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The Homebound Symphony

Stagger onward rejoicing

Tag: christian (page 1 of 9)

May 28, 2026

Auden’s faith

My friend Edward Mendelson knows more about Auden than anyone ever has, and probably more than anyone ever will. Certainly he knows far more about Auden than I do. Keep that in mind through what follows.

Some years ago Mendelson wrote an essay about Auden’s secret acts of kindness and charity, an essay that contains this passage:

Auden’s sense of his divided motives was inseparable from his idiosyncratic Christianity. He had no literal belief in miracles or deities and thought that all religious statements about God must be false in a literal sense but might be true in metaphoric ones. He felt himself commanded to an absolute obligation — which he knew he could never fulfill — to love his neighbor as himself, and he alluded to that commandment in a late haiku: “He has never seen God / but, once or twice, he believes / he has heard Him.” He took communion every Sunday and valued ancient liturgy, not for its magic or beauty, but because its timeless language and ritual was a “link between the dead and the unborn,” a stay against the complacent egoism that favors whatever is contemporary with ourselves.

I think that Mendelson is wholly wrong about all this and I shall now explain why I think so. In making my case I will refer only briefly to the poems, in which Auden might be telling a story — a poet could write For the Time Being without believing that Jesus is the Incarnate Word, though I cannot imagine why one would — or playing a part. Instead, I will focus on public writings (some of them given as addresses or even sermons) in which he speaks in propria persona.

Let’s start with the haiku that Mendelson quotes, which certainly seems to contradict the view that “all religious statements about God must be false in a literal sense”: I see no reason to think that the haiku is an “allusion” to the commandment to love your neighbor. Rather, it means what it straightforwardly says: it is a report that Auden believes that he has “once or twice” heard the voice of God — a God he refers to with a personal pronoun.

And we have reason from other statements by Auden to conclude that he did not believe that “God” is a mere nom de convenance for the “absolute obligation” to love your neighbor. In 1966 he wrote,

Some modern theologians who have realised most clearly the death of Zeus seem to me in danger of depriving the True God of the one quality which he shares with the Zeus concept (and all polytheism), Personality, and presenting us with a crypto-platonic or Buddhist to theion which may be the subject of man’s concern but can show no concern for men. I can see clearly enough what leads Tillich, for example, to speak of God as the “Ground of Being,” but if I try to pray ”O Thou Ground, have mercy upon me”, I start to giggle.

Note the key assumptions of this passage: That there is a “True God” and that it would be a “mistake” to depersonalize that God — to turn Him into, for instance, an “absolute obligation.” It would seem, then, that for Auden it was a personal God who has “concern for men” or nothing.

Somewhat later he wrote,

The Gospels put the command to love God before the command to love our neighbor, not because it is more important, but because until we know who God is and how He loves us, we cannot grasp who our neighbor is or how we are to love him. The Word was made Flesh so that we might know, and the first thing which Christ forces us to realise is that the True God and the love he bears us are not at all what we expected or want: indeed, we thoroughly dislike both.

Emphasis mine. The love of God necessarily precedes the love of neighbor. I do not see how statements such as these can be reconciled with Mendelson’s view that Auden “had no literal belief in … deities” and that when he spoke of the love of God he meant it merely as a metaphor for the love of one’s neighbor. Moreover, given Auden’s starkly realistic portrayal of what it is actually like to perceive the love of God — as the author of Hebrews says, “It is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the living God” — it is difficult to see why he would go to the trouble of invoking, describing, and commending such a God if he did not believe that God exists.

So how could Mendelson come to the conclusion he does? I think perhaps this passage, also from 1966, might shed some light on the subject:

At all times, the Gospel is a stumbling-block to the Jew and a foolishness to the Greek in each of us, but the particular element which scandalises varies from one age to another. To the Gnostics of the Third Century and to the liberal humanists of the Eighteenth, the scandal was the Cross. The former said: “Jesus was the Christ; therefore he cannot really have been crucified”. The latter said: “Jesus was crucified; therefore he cannot have been the Christ”. Today, we find Good Friday easy to accept: what scandalises us is Easter. Modern man finds a “happy ending”, a final victory of Love over the Prince of this world, very hard to swallow.

Again, in earlier centuries, believers were inclined to imagine that God was, in a human sense, nearer to them, more like them, than he really is and, consequently, were in danger of falling into idolatry and magical practices. Today, our characteristic religious experience is of God’s “otherness”, his distance from and unlikeness to ourselves, so that the temptation for us is atheism. For many of us, I think, Simone Weil’s remark holds good: “We have to believe in a God who is like the True God in everything except that he does not exist, for we have not reached the point where God exists”.

That line by Weil is one he returned to:

Those of us who have the nerve to call ourselves Christians will do well to be extremely reticent on this subject [the love of one’s neighbor]. Indeed, it is almost the definition of a Christian that he is somebody who knows he isn’t one, either in faith or morals. Where faith is concerned, very few of us have the right to say more than — to vary a saying of Simone Weil’s — I believe in a God who is like the True God in everything except that he does not exist, for I have not yet reached the point where God exists. As for loving and forgiving our enemies, the less we say about that the better. Our lack of faith and love are facts we have to acknowledge, but we shall not improve either by a morbid and essentially narcissistic moaning over our deficiencies. Let us rather ask, with caution and humor — given our time and place and talents, what, if our faith and love were perfect, would we be glad to find it obvious to do?

Now, what are we to make of these statements? Do they support Mendelson’s view?

  1. In the first passage Auden writes in general terms of “our” experience, by which he clearly means that of the modern person “today,” as opposed to figures from the third or eighteenth centuries. He does not explicitly say that this is his own experience, but I think the whole tone of the passage strongly suggests that he knows whereof he speaks.
  2. He expressly identifies this experience as a “temptation,” and of course temptations are to be resisted and if possible overcome.
  3. In the second passage the “lack of faith and love” is likewise described as a deficiency, a shortcoming — to be sure, not one to moan about: As he writes elsewhere, “The same rules apply to self-examination as apply to auricular confession: Be brief, be blunt, be gone.” But being blunt means acknowledging one’s deficiencies, admitting that one has succumbed to temptation. Everything about these passage indicates that it would be good to have strong faith in God and love of God and one’s neighbor.
  4. The slight amendment, in the second passage, of Weil’s provocative statement is noteworthy: Weil writes “we have not reached the point where God exists,” to which Auden adds one word: He imagines someone saying “I have not yet reached the point where God exists.” But to say “not yet” is to name faith as one’s goal, as the desired destination: it is hope for faith — and I would say that hope for faith holds already a modicum of faith itself. And I think Auden is acknowledging this in his late haiku, in which he says that he believes that he has heard God, as though to say: “Lord, I believe; help thou my unbelief.”

I said earlier that I wouldn’t say much about the poems, but here I do want to bring one of them in: “Friday’s Child.” Now, we know that Auden believed that Jesus of Nazareth was a real historical person who “was crucified under Pontius Pilate.” There’s a funny story Mendelson has told about a lecture that Joseph Campbell gave at Smith College, when Auden was teaching there, in which he spoke of the oneness of Jesus and the Buddha, each of whom had spears thrust at him, though in the case of the Buddha they were transformed into flowers. Auden shouted from the back of the room, “ON GOOD FRIDAY THE SPEARS WERE REAL.”

So let us posit that Jesus was crucified. What then? The poet puts the question straightforwardly in “Friday’s Child”: “Now, did He really break the seal / And rise again?” And his answer: “We dare not say.” The word “we” is the key here: We moderns? “We the inconstant ones”? We poets? I am inclined to the last explanation, for Auden often wrote that poetry “lacks the Indicative Mood. All its statements are in the subjunctive.” (See also.) It is not to be used for factual declaration. And after all, we may assume that Auden, a regular churchgoer, did say, in that environment, “On the third day he rose again in accordance with the Scriptures.”

But the point of the poem, even in the subjunctive mood, is not simply to answer the question. What matters is what Auden then goes on to say, in the poem’s conclusion:

Meanwhile, a silence on the cross,
As dead as we shall ever be,
Speaks of some total gain or loss,
And you and I are free

To guess from the insulted face
Just what Appearances He saves
By suffering in a public place
A death reserved for slaves.

(Re: “saving the appearances,” see this.) The poet may not “dare” declare a historical fact, but he declares this: That on that cross everything was gained, or everything was lost. If Jesus of Nazareth perished as a mere animal there, then we are left alone with the wreckage of our lives. I do not know whether Auden would have agreed with the Dostoevskian idea that if there is no God then everything is permitted: I am inclined to think that even without God a decent case can be made that, on prudential and practical grounds, one should not become Pol Pot, or Jeffrey Epstein, or Mark Zuckerberg — or for that matter Aunt Norris from Mansfield Park — and perhaps Auden would have felt the same way. But in any case there can be in such conditions no “absolute obligation,” because there is no one and nothing to oblige us absolutely.

But if He did “break the seal / And rise again,” then there is One who can oblige us absolutely, love us unconditionally, and offer us forgiveness when we fall short. Did Auden believe in such a One? As I have indicated, I think he did. More precisely: He repeatedly affirmed such belief in public when he did not need to do so, and wrote powerful poems that vividly imagine a world in which through Jesus Christ we ordinary sinners can be reconciled to God and to one another. (See especially the last two poems of the “Horae Canonicae.”) If he believed in no deity, what appearances was he saving by writing in this way? 

Did he believe all this with unwavering faith? Certainly not. Often, it seems, his affirmations were more aspirational than full of conviction. (I know the feeling.) But the aspiration was real: he perceived his small faith and small love as deficiencies, felt himself tempted to acquiesce in faithlessness and lovelessness, and earnestly desired a deeper faith and a greater love. He regularly received Communion not, I think, for the reasons given by Mendelson but because he understood that “unless you eat the flesh of the Son of Man and drink his blood, you have no life in you.” And so also he prayed

That we, too, may come to the picnic
With nothing to hide, join the dance
As it moves in perichoresis,
Turns about the abiding tree.

P.S. For a relatively complete treatment of Auden’s theology, see my essay on the subject in Auden in Context — which will be paywalled for many of you. But there’s a preprint version here. 

April 11, 2026

the martyr’s crown

I read everything, or very nearly so, that my friend Adam Roberts publishes, online or in print, so when I read this post by Adam I immediately checked to see if indeed I did respond — and in most cases I did. One of Adam’s essays in particular, this post from 2017, now strikes me as particularly important, and my response to it somewhat trivial. (It’s possible that I also responded in an email, but if so I can’t find it.) Now that I read the post again, something leaps out at me that I regret not having acknowledged at the time. TYhe context here is Shusaku Endo’s novel Silence. 

Adam writes,

If you were tortured for your beliefs, it would of course take strength to hold out. But if others are tortured for your beliefs, and you still refuse to yield, do we still call that strength? Doesn’t it look more like a kind of pitilessness? Or even disingenuousness, like a person donating to charity with somebody else’s money and taking all the credit? […]

What would Christ have done if the the Sanhedrin, or Pilate, had not tortured and crucified him, but had instead made him watch as they tortured and crucified his disciples, or his mother, or random citizens? He was strong enough to accept his own suffering, but would he have been strong enough to endure that? And if he was, if he gladly accepted the suffering of others whilst he himself remained unharmed, would we even call that strength?

This is a powerful point. But to the question “He was strong enough to accept his own suffering, but would he have been strong enough to endure that?” we have an answer: Yes. Indeed, Jesus promised that we his followers would suffer on account of him and that he would not intervene to prevent that suffering:

“Behold, I am sending you out as sheep in the midst of wolves, so be wise as serpents and innocent as doves. Beware of men, for they will deliver you over to courts and flog you in their synagogues, and you will be dragged before governors and kings for my sake, to bear witness before them and the Gentiles. When they deliver you over, do not be anxious how you are to speak or what you are to say, for what you are to say will be given to you in that hour. For it is not you who speak, but the Spirit of your Father speaking through you. Brother will deliver brother over to death, and the father his child, and children will rise against parents and have them put to death, and you will be hated by all for my name’s sake. But the one who endures to the end will be saved. […]

“So have no fear of them, for nothing is covered that will not be revealed, or hidden that will not be known. What I tell you in the dark, say in the light, and what you hear whispered, proclaim on the housetops. And do not fear those who kill the body but cannot kill the soul. Rather fear him who can destroy both soul and body in hell. Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? And not one of them will fall to the ground apart from your Father. But even the hairs of your head are all numbered.”

And on those who do suffer in this cause he pronounces a great blessing: “Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness’ sake, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are you when others revile you and persecute you and utter all kinds of evil against you falsely on my account. Rejoice and be glad, for your reward is great in heaven, for so they persecuted the prophets who were before you.” This idea, that we should rejoice in our sufferings, is strongly reinforced by Paul and Peter.

So, if we look with a cold and remorseless eye at these passage, then we will say that when Rodrigues apostatizes to end the suffering of his fellow Christians, he is depriving them of a great blessing, he is denying them what Christians have historically called “the martyr’s crown.” And he knows this:

But I know what you will say: ‘Their death was not meaningless. It was a stone which in time will be the foundation of the Church; and the Lord never gives us a trial which we cannot overcome… Like the numerous Japanese martyrs who have gone before, they now enjoy everlasting happiness.’ I also, of course, am convinced of all this.

But then, having made that acknowledgment, he continues: “And yet, why does this feeling of grief remain in my heart?”

That feeling of grief remains because Rodrigues is doing precisely what I would do in the same situation: He is weighing options in the balance. He’s looking for an optimal strategy. He’s thinking:

  1. If Jesus’s promises are true, then their suffering will end soon and their reward will be great: their glory will last forever. As Paul says, “the sufferings of this present time are not worth comparing with the glory that is to be revealed to us.”
  2. If Jesus’s promises are not true, then their suffering now is enormous and pointless, and anything that I can do to end that suffering is what I should do.
  3. And even if Jesus’s promises are true, and my intervention would deprive my friends of the martyr’s crown, they still belong to Him and will be among the blessed in Heaven.
  4. Therefore apostatizing makes sense, because it eliminates a potential great evil without exacting a terrible cost.

So Rodrigues and I reason. And the reasoning is sound! — but it’s not the reasoning of a truly faithful person. The truly faithful person says, “I will follow Jesus, I will trust wholly in Him, I will not hedge my bets or count the cost of obedience.”

I see that, but when I try even to contemplate such faith, I am like Kierkegaard’s Johannes de silentio contemplating Abraham, the sine qua non of faith:

Love, after all, has its priests in the poets, and occasionally one hears a voice that knows how to keep it in shape; but about faith one hears not a word, who speaks in this passion’s praises? Philosophy goes further. Theology sits all painted at the window courting philosophy’s favour, offering philosophy its delights. It is said to be hard to understand Hegel, while understanding Abraham, why, that’s a bagatelle. To go beyond Hegel, that is a miracle, but to go beyond Abraham is the simplest of all. I for my part have devoted considerable time to understanding the Hegelian philosophy, believe also that I have more or less understood it, am rash enough to believe that at those points where, despite the trouble taken, I cannot understand it, the reason is that Hegel himself hasn’t been altogether clear. All this I do easily, naturally, without it causing me any mental strain. But when I have to think about Abraham I am virtually annihilated. 

Me too. Faith such as that is beyond my capacity to achieve — indeed, even to imagine. 

P.S. Not relevant to the post, but it’s worth noting that a great many American Christians — if you were to judge by social media you’d think all of them, though you shouldn’t judge by social media — ignore this teaching. They complain ceaselessly about how unfairly they are treated (even though they are in no danger of martyrdom) and seek to inflict retribution on everyone they feel has slighted them. Most of them know what Jesus and the apostles say on such matters — they have also heard the phrase “turn the other cheek” — but I don’t think it ever occurs to them for one instant that such teachings might be applicable to them. 

January 16, 2026

angels in the architecture

I remember the precise moment I fell in love with Coventry Cathedral. It was on my first visit. As I entered I saw what you see above, which is quite wonderful in many ways. But after I had walked up towards the altar to inspect the great tapestry, I pivoted — and that’s when it hit me.

It’s important to understand that I had just made the movements that people make when they receive Communion: I had approached the Lord of Glory with the wounds in his hands and feet and side; I had come to the place where his body and blood are given for me; and then I turned.

What I saw, first, was tall thin columns of bright color: the stained glass windows that cannot be seen when you’re facing the altar. (There are surprisingly few good photographs online taken from where I stood, but you can get a few glimpses in this short film, though the commentary is uninformed about the theology that underlies the design.) 

And then of course I saw the angels. 

Coventry 20.

Much larger version here. 

It’s as though, having received the Holy Meal, you are suddenly able to see the world as it is: radiant with light and populated by angels engaged in their everlasting music of healing and consolation. Truly they are there. 

And they stand between us and the broken world, for the vista they look out upon is the world broken by humans: more particularly, the ruins of the medieval cathedral that had been bombed in the Second World War.

Here’s a brilliant BBC documentary about the building of the cathedral, first shown in 2021. And here’s a rather academic but still fascinating article about the making of that film, written by John Wyver, the film’s writer/director. 

December 15, 2025

Claudia’s dream

Dorothy L. Sayers’s sequence of twelve radio plays, The Man Born to be King, happened because the BBC asked her to put the life of Christ, distilled from the Gospels, in dramatic form. But Sayers was not content simply to string together episodes: she wanted to make something thematically coherent and aesthetically powerful. The through-line of the plays, it seems to me, can be put in the form of a question Jesus asks in all three of the synoptic Gospels: “Who do you say I am?” (Matthew 16:15, Mark 8:29, Luke 9:20.) In these plays, everyone who meets Jesus is implicitly confronted by this question, which most of them answer. They may admire or worship or mock or comdemn or despise, but they all respond. They seem compelled to.

But it is not just individual persons who need to respond to Jesus. The two Great Powers whom Jesus challenges are the Sanhedrin and Rome; and the members of those bodies respond in complex and often contradictory ways.

For Caiaphas, the High Priest, Jesus is not an unique figure: he is, rather, exemplary of an ongoing problem: the inability of the Sanhedrin to command the respect and obedience of the Jewish people. And that inability leads to the increasing dominance of Roman power in Judaea. In the eleventh play, which concerns the Crucifixion, Caiaphas reflects despairingly on this situation:

CAIAPHAS … It is the duty of statesmen to destroy the madness which we call imagination. It is dangerous. It breeds dissension. Peace, order, security — that is Rome’s offer — at Rome’s price.

JOSEPH [of Arimathea] (gloomily): We have rejected the way of Jesus. I suppose we must now take yours.

CAIAPHAS: You will reject me too, I think…. Be content, Jesus, my enemy. Caiaphas also will have lived in vain.

I may have more to say in a later post about the role of the Jewish authorities in these plays. These are matters that call for great delicacy, and I think it’s fair to say that delicacy was not Sayers’s strong suit. So stay tuned.

What Jesus means for Rome — and what Romans think Jesus means for Rome — is the question I want to focus on here.

One of the more intersting minor characters in these plays is a Roman named Proclus. We see him in the first play as a young soldier assigned to the household of Herod the Great; later we see him, a much older man, as the one Les Murray calls “the say-but-the-word centurion”; and we see him once more giving vinegar to the dying Jesus. Sayers’s decision to make these disparate figures one character is striking — and a reminder of how brief the earthly life of Jesus was. For a Roman soldier who was beginning his career when Jesus came into the world could still have been on duty to see this strange man out of it.

To Pilate Jesus is an object of little interest — though he does admire the fortitude with which the prophet bears his suffering: he muses that Jesus should have been a Roman. For most of the Roman soldiers he’s just another criminal they must deal with, along with the usual crowd-control problems. For one of the aristocrats his execution is worth seeing: it’s a pleasing “novelty” to watch a god being crucified.

But the most interesting figure here is Claudia Procula, the wife of Pilate. As Jesus hangs on the cross, Pilate asks her about this dream she has had, and she replies (I must quote at length here):

CLAUDIA: I was in a ship at sea, voyaging among the islands of the Aegean. At first the weather seemed calm and sunny — but presently, the sky darkened — and the sea began to toss with the wind….

(Wind and waves)

Then, out of the east, there came a cry, strange and piercing …

(Voice in a thin wail: “Pan ho megas tethneke — Pan ho megas tethneke– ”)

And I said to the captain, “What do they cry?” And he answered, “Great Pan is dead.” And I asked him, “How can God die?” And he answered, “Don’t you remember? They crucified him. He suffered under Pontius Pilate.” …

(Murmur of voices, starting almost in a whisper)

Then all the people in the ship turned their faces to me and said: “Pontius Pilate.” …

(Voices, some speaking, some chanting, some muttering, mingled with sung fragments of Greek and Latin liturgies, weaving and crossing one another: “Pontius Pilate. … Pontius Pilate … he suffered under Pontius Pilate … crucified, dead and buried … sub Pontio Pilato … Pilato … he suffered … suffered … under Pontius Pilate … under Pontius Pilate…. )

… in all tongues and all voices … even the little children with their mothers….

(Children’s voices: “Suffered under Pontius Pilate … sub Pontio Pilato … crucifie sous Ponce Pilate … gekreuzigt unter Pontius Pilatus … and other languages, mingling with the adult voices: then fade it all out)

. . . your name, husband, your name continually — “he suffered under Pontius Pilate.”

This is an extraordinary scene in several ways. Note, for instance, the inclusion, in the midst of the Second World War, of French and German voices. If you listen to the performance of this play available online and compare it to the book, you’ll discover that the performed version of the scene is considerably shorter than the published version and is placed after the death of Jesus rather than when he is dying — the book has the Roman soldiers giving the dying Jesus vinegar, then switches to Claudia Procula and Pilate, then returns to the cross for Jesus’s last outcry and death. It’s impossible to be sure, but it seems likely that Sayers allowed changes to her script in order to meet the exigencies of radio broadcast but then restored the full version for publication — because she thought what she had written and her placement of it are important. 

The most remarkable thing about the scene is Sayers’s inclusion of words written by the Greek historian and biographer Plutarch, a pagan who was born probably just a few years after Jesus was crucified. Plutarch was from the village of Chaeronea in Boeotia, about twenty miles from the famous temple of Apollo at Delphi, where he served as a priest. His devotion to Apollo seems to have been sincere and deep. Therefore he was appropriately concerned about the silence of the oracles, his essay/dialogue on which I wrote about at some length here.

Philip, one of the characters in the dialogue, tells this story:

As for death among such beings, I have heard the words of a man who was not a fool nor an impostor. The father of Aemilianus the orator, to whom some of you have listened, was Epitherses, who lived in our town and was my teacher in grammar. He said that once upon a time in making a voyage to Italy he embarked on a ship carrying freight and many passengers. It was already evening when, near the Echinades Islands, the wind dropped, and the ship drifted near Paxi. Almost everybody was awake, and a good many had not finished their after-dinner wine. Suddenly from the island of Paxi was heard the voice of someone loudly calling Thamus, so that all were amazed. Thamus was an Egyptian pilot, not known by name even to many on board. Twice he was called and made no reply, but the third time he answered; and the caller, raising his voice, said, ‘When you come opposite to Palodes, announce that Great Pan is dead.’ On hearing this, all, said Epitherses, were astounded and reasoned among themselves whether it were better to carry out the order or to refuse to meddle and let the matter go. Under the circumstances Thamus made up his mind that if there should be a breeze, he would sail past and keep quiet, but with no wind and a smooth sea about the place he would announce what he had heard. So, when he came opposite Palodes, and there was neither wind nor wave, Thamus from the stern, looking toward the land, said the words as he had heard them: ‘Great Pan is dead.’ Even before he had finished there was a great cry of lamentation, not of one person, but of many, mingled with exclamations of amazement. As many persons were on the vessel, the story was soon spread abroad in Rome, and Thamus was sent for by Tiberius Caesar. Tiberius became so convinced of the truth of the story that he caused an inquiry and investigation to be made about Pan; and the scholars, who were numerous at his court, conjectured that he was the son born of Hermes and Penelopê.

Tiberius, of course, was Caesar at the time of Jesus’s death. So, though Plutarch was writing around 100 A.D., this story concerns an event that occurred decades earlier; and it seems likely that Philip, who gives the account in a for-what-it’s-worth spirit, is suggesting that the oracles may have fallen silent because the gods or demigods who spoke through them have died.

The Christian interpretation of this story is of course that the coming of Jesus is what silences the oracles, whether by slaying the gods or by rendering them powerless.

Brief Digression: Conversely, the implication of Arthur Machen’s superb horror story “The Great God Pan” (1894) is that such deities have neither died nor lost all their power but have gone underground, as it were, conducting a permanently furtive campaign of resistance to a triumphant Christianity. And of course the justly famous “Piper at the Gates of Dawn” chapter in The Wind in the Willows (1906) makes a similar suggestion, but in a gentler and sunnier key. The survival of paganism in Europe is the subject of Francis Young’s Paganism Persisting: A History of European Paganisms since Antiquity and his consistently interesting Substack. Here is a recent piece by him on the renewal, real or imagined, of British paganism. These matters too deserve more attention than I can give them here. End of digression.

Sayers probably was alerted to Philip’s story by Chesterton’s The Everlasting Man (1925), which offers a very interesting take on the meaning of Philip’s tale. His suggestion is that Jesus did not have to kill Pan, because the disenchanting bureaucratic system of the Roman empire had already done so:

The Empire at the end was organised more and more on that servile system which generally goes with the boast of organisation; indeed it was almost as servile as the modern schemes for the organisation of industry. It is proverbial that what would once have been a peasantry became a mere populace of the town dependent for bread and circuses; which may again suggest to some a mob dependent upon doles and cinemas. In this as in many other respects, the modern return to heathenism has been a return not even to the heathen youth but rather to the heathen old age. But the causes of it were spiritual in both cases; and especially the spirit of paganism had departed with its familiar spirits. The heart had gone out of it with its household gods, who went along with the gods of the garden and the field and the forest. The Old Man of the Forest was too old; he was already dying. It is said truly in a sense that Pan died because Christ was born. It is almost as true in another sense that men knew that Christ was born because Pan was already dead. A void was made by the vanishing of the whole mythology of mankind, which would have asphyxiated like a vacuum if it had not been filled with theology. But the point for the moment is that the mythology could not have lasted like a theology in any case. Theology is thought, whether we agree with it or not. Mythology was never thought, and nobody could really agree with it or disagree with it. It was a mere mood of glamour, and when the mood went it could not be recovered. Men not only ceased to believe in the gods, but they realised that they had never believed in them. They had sung their praises; they had danced round their altars. They had played the flute; they had played the fool.

So came the twilight upon Arcady, and the last notes of the pipe sound sadly from the beechen grove.

The superior organization of the great Empire governed from a great City easily defeated this ancient pastoral paganism, which was, after all, “a mere mood of glamour.” (Stalin famously asked how many divisions the Pope had; one might imagine Tiberius Caesar asking how many legions Pan can command.)

Sayers’s use of all this is fascinating, and especially powerful is her decision to embed it in her narrative as a dream. For like all important dreams, that of Claudia Procula has an iron logic beneath its chaotic surface. The surface confuses the death of Jesus and the death of Pan; in fact, Pilate in his role as a Roman bureaucrat has indeed helped to kill Pan, though his acquiescence in the death of Jesus … well, that’s a more complicated matter. It is true that Jesus, at the very moment that Claudia Procula tells her dream, is dying on a Roman cross; but it is also true that, as King Melchior says in the sequence’s first play, “It is written in the stars that the man born to be king shall rule in Rome.” Immolatus vicerit. 

October 27, 2025

the Newman problem

Any serious reader of Newman’s Apologia Pro Vita Sua, and of the many controversies appertaining thereunto, will repeatedly face a certain kind of problem. I will explain by reference to one example, though I could choose dozens of others.

In late 1845, when Newman had recently swum the Tiber, “the editor of a magazine who had in former days accused me, to my indignation, of tending towards Rome, wrote to me to ask, which of the two was now right, he or I?” Newman replied at length, and, among other things, said this:

I have felt all along that Bp. Bull’s theology was the only theology on which the English Church could stand. I have felt, that opposition to the Church of Rome was part of that theology; and that he who could not protest against the Church of Rome was no true divine in the English Church. I have never said, nor attempted to say, that any one in office in the English Church, whether Bishop or incumbent, could be otherwise than in hostility to the Church of Rome.

And yet — I thought as I read those words — earlier in the Apologia he says that

I had a great and growing dislike, after the summer of 1839, to speak against the Roman Church herself or her formal doctrines. I was very averse to speak against doctrines, which might possibly turn out to be true, though at the time I had no reason for thinking they were, or against the Church, which had preserved them. I began to have misgivings, that, strong as my own feelings had been against her, yet in some things which I had said, I had taken the statements of Anglican divines for granted without weighing them for myself. I said to a friend in 1840, in a letter, which I shall use presently, “I am troubled by doubts whether as it is, I have not, in what I have published, spoken too strongly against Rome, though I think I did it in a kind of faith, being determined to put myself into the English system, and say all that our divines said, whether I had fully weighed it or not.” I was sore about the great Anglican divines, as if they had taken me in, and made me say strong things, which facts did not justify. Yet I did still hold in substance all that I had said against the Church of Rome in my Prophetical Office. I felt the force of the usual Protestant objections against her; I believed that we had the apostolical succession in the Anglican Church, and the grace of the sacraments; I was not sure that the difficulty of its isolation might not be overcome, though I was far from sure that it could. I did not see any clear proof that it had committed itself to any heresy, or had taken part against the truth; and I was not sure that it would not revive into full apostolic purity and strength, and grow into union with Rome herself (Rome explaining her doctrines and guarding against their abuse), that is, if we were but patient and hopeful.

When I look at the overall tone of this passage, it seems obvious to me that these are not the words of someone “in hostility to the Church of Rome.” How could you be said to be hostile to an institution that you “dislike” speaking against, whose doctrines you felt “might possibly turn out to be true,” and about which you “did not see any clear proof that it had committed itself to any heresy, or had taken part against the truth”? None of that sounds the least hostile.

But then I have to ask: what does Newman mean by “hostility”? I could imagine him saying that anyone not submitting to the authority of Rome is ipso facto hostile to that Church — and in that sense even one holding the views he held when he wrote Tract 90 would still be “in hostility to the Church of Rome.” Now, of course, that would be to use the term in a highly idiosyncratic way — in a way likely to confuse others. But this is what Newman does all the time.

Many of his disputes with his contemporaries take this form:

Opponent: You lied when you said X.

Newman: I did not lie. How dare you accuse me so?

Opponent: You certainly did lie, for elsewhere you say Z, and Z contradicts X.

Newman: Z is fully compatible with X.

Opponent: How so?

Newman: By Z I mean to affirm φ.

Opponent: But Z does not entail φ, it entails δ!

Newman: I define it so as to entail φ.

Opponent: You know perfectly well that everyone thinks that Z entails δ!

Newman: I am greatly surprised by what you say. It had never occurred to me that anyone would ever infer δ from Z.

Opponent: You deliberately misled your readers!

Newman: You have merely reiterated your former accusation in a new form. As an English gentlemen I resent this attack upon my honour.

(In his disputation with Charles Kingsley Newman often appeals to his honour as an English gentleman.) So I could easily imagine Newman saying “I never imagined that anyone would think ‘hostility to Rome’ to mean anything other than ‘disinclination to submit to Roman authority, even when full of admiration for almost everything that Rome stands for.’”

But even if we allow Newman to appeal to the authority of his own private, unstated definitions of key terms, he is still in difficulty — or rather, we his readers are. We still have questions. How can he at one and the same time think that the distinctively Roman doctrines “might possibly turn out to be true” and that he has no reason for thinking them true? Here his answer would presumably be that he has no evidence one way or the other, because he had never actually studied the matter but instead had trusted “the great Anglican divines.” Fair enough — though should not Newman be “sore” at himself for trusting without evidence, instead of resenting the people whose opinions he had trusted?

(Later in the book he says that his reliance on the Anglican divines “of course was a fault” — but he strictly constrains the scope of the fault as he sees it: “This [trust in the divines] did not imply any broad misstatements on my part, arising from reliance on their authority, but it implied carelessness in matters of detail.” That’s as far as he will go in self-criticism. But was it a “matter of detail” that they condemned in harsh and strict terms the very Church that Newman would later enter?) 

Setting such issues aside, there’s a further question to be asked: If he had realized that his judgments on Rome were derived at second-hand from others and therefore had no real value, why does he say, “Yet I did still hold in substance all that I had said against the Church of Rome in my Prophetical Office”? He still holds in substance the views that he just said he had no evidence for holding? This seems impossible, for in 1833 he had written, for instance, “Rome is heretical now … Their communion is infected with heresy; we are bound to flee it as a pestilence,” whereas he says that in 1839 “I did not see any clear proof that it had committed itself to any heresy, or had taken part against the truth.” (The earlier statements were the subject of his post-conversion retractions.) These positions are quite obviously irreconcilable with one another, so how Newman could say that they were “in substance” consistent I cannot imagine. 

I say that; though I suspect that if I were to challenge Newman on this point he would reply, “Ah, but when I said those things in 1933 I was not speaking in my Prophetical Office,” and then would go on to define in exhaustive detail how he distinguishes between things said in his Prophetical Office and things said in other offices, and further to explain that any inconsistencies in statements made in the different offices are not blameworthy in any sense.

This is just how Newman thinks. What almost everyone else believes to be cheese-paring, logic-chopping, evasive circumlocution he sees as perfectly normal and indeed commendable. The avalanche of accusations he gets not only from avowed enemies but also from many friends he responds to with blank incomprehension:

I incurred the charge of weakness from some men, and of mysteriousness, shuffling, and underhand dealing from the majority.

Now I will say here frankly, that this sort of charge is a matter which I cannot properly meet, because I cannot duly realise it. I have never had any suspicion of my own honesty; and, when men say that I was dishonest, I cannot grasp the accusation as a distinct conception, such as it is possible to encounter.

And I don’t believe he was intentionally dishonest, at least, not more often than anyone else — though I cannot think of another writer whose absence of self-knowledge is quite so complete. That he never suspected his own honesty is something he avers in his own favor, but it’s a damning admission. All of us should sometimes ask whether we are what we habitually tell ourselves we are. Whatever the logical virtues (if any) of his natural method of thought, it had the effect of disguising from himself and from others the complex truth of his own ever-shifting responses to his Anglican inheritance and the Roman church towards which he was ever more strongly drawn. And it had the further effect of preventing him from acknowledging the influence he had over so many others. 

But of course, all this concerns retrospection: accounting for something one said in the past. It is odd that Newman gets so pettifogging about these matters when, almost immediately after the passages I have been quoting, he freely confesses, in one of the more moving passages in the Apologia, how long he struggled to make logical sense of his position: 

What then was I to say, when acute minds urged this or that application of [the principle of Antiquity] against the Via Media? it was impossible that, in such circumstances, any answer could be given which was not unsatisfactory, or any behaviour adopted which was not mysterious. Again, sometimes in what I wrote I went just as far as I saw, and could as little say more, as I could see what is below the horizon; and therefore, when asked as to the consequences of what I had said, had no answer to give. Again, sometimes when I was asked, whether certain conclusions did not follow from a certain principle, I might not be able to tell at the moment, especially if the matter were complicated; and for this reason, if for no other, because there is great difference between a conclusion in the abstract and a conclusion in the concrete, and because a conclusion may be modified in fact by a conclusion from some opposite principle. Or it might so happen that I got simply confused, by the very clearness of the logic which was administered to me, and thus gave my sanction to conclusions which really were not mine; and when the report of those conclusions came round to me through others, I had to unsay them. And then again, perhaps I did not like to see men scared or scandalised by unfeeling logical inferences, which would not have touched them to the day of their death, had they not been made to eat them. And then I felt altogether the force of the maxim of St. Ambrose, “Non in dialecticâ complacuit Deo salvum facere populum suum;” — I had a great dislike of paper logic. For myself, it was not logic that carried me on; as well might one say that the quicksilver in the barometer changes the weather. It is the concrete being that reasons; pass a number of years, and I find my mind in a new place; how? the whole man moves; paper logic is but the record of it. All the logic in the world would not have made me move faster towards Rome than I did; … Great acts take time. At least this is what I felt in my own case; and therefore to come to me with methods of logic, had in it the nature of a provocation, and, though I do not think I ever showed it, made me somewhat indifferent how I met them, and perhaps led me, as a means of relieving my impatience, to be mysterious or irrelevant, or to give in because I could not reply. And a greater trouble still than these logical mazes, was the introduction of logic into every subject whatever, so far, that is, as it was done. Before I was at Oriel, I recollect an acquaintance saying to me that “the Oriel Common Room stank of Logic.” One is not at all pleased when poetry, or eloquence, or devotion, is considered as if chiefly intended to feed syllogisms. Now, in saying all this, I am saying nothing against the deep piety and earnestness which were characteristics of this second phase of the Movement, in which I have taken so prominent a part. What I have been observing is, that this phase had a tendency to bewilder and to upset me, and, that instead of saying so, as I ought to have done, in a sort of easiness, for what I know, I gave answers at random, which have led to my appearing close or inconsistent. 

As far as I can tell, this is as close as he comes to taking responsibility for the confusion he so often sowed in others. 

October 6, 2025

should Christians be anarchists?

I wrote in my anarchist notebook:

Jacques Ellul thinks that Christians should be anarchists because God, in Jesus Christ, has renounced Lordship. I think something almost the opposite: it is because Jesus is Lord (and every knee shall ultimately bow before him, and every tongue confess his Lordship) that Christians should be anarchists. 

I hadn’t remembered writing that, but came across the post this morning, just after posting on Phil Christman’s book. Do I think that Christians should be anarchists in the way that Phil thinks we should be leftists? Am I ready to grasp that nettle? 

Maybe not yet, though I will say that the essential practices of anarchism — negotiation and collaboration among equals — are ones utterly neglected and desperately needed in a society in which the one and only strategy seems to be Get Management To Take My Side. And Christians are a part of that society and tend to follow that strategy. 

It’s often said that the early Christians as described in the book of Acts are communists because they “hold all things in common” (2:44-45, 4:32-37). But there is a difference between (a) communism as a voluntary practice by members of a community within a much larger polity and (b) communism as the official political economy of a nation-state, backed by the state’s monopoly on force. The former is much closer to anarchism. We are not told that the Apostles ordered people to sell their possessions and lay the money at the Apostles’ feet, but rather that people chose to do so. We are told that the early Christians distributed food to the poor, but not that the Apostles ordered them to do so. The emphasis rather is on the fact that they were “of one heart and soul” (καρδία καὶ ψυχή μία). 

It is commonly believed by Christians in the high-church traditions, like mine, that the threefold order of ministry (bishop, priest, deacon) mandates a hierarchical structure of decision-making, but I am not sure that’s true. Things did indeed develop along those lines, but that’s because — this is an old theme of mine — church leaders saw the administrative structure of the Roman state as something to imitate rather than something to defy. A diocese was originally a Roman administrative unit; nothing in the New Testament even hints that an episkopos is anything like the Roman prefect (praefectus praetorio) or a priest like his representative (vicarius). The office developed along Roman/political lines, but it needn’t have developed that way.

And indeed, in some traditions — for instance, American Anglicanism — it’s possible to discern the lineaments of a somewhat different model: when the rector is charged with the spiritual care of the parish and the vestry are charged with the material care of the parish, there’s something of the division of labor and spheres of autonomy that we see in the better-run anarchist and anarcho-syndicalist communities. There are always tensions at the point when the spheres touch, but that’s what negotiation and voluntary collaboration are for: to resolve, or at least ease, tensions. 

In these contexts I often find myself thinking of a passage from Lesslie Newbigin’s great book The Gospel in a Pluralist Society (1989): 

[Roland] Allen, who served in China in the early years of this century, carried on a sustained polemic against the missionary methods of his time and contrasted them with those of St. Paul. St. Paul, he argued, never stayed in one place for more than a few months, or at most a couple of years. He did not establish what we call a “mission station,” and he certainly did not build himself a mission bungalow. On the contrary, as soon as there was an established congregation of Christian believers, he chose from among them elders, laid his hands on them, entrusted to them the care of the church, and left. By contrast, the nineteenth century missionary considered it necessary to stay, not merely for a lifetime, but for the lifetime of several generations of missionaries. Why? Because he did not think his work was done until the local church had developed a leadership which had mastered and internalized the culture of Europe, its theological doctrines, its administrative machinery, its architecture, its music, until there was a complete replica of the “home church” equipped with everything from archdeacons to harmoniums. The young church was to be a carbon copy of the old church in England, Scotland, or Germany. In rejecting this, and in answering the question, What must have been done if the gospel is to be truly communicated? Allen answered: there must be a congregation furnished with the Bible, the sacraments, and the apostolic ministry. When these conditions are fulfilled, the missionary has done her job. The young church is then free to learn, as it goes and grows, how to embody the gospel in its own culture. [pp. 146-47] 

It seems to me that this argument has implications not just for missionary activity but for every church. The model that Allen favors seems to me a way to reconcile the principle of authority with the practices of anarchism. Is it possible to have both the threefold order of ministry and a congregational life that’s based on the one-heart-one-soul way of life?

I want to mull that question over for a while and return to it later. I feel confident that Christians should incorporate more of the foundational anarchistic practices into their common life, but does that mean that Christians should be anarchists? Hmmmm. 

October 5, 2025

should Christians be leftists?

Phil Christman has said that Adam Roberts, Francis Spufford, and I form a kind of writerly school — though he has yet to define its parameters. I kinda hope he does that one day. 

 UPDATE: Phil has written firmly to me: 

Now, listen here — I did not call you and Adam and Francis a “school!” I called you a Poundian/Wyndham Lewisian vortex and said that you don’t quite constitute an ism! If you were a school, I’d be trying to matriculate!

Disagreements about politics are one thing, about exegesis another, but a man can’t stand for misrepresentation!

Dammit, Phil is correct. I repent in sackcloth and ashes. The post will now continue but my “be true to your school” joke doesn’t work any more. That said, it’s way cooler to be a VORTEX than a mere school. 

But in any case, Francis has blurbed Phil’s new book Why Christians Should Be Leftists, and Adam has written at some length about the book, so I suppose I have no choice but to weigh in. Be true to your school. 

But I haven’t been able to corral my thoughts into a coherent essay, and my next week is going to be crazy busy, so I think I will present my thoughts in all their clunking incoherence as a series of numbered points.

 

1.

I would be more positively disposed to Phil’s book if it had a different title, for instance:

Though Until Quite Recently Christians Could Not Have Been Leftists Because the Nation-State Model Under Which the Category “Left” Makes Sense Did Not Exist, and With the Further Qualification That Political Questions Are Largely Empirical in Nature and Therefore If I Could Be Convinced That Some Other Political Economy Did a Better Job of Fulfilling or Helping to Fulfill the Mandates of the Sermon on the Mount I Would Adopt That Political Orientation, I Believe Christians Should Be Leftists

 

2. 

It’s noteworthy that in this interview Phil talks about how much of his money to give away in exactly the same way that my fundagelical Republican friends and family members do. “Should we be generous to the poor until it hurts us?” is a question which, for Christians, has a clear answer; “Should generosity to the poor be mediated through governmental institutions or come primarily from individual contributions and charitable NGOs?” is a question with no equally clear answer. Phil says that the teachings of Jesus demand “massive redistribution of wealth (either through alms or taxes)” — but which will it be, alms or taxes? Again, what works best is largely if not wholly an empirical question, which I think means that the decision whether to be on the Right or Left is not principial but rather pragmatic. And that lowers the stakes in the debate.

Also, I think the question above is hard to answer because it’s hard to answer this question: What’s worse, (a) a society in which the poor are in absolute terms poorer but are closer in income to the rich, or (b) a society in which poverty-as-such is greatly reduced but the rich are ever-more-filthy rich? That is: What’s the key problem here, poverty-as-such or inequality? And I don’t think the Sermon on the Mount (or the Bible as a whole) tells us.

Phil writes, “God wants all of us to acknowledge that love by lifting up those at the bottom of our social arrangements. The Bible is clearer about that then it is about most of the theological and ethical issues we fight about. And the only durable way to do this is to lift up that bottom.” Well, amen to that. But what if the best way to lift up that bottom also lifts the top? That’s basically the argument Deirdre McCloskey makes in her massive Bourgeois Trilogy, about which I’ve written a bit here and here — really important work pointing to certain indubiable facts about the astonishingly swift and great rise in wealth that has occurred throughout the world during the reign of capitalism. In my experience, most leftists just pretend that none of this even happened, but the more acute ones agree that it has happened but also that capitalism has done all the good work it can do and now needs to give way to the next stage of economic development. That, however, requires subtle and detailed argumentation, and it’s a lot easier to shout “CAPITALISM IMMISERATES” even when that’s obviously not true. Unless …

Unless you are referring not to material misery — which capitalism has dramatically reduced — but rather to the social and psychological pain of inequality. Then the question becomes: Is material improvement coupled with increased inequality and therefore decreased social solidarity a deal we’re willing to make?

Or, to return to specifically Christian terms: What does Jesus primarily want, (a) deliverance of the poor from their poverty or (b) social solidarity among us all, even if that means a reduction in collective wealth? Some people, of course, will say that we don’t have to choose, that we can all together ascend the golden escalator to universal wealth. Isn’t it pretty to think so?

 

3.

If I had been making Phil’s case, I might have said something like this:

To my conservative/libertarian brothers and sisters, greetings in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ! Obiously, we all believe that the teachings of the Sermon on the Mount are binding upon us, and also that the teachings of the Hebrew Prophets are equally binding upon us (because the whole of the Bible is the Word of God). That means that we are obligated to alleviate the sufferings of the poor, the despised, the outcast, the stranger. But the Bible does not tell us how we are to do that necessary work. You don’t think it should be done through the government, which, though I do not agree, I understand. But that means that you really need to raise your game. If we are not going to redistribute resources — that is, share our blessings — through governmental action, then we need as individuals and families and churches to give until it hurts. We need to increase our support of charitable organizations that do this work. We need to make sure our churches preach this Biblical message. We need to encourage our fellow Christians to give more generously — to see lifting up the poor not as a nice thing, not as an acceptable option, but an absolute Gospel mandate. Some of us (some individual Christians, some families, some churches) obey this mandate, but not all of us, not nearly enough of us, else we would not see so many people among us who can’t afford to buy healthy food for their families, can’t afford safe and clean housing, can’t afford decent health care. There are enough of us to make a far bigger difference than we make, and our goal should be that the whole world says that they know us by our love. We don’t have to do it through governmental intervention, but we have to do it, and if you can’t see any way to make that happen on the scale that it needs to happen … well, then maybe we should revisit the question of whether the government might, after all, be the best instrument to pursue this common good.

And indeed you can find an argument that touches on some of these themes in an essay I wrote in 2005. 

 

4. 

My biggest Amen goes to this paragraph from Phil’s book:

Jesus takes sides in particular situations — the victim of violence over the perpetrator; the sufferer over the oppressor. But I also think Jesus is playing for all the marbles. As he judges the oppressor’s actions, he also sees every second of the life that took the oppressor to that moment, the poor moral formation the oppressor received from his parents (and that they in turn received), the ideological lies that that oppressor started to learn before he was old enough to notice or think about them, the person that that oppressor might have been had he been born in more auspicious circumstances. Jesus sees the thing that Jesus himself, as the second person of the Trinity and God’s creative Word, formed in the womb. And he wants to redeem that too. He wants all of it. He wants all of us.

October 3, 2025

revival, retrospection, assessment

At Evangelical Colleges, A Revival of Repentance – The New York Times (1995):

Students at evangelical colleges are embracing a revival calling them to repent. “We haven’t seen a student revival since the Jesus movement days of the late 60’s and early 70’s,” said the Rev. John Avant, pastor of a Baptist church in Brownwood, Tex., where the movement started. […] 

Some … say it is premature to gauge the significance of the movement in relation to other revivals in American religious history. “I would say that the thing to do is to call back in 40 years,” said Mark Noll, a historian at Wheaton. 

It’s only been thirty years, so the jury’s still out. But I doubt that many of you reading this have ever heard of this revival. 

That doesn’t mean that it has had no impact. These things are exceptionally difficult, probably impossible, to discern. In 1964, in his introduction to an anthology called The Protestant Mystics, W. H. Auden described a kind of experience that he called “the Vision of Agape.” In that context he included a brief narrative account of an experience “for the authenticity of which I can vouch.” Here is that testimony, somewhat abridged:

One fine summer night in June 1933 I was sitting on a lawn after dinner with three colleagues, two women and one man. We liked each other well enough but we were certainly not intimate friends, nor had any one of us a sexual interest in another. Incidentally, we had not drunk any alcohol. We were talking casually about everyday matters when, quite suddenly and unexpectedly, something happened. I felt myself invaded by a power which, though I consented to it, was irresistible and certainly not mine. For the first time in my life I knew exactly — because, thanks to the power, I was doing it — what it means to love one’s neighbor as oneself…. My personal feelings towards them were unchanged — they were still colleagues, not intimate friends — but I felt their existence as themselves to be of infinite value and rejoiced in it….

The memory of the experience has not prevented me from making use of others, grossly and often, but it has made it much more difficult for me to deceive myself about what I am up to when I do. And among the various factors which several years later brought me back to the Christian faith in which I had been brought up, the memory of this experience and asking myself what it could mean was one of the most crucial, though, at the time it occurred, I thought I had done with Christianity for good.

This whole account is fascinating, but I want to call attention to this: the experience had a major influence on the direction of Auden’s life only some years after it occurred. Indeed, at the time it occurred he didn’t understand it: his calling it a “vision of Agape” is a retrospective interpretation, one quite different from how he thought of his experience in the poem he wrote shortly after it happened. He seems to have thought it a curious event, but not an especially important one. Between the event and his reinterpretation of it, the experience went underground: imagine a branch falling into a river that plunges below the land’s surface and emerges much farther downstream, bearing some of the cargo it acquired much earlier. (I saw such a river once.)   

Presentists — which is to say, 99.7% of Americans — think that whatever is happening right now is the best or worst thing ever, certainly the most dramatically extreme and totally important thing ever. (Just as they also think that “desperate times require desperate measures” and Right Now is always a desperate time.) So a great many Americans believe that a major revival is happening right now — North Americans, perhaps I should say, because one of the most interesting reflections on this development is by the Canadian writer and scholar Marilyn Simon.

Simon asks a good question and makes a good point: “And so what is this revival (it is most certainly a revival) going to accomplish? Of course we don’t yet know.” But what I would say is: We may never know. Indeed, we will almost certainly never know.

In 2035, if people follow Mark Noll’s advice and think back to the 1995 Christian-college revival, how will they assess its influence? Even the people who were there may not know how it shaped them. Think of how writers can commit inadvertent plagiarism, a phrase having dropped into the mind and remained in the current long after its origin is forgotten. Maybe people involved in that revival can’t recall the words they heard there but have internalized them all the same, or have certain feelings when singing a hymn or reading the Bible that (without their realizing it) have the source in that long-ago experience. 

To be human is, it seems to me, to care about the origins and sources of things, but we know very little, it also seems to me, about what most deeply shapes us. At the end of Middlemarch, George Eliot says of her heroine Dorothea that “the effect of her being on those around her was incalculably diffusive.” Of how many people and experiences is this true? Many, I suspect. The truly defining events of our lives will may remain unknown to us — and that, I suspect, is true on a social as well as a personal level. 

I’m not sure what lessons are to be drawn from all this, except one: It’s best not to make decisions about what to do, or even what to think about, based on an immediate perception of what’s really important, really influential. So hear the words of the Preacher: “In the morning sow thy seed, and in the evening withhold not thine hand: for thou knowest not whether shall prosper, either this or that, or whether they both shall be alike good.” 

September 12, 2025

chaplains in the fire

The starting point for my friend Tim Larsen’s new book The Fires of Moloch is another book, one published in 1917 and often reprinted over the next few years. The Church in the Furnace is a collection of essays by Anglican clergymen who served in the Great War as military chaplains. The chaplains were sometimes thought to be of a modernizing or liberalizing tendency because they were so straightforward about the horrors of the war — and what they believed to be the church’s unpreparedness to minister to people who had been through such horrors, or even those who merely observed them from a distance. It a collective cry for the Church of England to take steps, however dramatic, to prepare itself to minister to a world very different than that which their Victorian ancestors had known.

The brilliant idea that Tim had was to look at the stories of each of the seventeen contributors to The Church in the Furnace. Throughout his career Tim has written books that provide brief biographies of a series of related figures and then show how these figures are related to one another, whether personally, intellectually, or culturally. For instance, his book The Slain God concerns a series of anthropologists and their encounters with Christianity. When imagining Tim’s books, think Lytton Strachey’s Eminent Victorians, with a good deal of the humor but without the cynicism and the camp. This group of chaplains is particularly well suited for this kind of treatment, because if you look at their experiences you’ll see that they were uniformly appalled by the war into which they were thrown, and agreed that the Church of England was not prepared to meet the challenges of the war — but they had very different senses of what the key problems were. 

It seems to be believed in some circles that these were Anglo-Catholic clergymen, but as Tim points out at the beginning of his account, only some of them were. They really covered the whole spectrum of the Church of England — high church, low church, and broad church — and while some embraced modernist revisions to traditional Christian theology, others were conventionally creedal in their thinking. They also had widely varying ideas about what the primary emphasis of the church should be as it strove to meet the challenges of a bloody twentieth century.

Tim does an exceptional job of contextualizing The Church in the Furnace, first by showing who these chaplains were when they entered the war: what they brought to their work as chaplains, what experiences, what history, what theological formation, what pastoral philosophies. You can see the wide variety of ways in which they were not (as  indeed they could not have been) prepared for what they had to face. But then, having shown that, Tim goes on to show how deeply and permanently they were, without exception, marked by their experience as military chaplains. For the rest of their lives — and in some cases those lives were quite long — they continued to think of Christianity and Christian ministry in ways that shaped by their experience in war. For instance, almost all of them became inclined at one time or another to conceive of the Christian life in military terms. This imagery, of course, is is present in the New Testament, though present among many other metaphors; but it becomes central for most of these chaplains. Some of them speak of Christ as “our great captain” who has recruited us into his army, has made us his soldiers. This image becomes the default model of the Christian life for several of these clergymen, and a significant part of the rhetorical and theological equipment for all of them.

Finally, one other noteworthy theme emerges. There’s a general sense that war has the effect of alienating people from their religion. But in fact, what was seen in the Great War was a dramatic increase in prayer, both individual and public. One of the most consistent messages of these clergymen was that they found that, other than the Lord’s Prayer, which most of the soldiers knew, they really didn’t have any idea how to pray, never having been instructed in prayer. And if there was one thing that all of these clergymen agreed on, it was that the church desperately needed to to teach people how to pray. And I suspect that is a message that is as relevant now as it was then, if not more so.

July 11, 2025

Sayers and Constantine: 6

Our attempts to understand the character of Constantine are befuddled by two mysteries, the first of which is: Constantine had his (second) wife Fausta and his (eldest) son Crispus executed, and we don’t know why. Some have speculated that he caught the two of them having an affair; Gibbon, more plausibly and with more deference to rumors current at the time, believes that Fausta falsely implicated Crispus in a plot against his father in order to clear the way for her own sons — Crispus being the son of Constantine’s first marriage — to inherit the throne. Gibbon:

The innocence of Crispus was so universally acknowledged, that the modern [by which Gibbon usually means “medieval”] Greeks, who adore the memory of their founder, are reduced to palliate the guilt of a parricide, which the common feelings of human nature forbade them to justify. They pretend, that as soon as the afflicted father discovered the falsehood of the accusation by which his credulity had been so fatally misled, he published to the world his repentance and remorse; that he mourned forty days, during which he abstained from the use of the bath, and all the ordinary comforts of life; and that, for the lasting instruction of posterity, he erected a golden statue of Crispus, with this memorable inscription: To my son, whom I unjustly condemned. A tale so moral and so interesting would deserve to be supported by less exceptionable authority; but if we consult the more ancient and authentic writers, they will inform us, that the repentance of Constantine was manifested only in acts of blood and revenge; and that he atoned for the murder of an innocent son, by the execution, perhaps, of a guilty wife. They ascribe the misfortunes of Crispus to the arts of his step-mother Fausta, whose implacable hatred, or whose disappointed love, renewed in the palace of Constantine the ancient tragedy of Hippolytus and of Phaedra.

Sayers in The Emperor Constantine more-or-less endorses this interpretation, though she differs from Gibbon in another respect: Sayers has Constantine executing Crispus in a blind rage, whereas Gibbon says that his murder was carefully planned well in advance. It was a settled decision, not a moment of wrath. (As we shall see in a future post, this sets a pattern for his family.) Sayers is not excusing him, but I think she does make him a more impetuous and less coldly calculating figure than the real Constantine was — though Sayers’s Constantine does inform Fausta that he will have her executed, but only after she accompanies him as his consort in a grand public ceremony. Which is pretty cold: The imperial show must go on. (And Fausta calmly plays her part.)

The second puzzle about Constantine: Why did he delay his baptism until he was on his death-bed? One possible answer: it was not uncommon in that era for converts to delay baptism until near death, because they believed that if they died immediately after baptism — without the opportunity to commit more sins — that would allow them to go straight to Heaven. Sayers hints that Constantine may have been aware of this: in the scene in which he orders the death of his son Crispus and others he believes to have been conspiring against him — about which more in a moment — he says, “How fortunate that I was never baptised! I can damn myself with a clear conscience.” As though to say: I am not officially a Christian and so do not betray my Lord by this sin — though I can make amends later.

(FYI: You may now choose to read an exemplary tale, taken from an American novel published in 1964, that illustrates in a distinctive way the theological and moral implications of the once-common theology of baptism that I have just described. Or you may simply continue.)

However we might read Constantine’s murderous gratitude that he is unbaptized, something becomes quite clear in the play’s last scene, when the people whom Constantine has had murdered appear before him as spectral images, horrifying him. It is then that, for the first time in his life, he confronts the true depth and extent of his sins: 

Sin is more terrible than you think. It is not lying and cruelty and murder — it is a corruption of life at the source. I and mine are so knit together in evil that no one can tell where the guilt begins or ends. And I who called myself God’s emperor — I find now that all my justice is sin and all my mercy bloodshed…..

How can he be forgiven? How can he not pay the price for his wickedness?

It is Helena, his mother — yes, in fact she predeceased him, but shut up about that — who tells him the terrible and wonderful truth:

HELENA: The price is always paid, but not always by the guilty.

CONSTANTINE: By whom, then?

HELENA: By the blood of the innocent.

CONSTANTINE: Oh no!

HELENA: By nothing else, my child. Every man’s innocence belongs to Christ, and Christ’s to him. And innocence alone can pardon without injustice, because it has paid the price.

CONSTANTINE: That is intolerable.

HELENA: It is the hardest thing in the world — to receive salvation at the hand of those we have injured. But if they do not plead for us there is nobody else who can. That is why there is no redemption except in the cross of Christ. For He alone is true God and true Man, wholly innocent and wholly wronged, and we shed His blood every day.

What Constantine must understand, here at the end of his life, as the waters of Holy Baptism are prepared for him, is that the formulation he himself oversaw at Nicaea — that Jesus Christ, born of the Virgin Mary, is also “true God from true God, begotten not made, of one being with the Father” — is not just a theologically accurate statement, but the only hope of the dying. Constantine must throw himself upon the mercy of the Crucified One — the one whom he himself, in his sins, helped to crucify. As John the apostle put it: “He is the propitiation for our sins: and not for ours only, but also for the sins of the whole world” (1 John 2:2).

And this is where the two helices of the story of this flawed but remarkable play meet and merge. It is when we grasp for ourselves the truth of what was articulated at Nicaea that the dogma indeed becomes the drama. 

July 9, 2025

Sayers and Constantine: 5

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I have said that one helix of The Emperor Constantine is the clarification of Christian doctrine at Nicaea, and the other is the personal theological development of Constantine. When we first see him in the play, he demonstrates a religious sensibility — but one totally subordinated to the needs of the Empire. He asks his mother whether Christ is a “strong god,” because “The Empire needs pulling together — a new focus of faith and energy.” As the Emperor Julian — subject of a future post — will later think, Constantine for a time believes that Sol Invictus is the ideal “focus of faith and energy.” But when he starts winning victories under the sign of the Labarum he starts to suspect that his mother may be right when she says that Christ “is the one true God.”

At one point his Christian servant Togi — accompanied by the bishop Hosius — sees an opportunity to put his master to the test:

CONSTANTINE: Here, Togi, is there a table in this blasted barracks?

[TOGI looks at CONSTANTINE, as if wondering how far he dare go with him. Then —

TOGI: Here you are, Augustus! (He sweeps the offerings from the table dedicated to the Lares.)

CONSTANTINE (leaping to catch them): Here, damn it! what are you doing? That’s sacrilege, you little swine! You’ve offended all the household gods. What the devil’s come over you? By Jupiter I’ll — (He checks the blow in mid-air, and looks from the table to the Chi-Ro and back again, while a ludicrous succession of emotions — rage, alarm, shame, irritation, superstitious awe, schoolboy mischief and defiance chase one another across his face. Then he grins, and the tension is relaxed.) Toleration, I said — not religious intolerance. Is that what happens when we stop persecuting you? Must you persecute others and break down their altars? Does your Christ want all the sky to Himself, and all the offerings too? (He laughs a little uneasily, and looks sideways at Hosius. His tone changes.) By the gods, I believe that’s what you do want.

HOSIUS (steadily) There is only one true God, my son, and He cannot be served with half-measures.

CONSTANTINE So! … Well, that’s logical enough, but I hadn’t thought of it that way. … That’s His strength, of course, He knows the secret of rule. One God… one Emperor. (It is the birth of a new idea; he ponders it.) One. (He goes and stares at the Chi-Ro.) You won our battle for us…. One, true, and mighty…. Give us Your favour and protection — and ten more years of life — (He turns away, discovers that he is clutching an apple in his hand, gazes at it in astonishment and takes a large bite out of it.) All right, Togi. But do remember that, Christ or no Christ, I’m still Pontifex Maximus.

Nope his epithets: “By Jupiter,” “By the gods.” Gradually, though, Constantine becomes more and more committed to the belief that the Christian faith is the One True Faith. But even then he is a kind of theological minimalist: when he learns about the Arian controversies, he says,

CONSTANTINE: It really is heart-breaking — after all I’ve done for them — not to speak of what God has done! For two pins I’d knock their reverend pates together! … All this hair-splitting about texts! Why can’t they agree to differ, like sensible people?

HOSIUS (cautiously): Why indeed, Augustus? Unless the difference of opinion is really so fundamental that —

CONSTANTINE: It isn’t. It’s only some obscure metaphysical point — nothing but sophistry. All anybody wants is faith in God and Christ and the simple Gospel message. These theologians are getting swelled heads, that’s what it is. They feel safe, they enjoy the Imperial favour, they’re exempt from taxation, and instead of looking after the poor and converting the heathen, they start heresy-hunting and playing a sort of intellectual catch-as-catch-can to jockey one another out of benefices. I won’t have it. It’s got to stop.

But, again gradually, he comes to realize that there may be more at stake in these debates than he had suspected. And his experience at the Council — long hours listening to to the Arians and the Athanasians going at each other — ultimately confirms the point. So when the Council is struggling to come up with a formal dogmatic statement, he finally intervenes. (Note: Eusebius of Nicomedia is one of the leading Arians, not to be confused with the more famous Eusebius of Caesarea, who throughout this debate sits on the fence.)

CONSTANTINE: Will you give me leave to speak?

EUSTATHIUS: But of course, sir. Pray do.

CONSTANTINE: There was a phrase mentioned earlier in the proceedings which struck me very forcibly. It was, if I remember it rightly, “of one substance with the Father.”

EUSEBIUS OF NICOMEDIA: Oh lord!

That Constantine was the person to introduce this word is not Sayers’s invention: when Eusebius of Caesarea wrote a letter about the Council to his own church, he described what the council articulated as “our faith” — in essence what is now called the Nicene Creed — and then added,

When we presented this faith … our emperor, most beloved of God, himself first of all witnessed that this was most orthodox. He agreed that even he himself thought thus, and he ordered all to assent to subscribe to the teachings and to be in harmony with them, although only one word, homoousios, was added, which he himself interpreted, saying that the Son might not be said to be homoousios according to the affections of bodies, … for the immaterial, intellectual, and incorporeal nature is unable to subsist in some corporeal affection, but it is befitting to think of such things in a divine and ineffable manner. And our emperor, most wise and pious, thought philosophically in this manner.

The other Eusebius, of Nicomedia, cries out when he hears the word homoousios because he knows that it is irreconcilable with the views that he and Arius hold. But those who agree with Athanasius are delighted:

HOSIUS: Why, yes, sir — “consubstantial” — quite a familiar term in the West. The Greek, I believe, is “homosoious”. (He pronounces it to rhyme with “joyous”.)

CONSTANTINE (deprecatingly) “Homo-ousios”, I think.

HOSIUS I told you my Greek was bad. Your Majesty is of course quite right.

[The word has taken everybody rather aback — but since it is the Emperor’s suggestion nobody likes to speak first. Murmurs.

CONSTANTINE (insinuatingly): It seems to me a very definite and unambiguous sort of word.

ARIUS (to ARIANS): And I took that man for a simpleton!

CONSTANTINE: As the Apostle says, I speak as a fool — there may be objections to it.

EUSEBIUS OF NICOMEDIA (to ARIANS): They’ve put him up to it. (Aloud) There is every objection to it.

This is a bold move, but Constantine through his ostentatious humility has invited it — or so Eusebius of Nicomedia hopes. Interestingly, the next person to speak is the other Eusebius, who, as I have said, is fence-sitting. He does not explicitly agree that the term is “objectionable,” but he points out that “It is not scriptural.” Here we might remember that Arius constantly emphasizes that his own views are derived directly from Scripture — and indeed he takes this opportunity to pounce:

ARIUS (with satisfaction): Ah! … Do you think you know better than the Holy Ghost? Which will you have? The Word of God or the word of Constantine?

[Everybody is shocked, except CONSTANTINE.

CONSTANTINE (mildly) Nobody, I hope, would hesitate. But I did not invent the word…. What does Athanasius say?

A shrewd move by the Augustus! He could make the case himself, but why not turn that job over to one who has already shown himself a master of disputation?

ATHANASIUS: Surely it is not a question of substituting our words for those of the Holy Spirit, but only of defining with exactness our understanding of what the Spirit says in symbols and mysteries. And Our Lord Himself set us the example when He interpreted to His disciples the parables which He had taught them.

JAMES: Do not we all do as He did? When I preach to my simple desert folk, I tell them a story, or read them a psalm, and then I say, “this is how we must understand it”.

SEVERAL VOICES: Quite right.

ATHANASIUS: I should … greatly prefer a scriptural word. But our urgent need just now is of a word that nobody can possibly misinterpret — not even Arius.

And if we look at the text of the Nicene Creed that Christians still affirm, we can see how devoted it is to eliminating Arian wiggle-room: “We believe in one Lord, Jesus Christ, the only Son of God” — so far Arius would perhaps agree, but then: “eternally begotten of the Father, God from God, Light from Light” — did you hear that about his actually being God? In case you didn’t, let’s say it again: “true God from true God.” Did you hear that about his being begotten? Let’s say that again: “begotten, not made, of one Being [ousios] with the Father….” The repetitions are not accidental.

Yet Athanasius is perhaps too hopeful. A little later the Arians whisper among themselves:

THEOGNIS: We can always say that we understood “homoöusios” in the sense “homoiousios”.

EUSEBIUS OF NICOMEDIA: True — between “of one substance” and “of like substance” there is the difference only of an iota.

This anticipates Gibbon’s famous jibe:

The Greek word, which was chosen to express this mysterious resemblance, bears so close an affinity to the orthodox symbol, that the profane of every age have derided the furious contests which the difference of a single diphthong excited between the Homoousians and the Homoiousians. As it frequently happens, that the sounds and characters which approach the nearest to each other accidentally represent the most opposite ideas, the observation would be itself ridiculous, if it were possible to mark any real and sensible distinction between the doctrine of the Semi-Arians, as they were improperly styled, and that of the Catholics themselves.

But Gibbon is imperceptive here, as Constantine was at first when he derided the controversy as “hair-splitting” and “sophistry.” For, as Athanasius explains, if Christ is not God but only in some sense like God, then he cannot redeem us, and we are still dead in our sins. Or else God the Father (whoever He is) redeems us (by some means or another) and the life and death and resurrection of Jesus Christ are irrelevant to this redemption. In either case nothing remains of Christianity.

Constantine now grasps this point — to some degree. But there is one more stage in his development still to come.

July 7, 2025

Sayers and Constantine: 4

In my previous post I referred to the bihelical structure of The Emperor Constantine; today I’m going to discuss one of those helices.

Since the Council of Nicaea was called to deal with the views of Arius and his followers, Sayers rightly gives him a lengthy speech to introduce the debate:

Certainly, I say that the Son is “theos”, that is to say, “divine”, but not that He is “ho Theos”, that is to say, God himself. Our Latin friends who have no definite article in their woolly language may be excused for woolly thinking; but for those who speak Greek there is no excuse. For it is written: “The Lord your God is one God — there is none beside Him: He is God alone.” Are we heathens and polytheists, to worship two gods, or three, or a dozen? The Father alone is eternal, underived Being, that which is — as He Himself said to Moses, “ I AM THAT I AM”. And in His eternity, before all time, He begat the Son, whom St. Paul also calls, “the first-born of every creature” — not a part of Himself, since God cannot be divided, but called forth by Him out of nothing, as the Book of the Proverbs says: “The Lord possessed me in the beginning of His way; when there were no depths, I was brought forth.” And this is His Logos, that is to say, His Wisdom or Word, by whose means He afterward made all things, and without whom, as St. John writes, “nothing was made that has been made”. And this Logos, being in the fullness of time joined to the body of a man, was — in the words of the Epistle to the Hebrews — “faithful to Him that made Him” — so that, as it is written of Him in the Acts of the Apostles, “God hath made Jesus both Lord and Christ”.

By the way, throughout this part of the play Sayers is drawing on, and often quoting from, the many surviving records of the Council.

Arius’s views are thoroughly grounded in Scripture, and he does not deny, and does not mean to diminish, the Lordship of Christ — though he is making a distinction between Lord (which Christ, he thinks, is) and God (which Christ, he thinks, is not). And if Christ is not God, then he might be venerated but cannot be worshipped: “Are we heathens and polytheists, to worship two gods, or three, or a dozen?” That woolly language Latin allows a distinction between latria (which we owe to God) and dulia (which we owe to the saints); Arius implicitly makes the same distinction, but between the Father and the Christ. It is not clear that he understands the full implications of his argument. 

(N.B.: If I were to go into all the ways that the verses Arius cites might be differently interpreted — for instance, I could point out that it’s not the Son who speaks in Proverbs 8, it’s Wisdom — this would be a book-length post. I’m focusing on the essential points of disagreement. By the way, Sayers typically renders the biblical quotations of all parties in the Authorized Version, so if you want to know where a passage comes from, just copy it and paste it into a search engine.)

Arius continues:

This doctrine I received, and the Bishop of Nicomedia also, from the venerable Lucian our teacher, and from the tradition of the Saints: One God and Father of all, and of Him One Son or Word, sole-begotten before all worlds. But that the Son had no beginning, or that He is equal and co-eternal with the Father, this we deny: for it is the nature of a son to be subsequent to his father, and of that which is derived to be inferior to that from which it derives. This stands to reason, and for this cause the Word when He was made flesh said plainly: “My Father is greater than I.”

That is the truth of Scripture, which every sincere mind must acknowledge.

That last note is an important one: Arius believes himself faithful to the plain teaching of Scripture; and indeed, he finds his view so amply and obviously attested by Scripture that it’s impossible for him to believe that any “sincere mind” could see things otherwise. Therefore he treats his opponents as either mindless — he seems to think all Latin-speakers dim-witted — or insincere: he singles out for particular scorn his own bishop, Alexander of Alexandria, whom he suggests is trimming his sails to meet the prevailing political winds.

Alexander is rendered speechless by this personal attack, and allows his deacon, a young man named Athanasius, to respond to Arius. Athanasius is so superior to his bishop as a theologian and a debater than one suspects that Alexander would in any circumstances have found a way to be prostrated. Let’s pick up partway through Athanasius’s speech:

… the Son is God out of God, from the very substance and Being of God; therefore the blessed Apostle, in his Epistle to the Hebrews, calls Him: “the brightness of the Father’s glory and the express image of His person, upholding all things by the word of His power.” And the Apostle John, in the beginning of his Gospel which lies here open before you, declares very well both the distinct Person of the Son and His equal Godhead with the Father, saying: “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.”

ARIUS: Why, then, does the Apostle call Him “the first-born of every creature“?

Notice that Arius ignored the passages from Hebrews and John’s Gospel that Athanasius has just cited.

ATHANASIUS: Because so He is. For when He became Man, He made Himself as one of the creatures; and therefore He said of himself when He was in the body, “My Father is greater than I”, because He had assumed our nature, being made a little lower than the angels. As it is written, “The first man was of the earth, earthy: the second Man is the Lord from Heaven”. Yet He Himself created the nature that He put on; and this was ordained by Him from eternity when time was not, so that He that is second on earth is first in Heaven. Who also went up thither, the first-born from the dead of all that He had created. Him likewise did John behold in his Apocalypse, in form like unto the Son of Man, and saying, “I am Alpha and Omega, the beginning and the ending, saith the Lord, which is and which was and which is to come, the Almighty”.

ARIUS: Spoken like a giant, little mannikin. You are so learned in the Scripture you know more about it than Christ Himself, who said to the rich young ruler: “Why callest thou me good? There is none good but one, that is, God.”

ATHANASIUS: So he did — and the fool stood gaping. But what if he had answered, like Peter: “Thou art the Christ, the Son of the living God“?

Athanasius’s point is that Jesus did not say, “Why do you call me good, since I am not God?” Arius thinks that’s what Jesus means, but, as Athanasius indicates, Jesus says that he should be called good only if he is God — which he may be. He is pressing his interlocutor to make a decision on that point. But Arius doesn’t get it: he reads as a denial what is in fact a genuine question.  

ARIUS: He would have earned a blessing — and perhaps have been commended for knowing better than to confuse the Son with the Father.

For Arius, if you say Jesus is the son of God you are ipso facto saying that he is not God himself. Again, a reasonable enough assumption if you ignore the passages that suggest otherwise. But Athanasius is about to play his trump card: 

ATHANASIUS: Was Thomas, then, rebuked when, looking upon the wounds of the Redeemer, he cried: “My Lord and my God!“? Rebuked he was, not for belief, but because he was so slow in believing…. And do not forget to remind your Latin friends, with your customary politeness, that he said, not “theos” but “ho theos mou“ — ” the Lord of me and the God of me” — with the definite article, Arius.

A hit, a palpable hit! That young Alexandrian deacon is pretty skilled in disputation.  

He is also following one of the cardinal principles of biblical interpretation: passages that are unclear or ambiguous must be interpreted in light of those that are clear and unambiguous. Arius, by contrast, because he assumes that Christian monotheism is a simple thing, has simply ignored the passages (John 1:1, Hebrews 1:3) that in their (terrifying!) straightforwardness complicate what Arius would prefer to keep simple.

And now, by citing the words of Thomas (John 20:28), Athanasius has exploded the distinction that is most essential to Arius’s theology: that between God the Father and Jesus the Lord. Thomas confesses that Jesus Christ is Lord and God, and this, Athanasius reminds us, is indeed the confession of the Church — however distressing that confession might be for the familiar theological categories. 

Later in the debate they raise an issue that does not get fully resolved for another 125 years, at the Council of Chalcedon, but the passage points to the incoherence of Arius’s position: 

ATHANASIUS: You say that Christ had no human soul?

ARIUS: In Christ, the Logos took the place of the human soul.

ATHANASIUS: Then was He not true man, for man’s nature consists in a fleshly body and a rational soul. There are heretics who deny Christ’s Godhead and others who deny His Manhood — it was left for Arius to deny both at once…. Tell me, how did this compound of half-man and demi-god do the will of the Father? Freely, or of necessity?

ARIUS (hesitating — he sees the trap but cannot avoid it): Freely.

ATHANASIUS: That which is created free to stand is created free to fall. Was the Son, then, made fallible by nature, needing God’s grace to keep Him from sin? If so, the second Adam is no more than the first. Christ is but man or at most an angel — and to worship Him is idolatry. 

(The language Sayers gives Athanasius here echoes that of Milton’s God in Paradise Lost, Book 3: “I made [Adam] just and right,/ Sufficient to have stood, though free to fall.”) As noted above, I am not certain that Arius has fully grasped that, if the Son is not God, then the Son cannot be worshipped — it would indeed be idolatry to do so. But Christians do worship the Son along with the Father and the Holy Spirit, one God. This is why Athanasius says, near the beginning of his first Oration Against the Arians, “Those who consider the Arians Christians are in great error.” 

But — you may well be asking — where in all this is Constantine, the Emperor who called this Council? We’ll get to him in the next post. 

July 3, 2025

Sayers and Constantine: 3

The Emperor Constantine is not a great play, largely because Sayers, who had done a tremendous amount of reading in preparing to write it, seems to be under some compulsion to share as much of that reading as possible. So we get a lot of backstory and political context hammered into the dialogue in classic “As you know, my Lady” style.

FLAVIUS [Constantinus Chlorus]: Yes. The old man sent me west and kept the boy at court — as a hostage for my loyalty, I suppose. He trusts no one. But when Diocletian retired, I sent to Galerius — who has succeeded him, you know, as Augustus of the East —

HELENA: Yes, yes, I know.

It’s painful, and even more painful when Sayers uses The Common Folk to mediate it:

So old Maximian starts cussin’ and swearin’ and tries to ‘ave the purple off ‘im, see? But the troops only laughs at ‘im, and the old boy runs off to Constantine, ‘owling blue murder. And Constantine treats ‘im very kind, but ‘e don’t give ‘im no power, see? because of upsettin’ Maxentius. Besides, the old boy was past it. But any’ow, Maxentius ‘ad is ‘ands full, because Africa goes and ‘as a rebellion and sets up a new Augustus on its own.

Stop. Please, make it stop. In his columns in the Irish Times Myles na gCopaleen would often introduce the thoughts of The Plain People of Ireland. Sayers seems to have had a similar idea of The Plain People of England and makes frequent use of them — even when she has to disguise them as Romans — from the East End of Rome, no doubt. Fossato di Riva. Or Cappella Bianca. (That was a joke for Londoners.) In general, though, while Sayers knows the shortcomings of the P. P. of E., she has more affection for them than Myles had for the P. P. of I., whom he called an “ignorant self-opinionated sod-minded suet-brained ham-faced mealy-mouthed streptococcus-ridden gang of natural gobdaws.”

But I digress. Back to the play.

There’s another bizarre moment when Sayers is describing the Battle of the Milvian Bridge and she gives us this:

OFFICER: We left the city by the Milvian Bridge, and when we got to the fork —

MAJOR DOMO: Where the Cassia turns into the Via Flaminia?

OFFICER: That’s it — we took the Flaminian Way. About a mile out, you come to a narrow defile between the hills and the river —

CRASSUS: I know it. The Red Rocks.

The Turn-by-Turn Navigation Is Definitely Not the Drama. This could not possibly be less relevant to the essential concerns of the play, and, alas, there’s more like it.

But the story has a strong spine, and if you strip away the irrelevancies, you can see its shape. I’m borrowing the “spine” metaphor from Peter Jackson, who said that when he and Fran Walsh and Philippa Bowens were writing The Lord of the Rings they knew they couldn’t tell the whole story, so they had to find a spine, a firm but flexible narrative line which would hold the movie together. The Emperor Constantine has such a spine, though it’s less like a straight rod than a double helix. It looks something like this:

  1. The complex process by which Constantine moves from a vaguely pious religiosity to belief in the defense of what we could now call Nicene orthodoxy — and, ultimately, achieves a complete existential reliance on the Triune God celebrated at Nicaea.
  2. The complex process by which the Catholic Church came to realize that the account given by Arius and his followers of who Christ is could not be tolerated as a viable option — even if the refusal of the Arian position brought, for a time, increased division in an already-divided Church.

And so the Council of Nicaea itself, presided over by Constantine, becomes the point at which the two helices meet.

The (even more complex) sequence of events and achievements by which Constantine became first a Caesar and then, eventually, the sole Emperor of Rome, however intrinsically interesting it might be, has nothing to do with double-helical spine of this story, and it’s a shame that Sayers did not recognize that. If she had recognized it, this might not be a forgotten play. I wish I had the time to make a reduced and clarified version of this play — an Imperial Edit, as it were, by analogy to the Phantom Edit.

More in the next post about this double helix.

July 1, 2025

Sayers and Constantine: 2

First post in this series. 

In her Preface to The Emperor Constantine, Sayers explains why its subject is important:

The reign of Constantine the Great is a turning-point in the history of Christendom. Those thirty years, from A.D. 306, when he was proclaimed Augustus by the Army of Britain at York, to A.D. 337, when, sole Emperor of the civilized world, he died at Nicomedia in Asia Minor, exchanging the Imperial purple for the white robe of his baptism, saw the emergence of the Christian ecclesia from the status of a persecuted sect to power and responsibility as the State Church of the Roman Empire. More important still, and made possible by that change of status, was the event of A.D. 325: the Council of Nicaea. At that first Great Synod of East and West, the Church declared her mind as to the Nature of Him whom she worshipped. By the insertion of a single word in the baptismal symbol of her faith, she affirmed that That which had been Incarnate at Bethlehem in the reign of Augustus Casar, suffered under Pontius Pilate, and risen from death in the last days of Tiberius, was neither deified man, nor angel, nor demi-god, nor any created being however exalted, but Very God of Very God, co-equal and co-eternal with the Father.

The first Christian Emperor was thus, in the economy of Providence, the instrument whereby Christendom was brought face to face with two problems which have not yet found their full resolution: the exterior relations between Church and State; the interior relation between orthodox and heretic within the Church.

We shall return to all this, but at the moment I want to deal with another matter: Why tell this story at the Festival of Colchester?

It turns out that, if certain traditions are to be believed, Constantine has an intimate connection with Colchester, a connection which begins with the simple fact that Camulodunum, as the Romans called it, was the capital of the province of Britannia. More formally it was known as Colonia Claudia Victricensis — colonia, not municipia, which marked it as a kind of extension of the city of Rome itself rather than a mere town in the provinces. The residents of a colonia had the honor of Roman citizenship. (Similarly, Tarsus was the capital of the Roman province of Cilicia, which is how the apostle Paul, native of that city, gained the Roman citizenship that in a difficult situation he made good use of.)

It is said by some that the name Colchester means “fortress of Coel,” Coel being a king in semi-Romanized Britain. (Probably not the “merry old soul” of song, but who knows for sure?) This is the story that Geoffrey of Monmouth tells about Coel and Constantius, AKA Constantius Chlorus:

At that time Duke of Kaelcolim, that is to say Colchester, started a rebellion against King Asclepiodotus. He killed the King in a pitched battle and took for himself the distinction of the royal crown. When this was made known to them, the Senate rejoiced at the death of a King who had caused trouble to the power of Rome in all that he did. Mindful as they were of the setback which they had suffered when they had lost the kingdom, they sent as legate the Senator Constantius, a wise and courageous man, who had forced Spain to submit to Roman domination and who had laboured more than anyone else to increase the power of the State of Rome.

When Coel, King of the Britons, heard of the coming of Constantius, he was afraid to meet him in battle, for the Roman’s reputation was such that no king could resist him. The moment Constantius landed in the island, Coel sent his envoys to him to sue for peace and to promise submission, on the understanding that he should retain the kingship of Britain and contribute nothing more to Roman sovereignty than the customary tribute. Constantius agreed to this proposal when it reached him. Coel gave him hostages and the two signed a treaty of peace. Just one month later Coel developed a most serious illness which killed him within eight days.

After Coel’s death Constantius himself seized the royal crown and married Coel’s daughter. Her name was Helen and her beauty was greater than that of any other young woman in the kingdom. For that matter, no more lovely girl could be discovered anywhere. Her father had no other child to inherit the throne, and he had therefore done all in his power to give Helen the kind of training which would enable her to rule the country more efficiently after his death. After her marriage with Constantius she had by him a son called Constantine.

And now we know why the Festival of Colchester might well feature a play about Constantine. Indeed, the first scene of Sayers’s play is set in Colchester, with Helena as the point of focus. While modern historians believe that Helena was a native of Bithynia — as did Procopius — Sayers treats that as a mere legend: “It was said by some, both then and now, that she was [Constantius Chlorus’s] concubine, a woman of humble origin — a barmaid, indeed, from Bithynia. But an ancient and respectable tradition affirms, on the other hand, that she was his lawful wife, a princess of Britain.” And if Helena were from Camulodunum, it would be no surprise if she were also a Christian, since in her time Camulodunum not only had churches but sported its own bishop.

Whether historically accurate or not, a belief in her British birth makes for a better story — especially in Colchester. We’ll just set aside the inconvenient fact that in 330, just after her death, her son renamed the Bithynian town Drepanon as Helenopolis. Move along, nothing to see here.

So here, in Sayers’s play, we have Helena, whose husband Constantius Chlorus had divorced her for political reasons, though we are reminded that in the eyes of God they remain married. She lives with her aged, exhausted, and mentally incapacitated father Coel, and in this first scene will see her (former?) husband for the first time in a decade — and her son Constantine, now 21. The surprise of this scene is old King Coel emerging from his slumbers to utter a prophecy:

Coel the son of Coel the son of Coel the heaven-born;
I have harped in the Twelve Houses; I have prophesied among the Dancers;
Coel, father of the Light, who bears the Sun in her bosom.

Three times have I seen the Cross:
Air and fire in Gaul, under the earth in Jerusalem,
Written upon water in the place of the victories.

Three times have I heard the Word:
The word in a dream, and the word in council,
The word of the Word within the courts of the Trinity.

Three Crowns: laurel among the trumpets,
A diadem of stars with fillets of purple,
Thorns and gold for the Bride of the Trinity.

I have seen Constantine in the air as a flying eagle,
I have seen Constantine in the earth as a raging lion,
I have seen Constantine in the water as a swimming fish.

Earth and water and air — but the beginning and the ending is fire,
Light in the first day, fire in the last day, at the coming of the Word,
And Our Lord the Spirit descending in light and in fire.

Then he collapses back into sleep. The prophecy is incomprehensible to all, especially to the young pagan warrior Constantine. But the pattern of the story is now established.

P.S. Just a random note, but the Penguin Classics edition of Geoffrey of Monmouth that I quoted is edited and translated by Lewis Thorpe, the husband of Sayers’s great friend, collaborator, biographer, and goddaughter Barbara Reynolds — though he did this several years after Sayers’s death. Small world.

June 27, 2025

Sayers and Constantine: 1

A theme that emerges strongly in Dorothy Sayers’s thought in the late 1930s — and continues to be central to her thought for the rest of her life — is expressed in a phrase that she uses repeatedly: “The dogma is is the drama.” Here is one articulation of that idea:

Let us, in Heaven’s name, drag out the Divine Drama from under the dreadful accumulation of slip-shod thinking and trashy sentiment heaped upon it, and set it on an open stage to startle the world into some sort of vigorous reaction. If the pious are the first to be shocked, so much the worse for the pious — others will pass into the Kingdom of Heaven before them. If all men are offended because of Christ, let them be offended; but where is the sense of their being offended at something that is not Christ and is nothing like Him? We do Him singularly little honour by watering down His personality till it could not offend a fly. Surely it is not the business of the Church to adapt Christ to men, but to adapt men to Christ.

It is the dogma that is the drama — not beautiful phrases, nor comforting sentiments, nor vague aspirations to loving-kindness and uplift, nor the promise of something nice after death — but the terrifying assertion that the same God Who made the world lived in the world and passed through the grave and gate of death. Show that to the heathen, and they may not believe it; but at least they may realise that here is something that a man might be glad to believe.

What’s especially interesting about this idea, for the biographer of Sayers, is that she seems to have discovered Dogma and Drama at the same time. That is, she started writing and speaking publicly about the Christian faith just as she began a new career as a playwright. Dogma and Drama provided an alternative to a path she had (though she did not admit it for a long time) written her way to the end of, that of the detective novelist.

Now, her first religious play, The Zeal of Thy House, is not fully committed to the dramatization of dogma. The play is more fundamentally concerned with the redemption of William of Sens. It describes how, after an accident that renders him paraplegic, an arrogant artistic dictator who thinks of the cathedral of Canterbury as his own creation becomes a more humble workman, aware both of his need for others to bring his ideas to life and also his subservience to God. That is to say, the play essentially concerns a man coming slowly to see that the human maker is what Tolkien called a sub-creator. (Neither Sayers nor Tolkien knew it, but they had virtually the same theology of work and articulated it very effectively, Sayers primarily in this play and and Tolkien primarily in the story of Fëanor in the Silmarillion and in the essay “On Fairy Stories.” I have sometimes wondered whether Tolkien read The Zeal of Thy House and was influenced by it, though I doubt it. Anyway, if he had, he’d never have admitted it.)

So The Zeal of Thy House doesn’t really test the proposition that “the dogma is the drama,” nor does her series of plays on the Life of Christ, The Man Born to Be King, because there the dramatic interest arises from events: this man’s teaching, suffering, death, and resurrection. There are of course dogmatic implications to this story, and Sayers embraces them … but that’s not the same thing as the dogma itself being the source of dramatic interest.

So did she ever put her idea to a practical test? Yes, she did, a decade after The Man Born to Be King, in a play that she wrote for the Colchester Festival in 1951. This task was a distraction from her chief work at the time, translating Dante, but perhaps a welcome one. Colchester is only fifteen miles from her home in Witham, which made it possible for her to be fully involved with the performance of the play — costumes and staging and rehearsals were her great delight — without demanding too much travel, which as she aged was becoming more difficult for her. She was a gregarious person, and at that time was lonely — her husband Mac Fleming had died in 1950. And perhaps above all, the play gave her a chance to test her great thesis: she decided to write a play called The Emperor Constantine, and to place at the center of her play the debates at the First Council of Nicaea.

And since this year marks the 1700th anniversary of that Council, this might be a good time to talk about Sayers’s play. I’ll be doing that over the next week or two. Or three. Stay tuned! The dogma really is the drama!

April 21, 2025

Francis

I am by no means glad that Pope Francis is dead, but I must admit that I am relieved that his papacy is over — or I would be, if I didn’t suspect that even worse is to come.

Pope Francis was consistently and unreasonably generous towards those he deemed his theopolitical allies, regardless of their moral failings; consistently and unreasonably mean-spirited towards those he deemed his theopolitical enemies, regardless of their piety and devotion to the Church; and habitually prone to sowing confusion about what that Church teaches, as well as about its authority to teach it. About people to whom he had decided to be friendly, he asked, “Who am I to judge?” About people whom he was inclined to mistrust, for instance those who prefer the Latin Mass, he was instantaneous and inflexible in his judgments. As Colm Tóibín wrote in a long 2021 essay that mainly focuses on Francis’s pre-papal career in Argentina, “Bergoglio could play the anarchist one moment and the next revert to his role as authoritarian.” The unpredictability and inconsistency were problematic, especially once he became Pope. 

However: Francis offered much wise and vital teaching in Laudato Sí — I wish that were more widely discussed in assessments of his legacy. (I wrote about it here.)

There’s a good chance that his successor will be more impartial than Francis was — less Schmittian in his deployment of a Friend/Enemy scheme in dealing with people — and that he will be clearer in his articulation of what Catholicism teaches and why.

I’m less confident, though, thanks to Francis’s work at reshaping the institution in his image, that the next Pope will be as independent of the Zeitgeist as he ought to be. Pio Nono got many individual judgments wrong, but when he (rather indignantly) denied that “the Roman Pontiff can, and ought to, reconcile himself to and come to terms with progress, liberalism, and modern civilization” he was spot on. It is the task of Christ’s Church to preach and teach the Gospel and help the world to come to terms with it. I am of course not Roman Catholic, but any branch of the church that does that particular work earns my gratitude.

My fear is is that Francis has reshaped the imperatives of the Roman communion in ways that make it overly sensitive to the indignation of the bien-pensant and insufficiently sensitive to the unchanging message of the Christian Gospel. My hope is that my fear is unwarranted.

UPDATE: Elizabeth Bruenig:

It was the pope’s efforts to quell growing Western hostility toward migrants that recently put him directly at odds with the Trump administration. After Vice President J. D. Vance had a public spat with the United States Conference of Catholic Bishops over the rollback of a Biden-era law preventing Immigration and Customs Enforcement agents from apprehending undocumented migrants in schools and churches, Francis wrote a letter that seemed to chastise Vance directly. “The true ordo amoris,” Francis wrote, citing a Catholic term Vance had invoked to defend the proposition that love of kin and countryman should reign supreme, “is that which we discover by meditating constantly on the parable of the ‘good Samaritan.’” That is, he continued, “by meditating on the love that builds a fraternity open to all, without exception.”

Francis was right about that too, and vitally so. Matthew 12:50 is worth remembering here, as well as Matthew 25:34–40. (The problem with Bruenig’s essay, by the way, is that she doesn’t clearly distinguish between political progressivism and theological “progressivism.”) 

Like many other progressive celebrants of Francis, Bruenig speaks of Francis’s “opponents” as though they picked fights with him, when in fact the opposite was often true. Francis was regularly sneering towards and contemptuous of traditionalists who had never said a bad word about him and both prayed for him and encouraged others to pray for him. In Evangelii Gaudium, for instance, he wrote that “In some people we see an ostentatious preoccupation for the liturgy, for doctrine and for the Church’s prestige, but without any concern that the Gospel have a real impact on God’s faithful people and the concrete needs of the present time.” That many of those traditionalists are not “ostentatious” but rather heartfelt, and that they promote the Latin Mass and highly traditional forms of Catholic spirituality precisely because they believe such practices to meet “the concrete needs of the present time,” are facts that Francis preferred never to acknowledge. He judged, and he judged harshly. 

Still, when the man was right he was right, and this commendation by James Butler is powerful, moving, and challenging: 

When I was young, the pope always seemed to be dying. John Paul II’s long, public suffering with Parkinson’s made him an emblem for Catholic teaching on the sanctity of life. At the time, I thought it sad and cruel. But I came to understand something of that emblematic force as I watched the ailing Francis insist on visiting prisoners, gasping out greetings, being present for his Easter message, speaking against the madness of rearmament and war, squeezing every last opportunity to speak to the world as it continues to erect new prisons and walls, and new oligarchic idols. ‘Today’s builders of Babel tell us that there is no room for losers, and that those who fall along the way are losers,’ Francis wrote in his last meditations on Good Friday. ‘Theirs is the construction site of Hell.’

 

March 21, 2025

the sanctuary lamp

This is a nice essay by Henry Oliver on Evelyn Waugh, but I want to call attention, as one does, to something I believe is missing. Oliver describes a scene near the end of Brideshead Revisited in which Charles Ryder is visiting the chapel at Brideshead. Here’s what Waugh writes: 

Something quite remote from anything the builders intended has come out of their work, and out of the fierce little human tragedy in which I played; something none of us thought about at the time: a small red flame — a beaten-copper lamp of deplorable design, relit before the beaten-copper doors of a tabernacle; the flame which the old knights saw from their tombs, which they saw put out; that flame burns again for other soldiers, far from home, farther, in heart, than Acre or Jerusalem. It could not have been lit but for the builders and the tragedians, and there I found it this morning, burning anew among the old stones. 

Oliver says that Waugh’s point here is that “what animates modern civilization is the way the lights burn and the bells ring as they have done throughout Christendom in the one true church.” He goes on to say, “There is only one light left burning at the end of this book of shadows: not the lights of Oxford, not the sparkles of diamonds, not the candlelit beauty of Brideshead house, but the lamp in the chapel.” 

What Oliver may not know is that this is a sanctuary lamp: the candle lit next to the tabernacle, that is, the receptacle (usually in a niche in a wall) where the consecrated Host is kept. It is typically, though not always, distinguished from other lights in the church by being placed in a red glass chimney, thus the “small red flame.” 

John Betjeman, in his poem “In Willesden Churchyard,” evokes the same mystery. Walking through that churchyard, he realizes that “the Blessed Sacrament / Not ten yards off in Willesden parish church / Glows with the present immanence of God.”

Now, to be sure, Waugh thought that because Betjeman’s Catholicism was Anglo rather than Roman he was going to Hell — and often told him so. (“Awful about your obduracy in schism and heresy. Hell hell hell. Eternal damnation.”) But that’s not the point here.

The point here is that the light that Waugh invokes at the end of Brideshead is not just any old religious candle — any old light in a church, even in a chapel of the One True Church — but the light that marks the presence of the consecrated Host, the bread transformed into the flesh of Christ, “the present immanence of God.” This is why in many churches people do not pass the tabernacle, when the candle it lit to indicate its contents, without bowing. This, we may infer, is what Charles Ryder does that morning in the Brideshead chapel. 

February 21, 2025

Douthat on belief

The central and absolutely essential premise of Ross Douthat’s new book Believe, the point from which the whole argument begins, is this: There is a genus of human belief and practice called “religion,” of which Christianity is one of the species. My problem with regard to Ross’s book is that I have come quite seriously to doubt this premise. My larger problem is that I don’t know quite how to do without this premise, since it is so deeply embedded in almost all discourse on … well, I guess I have to say on religion.

My difficulty was brought home to me when I was writing the Preface to my forthcoming book on Paradise Lost. That book is one of a series called Lives of the Great Religious Books, which meant that in said Preface I needed to explain and justify my claim that Milton’s poem really is a religious book — which, I argue, it is in some ways, though not in others: its relationship to Christianity is radically different than that of, say, the Book of Common Prayer, the subject of my previous book in the PUP series. In order to do this, I had to take the concept of “religion” seriously. Or semi-seriously.

I began thus:

Many years ago I heard it said — I wish I could remember by whom — that the only thing the world’s religions have in common is that they all use candles. Thus Sir James Frazer, in beginning his great The Golden Bough, wrote that “There is probably no subject in the world about which opinions differ so much as the nature of religion, and to frame a definition of it which would satisfy every one must obviously be impossible. All that a writer can do is, first, to say clearly what he means by religion, and afterwards to employ the word consistently in that sense throughout his work.”

But I had to settle on some kind of definition, so here’s the relevant footnote:

Emile Durkheim’s definition is a useful one: “A religion is a unified system of beliefs and practices relative to sacred things, that is to say, things set apart and surrounded by prohibitions — beliefs and practices that unite its adherents in single moral community called a church”: Emile Durkheim, The Elementary Forms of the Religious Life, trans. Carol Cosman (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001 [1912]), p. 46; italics in original. Durkheim is using the term church in a very broad sense, though one may doubt whether it can possibly be broad enough to cover all relevant cases. This definition contains both functional and dogmatic elements, but as Durkheim unfolds his conceptual frame the functional strongly dominates.

After that I went on to argue that Paradise Lost is religious in a dogmatic but not a functional sense. I think my argument is correct, given the premises — but, as I say, the premises are what I’ve come to question.

Basically, I’ve come to believe the various things we call “religions” … well, here’s what I wrote in a recent essay:

I often tell my students that whether Christianity is true or not, it is the most unnatural religion in the world. Even a cursory study of the world’s religions will show how obsessed humans are with finding some way to (a) gain the favor of the gods, or transhuman powers of any kind, and/or (b) avert their wrath. Religious seeking is almost always about these two universal desires: to get help and to avert trouble. But in Christianity it is God who comes to seek and save the lost (Lk 19:10); it is God who reckons with His own wrath, himself making propitiation for our sins, and not for ours only but also for the sins of the whole world (1 Jn 2:2). The standard — or rather the obsessive — practices of homo religiosus have no place here. In Jesus Christ, the Christian gospel says, God has done it all.

I say: This may be true or it may be false, but it is the Christian account of things, and it is very, very weird — so weird that it is easy, indeed natural, for us to fall back on the standard model of religion and turn our prayers into spells. How often do we think, perhaps in some unacknowledged place deep inside our minds and hearts, that when we come to church and say the appointed words and perform the correct actions, we are somehow getting Management to take our side?

The distinction between spells and prayers is Roger Scruton’s — read the post for the context — and it’s a useful one. I think it is the natural human tendency, the natural religious tendency if you must, to look for spells that can influence or even control the Powers That Be. But what use is a spell if the Name above all names — Jesus Christ — has already redeemed the world?

(I am speaking here of the greatest thing a religion might be expected to do. We also ask smaller things, and in those cases we often fall back on the old spell-habit, not realizing how secondary even the things that most concern us really are in the divine economy. Our inability to keep these matters in their proper perspective is a great theme in the letters of the apostle Paul, but that’s a subject for another time.)

Back to Ross’s book, near the end of which he writes this:

Some people’s encounters with religion in childhood aren’t negative or abusive so much as they are just sterile and empty, making the faith of their ancestors feel like a dead letter when it comes time to start on their own journey. That was how it was for the British novelist Paul Kingsnorth. He was raised to experience his isle’s Christianity as a hopeless antiquarianism, a thing that mattered only as a foil for modernity. His own adult spiritual progress grew naturally out of his environmentalism, which led him first into a kind of “pick’n’mix spirituality,” and then into a commitment to Zen Buddhism, which lasted years but felt insufficient, lacking (he felt) a mode of true worship.

He found that worship in actual paganism, a nature-worship that made sense as an expression of his love of the natural world, and he went so far as to become a priest of Wicca, a practitioner of what he took to be white magic. At which point, and only at that point, he began to feel impelled toward Christianity — by coincidence and dreams, by ideas and arguments, and by the kind of stark mystical experiences discussed in an earlier chapter of this book.

In Ross’s account, I think I’m right to say, this is a gradual convergence on the True Religion, and while I do believe that the Christianity Kingsnorth now professes (and professes shrewdly and eloquently) is indeed true, I don’t believe that when he was a Wiccan — saying actual spells! — he was close to that truth than when he was a Buddhist or “spiritual but not religious.” In fact, Buddhism has a better understanding of the uselessness of spells than Wicca. Buddhism, though the very concept of “god” is not intrinsic to it, in its frank acknowledgment of a cosmos wholly beyond our control might be closer to the Christian understanding of the world than any practice committed to the efficacy of spells.

I dunno. I’m still thinking this through. But right now my thoughts are running along these lines:

While I doubt the genus/species premise of Ross’s book, almost everyone else in the world accepts its validity. A point that in intellectual humility I should bear in mind. And because the whole world accepts its validity, maybe Ross is right to structure his book in this way.

But I am not at all convinced that a move from, say, atheism to Wicca is necessarily “a step in the right direction” — i.e., once you’ve entered the genus-town of “religion,” you’re closer to the species-house of Christianity than you were before. Indeed, I wonder whether many people might be less interested in Christianity as a result of such a move, since they might plausibly think that as long as they’re operating within the genus, does it really matter what species they prefer? (The “We all get to God in our own way” line has had a very long run and doesn’t show any signs of slowing down.)

It’s common to call people who move from one religion to another “searchers,” and usually Christians think of that as a good thing. But I doubt that many of the people we call searchers are really searching. We Christians don’t seek, we are found by the One who seeks us. And that may be more of a frightening than a consoling thought. I believe that C. S. Lewis, as God approached him, was feeling the right feelings:

I was to be allowed to play at philosophy no longer. It might, as I say, still be true that my “Spirit” differed in some way from “the God of popular religion.” My Adversary waived the point. It sank into utter unimportance. He would not argue about it. He only said, “I am the Lord”; “I am that I am”; “I am.”

People who are naturally religious find difficulty in understanding the horror of such a revelation. Amiable agnostics will talk cheerfully about “man’s search for God.” To me, as I then was, they might as well have talked about the mouse’s search for the cat.

Finally: Near the end of his book Douthat calls Christianity “the strangest story in the world,” a claim I enthusiastically endorse. But I think that if we take that claim with the seriousness it deserves, we might have to abandon the idea that Christianity is one of the things we call “religion.” Religion — if we must use the word — is a human activity that can be described more-or-less as Durkheim describes it. Christianity is something else altogether, I can’t help thinking. “For God so loved the world, that he gave his only Son, that whoever believes in him should not perish but have eternal life” is not only stranger than we imagine; it’s stranger than we can imagine. 

It occurs to me, belatedly, that some of my earlier posts on enchantment are relevant to the argument I’m making here:— e.g. this one. But I’m wondering whether I’m moving the goalposts somewhat: perhaps I am criticizing Ross for something I’ve done myself. I’ll think about it and revisit the topic later. 

December 7, 2024

ars longa

01 notre dame laser scan

Ten years ago I gave a talk at Vassar College and participated in some conversations with faculty of various liberal-arts colleges. During those conversations I met and had some great chats with an art historian named Andrew Tallon. We hit it off, I thought — he seemed at once utterly gentle and immensely intelligent — and I started scheming ways to get him to Baylor. I thought he would be a great conversation partner, particularly for those of us interested in Christianity and the arts — I especially wanted to introduce him to my colleague Natalie Carnes, who works on the theology of beauty. And I also thought that Andrew, who was a Catholic Christian but did not feel especially comfortable being vocal about his faith, might benefit from spending some time around people who are quite public about their Christianity. 

We exchanged some emails, but eventually Andrew fell silent, and later I learned that he was gravely ill with cancer. I never did manage to get him to Baylor. In November of 2018 he died, aged 49.

When I met him, Andrew had already made a complex series of high-resolution digital scans of the Cathedral of Notre Dame de Paris — a building that had obsessed him since he spent a year as a child living in Paris. (His birthplace was Leuven, Belgium.) He told a journalist that “There was a biblical, a moral imperative to build a perfect building, because the stones of the building were directly identified with the stones of the Church” — that is, the people of God. “I like to think that this laser scanning work and even some of the conventional scholarship I do is informed by that important world of spirituality. It’s such a beautiful idea.” It turns out that, however diffident Andrew was, or thought he was, about his faith, that faith informed his work thoroughly. 

And when the cathedral was maimed by a terrible fire in April 2019, just a few months after Andrew’s death, everyone involved in the restoration immediately realized that Andrew’s work would prove invaluable in the enormous task facing them. 

So when I saw images of the completely and magnificently restored cathedral, my first thought was: Well done, Andrew. Well done, good and faithful servant. I hope you can see what you helped to make possible. 

The south rose window, offered as a gift by King Louis the IX, has been restored to its full glory. It’s not the first time it has undergone major works as it had to be reconstructed in the 18th and 19th centuries too.

November 22, 2024

two quotations: Kingsnorth v. Peterson

Rowan Williams on Jordan Peterson’s new book:

“Peterson remains ambiguous about what many would consider a fairly crucial issue: when we talk about God, do we mean that there actually is a source of agency and of love independent of the universe we can map and measure? Faith is “identity with a certain spirit of conceptualization, apprehension, and forward movement”, he writes in relation to Noah; it amounts to “a willingness to act when called on by the deepest inclinations of his soul”. Echoes here not only of Jung, who figures as a key source of inspiration, but of the radical 20th-century Protestant theologian Paul Tillich, who proposed redefining God as whatever is the focus of our “ultimate concern”. Some passages imply that God is identical to the highest human aspirations – which is not quite what traditional language about the “image of God” in humanity means. Peterson seems to haver as to whether we are actually encountering a real “Other” in the religious journey.”

Peterson’s readings are curiously like a medieval exegesis of the text, with every story really being about the same thing: an austere call to individual heroic integrity. This is a style of interpretation with a respectable pedigree. Early Jewish and Christian commentators treated the lives of Abraham and Moses as symbols for the growth of the spirit, paradigms for how a person is transformed by the contemplation of eternal truth. But, as with these venerable examples, there is a risk of losing the specificity of the narratives, of ironing out aspects that don’t fit the template. Every story gets pushed towards a set of Petersonian morals – single-minded individual rectitude, tough love, clear demarcations between the different kinds of moral excellence that men and women are called to embody, and so on.

Paul Kingsnorth:

More than one person has approached me since my talk to ask if I was advocating ‘doing nothing’ in the face of all the bad things happening in the world. Christ’s clear instruction – ‘do not resist evil’ – is one of his hardest teachings, though there are many more we are equally horrified by: asking those who strike us to do it again; giving thieves more than they demand; loving those who hate us; doing good to those who abuse us. All of these are so counter-intuitive that they have the effect of throwing spiritual cold water into our faces.

But it gets worse. The most terrible teaching of all, at least for those of us who can’t shake off our activist brains, is the one that goes like this:

If anyone wants to come after Me, he must deny himself and take up his cross and follow Me. For whoever wants to save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for My sake will find it. What will it profit a man if he gains the whole world, yet forfeits his soul?”

November 22, 2024

open up!

The best running joke in The Innocents Abroad involves European tour guides. Whenever a guide shows the American visitors some representation of a great and famous European, the Innocents look thoughtfully at it and say, “Is — ah — is he dead?”

“Ah, look, genteelmen! — beautiful, grand, — bust Christopher Colombo! — beautiful bust, beautiful pedestal!”

The doctor put up his eye-glass — procured for such occasions: “Ah — what did you say this gentleman’s name was?”

“Christopher Colombo! — ze great Christopher Colombo!”

“Christopher Colombo — the great Christopher Colombo. Well, what did he do?”

“Discover America! — discover America, Oh, ze devil!”

“Discover America. No — that statement will hardly wash. We are just from America ourselves. We heard nothing about it. Christopher Colombo — pleasant name — is — is he dead?”

I’ve developed my own version of this response when reading some of our current celebrants of re-enchantment. Paul Kingsnorth, for instance, wrote a long series on his Substack about the holy wells of Ireland. Centuries of pilgrims visiting them; thin places; spiritual auras. To which I say: “Yes — very nice — but is, ah, is Jesus Lord?” Because if He isn’t then I don’t give a rat’s ass about holy wells. Even if you tell me about angelic and/or demonic forces at loose in the world, I say: “Wow! Amazing! But, uh, is … is Jesus Lord?”

I understand the thinking behind this approach: it concerns what the great sociologist of religion Peter Berger called plausibility structures. The idea is that if people are open to the possibility of something beyond the strictly material, they will eventually become more receptive to the Christian gospel. And by calling attention to phenomena inexplicable by current science, maybe you shift the Overton Window for religious belief. From this point of view it’s a very good thing that, as Matt Crawford says, “America is ready for weirdness.” Weirdness as a gateway drug to Christianity.

In one very general sense I’m in this camp. I too have long wanted to make Christianity a live possibility for people who do not believe. But I have taken a very different approach. Instead of commending spiritual experience I have tried to make the core beliefs of Christianity comprehensible to a world for which such beliefs are strange to the point of outrageousness. Thus my book on the idea of original sin. Thus my work to explain and illuminate the works of Christian writers and thinkers who flourished in the mid-twentieth century. Even my recent essay in Harper’s on myth and myth-making is an exercise in the same vein, though two or three steps back from Christian faith as such. (However … for those with ears to hear, you know.) And so on.

There are, I think, three major problems with the “openness to spiritual experience” route.

  1. The “science can’t explain this” trope is highly vulnerable for reasons Dietrich Bonhoeffer (famously) pointed out long ago: “How wrong it is to use God as a stop-gap for the incompleteness of our knowledge. If in fact the frontiers of knowledge are being pushed further and further back (and that is bound to be the case), then God is being pushed back with them, and is therefore continually in retreat. We are to find God in what we know, not in what we don’t know.”
  2. It seems to me highly unlikely that anyone will readily move from “spiritual experience” to “Trust in the Lord Jesus Christ and you shall be saved.” As C. S. Lewis, writing around the same time as Bonhoeffer, said about the then-common idea that there is a cosmic “Life-Force” beneficently guiding the affairs of this world, “All the thrills of religion and none of the cost. Is the Life-Force the greatest achievement of wishful thinking the world has yet seen?” Wouldn’t you prefer the cost-free frisson of “spiritual experience” to Paul’s experience of being “crucified with Christ” (Galatians 2:20)? I know I would.
  3. As Ross Douthat wrote last year, “If the material universe as we find it is beautiful but also naturally perilous and shot through with sin and evil wherever human agency is at work, there is no reason to expect that any spiritual dimension would be different — no reason to think that being a psychonaut is any less perilous than being an astronaut, even if the danger takes a different form.” Or, as another wise man said, “Are you frightened? Not nearly frightened enough. I know what hunts you.”

But back to Paul Kingsnorth. Recently he gave the Erasmus Lecture in New York City, and if you listen to that talk (it starts around the 28-minute mark) you’ll be quite clear about whether he thinks Jesus is Lord. Now that’s what I’m talking about.

October 23, 2024

juxtaposition

Yesterday I began my Great Texts of the 18th and 19th Centuries class by asking my students to turn to the last chapter of Jane Austen’s Mansfield Park. Our discussion was mostly complete, but there was one more thing I wanted to cover. I pointed out that Austen seems less interested here at her novel’s conclusion in resolving her love story than in pressing us to reflect on what is, after all, the book’s great theme, and one common in Austen’s fiction: the education of young women.

We see “poor Sir Thomas” reflecting at length, and with great chagrin, on the failures of “his plan of education” for his daughters Maria and Julia. His “mismanagement” had two aspects. On the one hand, he had never effectively countered the constant “flattery” and “indulgence” of the girls by their aunt Mrs. Norris. But more important:

Something must have been wanting within, or time would have worn away much of its ill effect. He feared that principle, active principle, had been wanting; that they had never been properly taught to govern their inclinations and tempers by that sense of duty which can alone suffice. They had been instructed theoretically in their religion, but never required to bring it into daily practice. To be distinguished for elegance and accomplishments, the authorised object of their youth, could have had no useful influence that way, no moral effect on the mind. He had meant them to be good, but his cares had been directed to the understanding and manners, not the disposition; and of the necessity of self-denial and humility, he feared they had never heard from any lips that could profit them.

The key word here is “disposition,” because Austen, in her Christian-Aristotelian way, thinks of virtue as a settled disposition to moral excellence. And while Maria and Julia might have been taught to refrain from certain grossly sinful deeds, they were never taught to love and desire the good — especially what is good in and for others — or to seek the excellent even when the impulses of the moment might lead one in a different direction.

In Austen’s work, this failure of disposition is not just a problem for young women: here in Mansfield Park, for instance, Henry Crawford loses his chance to marry Fanny Price because when he re-encounters Maria Bertram, with whom he had once flirted, “Curiosity and vanity were both engaged, and the temptation of immediate pleasure was too strong for a mind unused to make any sacrifice to right.” But young women in this society are more vulnerable than young men in many ways, and their shortcomings less readily (or never) forgiven, so it is their situation that Austen particularly attends to. She wants to show that if girls are merely taught to be charming and decorative and to avoid obvious sin, their minds and hearts alike will remain unformed, and they will never become all that they ought to be. They will become indolent and thoughtless like Lady Bertram, or sniping and manipulative like Mrs. Norris; they may well marry unwisely, like Fanny’s mother.

There are, Austen suggests, so many ways that the education of young women can go wrong, and so few that it can go right. But any genuine Christian morality, she indicates here and elsewhere, will consist in training in virtue. And this is not simply the avoidance of vice, but the cultivation of a steady inclination for the good, the true, and the beautiful. (It’s noteworthy that Fanny is profoundly formed by her knowledge and love of poetry, especially the poetry of William Cowper.) One must learn to steer wisely between extremes, finding the path of virtue that lies between two opposing ways of vice. On this account, the Christian life is a life of moral virtue. We are occasionally reminded that Fanny is a young woman of faith who brings her religion “into daily practice,” and that her beloved, her cousin Edmund, is about to become a country vicar who hopes to teach his people virtue by both precept and example.

“It’s all very beautiful,” I said, setting the book down and picking up the next one we were to discuss: Kierkegaard’s Fear and Trembling. “But what happens when the God you serve and follow orders you to kill your own son?”

September 18, 2024

two quotations on humility

David French:

Pope Francis wasn’t watering down the Christian faith; he was expressing existential humility. He was unwilling to state, definitively, the mind of God and to pass judgment on the souls of others. His words were surprising not because they were heretical in any way, but rather because existential humility contradicts the fundamentalist spirit of much of contemporary American Christianity. His words were less a declaration of truth than an invitation to introspection, a call to examine your conscience. 

G. K. Chesterton: 

But what we suffer from today is humility in the wrong place. Modesty has moved from the organ of ambition. Modesty has settled upon the organ of conviction; where it was never meant to be. A man was meant to be doubtful about himself, but undoubting about the truth; this has been exactly reversed. Nowadays the part of a man that a man does assert is exactly the part he ought not to assert — himself. The part he doubts is exactly the part he ought not to doubt — the Divine Reason. Huxley preached a humility content to learn from Nature. But the new sceptic is so humble that he doubts if he can even learn. Thus we should be wrong if we had said hastily that there is no humility typical of our time. The truth is that there is a real humility typical of our time; but it so happens that it is practically a more poisonous humility than the wildest prostrations of the ascetic. The old humility was a spur that prevented a man from stopping; not a nail in his boot that prevented him from going on. For the old humility made a man doubtful about his efforts, which might make him work harder. But the new humility makes a man doubtful about his aims, which will make him stop working altogether. 

Addendum: If there’s one thing I’m sure Pope Francis’s comment was not, it’s “a call to examine your conscience” — conscience doesn’t seem relevant to his comment in any way. But what was he saying when he said “Religions are seen as paths trying to reach God. I will use an analogy: They are like different languages that express the divine”?

He could have meant “All religions are people made in the image of God searching for the God who made them, so we Catholics, who have received the full deposit of True Faith, should respect others who search.”

He could also have meant “All religions are people made in the image of God searching for the God who made them, and none of us can know whether our way is closer than anyone else’s way, so we can but hope that God will be kind to us all.”

The former statement is consistent with Jesus’s claim that “I am the way, the truth, and the life; no one comes to the Father except through me.” The latter statement can only mean that Jesus is a way but not the only way nor even necessarily the best way. 

So which did Francis mean? There’s no way to tell for certain unless he issues a clarification — or has he already done that? The following day he said, “the diversity of our cultural and religious identities is a gift from God.” If so, then most if not all evangelism is a rejection of God’s gift — and therefore surely a sin. The only exception might be preaching to atheists, but maybe in Francis’s view atheism is also part of the great “diversity of our cultural and religious identities.” Who knows? 

My view, for what it’s worth, is that Francis hasn’t thought about any of these things very much. He’s just doing what he always does: speaking impromptu, off-the-cuff, saying whatever comes to his mind, a mind which doesn’t really care all that much about the issues at stake. I say that because this has been the hallmark of his pontificate: issuing confusing declarations when speaking informally, either in public or to journalists. He has never taken the trouble to be clear, in either his words or his thoughts. Another way to put the point: He just doesn’t take his job seriously. And at this point, given his age and his evident self-satisfaction, that is unlikely to change. 

August 28, 2024

St. Augustine’s Day

Many years ago I came upon an odd little book, a prayer book compiled in the 1880s by one S. M. Hopkins of Auburn Theological Seminary. Apparently he didn’t like any existing prayer book and so decided to assemble his own. I don’t think anything in the book is original, but, maddeningly, he does not provide the sources for all of his entries; he just says at the beginning that “The sources from which the following forms have been mostly derived are the Greek Liturgies, the Sacramentaries of Gelasius, Leo and Gregory, the Mozarabic Missal, the Monumenta Liturgica from the sixth to the tenth centuries, the Prymer of the Sarum use, and, to some extent, more modern sources.”  

Thanks a lot. 

One of the prayers he includes is a beautiful prayer to commemorate the feast of St. Augustine, which is today: 28 August. Here it is: 

Almighty and most glorious Lord, who dispensest Thy gifts to men as Thou wilt, and callest Thy servants with a holy calling according to Thy purpose and grace which was given us in Christ Jesus our Lord before the foundation of the world; we praise Thee for all those whom Thou hast been pleased to raise up, in all the ages, for the defence of Thy truth, and the upbuilding of Thy kingdom on earth; for Thy holy apostles, for the white-robed martyrs, and confessors of Thy Name, for the Christian fathers and doctors of the Church, who being dead yet speak; and we beseech Thee that we, being compassed about with so great & cloud of witnesses, may lay aside every weight and the sin that doth so easily beset us, and run with patience the race that is set before us, till we arrive by Thy grace at that blessed rest and reward, which awaiteth all Thy faithful servants, through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

Alas, I haven’t been able to discover where this prayer comes from, perhaps thanks to my ignorance of the Mozarabic Missal and the Monumenta Liturgica. Hopkins’s whole book may be found here.  

August 13, 2024

on deciding not to read a book

I had been thinking of reading Eliza Griswold’s new book Circle of Hope, but then a friend sent me a passage that included these sentences: 

Franklin Graham was different from his father. Billy Graham preached broadly about God; Franklin Graham spoke exclusively of Jesus, exemplifying the rightward political and cultural swing among most evangelicals in the late twentieth century. 

Billy Graham “preached broadly about God”? Billy Graham??? That’s not an idea that would survive an encounter with one Billy Graham sermon — any one among thousands, but why not start with this one? Pretty much the only thing Billy Graham did for the whole of his long career was to preach the unique saving power of Jesus. 

(Imagine someone claiming that Charles Darwin wrote broadly about knowledge rather than addressing himself specifically to biology. Imagine also someone writing that and then having it published by a big New York trade house.) 

Here would be a more accurate (if not perfectly accurate) complaint: 

Billy Graham spoke exclusively of Jesus, but his emphasis was on Jesus as one’s “personal Lord and Savior,” not on Jesus as the one who began his public ministry by claiming the words of Isaiah: “The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he has anointed me to bring good news to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives and recovery of sight to the blind, to set free those who are oppressed, to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor.” That Jesus’s message, rightly understood and heeded, would transform not just my heart but the whole social order is not something we heard from Billy Graham. Now Franklin Graham, along with many other evangelicals, has made a rightward political and cultural swing that has taken him even farther away from the whole message of Jesus — that message being neglected in favor of a Christian nationalism that seeks political power and social control, and is willing to tolerate any behavior or unbelief by politicians who promise such power and control. It’s for very good reason that today’s politically-minded evangelicals want to put the Ten Commandments on the walls of schools rather than the Beatitudes.  

If journalists want to criticize evangelicals, well, evangelicals have done plenty that rightly incurs criticism. But for heaven’s sake, people, take the time to learn something about those you criticize — the most basic, most elementary facts. If you can’t be bothered to do that, then just don’t write about those people. 

UPDATE: I have had good cause to say this many times in many contexts, but it bears repeating: If you’re going to say “It’s different now than it was then,” you need to know as much about then as about now. If you’re going to say “Franklin Graham was different from his father,” you need to know something about his father. If you’re going to say that American society is disintegrating and that we’re at one another’s throats in an unprecedented way, you need to know the actual precedents. If you’re going to say that Christians now live in a “negative world” whereas they once lived in a “positive world,” you need to know something about what it was really like to try to be a faithful Christian, say, sixty years ago. As Dogberry says, comparisons are odorous, and especially when they’re based not on careful study of the available facts but on vague impressions assumed to be infallible.  

August 12, 2024

the diaconal charism

Earlier today I read this conversation with David French about how he was made unwelcome at his church because of race and politics. I had read an earlier column by him on the subject, but I was especially attentive to this discussion because I just before I read it I had been walking Angus and listening to Morning Prayer on my phone. 

I can’t remember whether I’ve mentioned this before, but I absolutely love the Church of England’s Daily Prayer app. It takes about 20 minutes to listen to any one of the services, which features a liturgy well said, lectionary passages well read, and the occasional psalm or canticle well sung. 

Anyway, one of the Scripture readings for Monday, August 12 is the passage from Acts 6 that describes the founding of the order of deacons. And I was noticing, as I heard that passage read, that the whole impetus for this new order was an injustice in the life of the church: “Now during those days, when the disciples were increasing in number, the Hellenists complained against the Hebrews because their widows were being neglected in the daily distribution of food.” The Hellenists are Greek-speaking Jews, people shaped to a considerable degree by Greek culture; many of them were born and raised outside Israel. The Hebrews were Jews of Israel, speakers of Aramaic and readers of Hebrew, who clearly considered themselves more culturally (and religiously) pure than the Hellenists. 

So we see here the very common injustice that arises from people preferring members of their own cultural group to “others,” not realizing, or not accepting, that such distinctions are erased when one enters the Body of Christ. And when I consider what happened to David French in his family, I think: Every church needs deacons to do precisely what the first deacons did — that is, to give comfort and support to the people of God justly, that is, with no regard to differences in culture or race or politics, because, as Peter says a little later in Acts, “God is no respecter of persons” (Acts 10:34).

The diaconal charism is indifference, in an old meaning of the word: “Without difference of inclination; not inclined to prefer one person or thing to another; unbiased, impartial, disinterested, neutral; fair, just, even, even-handed” (OED definition I.1). And divided as we Christians are by so many worldly or diabolical forces, we desperately need that charism. 

Stephen is of course the patron saint of deacons, but if they need a priestly and episcopal patron also, I would suggest Basil the Great, for reasons I explain in the opening paragraph of this post. And if you want more along these lines, I wrote in more detail about Basil and his extraordinary family here. They all exhibited, to an extraordinary degree, this diaconal charism that I believe is so woefully lacking in the American church. (And probably in every other church as well.) 

June 21, 2024

unconditional love

Clare Sestanovich: 

I sat across from the missionary, pretending to drink a beer. I was new to beer, and it still tasted bad to me, the way it tastes to children. The second-floor boy was there, too, our shoulders touching. The missionary was talking about love again. The most important thing about God, he told us, was that he loved you unconditionally. For some reason, this startled me. It almost angered me. Who, I asked the missionary, taking a fake sip from the beer bottle, would actually want to be loved like that? All-encompassing, all-permitting love sounded indiscriminate. And what were we doing here — at our fancy school, in our charmed lives — if not learning to discriminate, to value things in and for their particulars? 

“All-encompassing” and “all-permitting” are not synonyms. God doesn’t permit everything; God doesn’t approve everything; God’s discriminations are infinitely subtler than ours. He sees all your sins and names them as sins; he sees all your errors and names them as errors. He is ruthless in His exposure of your deceptions of others and your self-deceptions. He doesn’t miss anything, and he doesn’t think your poems are as good as Keats’s, or your essays as good as Joan Didion’s, unless your poems and essays actually are that good. But he loves you anyway, all the time, and all the way — just as much as He loves that person down the street, that dimwit, that asshole, that person you never want to see again. The love of God shines on the excellent and the assholes alike. 

The Good News here is that if you ever stop being excellent and start becoming a dimwit or an asshole or both at once, God will see it, he will know it, he will know it better than you do, he won’t call it anything except what it is … but he will love you just as much as he did when you were excellent. Because Love doesn’t keep score. 

Robert Farrar Capon:

I said grace cannot prevail until law is dead, until moralizing is out of the game. The precise phrase should be, until our fatal love affair with the law is over — until, finally and for good, our lifelong certainty that someone is keeping score has run out of steam and collapsed. As long as we leave, in our dramatizations of grace, one single hope of a moral reckoning, one possible recourse to salvation by bookkeeping, our freedom-dreading hearts will clutch it to themselves. And even if we leave none at all, we will grub for ethics that are not there rather than face the liberty to which grace calls us. Give us the parable of the Prodigal Son, for example, and we will promptly lose its point by preaching ourselves sermons on Worthy and Unworthy Confession, or on The Sin of the Elder Brother. Give us the Workers in the Vineyard, and we will concoct spurious lessons on The Duty of Contentment or The Moral Aspects of Labor Relations.

Restore to us, Preacher, the comfort of merit and demerit. Prove for us that there is at least something we can do, that we are still, at whatever dim recess of our nature, the masters of our relationships. Tell us, Prophet, that in spite of all our nights of losing, there will yet be one redeeming card of our very own to fill the inside straight we have so long and so earnestly tried to draw to. But do not preach us grace. It will not do to split the pot evenly at four A.M. and break out the Chivas Regal. We insist on being reckoned with. Give us something, anything; but spare us the indignity of this indiscriminate acceptance. 

May 10, 2024

Christian Spirituality: categories

The Great Texts program here at Baylor, where I teach about half my classes, begins its course of study with a series of periods: Ancient, Medieval, Early Modern, Eighteenth and Nineteenth Centuries, Twentieth Century. Then it diverges into genres, themes, and topics. I’ve just concluded teaching Great Texts in Christian Spirituality — for the third time — and while that’s a very interesting and enjoyable course for me to teach, it’s quite a challenge to design. There are so many texts to choose from that (I tell my class) I could probably teach it five times with five completely different sets of texts and do equal justice to the theme. 

And, of course, it’s very difficult simply to define the topic. What is Christian spirituality, for heaven’s sake? I always start with this: Christian spirituality is the application of Christian theology to the challenge of living — and then we work through various other definitions as the term goes on. But the boundaries between spirituality and theology never can become precise, and indeed, some key Christian thinkers would deny the distinction. As Jaroslav Pelikan has noted,

It was in the aftermath of the Council of Chalcedon that Maximus Confessor attained his historic importance, both for the history of spirituality and for the history of dogma (a distinction that he would not have accepted since, as every one of these treatises makes abundantly clear, there was for him no spirituality apart from dogma, and no dogma apart from spirituality).

Anyway: when I’m choosing texts, I’m careful to (a) cover the historical ground as best I can and (b) draw upon the three major streams of Christian writing on spirituality: Roman, Orthodox, Protestant. But over my three times teaching the course, I’ve come to think that certain other distinctions are important to acknowledge as well. I think especially of three axes: 

  • apophatic ↔ kataphatic 
  • individual ↔ communal 
  • encounter ↔ obedience 

That is, any given Christian writer might emphasize the apophatic — what cannot be said about God and the experience of God — or the kataphatic — what can and must be said; might emphasize the individual or the communal and ecclesial aspects of the Christian life; might see the Christian life primarily in terms of an encounter with God or obedience to God. And you can sort Christian writers or texts accordingly. For instance: 

  • Julian of Norwich: apophatic/individual/encounter
  • The Imitation of Christ: kataphatic/individual/obedience 
  • Eliot’s Four Quartets: apophatic/individual/encounter 
  • C. S. Lewis’s sermons and talks: kataphatic/communal/encounter 

These classifications are arguable, of course! Also of course: they can’t be strictly distinguished from one another, for example, one’s obedience to God may have a great impact on one’s ability to have a genuine encounter with God. But as indicators of tendencies, as guides to emphasis, I think the categories are useful. 

Some figures are difficult to classify: Maximus tends to cover all the possibilities, which is perhaps key to his uniquely powerful place in the whole tradition. (His Centuries are very much about communal life and obedience within that life, but he also wants to demonstrate the ways that an obedient life can lead to an encounter with the Divine that cannot easily be put into words.) But trying to place writers or books in this scheme has, in my experience, been a great way to generate conversation about them. Maybe some of you will find it useful. 

April 24, 2024

more on costs and choices

Isaiah Berlin, “The Originality of Machiavelli”:

The ideals of Christianity are charity, mercy, sacrifice, love of God, forgiveness of enemies, contempt for the goods of this world, faith in the life hereafter, belief in the salvation of the individual soul as being of incomparable value – higher than, indeed wholly incommensurable with, any social or political or other terrestrial goal, any economic or military or aesthetic consideration. Machiavelli lays it down that out of men who believe in such ideals, and practise them, no satisfactory human community, in his Roman sense, can in principle be constructed. It is not simply a question of the unattainability of an ideal because of human imperfection, original sin, or bad luck, or ignorance, or insufficiency of material means. It is not, in other words, the inability in practice on the part of ordinary human beings to rise to a sufficiently high level of Christian virtue (which may, indeed, be the inescapable lot of sinful men on earth) that makes it, for him, impracticable to establish, even to seek after, the good Christian State. It is the very opposite: Machiavelli is convinced that what are commonly thought of as the central Christian virtues, whatever their intrinsic value, are insuperable obstacles to the building of the kind of society that he wishes to see; a society which, moreover, he assumes that it is natural for all normal men to want – the kind of community that, in his view, satisfies men’s permanent desires and interests. […]

It is important to realise that Machiavelli does not wish to deny that what Christians call good is, in fact, good, that what they call virtue and vice are in fact virtue and vice. Unlike Hobbes or Spinoza (or eighteenth-century philosophes or, for that matter, the first Stoics), who try to define (or redefine) moral notions in such a way as to fit in with the kind of community that, in their view, rational men must, if they are consistent, wish to build, Machiavelli does not fly in the face of common notions — the traditional, accepted moral vocabulary of mankind. He does not say or imply (as various radical philosophical reformers have done) that humility, kindness, unworldliness, faith in God, sanctity, Christian love, unwavering truthfulness, compassion are bad or unimportant attributes; or that cruelty, bad faith, power politics, sacrifice of innocent men to social needs, and so on are good ones.

But if history, and the insights of wise statesmen, especially in the ancient world, verified as they have been in practice (verità effettuale), are to guide us, it will be seen that it is in fact impossible to combine Christian virtues, for example meekness or the search for spiritual salvation, with a satisfactory, stable, vigorous, strong society on earth. Consequently a man must choose. To choose to lead a Christian life is to condemn oneself to political impotence: to being used and crushed by powerful, ambitious, clever, unscrupulous men; if one wishes to build a glorious community like those of Athens or Rome at their best, then one must abandon Christian education and substitute one better suited to the purpose. 

I think Berlin is right about Machiavelli, and I think Machiavelli is right about Christianity too. The whole argument illustrates Berlin’s one great theme: the incompatibility of certain “Great Goods” with one another. The more I think about it, the more convinced I am that the inability to grasp this point is one of the greatest causes of personal unhappiness and social unrest. Millions of American Christians don’t see how it might be impossible to reconcile (a) being a disciple of Jesus Christ with (b) ruling over their fellow citizens and seeking retribution against them. Many students at Columbia University would be furious if you told them that they can’t simultaneously (a) participate in what they call protest and (b) fulfill the obligations they’ve taken on as students. They want both! They demand both! 

Everybody wants everything, that’s all. They’re willing to settle for everything. 

See my recent post on costs and the “plurality” tag at the bottom of this post. 

April 8, 2024

to be a pilgrim

I’ve been teaching The Pilgrim’s Progress, something that always gives me great joy. I find it simply wonderful that so utterly bonkers a book was so omnipresent in English-language culture (and well beyond) for so long. You couldn’t avoid it, whether you loved it — as George Eliot’s Maggie Tulliver did, and lamented the sale of the family’s copy: “I thought we should never part with that while we lived” — or found it puzzling, as Huck Finn did when he recalled the books he read as a child: “One was ‘Pilgrim’s Progress’, about a man that left his family it didn’t say why. I read considerable in it now and then. The statements was interesting, but tough.” 

One of the “tough” things about the “statements” is the way they veer from hard-coded allegory to plain realism, sometimes within a given sentence. One minute Moses is the canonical author of the Pentateuch, the next he’s a guy who keeps knocking Hopeful down. But the book is always psychologically realistic, to an extreme degree. No one knew anxiety and terror better than Bunyan did, and when Christian is passing through the Valley of the Shadow of Death and hears voices whispering blasphemies in his ears, the true horror of the moment is that he thinks he himself is uttering the blasphemies. (The calls are coming from inside the house.) 

It seems likely that the last major cultural figure to acknowledge the power of Bunyan’s book is Terrence Malick, who begins his movie Knight of Cups with a voice declaiming the full title of the book: “The pilgrim’s progress from this world to that which is to come, delivered under the similitude of a dream; wherein is discovered the manner of his setting out, his dangerous journey, and safe arrival at the desired country.” 

Those words are uttered by John Gielgud, because they are taken from a 1990 performance of Ralph Vaughan Williams’s The Pilgrim’s Progress: A Bunyan Sequence, which is a work that Vaughan Williams wanted to compose for his whole life, but only got to near his life’s end: it is his final operatic composition. And it’s wonderful. 

The Pilgrim’s Progress is almost always illustrated, and prominent among those illustrations are maps. Here’s a post about those maps. From that post I learned that Garrett Taylor — an artist and animator who has worked for Pixar and on The Wingfeather Saga TV series — has mapped The Pilgrim’s Progress is four prints that you can buy here. I bought them and had them framed and they now adorn a wall of our house. I stop to look at them three or four times a day. 

It would be wrong for me to post the full-resolution images here, but I think I can risk one portion of one image: 

Now, if Mr. Taylor can just convince Pixar to film the whole book…. 

January 17, 2024

Jaroslav Pelikan: 

Origen may … have been the first church father to study Hebrew, “in opposition to the spirit of his time and of his people,” as Jerome says; according to Eusebius, he “learned it thoroughly,” but there is reason to doubt the accuracy of this report. Jerome, however, was rightly celebrated as “a trilingual man” for his competence in Latin, Greek, and Hebrew, and Augustine clearly admired, perhaps even envied, his ability to “interpret the divine Scriptures in both languages.” […] But it seems safe to propose the generalization that, except for converts from Judaism, it was not until the biblical humanists and the Reformers of the sixteenth century that a knowledge of Hebrew became standard equipment for Christian expositors of the Old Testament. Most of Christian doctrine developed in a church uninformed by any knowledge of the original text of the Hebrew Bible.

Whatever the reasons, Christian theologians writing against Judaism seemed to take their opponents less and less seriously as time went on; and what their apologetic works may have lacked in vigor or fairness, they tended to make up in self-confidence. They no longer looked upon the Jewish community as a continuing participant in the holy history that had produced the church. They no longer gave serious consideration to the Jewish interpretation of the Old Testament or to the Jewish background of the New. Therefore the urgency and the poignancy about the mystery of Israel that are so vivid in the New Testament have appeared only occasionally in Christian thought, as in some passages in Augustine; but these are outweighed, even in Augustine, by the many others that speak of Judaism and paganism almost as though they were equally alien to “the people of God” — the church of Gentile Christians.

Surely this de-Judaizing is the most important (and troubling) way in which the era of the early Church Fathers differed from the Apostolic beginnings of the Church. It is fascinating to contemplate an alternate history of Christendom in which Jews and Christians remained in regular conversation and debate. 

January 15, 2024

looking ahead

Lately I’ve been posting in How to Think mode — HTT as the tag here calls it: I’ve been writing about various common-all-too-common errors in reasoning and how they might be avoided. But I’m about to change direction for a while. 

When I was a young faculty member at Wheaton College, a college that prides itself on “the integration of faith and learning,” I quickly realized that there was a fundamental mismatch between my knowledge of my academic discipline, which was fairly sophisticated, and my understanding of the Christian faith, which was woefully underdeveloped. I was only 25 years old when I began teaching at Wheaton; I had not grown up in a Christian home and indeed had only been a Christian for around five years; I had a lot to learn. But at least I grasped that point. 

And I was richly blessed in my neighbors, for I worked in the same building with Mark Noll, Roger Lundin, Bob Webber, and Arthur Holmes, among others. I relentlessly peppered them with questions, and especially sought recommendations for books I could read to give me an adequate understanding of the full range of Christian thought. I did not understand that I was asking for something that I couldn’t achieve in a lifetime. Gradually it dawned on me that Christian thinking about the arts and humanities was richer and deeper and more extensive than I could have imagined; and then, also gradually, my scholarship and non-scholarly writing too became more and more informed by and rooted in that great and complex tradition. 

My experience was somewhat like that of the Methodist theologian Thomas Oden, who when invited to teach and write about pastoral care could but draw on what little he knew about then-contemporary models of psychological counseling. It was only when he asked himself whether Christians, who had been doing pastoral care for 2000 years, might know a little bit about the subject that he began the great series of books on pastoral theology for which he is best remembered. Like me, Oden discovered that the Christian tradition in his chosen field was more extensive and powerful than he had anticipated, and he drank deeply from the well of that tradition for the rest of his life. 

Well, for me one thing led to another, and I now have one of the longest job titles in the American academy: the Jim and Sharon Harrod Endowed Chair of Christian Thought and Distinguished Professor of the Humanities in the Honors Program. The second half of that title I’ve had for a decade now; the first half is new. I am pleased and honored and excited by the prospect of becoming an official advocate for the great Christian tradition that I have been talking about in this post. 

Partly because of this new role, and partly by accident, I am this semester — for the first time, in a teaching career that now exceeds forty years — teaching only Christian writers. (I have had many semesters in which I didn’t teach any Christian writers at all, though usually there’s been a mix.) I am teaching, for Baylor’s Great Texts program, a course called Great Texts in Christian Spirituality; and I am teaching a new course, one I designed to express my chief interests as the new Harrod Chair: The Christian Renaissance of the Twentieth Century. 

The new course is devoted to exploring the extraordinary outburst of distinctively Christian creativity — in all the arts and humanities — that occurred especially in the first half of the twentieth century, but has continued in certain forms ever since. It is a ridiculously ambitious and indefensibly wide-ranging course, since we will look (sometimes briefly, sometimes in detail) at painting, architecture, music, literature, philosophy, philosophy, and filmmaking. Basically we’ll go from G. K. Chesterton and Jacques Maritain to Marilynne Robinson, Arvo Pärt, and Terrence Malick. (Though as it happens, on Day One we’ll discuss Rachmaninoff’s All-Night Vigil.) It’s gonna be utterly insane, and also, I think, a lot of fun. I hope to learn much in this first iteration that I can apply when I teach the course again — and I hope to teach it every year, student interest permitting. 

Between that course and the Christian Spirituality one — which will go from the Didache and Maximus Confessor to Annie Dillard’s Holy the Firm — I will have on my mind, for the next few months, an vast agglomeration of works in Christian theology, philosophy, and all the arts. There will be a lot to process, and this here blog is where I do much of my processing, so — if you like that kind of thing, then this will be the kind of thing you like. If not … well, sorry about that. 

December 28, 2023

Francis Spufford on picking through the ruins of Christendom:

Those of us who, despite everything, think there’s something precious in the words jumbled-up now among the rubble, do not do so because we are pro-tyranny or anti-self discovery. We do so because we know that what was written on those towering walls wasn’t the credo of an authoritarian certainty at all. But instead — mixed up, yeah, with some heterogenous other stuff over the centuries, some questionable — a song of liberation, a startling declaration that power, that love, that justice, that order, that God the creator of all things, weren’t what we thought they were, but came closest to us in paradoxes. Wisdom, in foolishness; strength, in weakness; sovereignty over the immense empire of matter, in helpless self-sacrifice, in a choking man brought to death by a shrugging government. What’s written on the bricks still has the power to shock, when you join them together. GREATER LOVE HATH NO MAN THAN THIS turns out to lead to, THAN THAT HE LAY DOWN HIS LIFE FOR HIS FRIEND. Not very positive, is it? LOVE YOUR EN- continues, -EMY, AND PRAY FOR THOSE WHO PERSECUTE YOU. What’s that about? How will that help me to be thinner, richer, stronger, more sexually successful? It won’t. It will only help you to be kinder, braver, more tolerant of our inevitable imperfections, and more hopeful; more convinced that the worst than can happen to us, as humans, is not the last word, because there is a love we should try to copy in our small ways, which never rests, never gives up, is never defeated.

December 22, 2023

Christmas gifts

In introducing the writings of George MacDonald, C. S. Lewis made a fascinating point which can only be quoted at length:

What [MacDonald] does best is fantasy — fantasy that hovers between the allegorical and the mythopoeic. And this, in my opinion, he does better than any man. The critical problem with which we are confronted is whether this art — the art of myth-making — is a species of the literary art. The objection to so classifying it is that the Myth does not essentially exist in words at all. We all agree that the story of Balder is a great myth, a thing of inexhaustible value. But of whose version — whose words — are we thinking when we say this?

For my own part, the answer is that I am not thinking of anyone’s words. No poet, as far as I know or can remember, has told this story supremely well. I am not thinking of any particular version of it. If the story is anywhere embodied in words, that is almost an accident. What really delights and nourishes me is a particular pattern of events, which would equally delight and nourish me if it had reached me by some medium which involved no words at all — say by a mime, or a film. And I find this to be true of all such stories. […] 

Most myths were made in prehistoric times, and, I suppose, not consciously made by individuals at all. But every now and then there occurs in the modern world a genius — a Kafka or a Novalis — who can make such a story. MacDonald is the greatest genius of this kind whom I know. But I do not know how to classify such genius. To call it literary genius seems unsatisfactory since it can coexist with great inferiority in the art of words… . Nor can it be fitted into any of the other arts. It begins to look as if there were an art, or a gift, which criticism has largely ignored.

Lewis is prompted to this reflection in part by the fact that MacDonald was not a very good stylist — his prose is often clunky or awkward. But the myths he made were to Lewis extraordinarily powerful. I think that Lewis is right not only about Macdonald but also in his more general point, and that the phenomenon deserves more reflection that it has received. 

I may come back to this intriguing idea some day, but I only mention it now because it gives me license to tell briefly, in my own words, one of MacDonald’s stories, “The Gifts of the Child Christ.”

The story centers on a six-year-old girl named Sophy — “or, as she called herself by a transposition of consonant sounds common with children, Phosy.” Phosy’s mother died giving birth to her and her father has recently remarried. He had been in various ways disappointed with his first wife and now he is well on his way to becoming disappointed with his second wife; and he neglects Phosy because she reminds him too much of the wife whom he had lost, and who had not made him happy.

Phosy’s stepmother is pregnant and that means that Phosy is ignored even more than usual; but she doesn’t seem to expect anything else. When at church with her parents she hears a preacher telling the congregation that “whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth,” Phosy wants the Lord to love her and therefore prays that he will chasten her, for this will prove His love. She is too young and too innocent to realize that her life is already a kind of chastening, though one she does not deserve. Phosy becomes obsessed as Christmas draws near with the idea that on that day Jesus will be born — Jesus is somehow born anew each year on Christmas day, she thinks, and she hopes that when he comes again this year he will bring her the gift she so earnestly desires. 

So she’s anxious as the day draws near, and her parents are also anxious, but for a different reason: her stepmother’s pregnancy is coming to term. On Christmas morning the stepmother gives birth to Phosy’s little brother, and in all of the stress and anxiety — and, as it turns out, tragedy — of the event, Phosy is completely forgotten. So she dresses herself and comes downstairs and wanders into a spare room of the house … and she sees lying there, alone and still, a beautiful baby boy. It is, she knows, the baby Jesus, come to give her the gift of Himself, and, she devoutly hopes, his chastening also. So she takes the little boy in her arms: he’s perfectly beautiful, but he is also, she realizes, very cold. And so she holds him close to herself to give him her warmth — and it is in this position that her father finds her. And for the first time Phosy weeps. She weeps because there was no one to care for the baby Jesus when he came, and so he died.

It is an extraordinary image that George MacDonald has conjured here, for this is of course a Pieta. It is Mary bearing the body of her dead son, conveyed to us through a small English girl bearing the body of her dead baby brother. Here superimposed on Christmas Day, that most innocently festive of days, is the immense tragedy of Good Friday.

But we do call it Good Friday, do we not? 

When Phosy’s father sees her holding her infant brother he sees something in Phosy that he has never noticed before: he discerns the depth and the intensity of her compassion. And he has already been altered in his attitude toward his wife by seeing her grief at the loss of her child. Throughout this story he has only thought of the women in his life as either meeting or failing to meet — though in fact always failing to meet — his expectations; but when he sees his wife and daughter so wounded, their tenderness of heart draws out his own, and a great work of healing begins in this damaged family, a family damaged above all by the absence of paternal love.

“Such were the gifts the Christ-child brought to one household that Christmas,” says MacDonald. “And the days of the mourning of that household were ended.” A knitting up of their raveled fabric begins, and the extraordinary thing is that the chief instrument of that mending is death: the death of Jesus as a man on a cross, or the death of Jesus as an infant in Victorian London, it is one Sacrifice. This is what Charles Williams pointed to when he wrote that the Christian way is “dying each other’s life, living each other’s death.” 

In his beautiful book Unapologetic Francis Spufford has Jesus say, “Far more can be mended than you know.” And this is what “The Gifts of the Child Christ” tells us also. George MacDonald made for himself a personal motto — an anagram of his name, imperfectly spelled because in this world things that are mended still show the signs of their frayed or broken state. Mended but not yet perfected are the things and the people of this world, at their very best. MacDonald’s motto was:  

The richest of Christmas blessings to you all.  

December 18, 2023

Pope Francis Allows Priests to Bless Same-Sex Couples – The New York Times:

But the new rule made clear that a blessing of a same-sex couple was not the same as a marriage sacrament, a formal ceremonial rite. It also stressed that it was not blessing the relationship, and that, to avoid confusion, blessings should not be imparted during or connected to the ceremony of a civil or same-sex union, or when there are “any clothing, gestures or words that are proper to a wedding.” 

What does it mean to bless a couple without blessing that couple’s relationship? Millions of words will be expended in the coming months to try to explain this, but I can guarantee that none of them will make sense. The Pope has put his church in a completely untenable, incoherent, radically unstable position. From here it will have to go back to the traditional teaching or ahead to something wholly unprecedented. And I can’t imagine a retreat, not by this Pope. 

Francis has not spoken ex cathedra here — this is not like, for instance, Munificentissimus Deus. But it’s a big thing, and if the incoherence is rectified by further acceptance of same-sex unions, then some really fancy theological dancing will have to be performed to avoid having to admit that the historic dogma on sex and marriage was simply wrong. And if a future Pope walks this back, then a similarly complicated dance will have to be done to reconcile the repudiation of Francis’s teaching with the dogma that the Pope is guided and directed by the Holy Spirit even when making ordinary — not ex cathedra — arguments and policies. It’s hard to see how historic Catholic teaching on marriage and historic Catholic teaching on papal authority can emerge unscathed from this.  

Is Francis now the most consequential pope in the history of Roman Catholicism? I am inclined to say Yes. 

September 25, 2023

my testimony

This is an except from my least-read book, a small treatise on narrative theology called Looking Before and After. Much of the book concerns the question of what it means, if it means anything coherent, to say that I have a “life story.” At one point I tell a bit of my own story, as I understand it, and that’s what follows. 

The summer before I was to begin high school, my family moved from one end of Birmingham, Alabama, to another. “Zoning” had begun in Birmingham a few years before, and had we remained in our old neighborhood I would have been one of ten or so white students in a high school with a total population of more than a thousand. My parents didn’t believe that would be such a good thing for their son, so we moved to an all-white neighborhood within the “zone” of a mostly white school. My parents considered that the move encouraged fresh starts in other ways too, so within a few weeks they had picked out a nearby church, 85th Street Baptist, and we became fairly regular attendees — at least on Sunday mornings. (Sunday evening services or Wednesday prayer meetings remained well beyond the scope of our discipline.) This lasted only about a year before we lapsed back into our old habits of rare attendance, but in the meantime I got myself saved. Or so I think.

Southern churches — I have learned that this is a source of amusement to many of my fellow Christians from outside the South — often schedule revivals, bringing in guest evangelists to stir up the faithless and backslidden. But even with a revival a week away, our pastor, Brother McKee, still conducted his usual invitation at the end of the Sunday morning service. (I was an adult living in the Midwest before I ever heard the term “altar call.”) I had sat throughout the service with my friends, giggling and whispering as usual, and in silent moments doodling on the little magazine of devotional articles for teenagers that had been handed out in Sunday school an hour earlier and for which I was always thankful, since it provided fifteen minutes or so of distraction. The sermon eluded my attention, but I stood up with everyone else as the choir sang “Softly and Tenderly” — or perhaps it was “Just As I Am.” I was thirteen years old.

At that moment the Holy Spirit, with overwhelming force, called me to walk down the aisle and make my profession of faith. My will was clearly being commanded by something not me — something I knew could only be God. When, years later, I read John Wesley’s account of how in a meeting his heart was “strangely warmed,” I thought I knew just what he meant: I seemed for those moments to be heated from within. I had never experienced anything remotely like it before; nor, I must say, have I since. It was all I could do not to run down the aisle; but I did not run down the aisle. In fact, I remained fixed in my place. I stood as the choir and congregation sang, gripping the pew in front of me fiercely — I can see even now, in my mind’s eye, my knuckles going white with the effort of restraining myself from flying toward the pastor.

I was ashamed. I knew that I had paid no attention during the service, that I had snickered with my friends, and I feared their mocking judgment and that of any adult observers of my antics. I felt certain that if I walked down the aisle and “made my profession of faith,” everyone would be puzzled — they would wonder if I was joking, or, worse, mocking. So I stayed rooted at my pew.

Nevertheless, the experience shook me. I tried all week to forget it and was able occasionally to put it from my mind; but I could not pretend that I had any other explanation for what had happened to me — I knew that the power that had invaded me was not me, and I knew its real name. The sense of being strangely warmed remained with me through the week.

The following Sunday, as I walked once more with my parents into the church, a large banner outside proclaimed that the revival would begin that evening. Our pastor’s sermon topic, in his last message before the revival, was an interesting one: he said that sometimes God gives you only one chance to repent; we cannot presume upon his grace, we cannot count on His offering endlessly repeated opportunities to turn aside from our evil ways and dark paths. He told a story about a young man who rejected an opportunity to repent and was almost immediately thereafter struck by a car and killed — not as punishment, mind you: it was just that the fellow’s time was up, and he had wasted all of his chances.

The service drew to a close; we sang a final hymn; and Brother McKee did not issue an invitation, but merely dismissed us with a prayer and a reminder of the evening service.

At home, over lunch, I told my parents that I thought I would like to go to the revival that evening. They looked blankly at me. My father shrugged; my mother said, “Well, good for you.” I walked the eight blocks to the church, taking extreme care when crossing streets; I arrived early and took a seat on the right side, in the second row. I heard as little of this sermon as I had of the one preceding my unexpected Call, though for very different reasons. When the preacher began to intone the familiar words of invitation from what I now think of as the Southern Baptist revival liturgy — “with every head bowed and every eye closed” — and asked for a show of hands from those interested in repenting, my arm shot upward. At the first opportunity I bolted for the front. A few Sunday evenings later I was baptized.

And that was all. I had my insurance; if I wandered into the street and got hit by a car, I would be OK. Before long we stopped going to church. I gave God no thought for another six years. 

September 11, 2023

repetition and summation

When you blog for a long time, as I have done, you inevitably repeat yourself. Sometimes this is conscious and intentional, as you work to develop themes: I have listed some of the main themes of this blog here. At other times you just forget that you’ve said something before. 

But there’s a third kind of repetition: the kind that arises when similar events prompt you to respond in similar ways. This has a good side and a bad side. If you do respond to these related provocations consistently, that suggests a certain stability of outlook; you’re not just blown about by the winds of mood or whim, you have a genuine point of view. On the other hand, you could’ve just saved yourself some time and effort by citing one of your earlier posts on the subject. “I refer the honorable gentlemen to the reply I gave some months ago.” 

I just realized recently how often I have responded in very similar ways to the desperate-times-demand-desperate-measures Christians, the ones who believe that our current circumstances are so horrific that we have to throw out our historic practices and habits out the window. To cite just one common topic of recent years: There are a great many Christians who say that Tim Keller’s approach to evangelism and apologetics might have been okay Back In The Day — you know, fifteen years ago, in a previous geological era — but simply won’t work in our current Negative World. I have of course questioned the Negative World thesis — I’ll return to that in a moment — but more than that I have insisted that such people are making a category error: the question to ask is not whether this or that approach works, but rather whether it’s faithful, whether it’s obedient to Jesus. As I said in that post, 

To think only in terms of what is effective or strategic is to fight on the Devil’s home ground. As Screwtape said to Wormwood about the junior tempter’s patient: “He doesn’t think of doctrines as primarily ‘true’ or ‘false’, but as ‘academic’ or ‘practical’, ‘outworn’ or ‘contemporary’, ‘conventional’ or ‘ruthless’. Jargon, not argument, is your best ally in keeping him from the Church. Don’t waste time trying to make him think that materialism is true! Make him think it is strong, or stark, or courageous — that it is the philosophy of the future. That’s the sort of thing he cares about.” Christians who evaluate Keller not by asking whether his message is faithful to Jesus’s message but rather by asking whether it’s suited for this moment are inadvertently following Screwtape’s advice. 

And in another, closely related, post, I called attention to this challenging statement from George Macdonald: “Instead of asking yourself whether you believe or not, ask yourself whether you have this day done one thing because He said, Do it, or once abstained because He said, Do not do it. It is simply absurd to say you believe, or even want to believe, in Him, if you do not do anything He tells you.” 

That is what counts, whether this is a Negative World or a Positive World or any other kind of world. Our obligations remain the same in every world. What we need is to stop trying to read the tea-leaves of politics and instead learn to be idiots. 

Obedience is both difficult and boring; and the boring part is especially challenging in our neophilic age, in which we cannot readily perceive the renewing power of repetition. It’s no wonder that people would rather think about plans and strategies than to strive to practice obedience. But “strategic thinking” is the classic excuse for disobedience. 

Finally, I have consistently found it useful (or sometimes just fun) to see the various stances I’ve described here as exemplified by characters from The Lord of the Rings, e.g.: 

  • Denethor: the evangelist of despair who’d rather blow everything up than be faithful through hard times; 
  • Boromir: one who thinks that if he could just seize the reins of power then everything would be great, because he is committed to all the Right Things and therefore couldn’t possibly rule badly or tyrannically;  
  • Faramir: one who has immersed himself in ancient lore and by so doing has learned humility and mercy;  
  • Aragorn: one who understands that we must judge between “good and ill” today as we have ever judged; they don’t change their character, nor is the need for discernment ever abrogated; 
  • Gandalf: one who is content to be a steward rather than a ruler, and to strive to give to the next generation “clean earth to till.” 

Okay, thus endeth the summing up. Now whenever these issues come up again in the future, I will try to remember to link to this post, rather than write a new one that makes the same points.

August 8, 2023

Justin Smith-Ruiu:

The risk of attempting such a thing is that one will appear unserious and will accordingly begin to lose the professional and social advantages that slowly began accumulating throughout all those years of pretending to be an adult. I don’t mean to overdo the curious parallels between art and faith, but it does seem to me that to be willing to take this risk is somewhat analogous to the choice Saint Paul said one must make to become a “fool for Christ”. The sixteenth-century Muscovite saint known as “Basil Fool for Christ”, for whom the world’s most iconic onion-dome church is named, was also known as “Basil the Blessed”: it comes out to the same thing.

I want, I mean, to spend the rest of my life, consciously and willfully, as a fool, at least in those domains that matter most to me. Of course I can still “clean up real nice” whenever the circumstances require, but I now see those circumstances more or less in the same way I see filing taxes or updating my passwords — just part of the general tedium of maintaining one’s place in a world that pretends to be built around the interests and expectations of sober-minded grown-ups, but that in the end is a never-ending parade of delirious grotesques.

I have in effect undergone a double conversion, then, to both faith and art, which in the end may be only a single but two-sided conversion, to a mode of existence characteristic of children and fools.

July 25, 2023

excerpt from my Sent folder: favor

A friend wrote in response to my addition, at the end of my most recent newsletter, a quote from Robert Farrar Capon. My friend asked about how I see the relation between Capon’s picture of what we might call the absolutism of grace and, on the other hand, the call to the spiritual disciplines made by people like Dallas Willard and Richard Foster. Here’s my reply: 

I think you’re right to be attracted by both parties, because, properly understood, the two parties are talking about two very different things. Capon is talking about our ideas of finding favor with the Lord — about the universal human belief that we can and should earn our favor with the Lord, and that those of us who more successfully practice the various virtues will have more favor from the Lord that those who do less. (There’s a kind of implicit scarcity model at work here: God only has so much favor to go around, so we want to get more for ourselves, leaving less for our neighbors.) 

What Capon wants us to understand is that our favor with the Lord is completely the result of what Jesus has done for us on the cross. Completely. Because of what Christ has done for us, because of the favor that he has earned for us, then we can be confident that we will be received on the last day. (I’ve reason to believe we all will be received at Graceland.) We are therefore free and the question then becomes: What do we do with our freedom? 

And this I think is where the disciplines come in. We practice the various spiritual disciplines, not in order to earn God‘s favor, but in gratitude for having already received it. We practice them because we want to draw nearer to the God who has saved us, or let him draw nearer to us, and because we want to be like Jesus. We want it, we don’t have to do it in order to earn our salvation. Jesus already did that. So if we don’t practice those disciplines today, God isn’t frowning on us. And if we know he isn’t frowning on us, that “when we sin, we have an advocate with the Father, Jesus Christ the righteous,” then I think we have more incentive, not less, to do better tomorrow. It’s less terrifying because our salvation does not hinge on it. 

May 22, 2023

Michael Luo in the New Yorker: 

In June, 2020, Keller announced that he had been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. One of his final projects, completed earlier this year, was an eighty-three-page white paper he called “The Decline and Renewal of the American Church.” It offers a wide-ranging set of prescriptions for what he viewed as the profound afflictions of the evangelical movement, including its anti-intellectualism, its problems with race, and the politicization of the church that has “turned off half the country.” The document is an exhaustive blueprint, but the question now is who will carry it out. 

That is precisely the question. 

(Also, maybe I should annotate that white paper the way I annotated the terrific new essay on postrationalism by Tara Isabella Burton.) 

May 19, 2023

Tim Keller

Well, this is a day for tears. I don’t know Tim intimately, but he is a friend, and his presence in my life has been a great gift. When I look back through Tim’s emails to me over the years, the thread that runs through them is encouragement. The last words of his last email to me: “Main thing I wanted to say is how much I appreciate all you are doing.”

The main thing Tim wanted to say was always about someone other than himself: his mind seemed always to be focused on his family, his friends, those he pastored and mentored, and above all the God who is known to us in Jesus Christ. The criticism he received — almost all of it irrational and misinformed — slightly bemused him but otherwise left him unaffected; he had more important things to think about than his own reputation. 

In one of his last books he wrote of 

Christianity’s unsurpassed offers — a meaning that suffering cannot remove, a satisfaction not based on circumstances, a freedom that does not hurt but rather enhances love, an identity that does not crush you or exclude others, a moral compass that does not turn you into an oppressor, and a hope that can face anything, even death. 

All I can say is Amen to that. 

Above I spoke of my friendship with Tim in the present tense, for a good reason. I don’t know Tim intimately; but I hope to some day. Until then, I will miss him very much. 

May 8, 2023

locating intellectuals

In his great book The Spirit of Early Christian Thought, Robert Wilken writes: 

In an age in which thinkers of all kinds, even poets, are creatures of the academy, it is well to remember that most of the writers considered in this book were bishops who presided regularly at the celebration of the Eucharist, the church’s communal offering to God, and at the annual reception of catechumens in the church through baptism at Easter. The bishop also preached several times a week and could be seen of a Wednesday or Friday or Saturday as well as on Sunday seated before the Christian community expounding the Sacred Scriptures. Some of the most precious sources for early Christian thought are sermons taken down in shorthand as they were being preached in the ancient basilicas. In them the bishop speaks as successor of the apostles to a community that looks to him as teacher and guide. For intellectuals of this sort, even when they were writing learned tomes in the solitude of their studies, there was always a living community before their eyes. Faithfulness, not originality, was the mark of a good teacher. 

This reminds me that his his biography of Lesslie Newbigin, Geoffrey Wainwright comments that the bishop-theologian was once a common type of Christian intellectual, indeed in some senses the characteristic type — but that is no longer the case: 

Christian theology is more immediately a practical than a speculative discipline, and such speculation as it harbors stands ultimately in the service of right worship, right confession of Christ, and right living. Right practice demands, of course, critical and constructive reflection, and the best Christian theology takes place in the interplay between reflection and practice. That is why honor is traditionally given to those practical thinkers and preachers who are designated “Fathers of the Church.” Most of them were bishops who, in the early centuries of Christianity, supervised the teaching of catechumens, delivered homilies in the liturgical assembly, oversaw the spiritual and moral life of their communities, gathered in council when needed to clarify and determine the faith, and took charge of the mission to the world as evangelistic opportunities arose. A figure of comparable stature and range in the ecumenical twentieth century was Lesslie Newbigin. 

I have often written about the ways in which the modern university is built on perverse incentives, and, putting that together with these comments on bishops, I am mulling over two questions: 

  1. Should Christians look primarily to scholars and thinkers outside the academy for theological leadership? 
  2. Should our society in general look primarily to scholars and thinkers outside the academy for intellectual leadership? 

Or, more concisely: Where are the thinkers who always have “a living community before their eyes”? 

April 29, 2023

the Return of the King

I just finished teaching Susanna Clarke’s marvelous Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell, and probably my favorite scene in that book comes in the third volume, at a moment when magic, after several hundred years of absence, is rapidly returning to England. Many think this portends the return of the greatest magician and greatest King in the history of Northern England, John Uskglass, the Raven King, who in the Middle Ages reigned for three hundred years before suddenly disappearing — and, it seems, taking the strength of English magic with him. As Mr. Norrell, his cynical companion Lascelles, and his manservant Childermass make their way from London to Yorkshire — the county of which Norrell and Childermass are natives, and to which Lascelles is a stranger — Lascelles declares that it might be time to launch a renewed attack, in a periodical for which he writes, on the Raven King, a new declaration of his pernicious influence. Then:

“If I were you, Mr Lascelles,” said Childermass, softly, “I would speak more guardedly. You are in the north now. In John Uskglass’s own country. Our towns and cities and abbeys were built by him. Our laws were made by him. He is in our minds and hearts and speech. Were it summer you would see a carpet of tiny flowers beneath every hedgerow, of a bluish-white colour. We call them John’s Farthings. When the weather is contrary and we have warm weather in winter or it rains in summer the country people say that John Uskglass is in love again and neglects his business. And when we are sure of something we say it is as safe as a pebble in John Uskglass’s pocket.”

Lascelles laughed. “Far be it from me, Mr Childermass, to disparage your quaint country sayings. But surely it is one thing to pay lip-service to one’s history and quite another to talk of bringing back a King who numbered Lucifer himself among his allies and overlords? No one wants that, do they? I mean apart from a few Johannites and madmen?”

“I am a North Englishman, Mr Lascelles,” said Childermass. “Nothing would please me better than that my King should come home. It is what I have wished for all my life.”

Among the most neglected biblical images  — neglected in comparison to its importance — is that of the Return of the King. When your King has gone on progress, or for some other reason has left the kingdom or left the capital city, then you patiently but attentively await his return. You look for his appearance on the horizon and while you are waiting, you prepare the way of the Lord. You make a highway for him in the wilderness; you make the crooked places straight and the rough places plain; and then when you see him in the distance, you come out to meet him and escort him home. That’s how it’s done.

A failure to understand this essential practice is the primary cause of the wholly mistaken idea of the Rapture. Paul tells the Thessalonian church: “Then we who are alive, who are left, will be caught up together with them in the clouds to meet the Lord in the air, and so we will always be with the Lord.” The assumption of Rapture theology is that when believers go up to meet the Lord in the air, he immediately does a 180 and heads back to heaven, taking them with him. But that’s not what the text says, because it wouldn’t make any sense. Why would he come halfway between heaven and earth only in order to turn around? He could just summon them to heaven if that’s where they’re meant to be going. But the faithful, patient believers are not meeting the Lord in the air so that they can then go to heaven with Him. They’re meeting the Lord in the air so they can escort him into his Kingdom, what will become the New Earth, with its capital the New Jerusalem, where he shall reign for ever and ever.

It’s in response to this story that N. T. Wright wrote a delightful little essay, “Jesus Is Coming – Plant a Tree!” You plant a tree because every tree that you plant is a token of faith in the New Creation, and a means of preparing for the New Earth. Christians don’t often think that way because they assume that the idea of the New Creation means that everything that currently exists will simply be destroyed and then God will start all over from scratch. But that can’t be the case, because the first fruit of the New Creation is the resurrected Lord Himself, and His resurrected body bears upon it the marks of his crucifixion. Therefore his resurrection body is a glorified body, yes, but continuous with the body that was born into this world, and that left this world by means of crucifixion. Indeed, a different body might be glorious, but not glorified.

When you look at matters in that light, then, if you are a Christian, you have a very specific reason to practice repair. Every act of repair is a means of preparing the way of the Lord. Every act of repair is a preparation for and a contribution to the New Creation. Every act of repair is a step towards the renewal of this broken world. And that’s what God intends to do — make all things new, not simply erase them, not simply delete them and start over ab initio. Make them new.

P.S. If you understand this practice of greeting the returning King, then you will grasp what may be the most important element in the story of the Prodigal Son: the fact that when the disconsolate, dissolute, and broken young man decides to come home and beg to be no more than a slave in his father’s house, his father sees him a long way off – and comes running to greet him, to escort him home. The son thinks that his sins make him worthy to be no more than a slave, and that may be, in the world’s accounting, a sound judgment. But that’s not how the Kingdom of Heaven works. In the upside-down logic of the Kingdom of Heaven, a righteous father sees his self-ruined son – sees him from a long way off — and runs as a slave might run to greet his Lord, seeing the young man not as a debauched sinner to be judged and found wanting, but as a cherished and beloved one in whose honor a great feast must be held.

P.P.S. Only after posting this did I remember that, three years ago, I wrote about the same passage from Clarke, but in the context of what Jung might have called the Shadow — tragic or farcical, it’s hard to say which — of this longing for the King.

April 19, 2023

Christianity and … ?

This essay by Brad East is very smart, and takes the Christianity-and-culture conversation usefully beyond H. Richard Niebuhr’s categories. But I have one big question: What is “culture”?

Almost everyone who writes on this subject treats it as unproblematic, yet it is anything but. In the late 18th century Herder wrote of Cultur (the German spelling would only later become Kultur): “Nothing is more indeterminate than this word, and nothing more deceptive than its application to all nations and periods.”

I suspect that (a) when most people use the term they have only the haziest sense of what they mean by it, and (b) no two writers on this subject are likely to have a substantially similar understanding of it.

I certainly don’t believe Niebuhr had any clear idea at all what he meant by “culture”: though he devotes many pages to defining it, he also uses it interchangeably with both “civilization” and “society,” which is, I think, indefensible. And he writes things like this:

Culture is social tradition which must be conserved by painful struggle not so much against nonhuman natural forces as against revolutionary and critical powers in human life and reason.

So “revolutionary and critical powers in human life and reason” are not part of culture? Coulda fooled me. Brad says that Niebuhr’s book “stubbornly resists … dismissal,” but I — waving my elegantly manicured hand through the haze of smoke from my expensive cigar — I dismiss it. I think its influence has been wholly pernicious: it has confused and distracted.

Brad’s essay, for all its virtues, suffers from its reluctance to dismiss the eminently dismissable Niebuhr. He doesn’t straightforwardly say what he means by “culture,“ but he begins his essay thus: “Christendom is the name we give to Christian civilization, when society, culture, law, art, family, politics, and worship are saturated by the church’s influence and informed by its authority.” This suggests that culture is something distinct from the other items in the list, but if culture does not include “society, … law, art, family, politics, and worship” I’m not sure what’s left over for it to be.

In his still-magisterial book Keywords, Raymond Williams famously wrote that “Culture is one of the two or three most complicated words in the English language.” And near the end of his entry on it, he writes,

Between languages as within a language, the range and complexity of sense and reference indicate both difference of intellectual position and some blurring or overlapping. These variations, of whatever kind, necessarily involve alternative views of the activities, relationships and processes which this complex word indicates. The complexity, that is to say, is not finally in the word but in the problems which its variations of use significantly indicate.

Indeed. That entry, along with Williams’s book Culture and Society: 1980-1950, ought to be the the starting points for any discourse (Christian or otherwise) about culture. Another helpful orienting element: the distinction between “private culture” and “public culture” that James Davison Hunter makes in Chapter 2 of Culture Wars.

A quotation from Hunter

Both public culture and, for lack of a better term, “private culture” can be understood as “spheres of symbolic activity,” that is, areas of human endeavor where symbols are created and adapted to human needs. At both levels, culture orders our experience, makes sense of our lives, gives us meaning. The very essence of the activity taking place in both realms — what makes both public and private culture possible — is “discourse” or conversation, the interaction of different voices, opinions, and perspectives. Yet, while public and private culture are similar in constitution, they are different in their function — one orders private life; the other orders public life.

If we can agree on some boundaries for this elusive concept we might be able to have a more profitable conversation. I’m trying here to start a conversation, not to conclude one, but I will just end with this: More often than not, when Christians oppose Christianity to or distinguish it from culture, what they mean by “culture” is what Foucault famously called the power-knowledge regime. And if that’s what you mean, that’s what you should say — because there is no form of Christian belief or practice that is not cultural through-and-through.

April 12, 2023

the spoils of victory

In his Apologeticus — written almost certainly in Carthage around 197 AD — Tertullian writes about the persecution suffered by Christians throughout the Roman Empire: 

If we are enjoined, then, to love our enemies, as I have remarked above, whom have we to hate? If injured, we are forbidden to retaliate, lest we become as bad ourselves, who can suffer injury at our hands? In regard to this, recall your own experiences. How often you inflict gross cruelties on Christians, partly because it is your own inclination, and partly in obedience to the laws! How often, too, the hostile mob, paying no regard to you, takes the law into its own hand, and assails us with stones and flames! With the very frenzy of the Bacchanals, they do not even spare the Christian dead, but tear them, now sadly changed, no longer entire, from the rest of the tomb, from the asylum we might say of death, cutting them in pieces, rending them asunder. Yet, banded together as we are, ever so ready to sacrifice our lives, what single case of revenge for injury are you able to point to, though, if it were held right among us to repay evil by evil, a single night with a torch or two could achieve an ample vengeance? But away with the idea of a sect divine avenging itself by human fires, or shrinking from the sufferings in which it is tried. If we desired, indeed, to act the part of open enemies, not merely of secret avengers, would there be any lacking in strength, whether of numbers or resources? The Moors, the Marcomanni, the Parthians themselves, or any single people, however great, inhabiting a distinct territory, and confined within its own boundaries, surpasses, forsooth, in numbers, one spread over all the world! We are but of yesterday, and we have filled every place among you — cities, islands, fortresses, towns, market-places, the very camp, tribes, companies, palace, senate, forum, — we have left nothing to you but the temples of your gods…. Yet you choose to call us enemies of the human race, rather than of human error. Nay, who would deliver you from those secret foes, ever busy both destroying your souls and ruining your health? Who would save you, I mean, from the attacks of those spirits of evil, which without reward or hire we exorcise? This alone would be revenge enough for us, that you were henceforth left free to the possession of unclean spirits. But instead of taking into account what is due to us for the important protection we afford you, and though we are not merely no trouble to you, but in fact necessary to your well-being, you prefer to hold us enemies, as indeed we are, yet not of man, but rather of his error. 

It’s clear from the context that Christians were charged with being “enemies of the human race,” but no, Tertullian says, we wish only to offer a better understanding of our relationship to (and our alienation from) God. There are a great many of us, Tertullian says, and though “we are but of yesterday,” we’re everywhere in your society — except of course in the temples of your gods, whom we do not and will not worship — so if we were to rise up in violence you’d have a big problem on your hands. 

But we don’t rise up in violence. You persecute us, you torment us, you even kill us; and instead of answering violence with violence, we pray for you. We constantly intercede for you with God so that the demonic forces you (wittingly or unwittingly) invoke will not destroy you. The very strength you employ against us you possess because of our prayers for you. Sometimes it feels that all of you are our declared enemies; and if so, well, then, we must love all — for we are forbidden to hate our enemies and commanded to bless them. So be it. 

And your persecution in any event will not work: as Tertullian famously says elsewhere in his treatise, semen est sanguis Christianorum — the blood of Christians is seed. From it new spiritual life emerges. 

A great many American Christians these days want to “take back their country,” dominate their enemies, and then “enjoy the spoils of victory.” Tertullian shows us what the real spoils of victory look like. Who wants them?  

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