hopes.

But then, that would be to admit that hope is irreducible to the act of making sense of human life. And not only hope, but the irreducibly given. If we creatures who by nature not only pursue happiness but seek the truth, then we discover a telos within ourselves driving us beyond ourselves toward that which lies before, behind, and above us. The truth satisfies because and only because (a) it is other than us and (b) we were made to know it. That is, we were made for it. And it turns out that “it” is not an object but a person. St. Augustine was right all along; humans are teleological—rational, desiring, social, liturgical—creatures who, furthermore, cannot help themselves. We are not past saving, though. We just need to know where to look. Augustine knew. And so he prayed:

To praise You is the desire of man, a little piece of your creation. You stir man to take pleasure in praising You, because You have made us for Yourself, and our heart is restless until it rests in You.

The ache and the Austinite

Richard Beck, my friend and colleague here at ACU, enjoyed my post yesterday on “Needing Jesus” but pushed back on some elements of it. In particular he thought what I took with one hand I gave back with the other. That is, I denied that our hypothetical 26-year old happy Austinite was “secretly unhappy” before waxing eloquent about . . . just how secretly unhappy he must be, sinsick and lacking Jesus as he is. Moreover, he wasn’t sure just how I am (we are) supposed to get Mr. Contentment into church if we aren’t filling him in, through conversation or other means, just how secretly unhappy he is. Why is he supposed to care enough to go to church? And how is church supposed to “work” on him if it speaks about things he’s already convinced, in his natural happiness, don’t matter and aren’t true of him?

Good questions. A few thoughts.

1. There’s definitely a sense in which I’m wanting to have my cake and eat it too. Our Austinite—I’ll go ahead and call him Kendall for the sake of convenience—is somehow both satisfied with life and, at bottom, absolutely starved for transcendence, fulfillment, and forgiveness. Richard finds this psychologically implausible. If I’m not just wanting to have my cake and eat it, then here’s my defense. I think it’s wholly plausible. Why? Because human beings are walking contradictions who hold together, every day, internal dissonances that would many anyone else dizzy after ten seconds. Moreover, I’m not speaking of Kendall across his life: I’m describing him at a particular moment in his life. And that moment more or less satisfies all the needs he’s been taught he has. Life’s gone well and continues to go well for him, and his various hedonistic and personal-meaning boxes are, at this point in time, checked. It might make sense to help him see that there’s more than those boxes, if he’s open to hearing it. But it still seems unwise to me to tell him that deep down he himself knows that “all this” isn’t enough. I’m not sure he does.

2. Put more simply: It is hard for a rich man to enter the kingdom of heaven. Expand the definition of “rich” to include more than mere extravagant wealth, and that’s the perennial problem we’re dealing with when we think about all the many Kendalls of the world.

3. Having said that, Richard rightly pointed to a concept he deploys in his own writing, most prominently in his latest book, Hunting Magic Eels: Recovering an Enchanted Faith in a Skeptical Age. That concept is “the Ache.” The Ache is the existential neediness in the basement of our souls that cries out, day and night, for satisfaction. It’s the spookiness that secularism can never quite seem wholly to exorcise. It’s the tug-of-war between our desire for self-creation and autonomy, on one hand, and for life and deliverance from outside us, on the other. It’s the pull we feel beyond ourselves to surrender, to worship, to praise, to thank, to love. It’s the capital-W Whence and Whither that encompass our existence, which in turn balances perpetually on the edge of a void of nothingess. It’s all that and more. Richard sees it in his students as I see it in mine, including the most unchurched, post-Christian, and non-religious. He thinks the Ache is at the heart of my post yesterday, but instead of foregoing alerting Kendall to it, as I seemed to suggest, we ought to move heaven and earth to fill him in. Apart from that being the only real motive he might have for going to church (and then finding Jesus), Richard suspects that Kendall is playing a nice game on the surface, but if you press on that nerve, he’ll spill his spiritual guts. He knows about the Ache. He just hasn’t found anyone to help him understand or resolve it.

All granted. I don’t have a rebuttal here. When and where this is true, then self-evidently Kendall is in a position to hear, from a trusted friend, just why he feels that cosmic emptiness-cum-desire on the inside, and where he might find rest for his restless soul. To everyone able to do such a thing wisely and with gentleness, I say: Go for it.

My point is more a matter of emphasis. I’m not actually sure that there are that many Kendalls ready, today, in their 26-years-old-and-happy-with-material-and-social-life-selves, either to hear of the Ache or to admit their own. Think again of the rich man. It’s hard to see one’s need when all of one’s needs are met, and then some. I don’t doubt the Ache is coming big time for Kendall: it’s hard to sustain the illusion of earthly contentment through one’s thirties, forties, and fifties. Suffering and failure and disappointment and illness and pain and death await, for him as for all of us. Finitude is never deniable indefinitely. But can you sincerely disbelieve in death and pain in Kendall’s position, as genuine realities for oneself, as more than abstractions, at least for a while? Yes, I think you can.

4. Which is all a way of saying that I wasn’t meaning to propose a comprehensive evangelistic strategy in my post. Only to clarify one misbegotten presumptive posture on the part of the church toward the Kendalls that increasingly fill our major cities. Don’t assume it’s all a front. Don’t assume he knows there’s a problem but doesn’t want to admit it. Take for granted that he might well mean what he says: so far as he knows, he’s a happy camper. And there’s nothing much that a church, not least a church that prioritizes earthly happiness in the form of affluence and consumption, can add to that sort of happiness.

5. But that also reveals my main target yesterday: not Kendall, but the churches. If the churches don’t offer anything but an affirming echo of Kendall’s life and values, then he’s right to ignore them, even if he doesn’t resent them. What the churches need to do is so fashion a common life defined by what Kendall cannot find outside them that, when he does perchance darken their doorstep, he finds something inside that he’s neither heard nor seen elsewhere. That means sacraments, scriptures, sermons, prayers, confessions, creeds, candles, icons, tears, love, faith, courage, truth-talk, hell-talk, heaven-talk, sin-talk, Spirit-talk, Satan-talk, sacrifice, suffering, service to the least of these—to list only a few. Let it be different, exotic, weird, even (at first) alien and off-putting. Let it be, in Jenson’s words, a world unto itself. Let the liturgy be all-consuming: confident, spooky, global, cosmic. Kendall doesn’t know the language before coming, but continuing to come is how he learns to speak Christian. And learning to speak Christian, he will learn to say Christ. Learning to say Christ, he will learn how to live Christ. Learning to live Christ, he will learn how to love him.

I don’t know whether Kendall is coming while still in his 20s. I’m not sure we can convince him, or many of his peers, of the Ache at this point (though perhaps I’m overly pessimistic about this). My instinct is that, eventually, aging or suffering will open him up to the Ache and, thence, to the One who has made us for himself, in whom alone our hearts find peace. The main thing to do right now is to live faithfully as his neighbor and friend. It is our lives that will draw him, now or decades hence, to Christ’s body. And if our churches are faithful in the meantime, when he journeys to the body he will find more than just you and me. He will find Jesus.

Secular Scruton

After Roger Scruton died last year, I resolved to read back through some of his most important writing on culture, philosophy, and politics. Two things in particular—beyond the usual, and correct, comments on his erudition, intelligence, and lucid prose style—struck me in doing so. The first is his temperament, or rather his temper. At times Scruton is excruciatingly just in both his tone and his treatment of those with whom he disagrees. This restraint approaches a kind of intellectual chastity: one senses this deep disgust with what I can only call a prurience of the mind, a prurience he resents in thinkers he despises and repudiates in the nations and cultures he loves. This reticence is of a piece with the sort of conservatism he represents and recommends to others.

At the same time, Scruton can also give vent to his hatreds and engage in passionate, even bitter, polemic. Polemic is a venerable rhetorical and argumentative mode, so I don’t mean this observation as a critique per se. Often the ideas and writers he aims his words at very much deserve it. But polemic is not a stable vehicle for fine-grained analysis and charitable understanding, and in Scruton’s work one sees where the polemic has worn down the patience and generosity and sheer mental calm that characterizes so much of his other writing.

The second thing that struck me in reading back through Scruton—and this one surprised me—is how profoundly secular a thinker he is. I was surprised not because I thought Scruton an orthodox Christian but because, given his identity as a conservative and as a happy inheritor of Christian civilization, I anticipated an overall positive posture toward religious faith, practice, and thought. And to be sure, when Scruton is meditating on religious questions, he is eager to take seriously the claims of Jewish, Christian, and Muslim revelation as well as their traditions of reflection. But in his ordinary cultural and political writing, Scruton can be rather harsh toward both faith and theology. In fact, “theology” for him functions as an epithet with which to tarnish his enemies: twentieth-century leftist thinkers (like those in the Frankfurt School) embody an inscrutable and irrefutable “theology” by contrast to rational proposals subject to Enlightenment norms of disputation and argument. Elsewhere he heaps scorn on the concept of original sin, whether in its traditional form or in updated political mutations. Like a Rorty or a Scialabba or any other reputable philosopher from the last two centuries, he can refer offhandedly, presuming the reader’s nodding head, to how the great lights of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries rendered faith in the supernatural moribund, or at least problematic, for reasonable and educated people. And he follows Kant et al in both rationalizing religion and reducing it to ethics, thereby explicitly making it a matter of private piety rather than public politics. At times there is—to this believer’s eyes—a vaguely sinister noble lie lingering on the edges of Scruton’s account of politics and religion: a Straussian (or Haidtian!) appreciation of religion for the masses while cordoning off its ostensibly inadjudicable and therefore strictly private implications from the rational public deliberations of the liberal nation-state. This streak of (Platonist? Hobbesian? Burkean? Oakeshottian?) toleration or even encouragement (by the few) of widespread false consciousness (in the many) is unbecoming, in my view, though it is native to a certain slice of secular or post-religious intellectual conservatism. Instead of keeping the kernel and tossing the shell, its adherents reverse the operation: keep the forms, they suggest, preserve the outward forms and traditions; but forget the faith at the center. Surely we have seen by now that that move does not work in actual practice. Form and content belong together. Remove one and the other withers and dies.

In any case, reading Scruton was a reminder of this crucial divide within the theory and among the philosophers of conservatism. Scruton has much to teach us on a range of matters, but for Christians, at least, his instruction comes with a certain proviso attached. Irreligiosity is usually associated with the left, but it is all too present on the right, too, only usually less openly hostile and thus more difficult to discern. Finding friends and forming alliances is harder than it seems.

Louis Dupré on symbolism and ontology in religious language

Religious language must, by its very nature, be symbolic: its referent surpasses the objective universe. Objectivist language is fit only to signify things in a one-dimensional universe. It is incapable of referring to another level of reality, as art, poetry, and religion do. Rather than properly symbolizing, it establishes external analogies between objectively conceived realities. Their relation is allegorical rather than symbolic. A truly symbolic relation must be grounded in Being itself. Nothing exposes our religious impoverishment more directly than the loss of the ontological dimension of language. To overcome this, poets and mystics have removed their language as far as possible from everyday speech.

In premodern traditions, language remained closer to the ontological core which all things share and which intrinsically links them to one another. Symbols thereby participated in the very Being of what they symbolized, as they still do in great poetry. Religious symbols re-presented the divine reality: they actually made the divine present in images and metaphors. The ontological richness of the participatory presence of a truly symbolic system of signification appeared in the original conception of sacraments, rituals, icons, and ecclesiastical hierarchies.

The nominalism of the late Middle Ages resulted in a very different representation of the creature's relation with God. The world no longer appears as a divine expression except in the restricted sense of expressing the divine will. Finite reality becomes separated from its Creator. As a result, creatures have lost not only their intrinsic participation in God's Being but also their ontological communion with one another. Their relation becomes defined by divine decree. Nominalism not only has survived the secularization of modern thought, but has became radicalized in our own cybernetic culture, where symbols are reduced to arbitrary signs in an intramundane web of references, of which each point can be linked to any other point. The advantages of such a system need no proof: the entire scientific and technical functioning of contemporary society depends on it. At the same time, the modern mind's capacity for creating and understanding religious symbols has been severely weakened. Symbols have become man-made, objective signs, serviceable for making any reality part of a system without having to be part of that reality.

Recent theologians have attempted to stem the secular tide. Two of them did so by basically rethinking the relation between nature and grace, the main causes of today's secularism. Henri de Lubac undertook a historical critique of the modern separation of nature and supernatural. Not coincidentally, he also wrote a masterly literary study on religious symbolism before the nominalist revolution. In a number of works Hans Urs von Balthasar developed a theology in which grace, rather than being added to nature as a supernatural accident, constitutes the very depth of the mystery of Being. Being is both immanent and transcendent. Grace consists in its transcendent dimension. Whenever a poet, artist, or philosopher penetrates into the mystery of existence, he or she reveals an aspect of divine grace. Not only theology but also art and poetry, even philosophy, thereby regain a mystical quality, and religion resumes its place at the heart of human reality.

No program of theological renewal can by itself achieve a religious restoration. To be effective a theological vision requires a recognition of the sacred. Is the modern mind still capable of such a recognition? Its fundamental attitude directly conflicts with the conditions necessary for it. First, some kind of moral conversion has become indispensable. The immediate question is not whether we confess a religious faith, or whether we live in conformity with certain religious norms, but whether we are of a disposition to accept any kind of theoretical or practical direction coming from a source other than the mind itself. Such a disposition demands that we be prepared to abandon the conquering, self-sufficient state of mind characteristic of late modernity. I still believe in the necessity of what I wrote at an earlier occasion: "What is needed is a conversion to an attitude in which existing is more than taking, acting more than making, meaning more than function—an attitude in which there is enough leisure for wonder and enough detachment for transcendence. What is needed most of all is an attitude in which transcendence can be recognized again."

—Louis Dupré, Religion and the Rise of Modern Culture (2008), 115-117

Gentiles exiting the faith

It seems to me that most Christians today—in my context, I mean: college-educated or middle-class American Christians, especially those raised in the church—see their spiritual options as basically threefold. Either they maintain Christian faith of some kind; or they become spiritual but not religious; or they become officially agnostic, though functionally atheist. That is, there are basically two "exit" options from Christianity, both of which can be described as a form of nonbelief: faith in nothing at all, or faith in something-or-other left undefined.

In other words, such wayward believers aren't drawn to other religious traditions: the primary question is organized theism. Give up the former, you remain spiritual but not Christian; give up the latter, you're neither Christian nor spiritual. The temptation isn't ordinarily to become a Muslim or Sikh or Hindu. (Though the other day I did hear someone say, "If it weren't for X in Christianity, I'd be Muslim." But the exception proves the rule.)

Here's my question: Why don't Christians who cease to believe in Christ become Jews instead?

By which I mean: Why don't gentile worshipers of the God of Israel who cease to confess Jesus as the Messiah of Israel convert to Orthodox Judaism—precisely that religious community that worships the God of Israel without confessing Jesus as Messiah?

This is hardly an unknown trend in Christian history. It saturates the pages of the New Testament. Depending on how late you date some of the New Testament texts, it seems to have lasted well into the second century. Moreover, it's popular as late as St. Augustine and St. John Chrysostom—the latter of whose sermons contain such strikingly anti-Jewish rhetoric exactly because his listeners find the synagogue so attractive.

There are social, political, and historical reasons that help to explain why so few American gentile Christians would ever, in the absence of faith in Jesus, even for a moment consider converting to Judaism, not least secularization's spiritual minimalism and liberalism's ethical individualism. Here's what I think the main factor is, though; it's theological and, in my view, the most damning one.

Most—or at least, far too many—gentile American Christians do not love the God of Israel.

Which is to say, the fact that the God and Father of Jesus Christ is the God of the Jews, and thus the God of the Law, the prophets, and the Psalms, is a stumbling block for Christians today. It may be a stumbling block they've overcome, or seek to overcome. But it's a part of the challenge of faith, not part of its appeal. They don't want the Father without the Son; they want the Son, and are stuck with the Father. Drop the New Testament, they're not left with the Old; they've only accepted the Old because of the New.

Now, obviously gentile believers the world over are believers because of the person and work of Jesus, through whom they have been grafted into the covenant people of God. I'm not suggesting for a moment that that is odd or out of sorts. What I'm saying, rather, is that, according to the gospel, Jesus is the mediator, not between generic humanity and generic divinity, but between gentile humanity and the God of Abraham. Jesus's introduction of the gentiles to the praise and glory of YHWH, Lord of Hosts, isn't meant to remain at the level of stiff formalities: gentiles are meant to grow in knowledge and affection for this One, precisely as their trusted Father and King.

And the truth is, converting to Judaism would sound to these Christians like a prison sentence. Why? Because of sermon after sermon, catechesis class after catechesis class, Bible study after Bible study preaching and teaching more or less explicit Marcionite doctrine.

They love Jesus. But not the One who sent him.

If I'm even close to right, this only furthers my resolve so to teach and preach that—counterfactually—if Jesus were not risen from the dead, his gentile disciples would nevertheless long with all their hearts to continue confessing the ancient prayer with Abraham's children: "Hear, O Israel, the Lord our God, the Lord is one."