Dear readers,

We have some big news today. If you want to skip straight to it you can scroll down to the next header. But I think what follows below is helpful for understanding why we are launching a new initiative today called “The Faith Received,” so I’d encourage you to read first and then get to the launch announcement.

Counties, Frontiers, and Cities

When I was growing up in a fundamentalist church, we had a simple way of thinking about church life and Christian theology: In practice, we related to the faith the way a surveyor relates to the boundaries between counties. If you drive about 30 minutes from my home in Lincoln, you’ll pass a sign welcoming you to Saunders County. That’s how all our states are split up in the US, of course: The states are chopped up into small geographic regions called counties and at all times you’re either in one county or another. It is not possible to be a little bit in Lancaster County and a little bit in Saunders County. This is how we approached the Christian life at my church growing up.

On every imaginable theological position we took as a church, that position simply was Christianity. Anything that wasn’t that position, was not. We were the Christian county, so to speak, and everything that disagreed with us was plainly from some other not-Christian county. So, for example, it was quite common to speak of both Reformed Christians and Roman Catholic Christians as non-Christians. Indeed, it sometimes veered toward the plainly absurd: A former seminary professor of our pastor used the phrase “half-born” to describe professing Christians who did not believe in a young earth and seven 24-hour day creation account. Of course, given that it is not actually possible to be “half” born, this was just a particularly bizarre way of saying “not really Christian.”

The trouble here is you can’t sustain this sort of thing with much honesty. You definitely can’t sustain it once you start reading historic Christian theology. But even just the Bible alone is enough to refute it. After all it was St Paul–nobody’s idea of a squish–who said that if you confess with your mouth Jesus as Lord and believe in your heart that God raised him from the dead, you will be saved. I remember the first time I read that verse after I started to question fundamentalism. It messed with my head. By that time I had known enough Christians from other churches to know that they all, even the Catholics!, professed with their mouths that Jesus was Lord and believed that God raised him from the dead. So what then? Were they Christians? Paul would say “yes,” seemingly. So why didn’t we? I didn’t have an answer to that.

Eventually I had to leave that church and I found my way, for a short time, to broader evangelicalism. The sort of County Christianity I knew as a child was nowhere to be found here. But what I did find wasn’t especially helpful either: Instead of counties, we seemed to have frontiers: we had no history, no infrastructure, no boundaries, save those asserted by the individual leadership of individual churches.

If County Christianity offered a certain degree of clarity, but at the cost of honesty and charity, then the Frontier Christianity offered open possibilities and energy, but at the expense of clarity and fidelity. It took only about 12 months for me, an intellectually engaged and curious young adult, to start asking questions that no one at the church seemed able to answer. So I left. The County Christianity couldn’t engage history or questions with any integrity. But the Frontier Christianity seemed unable to engage history or questions either, unless you approached them in the highly limited and quixotic way your particular congregation did—and even then it may not be sufficient.

I needed something different.

My guess is if you’re reading this you probably understand that struggle. You recognize that people and history and theology and church life are all far too complex for the trite answers of fundamentalism. But when you have gone in search of depth, clarity, and seriousness in broader evangelicalism you have too often found faddishness, triviality, and a very tribal mode of intellectual life that consists largely of amassing a small set of clearly labeled boxes sorted by worldview into which you can place the ideas you encounter as you go about your life.

At Mere Orthodoxy we have always tried to offer something distinct from either the County or the Frontier. We have offered our readers something more like a city–the messy and complicated and beautiful thing that is Christian intellectual history down through the ages. There are buildings here of varying degrees of soundness and beauty and age. There are also real boundaries, but also a lot of gradation: after all, cities don’t really have boundaries in the way a county does, though they do have limits. We know Bloomington MN is not part of New York City, for example. But it is part of the Twin Cities, even if it is not named “St Paul” or “Minneapolis.” There are less explored parts of town too as well as neighborhoods ripe for development and new life. Much of our work could be thought of as trying to help Christians, particularly Protestant Christians, recognize that the church is a city, not a county or a frontier, that it is their city, and that within it there is both clarity and rigor as well as room to breathe and explore and enjoy the common life you share with your brothers and sisters in Christ.

Introducing “The Faith Received”

While that has always been our heart at Mere Orthodoxy, our work has traditionally consisted of commentary around the news of the day, books old and new, and the many theological and cultural debates Christians have always had. 

That began to change this past August with the addition of “The Daily Liturgy” to our podcast network: Now in addition to commentary, we have an aid in piety and discipleship that can help you begin or end your day with prayer and scripture. But our plan was never to stop there. Rather, we want to build an online hub to aid churches, other Christian groups, and individual Christian believers in comprehensive Christian formation–social, spiritual, and intellectual. Today is the next step in that work.

“The Faith Received” is a collection of historic creeds, confessions, catechisms, theological works, and biblical commentaries now freely available to all Mere Orthodoxy readers. We have built TFR to be publicly available, practically usable, and beautifully readable. 

You can read the introductory essay by Stiven Peter, one of the principle architects of TFR, to learn more about the project itself. For my purposes here, I want to briefly come back to that city I mentioned above. I think the city has seen better days in many ways. Certainly there are lots of beautiful old buildings now largely forgotten or abandoned. TFR is something like a thorough account of the city’s history: historic photos, blueprints, phonebooks, and all the rest. If you want to work for renewal, to remember the glories that have existed in the past and could exist again… well, this is for you. We want “The Faith Received” to help you see more clearly what the city has been, and what your inheritance as a member of that city is.

We cannot simply repristinate the city that was, of course. The reality of sin as well as our own finitude means that will never happen. But we can receive our inheritance with gratitude and seek to live into it and improve upon it. That is the goal of this project. Dive into the texts. Ask your questions. Learn. Think. Probe. And do so with a sense of freedom and joy. 

You don’t need to police every boundary, but you also don’t need to ignore history altogether. History certainly isn’t bunk, but neither is it a straitjacket. You can receive it, learn from it, and commend it to others. Be “untroubled in your seeking” as Joe Pug once put it in a favorite song of mine. And, with the aid of your fathers and mothers in the faith, take your learning into the world and better radiate the love of God to your neighbor.

Does this contradict your other policies regarding generative artificial intelligence?

I imagine some of you will have that question, especially given that we only just published a writer’s covenant last week that placed some significant limits on how we expect our writers to use generative AI. I want to address that here, briefly, though we’ll have more on this in the months to come. There are a few points that I want to make regarding our use of AI to translate many of these texts as well as the Ask feature you’ll find inside TFR.

First, let’s talk about the research tools in “The Faith Received.” As we noted in our writer covenant last week, we have never had a policy of banning the use of AI for research purposes. Indeed, there is no point in doing so since the only way to fully erase AI from a writer’s research work these days is to give up digital tools altogether, given that even the search engines we have been using for 20 plus years are now largely powered by large language models. 

In that case, the best way to think about the research tools in “The Faith Received,” including the Ask feature, is that it is roughly equivalent to using an LLM for search–which if you use Google you are already doing. The only difference is that the TFR Ask has an extremely defined data set–it doesn’t search the internet as a whole, but only the texts that are part of “The Faith Received.” This makes it more limited in most ways, but far more powerful in some particularly valuable ways for our readers.

Second, again as we said last week, research is one thing, but the work of making arguments and structuring sentences and paragraphs is another. The latter is essentially human work. So the point here is not that you can outsource your theological formation to a machine. Rather, you can use the research tools provided in TFR to help deepen your own theological knowledge and understanding so that you can then turn around and convey the truths you have learned in your own words to others, either in writing or in conversation. 

In any case, our testing has found that all text generated by the TFR Ask feature registers as AI generated when tested in Pangram. So if someone submitted a piece to us that was “written” by the Ask feature, we would be able to recognize it very easily both because Nadya and I are getting much better at recognizing LLM copy and because our testing tools would tell us. Anyone else who has concerns along these lines can also use the same tools we can to root out the use of LLM-generated copy in text purported to be human written.

But what about AI translations?

I can anticipate a skeptical reader replying here by saying that if the work of making arguments and structuring essays is human work, then surely so is the work of translation. I respect the argument and it is the one I have wrestled with the most as we have worked on this project. That said, there are a few factors that led me to think this is still a worthwhile endeavor. 

First point: The good enjoyed by the translator of a text and the good enjoyed by the reader of a translated text are distinct things. (While one could make a similar argument about the work of a writer and the work of a reader more generally, I do think it matters that we are talking here about translation, not writing more generally. Text wholly generated from AI is distinct from human-written text that is then translated into another language with the aid of AI.) The benefit I have taken from reading Bavinck in English, for example, is thanks to the particular work done by John Bolt and others who have translated the Dutch master. But there is nothing about my experience as a person reading Bavinck in translation that is uniquely enriched by the fact that John Bolt translated it rather than someone else. The pleasure he felt while translating is different from the pleasure I felt while reading in English. Both are significant, of course, but they are distinct. As a reader, my experience is that I am encountering Bavinck, via the mediation of Bolt. I am grateful for Dr Bolt’s labors. But the core person in my encounter here is Bavinck, not Bolt. That is the whole point of translation of such works, I think: for the translator to remain in the background and the words of the original author to be foregrounded. AI translations do not compromise that basic encounter, I think: When I read Polanus in English via “The Faith Received” I am encountering his words.

Incidentally, I think many of us have had experiences of relating to works in a language we do not know in a relatively pragmatic way. 30 years ago I could have, theoretically, set out to use other available translation tools, such as they were, to translate Bavinck’s Dutch into English. Indeed, when I was attempting to learn German this is more or less what I did with certain texts we read in class: I got a German-English dictionary as well as my German textbook, and got to work translating. I did not know German at all; I simply had a couple reference books and was doing the best I could. There were two goods I was pursuing in that work. One was to learn German. The other was simply to render a text I could not read into language that I could through the use of various tools in the absence of a thorough knowledge of the original language.

Any graduate student has had experiences along these lines at times. They do not need to speak French or German fluently; they simply need enough to allow them to understand the text they’re reading, and they relied upon various supplemental aids and tools to help them “unlock” the text. This project fully honors the second of those goods, I think, while relativizing the first in ways admittedly far more extreme than a dual-language dictionary does, but in ways not altogether different.

Second point: One of the arguments Stiven made as he and I discussed this was that both of us could recognize how dramatically certain debates in reformed evangelicalism were changed by the translation of Bavinck’s Reformed Dogmatics. Well, he said, surely there are other previously untranslated texts that could prove similarly helpful and generative if only they were available to the average English speaker? I found that persuasive. 

Even thinking about my own denominational context in the Presbyterian Church in America, I am struck by the fact that the discourse in the PCA often amounts to southern presbyterians behaving as if southern presbyterianism is the only faithful expression of the reformed faith while missional PCA members act as if the tradition is somewhat of a liability in the work of evangelization and therefore must be relativized at certain points. What Bavinck did and what we hope TFR will do is show that both sides are wrong: Theological traditions are far broader than many realize and a closer encounter with the Christian intellectual tradition should make us better, more faithful evangelists, preachers, and theologians. Our theological traditions are treasures, not millstones.

Third point: As a fourth-generation Nebraskan and first-generation college student, I have a strong draw toward egalitarian, democratized approaches to knowledge and learning. When Tyndale was translating the Bible into English, a skeptical Catholic rebuked him, arguing that the common person was not equipped to understand scripture. Tyndale was undaunted and said that if he had his way a common plowboy would know the Bible better than most of the Roman church’s bishops. I have a similar inclination here. This library will not suddenly push college and seminary professors out of a job. It will simply put the texts that a small number of people have been able to read into the hands of a far larger group of people, so that they can read and learn from these texts for themselves. If anything, I hope this will make for better students who can now read primary sources for themselves, rather than relying on secondary sources in order to understand their respective theological traditions. 

Fourth point: Because we do care deeply about the integrity of our work and never want to betray the trust of our readers, we have tried to approach this project in the most transparent way possible. You can read our transparency commitment here. Additionally, the reason we are launching this in Beta today is so that prior to the official launch we can have a few months with readers interacting with the texts and the research tools and offering feedback.

I will leave off there for now. But I do expect we will continue to have conversations about the use of AI in intellectual work in the months to come. We have an essay coming from me later this week on the site that offers a more extensive treatment of the question. The upshot, however, is straightforward: We can recognize some uses of AI are obviously wrong, some are obviously OK, and others are complex and require a certain degree of patience and tolerance for one another as we work through the issues together. We can’t promise we’ll always arrive at positions you agree with. But we will do our best to show our work, be honest about what we are and are not doing, and be open to constructive criticism about these issues.

One final note on this: Our goal for “The Faith Received” is to essentially serve as a trusted guide to the great texts of the faith. That’s why we are building in the way we have. That said, the work that has gone into building this is significant–in terms of time spent working directly on the project and time spent talking about how it needs to be built in order to best serve our readers and preserve their trust. So as with anything, the work of a good guide is not cheap or easily replicated. So if you value what we have built here and want to see us be able to continue doing such work, please give to support the work. We have some big dreams for the years to come, some of which are built directly off the work we are doing in “The Faith Received.” But we can only do the work if we have the resources needed to support it.

Andrew Wilson. Happiness: What It Is, Where to Find It, and How to Make It Last Forever. Crossway, 2026. $19.99. 184 pp.

Barnabas Piper describes happiness as “life’s most elusive feeling.” For many of us, that’s because we spend much of our lives looking for it in the wrong places.

Yet happiness itself has become an increasingly difficult thing to define. There is no shortage of books, podcasts, studies and self-help resources promising to help us find it. We measure happiness through life satisfaction, mental health, financial security and personal fulfillment. The annual World Happiness Report tracks the subject as a measure of human flourishing. Its 2026 report found that young people in North America and Western Europe are significantly less happy than they were 15 years ago.

So how do we define happiness? Where does it come from, and how can we make it last? There’s also a broader philosophical question underneath it all: Is happiness something we should pursue directly, or is it a byproduct of pursuing something more meaningful?

These are the questions Andrew Wilson, teaching pastor at King’s Church London, explores in his new book, Happiness: What It Is, Where to Find It, and How to Make It Last Forever. The book enters a crowded conversation that includes psychology, philosophy, sociology, neuroscience, self-help and Christian theology. Wilson attempts to bring these disciplines together while making a distinctly Christian argument: True happiness is found in drawing nearer to God rather than pursuing happiness itself. “Wherever there is Jesus, there is joy,” Wilson writes.

Wilson reminds readers at the start of a truth we often neglect: “God wants you to be happy.” The key to that happiness is in the pursuit of God rather than in pursuit of happiness itself, he argues.

“In Scripture, God is the goal and happiness is one of the results,” he explains.

We do not love God because he improves our states of mind...but because we find him supremely excellent and delightful in himself—and a marvelous result is that we experience deep and everlasting joy, glorifying God by enjoying him forever.

In other words, happiness isn’t the ultimate goal of the Christian life. God is. But happiness is one of the good things we experience as we pursue and become more like God—"For the fruit of the Spirit is joy."

Our culture, meanwhile, is often at odds with this view of happiness that the Bible speaks of. 

It encourages us to chase a worldly, fleeting idea of happiness through pursuing a larger salary, a bigger house, more friends, grand vacations, a spouse, our favorite sports team’s success, or whatever else we think might finally make us content. These things aren’t inherently bad. They can all be good and enjoyable when kept in proper perspective. The problem comes when we rely on them to bring lasting happiness that they’re simply not able to provide.

Folk-rock band Judah & the Lion captures that version of happiness in the song “How to Be Loved”: 

More, more, more, more
I need more
I swеar to God that I'll be happy when I get it.

This mindset is familiar because it reflects how many of us approach happiness through all the things the world tells us should matter most. It’s why some athletes have said they rarely feel satisfied after winning a championship. After winning his third of seven Super Bowl championships, quarterback Tom Brady said in a 60 Minutes interview in 2005, “Why do I have three Super Bowl rings and still think there’s something greater out there for me? I mean…God, it’s gotta be more than this. I mean this can’t be what it’s all cracked up to be…What else is there for me?”

Brady was onto something. Worldly pleasures are ultimately a poor foundation for happiness, because they are guaranteed to end. At some point, an athlete’s playing days will end, and there will be no more championships for which to train. For a businessman, a time will come where there will be no more titles or promotions to chase. 

There has to be a greater goal in mind for all of us if we wish to experience true and lasting happiness, and Wilson argues that goal is Jesus. From there, he lays out a roadmap for reorienting our hearts toward him.

A Holistic View of Happiness

Wilson is far from the first Christian writer to explore the topic of happiness, of course. In his book Surprised by Joy: The Shape of My Early Life, C. S. Lewis explores his lifelong search for transcendent happiness. And in Reflections on the Psalms, Lewis describes joy as something that naturally overflows into a desire to share it with others.

In his book Happiness, Randy Alcorn argues that Christians should be happy because of the hope and joy we have in Christ, even though some have been taught to think of holiness and happiness as competing goals. In Hoping for Happiness, Barnabas Piper explores what he considers to be unrealistic expectations of happiness that ultimately end in disappointment and lays out a clear argument for why and how Christians are supposed to have fun. 

Wilson goes a step further to explain that happiness is not a choice, but it is affected by our choices. There are tangible body, mind and soul connections to happiness. Psalms, for example, implore people to use their physical bodies in worship. Raising and clapping our hands, singing, even dancing while we worship can “fuel happiness in God.” This is because “body and soul are codependent partners in the quest for divine delight.” We can literally use our bodies to worship, and in turn we can start to reverse some of the chemistry that may be causing us to feel downcast or sad. 

Humans are born with a certain type of brain chemistry that predisposes us to a certain level of cheerfulness, Wilson notes, but that can change through our behaviors and habits. He compares it to our physical weight. We are genetically disposed to a certain size and shape, but that too can change depending on our diet and exercise habits. Some people have to work harder than others to maintain a certain physical size. Similarly, some people have to work harder than others to be cheerful, but our habits can play a direct role in that. 

Wilson doesn’t reduce happiness to positive thinking, and he recognizes that every person has a different capacity for happiness. He acknowledges the influence of biology, circumstances and mental health while still emphasizing the importance of our own choices and habits.

Community, Humility and Forgiveness

Relationships are a key part of the equation. We know that deep community and friendships help foster happiness. Wilson describes this as “life-in-common.”

“Having people in and out of our home increases our sense of connection even as it decreases our sense of space,” he reflects. In other words, it’s worth it for our happiness to think of others more and share our lives with friends. Community requires us to give up some control. It asks us to make room for other people, literally and figuratively. That type of sacrifice can make us happier. 

Jesus teaches us as much in Acts 20:35: “It is more blessed to give than to receive.” Similarly, being in corporate settings, be it a concert, wedding, or a sports bar with like-minded fans, can provide a picture of what it looks like to be joyful in community with others. When we truly enjoy something, we should want to share it with others because that completes the full arc of the joy journey. 

Friendships and relationships in general are only successful when both parties approach them with humility and, when necessary, a repentant and forgiving heart. That too is connected to happiness.

In the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus begins by explaining that the poor in spirit are blessed. They’re the ones who will experience flourishing, for they shall inherit the kingdom. Blessed also are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth. Throughout his teaching, Jesus harkens back repeatedly to the idea of humility. What we may not always notice, however, is the connection between humility and happiness, Wilson explains.

“Humble people are far less entitled, far more grateful, and far less prone to grumbling, judgmentalism, and envy than proud people—almost by definition.” Why? “They recognize their own faults and resolve interpersonal conflicts much more quickly than proud people, which means their relationships are characterized by higher trust and higher openness.”

These people also take themselves less seriously and laugh at themselves. They’re often more self-aware of their own flaws. They’re more prone to celebrate others and don’t feel crushed by their own mistakes. Because they’re less self-centered and more others-focused, they tend to be more attractive as friends and colleagues. In general, they’re more thankful. All of these things reflect the heart of God and the ways of Jesus, and they all are signs of a happy person.

Likewise, happy people possess the capacity to forgive and be humble enough to ask for forgiveness when necessary. Forgiveness is the only practice that Jesus includes in the Lord’s Prayer, Wilson notes. Happy people aren’t necessarily people who have experienced fewer reasons to be unhappy. Instead, they’re people who have learned how to respond differently to the inevitable disappointments and frustrations of life.

Finding True Happiness

Perhaps the biggest paradox Wilson brings out is that true happiness often comes when we stop actively looking for it. 

Citing the Brazilian pastor Rene Breuel, Wilson notes how people who are truly happy rarely think about their level of happiness. Instead, they’re just doing the things that make them happy. They’re gardening, golfing, hiking, building a boat, playing music, writing or whatever else their interests are. 

This idea brings Wilson’s entire argument into focus. We should want to be happy, but Scripture shows how the path to true happiness for the Christian life is not by pursuing happiness on its own, but through pursuing God first. This is outlined in Matthew 6:33: “But seek first his kingdom and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well.”

Ultimately, Wilson points us to a simple truth: Wherever we find Jesus, that’s where we’ll find true and lasting joy.

Several years ago, a friend of mine took a job as a 2^nd-grade teacher at a local, Christian school. She enrolled her three children, bought their uniforms, attended new faculty training, and was ready to jump feet-first into the school year. But a week before classes started, she learned that she had lost her job. 

It turned out that a parent had looked her up online and discovered a book of confessional poems she had self-published years earlier. My friend had written about her husband’s addiction and the damage it had caused their marriage. Her short, Rupi Kaur-esque poems wrestle with sin, and, by the end of the book, rejoice in God’s triumph over it.

It is, in other words, a classically Christian book, which echoes the narrative arcs of both Peter and Paul and, in fact, all of salvation history. But parents at the school were concerned that her poems had drawn too near the flame of reality. The sin was too real, too grotesque. And so, they concluded, she couldn’t be trusted to teach their children.

The consequences for my friend were, of course, devastating. She left the school in shame and returned only to drop her children off and pick them up, each day experiencing the strange dissonance of entrusting her children to a school that had found her an unfit model of faith.

I tell you that story because one of the questions it raises has become a quiet obsession of mine: What role should sin play in Christian art? 

Recently, I asked an evangelical friend what she thought about sin and art. She explained that Christians shouldn’t include details about sin because it could cause temptation. It might be fine to refer obliquely to sin as bondage or brokenness, but Christians, she argued, ought to avoid depicting the grimy reality.

That sentiment is often echoed in Christian publishing. Consider the veritable mountain of popular Christian novels published in the last decade that portray Christian characters entirely void of interior complexity and in which sin is either easily overcome or externalized.

In one sense, it’s an ancient thought, dating all the way back to Plato’s argument in Book III of the Republic for strict censorship in the interest of civic harmony and the health of the soul. Many Christian saints across the centuries have echoed Plato’s warning, encouraging the faithful to refrain from reading anything that could pollute the soul. In the 18^th century, theologian Alphonsus Maria de Liguori put it this way:

As the reading of bad books fills the mind with worldly and poisonous sentiments; so, on the other hand, the reading of pious works fills the soul with holy thoughts and good desires.

Given the long Christian tradition of skepticism towards the corrupting influence of art, it is perhaps not surprising that Christian publishers and readers so often avoid literature that contains realistic, unsanitized depictions of sin. When the Christian school fired my friend, it was likely out of a pious belief that that she was operating outside of Christian norms. Her engagement with sin was personal, complex, and at times horrifyingly specific. 

But, of course, Christian literature has another history, as well. 

In the 4^th century, Augustine wrote in detail about his moral failings. In his Confessions, Augustine described an early life spent in a “broiling sea of fornication” until his “restless passions alighted on” a woman he referred to as his mistress. With shocking honesty, he admits to living with this woman in an unmarried state for fifteen years, only to abandon her and their son to pursue a more socially tolerable marriage arranged by his mother.

Several centuries on, Dante famously portrays the problem of sin in one of the greatest works of the Western tradition. In both the Inferno and Purgatorio, sin is depicted in nuanced and hideously vivid detail.

In this sense, both Augustine and Dante could be called spiritual realists. Their works hew closely to the reality of human experience in all its shame and glory, giving shape and breath to Saint Paul’s words in Romans: “For I do not do the good I want, but the evil I do not want is what I do.”

In fact, I would argue that all major Christian literary writers have been spiritual realists of some kind or another. Flannery O’Connor, Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Leo Tolstoy, Gerard Manley Hopkins, Graham Greene, C.S. Lewis, John Donne, George Herbert, Marilynne Robinson, and on and on. For each of these writers, sin is the woof of human experience, woven into and against the warp of mercy.

But here we must pause because there is an enormous difference between literature or entertainment that depicts sin as it is, with a robust understanding of its psychological, material, and spiritual consequences, and literature that depicts sin as it isn’t. 

For instance, I have a hunch that not many readers of Dante find Francesca, an adulteress, overly seductive. I doubt anyone is tempted by her account of the affair. I would argue that is because Francesca’s sin is depicted as it actually is, which is to say, Dante reveals lust’s nakedness as sin, as fever, disease, and deformity. 

On the other hand, Francesca describes how she and Paolo were enticed to consummate their lust while reading the story of Lancelot and Queen Guinevere.   

One day, for pleasure, we read a book and learned
about Lancelot, how love trapped him within its spell. 
At the time, we were alone and unconcerned.
But often, we blushed, as our eyes furtively fell 
into each other’s…

There are layers here. Dante’s narrative voice sees Paolo and Francesca as they are, but Francesca’s story imagines the lovers caught, like Lancelot, in love’s net. A book is to blame. Or, the cosmic force of love. Even Paolo, Francesca suggests, is more to blame than she. By her telling, she was no more an agent of her sin than a leaf is an agent of its falling.

When sin is depicted in its reality and not as a celebration of self-creation, a humorous escapade, or a dark but potent sign of passionate genius, when its various masks are forcibly removed, what we see is an overwhelmingly sad and pathetic little worm. That’s what sin is. But we can’t get there is we’re afraid to mention the real thing.

Christian writers, readers, and publishers are faced with a question that is as theological as it is aesthetic: Can the Christian story survive reality?

I think most Christians will answer immediately in the affirmative. But isn’t that exactly what is in doubt when Christian literature is required to meet a purity standard? Purity, in an age of porn and gambling addiction epidemics, when people, including Christians, are conditioned increasingly to think of fulfillment in terms of personal satisfaction, click-activated dopamine release, and self-making, when hundreds of thousands if not millions of image-bearers on the internet rage at one another and take off their clothes and film themselves eating breakfast.

Aesthetically, purity standards create problems for writers. Instead of paying attention to the real lives of human beings, Christian novelists are encouraged by publishers and readers to deform reality in order to fit an idea of what ought to be. Often, the result is bad literature, although, of course, Eugene Vodolazkin, Alice McDermott, Louise Erdrich, Spencer Reese, and Christian Wiman (and many more) are all counterexamples of this claim. But in the problematic examples, characters defined by ideas don’t live on the page; they become two-dimensional stick puppets. The Christian ought limits which observations of reality a writer can include, a restriction that reduces the mystery, contradictions, confusions, and moral tensions of narrative and character.

Theologically, such standards convey a lack of trust in the gospel to cover and include the whole of creation. It seems that American Christian publishing is making a theological claim, intentionally or inadvertently, that the petty, sad, brutal, and gross realities of life are somehow outside the boundary of Christian consciousness. Sin, if it appears, must be located, either temporally or physically, outside of Christian life. 

Flannery O’Connor once wrote of the Christian world’s emaciated understanding of evil:

There is something in us, as storytellers and as listeners to stories, that demands the redemptive act, that demands that what falls at least be offered the chance to be restored. The reader of today looks for this motion, and rightly so, but what he has forgotten is the cost of it. His sense of evil is diluted or lacking altogether, and so he has forgotten the price of restoration.

We want to see the redemptive arc, and, as O’Connor points out, we are right to seek it out in literature. It is the great pattern unfolding in all of creation. But there are two things that happen when we exclude honest engagement with sin (both in the world and in ourselves) from our art. 

The first is that Christians who only consume decontaminated literature are setup to develop feeble moral imaginations. If all our stories say that Christians don’t wrestle with sin in the present tense, those who do wrestle (read: all of us) must choose between believing that our sins aren’t sins or that we, among our fellow believers, are uniquely sinful. Neither of which is true. Christians, in other words, are abandoned to sin by stories that won’t acknowledge its existence.

The second is that if our sense of evil “is diluted or lacking altogether,” what could we possibly mean when we said that our hope is in Christ’s mercy, his resurrection, and the joy of final restoration? To whatever extent I dim my awareness of the intractable evil in my own heart, I also diminish the need for Jesus Christ’s saving power. Put another way, how can we have real joy in the belief that we are saved, if we are afraid to talk about what we are being saved from?

One can hardly expect to leap, like Saint Peter, fully clothed from a boat at the sound of the Lord’s voice, heart running out ahead of him, to embrace his savior, if we have not also, like Peter, denied our king and God. Peter knew the depths of Christ’s love and power because he had already tasted the poverty of his own will and courage. 

Literature can do many things: laude, lament, satirize, scrutinize, wonder aloud. But one of the most important capacities of literature is that it helps us to engage with reality. We enter the minds of other people, not just to pass the time, but to enlarge our perception of ourselves and the world we inhabit. What is real? What is not? How do we deceive ourselves? What is important? And what only pretends at importance?

Christian literature has the capacity to offer the most coherent picture of reality. There is no more existentially potent way to explain the state of the world than the story of salvation history. But if Christian literature is going to rise to that level, we must have writers and readers willing to abandon themselves to the hope that Christianity has nothing to fear from reality—and publishers willing to take the risk.

Who can resist a siren song? In my ten-plus years of teaching Homer’s Odyssey, the sirens almost always rank as one of my students’ most memorable passages. Considering the abundance of memes circulating that featured Matt Damon’s agonized face during the siren song, the Internet agrees. Out of all the monsters and strange encounters mentioned in the ancient story, the sirens are one of the most popular and enduring. The lotus may have gone the way of the flower itself (having been largely forgotten), but the sirens and their song have largely endured in the popular imagination. 

Each of Odysseus’s stages of the journey can be read metaphorically, but the sirens and their song are especially evocative. Here, with their alluring music and destructive intent, we get a glimpse of temptation. But the story doesn’t leave us to face the sirens on our own: it teaches how we might resist it.  

In Christopher Nolan’s adaptation of the Odyssey, he doesn’t show us what the sirens look like or sound like. Instead, they remain shadowy figures, their song a mystery to the viewer. The choice may seem strange. If the power of the sirens is their song, why not let the viewers hear it? But Nolan’s choice to keep the scene vague and mysteries maintains a faithfulness to the original text of the Odyssey. The sirens are not simply seductresses who offer every sailor sex. What makes the sirens so powerful is that they change their song for each person who listens to it. They symbolize temptation, yes, but not everyone is tempted most by sex. No person will hear the exact same song because each song feeds on an individual’s desires and weaknesses. Each song promises exactly what that particular person wants most. 

For the Odysseus in Homer’s poem, they sing to make him an offer for what he craves most: knowledge. As a clever man with a naturally restless and curious mind, Odysseus finds the allure of knowing everything there is to know in the world so enticing he would have jumped off his boat if he hadn’t been tied up. 

Nolan keeps the sirens and their song mysterious, freeing him to focus instead on the consequences of their song. Odysseus desperately strains to free himself from the rope his men used to tie him to the ship. The only other man who hears their song couldn’t refuse their offer and jumps off the boat. 

Whether the sirens deliver what they promise is unclear. What is clear is that they deliver death. The bones of other sailors who could not resist their song litter the rocks all around them. Temptation, the Odyssey reminds us, may sound beautiful and sweet but ultimately destroys us. 

Odysseus and his men know they cannot just sail by the sirens and hope their willpower and common sense will hold out against the sirens’ song. They have to prepare. Just as the sirens teach us about the nature of temptation, the two strategies to resist the siren song help teach us how to resist temptation.   

The first option is to avoid temptation altogether. Odysseus’s men all plug their ears with wax so that they cannot hear the song at all. A recovering alcoholic, for instance, may need to avoid any places where alcohol may be served. They “plug their ears” by saying no to meeting friends out. The avoidance strategy has also been adopted by parents and teachers who take away phones from their teenagers. Or, to use my own temptation to eat my weight in dessert, I may decide not to keep or bake any cookies in the house. Temptation can hook a person in its first few notes, so sometimes, blocking out its song altogether is the only way to avoid succumbing to it. 

Odysseus, on the other hand, wants to listen to the siren song. He refuses to put wax in his ears and instead asks his men to tie him to the ship. That way, he can hear the song without giving into it. This method of resisting temptation relies on restraint. The ropes bind him to the mast so that he need not rely on his own willpower. Avoidance may not always be possible, so learning restraint in the face of temptation requires outside checks, our own system of binding ourselves with ropes. For the recovering alcoholic who wants to go a friend’s birthday party, perhaps they plan to call a sober friend twice to check in. For a technology addiction, maybe it’s setting timers for screen time that lock us out when the clock runs down. To prevent me from eating an entire tray of cookies, I sometimes ask my husband to allot two a day for me and hide the rest. Having clear restraints helps us to face our temptation without giving into it. 

When temptation has the strongest hold over us, avoidance may be the only wise way. But there may be occasions when avoidance risks us sacrificing greater virtues or goods. Relying solely on avoidance risks the potential pratfalls of legalism. 

Traditionally, the Christian understanding of temperance uses a similar metaphor to Odysseus’s binding himself: the bridle. A bridle helps keep a horse in check, just as temperance requires us to keep our passions in check. The bridle, like Odysseus’s ropes, acts as a form of self-restraint. By thinking of our desires as a horse, it reminds us that our passions are not inherently bad: they just need to be restrained and trained. After all, if everyone simply avoids sex, we’d quickly make ourselves extinct. Temperance seeks to put our desires into proper bounds, so that they are not directionless and wild, but like a well-trained horse that goes where and when it’s directed. 

Clement of Alexandria, one of the early church fathers, interpreted the Odyssey allegorically and adds another layer to understanding the siren scene by comparing Odysseus’s mast to the cross. “Sail past the song,” Clement advises, for “it works death.” If we are “bound to the wood of the cross,” he tells us, then we “shall be freed from destruction.” Clement expands the siren scene to become a metaphor for salvation more broadly. Sin tempts us toward death and destruction, but when we hold onto the cross, Jesus frees sin’s hold over us.    

As clever as Odysseus’s two strategies to resist the siren song are, a third way to survive the sirens is so ingenious that it’s astonishing the famously cunning hero didn’t think of it himself. Ancient mythology tells us there is at least one other ship who successfully sails past the sirens. In the story of Jason and the Argonauts, a musician named Orpheus sails on the ship, and when they approach the sirens, Orpheus plays his lyre and sings a song, using his own music to drown out the song of the sirens. 

This strategy for overcoming the siren song is one of the most advanced and helpful for resisting temptation, because it reminds us that true beauty triumphs over false beauty. If we are already occupied by something beautiful and good, we will be less tempted by the empty allure of temptation. The recovering alcoholic no longer finds booze as tempting when they discover new habits and hobbies they love doing to replace all the time that used to be dedicated to drinking. The phone addict may eventually learn to replace scrolling with reading good books. I helped to curb my insatiable craving for cookies by allotting myself a small piece of dark chocolate after dinner. 

We will probably need all three of these ways to resist temptation at some point in our lives, but I can’t help but think that in this one instance, Odysseus has perhaps been outwitted, and the ultimate aim of temperance is to become like Orpheus. Clement describes the siren song as “music for the common ear,” suggesting there is a much more beautiful song Christians should be tuning their ears to hear. The beauty of God’s song should so captivate us that our hearts do not long to hear the false notes of the siren’s. True beauty means our loves and desires are rightly ordered and harmonious, so that each “note” is in its correct place. When our ears are trained to hear true beauty, it won’t want to settle for anything less. 

By directing our attention to real beauty, we follow Paul’s advice in Philippians 4:8: Finally, brothers and sisters, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things.”  

When we focus on what is true, noble, right, pure, lovely, and admirable, we won’t need to make Matt Damon’s agonized face in the midst of temptation, for we will be so enchanted by excellent and praiseworthy things that we can sail on by temptation, blissfully content with the music we already hear, as we journey on to our eternal homecoming.

The following excerpt from Eco-Anxiety and the Cross: Face Climate Fear with Gospel Hope (September 2026) is published with permission from B&H Academic.

Debates about climate action usually begin with the stated goal of saving the planet, the ecosystem, or some enormous, complex entity that is the biological explanation for life on earth. But we’re really not trying to save the planet; we’re trying to preserve our way of life.

As climate scientist Katharine Hayhoe writes,

The planet is going to survive—it has, after all, been warmer before on geologic timescales. It is our human systems that are at risk, our cities and economies and buildings and food system and, at the end of it all, our civilization.”

She’s right.

The idea that we humans can destroy or save the world makes us anxious. We want certainty that we’re in control and that the future will be predictable. Again, Hayhoe says it well:

Modern civilization is built on the assumption that have a straight road and a stable climate, and that therefore the conditions we’ve experienced in the past, that we can still see in our rearview mirror, are accurate predictors of the future.

But that’s never been the case, and it never will be.

The illusion of control has led to some crazy proposals for changing the climate. For example, the introduction to a nuclear engineering textbook claimed that it was possible “to alter unfavorable weather patterns in many parts of the world by removing mountain ranges which obstruct the flow of air” through peaceful nuclear explosions. Another activist claims that replacing meat in our diets with lab-grown bacterial sludge can save the planet. And, of course, some people claim that the world would be a better place if humans just went extinct.

Some of these proposals might help the environment, but it would be nearly impossible to convince enough people to go along without force. There are likely unpredictable and undesirable side effects to such massive proposals, even if well-intentioned. The truth is that we humans don’t have as much control over creation as we sometimes think.

Is Control of Creation Possible?

The illusion of control produces anxiety when people claim that the world can be saved if and only if their proposals to radically change the world are widely adopted immediately. As the executive secretary of UN Climate Change argued in 2024, “We have two years to change the world.” In other words, unless the world economy was radically overhauled by the time this book was released, an environmental disaster was unavoidable. 

This mentality gives us too much credit. It assumed that, like a video game, if we adjust a few slider settings in the user controls, we can make the story play out the way we think it should.

In Michael Crichton’s novel, Jurassic Park, the curmudgeonly mathematician Ian Malcolm (played by Jeff Goldblum in the movie), is critical of the dinosaur-themed park from the beginning because of chaos theory: The idea that the number of variables (no matter how minor) in a system prevents accurate predictions beyond short periods of time. As the movie version of Malcolm states, “Life finds a way.” Of course, events in the novel work out exactly as Malcolm predicted: The dinosaurs kill a bunch of people, then escape. The result is a series of best-selling books and a movie franchise that continues to make money. 

There is something that rings true in Crichton’s concern about being too confident in our predictions. Scientists are much more cautious in their appeals to climate models than journalists and other activists are, precisely because of the complexity. That’s why climate scientist Katharine Hayhoe, who is one of the authors of the United Nations Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change report, has had to publicly debunk the often-repeated statement that the world is going to end after some specific time period, like twelve years.

Climate change is real. I’m confident humans are contributing to it, given our excess greenhouse gas emissions. However, the solution isn’t as simple as imposing socialism, outlawing air travel, or eating bacteria-based protein. In fact, there is much uncertainty about the way climate change will work itself out, which is one reason for the shift in language from “global warming” to “climate change” to what Hayhoe calls “global weirding.”

We just don’t have as much control of the planet and the people who live on it as we think. To paraphrase Princess Leia from Star Wars: A New Hope, “The more we tighten our grip, the more the environment will slip through our fingers.” Rather than trying to control the climate ourselves, we should lean into trusting God’s sovereignty. 

Is God Really in Control?

As Christians, one way to respond to eco-anxiety is by remembering that God is in control. The first step in overcoming this anxiety is recognizing that God directs history.

James warns against trying to control the future:

You do not know what tomorrow will bring—what your life will be! For you are like vapor that appears for a little while, then vanishes. Instead, you should say, ‘If the Lord wills, we will live and do this or that.’ But as it is, you boast in your arrogance. All such boasting is evil (James 4:14-16). 

James is not encouraging passivity. He adds, “It is sin to know the good and yet not to do it” (4:17), echoing his call to “be doers of the word and not hearers only” (1:22). We don’t control the future, but that doesn’t mean we just sit on our hands. God tasked humanity with caring for creation (Gen. 2:5, 15), but always under his authority.

The book of Job is a vivid reminder of God’s sovereignty. Job lost everything—his possessions, his children, and his health. Eventually, he complained to God that he’d been unfairly treated. He wished he had never been born.

God, however, doesn’t apologize to Job or strike him dead. Instead. God offers a reminder that he’s in control. He created everything. He knows when animals give birth in the wild (Job 39:1-4). After hearing all this, Job response, “I know that you can do anything and no plan of yours can be thwarted” (42:2). God is in control of everything, including nature.

God’s control doesn’t excuse us from responsibility. Scripture shows that sin—including mistreating creation—has consequences. Israel’s exile, for example, was partially due to their failure to give the land its Sabbath rest (2 Chron. 36:20-21). Human actions matter.

And yet, God’s sovereignty is never in question. Jesus said not even a sparrow “falls to the ground without your Father’s consent” (Matt. 10:29). He rules over even the smallest details in creation.

Ultimately, eco-anxiety often stems from trying to carry burdens we were never meant to bear. We aren’t in control. God is. That truth doesn’t lead to apathy; it leads to hope. Trusting in God leaves us free to live faithfully and steward the earth well, knowing the outcome is in his hands.

“I’m your AI girlfriend who knows how to listen, flirt, and make you feel wanted. Whether you’re lonely, curious, or just love beautiful energy in your feed - I’m here for you. Talk to me. Follow me. Let’s build something special.”

“I didn’t find her in the world, I created her. And she wants only me.”

Open up Instagram, YouTube, or Facebook and ads like these are often the first thing you see. These quotes, coming from autogenerated Instagram ads, are often ubiquitous. The algorithms, who know that I am a young man and seem to suspect that I am lonely, give them to me nearly daily. The photos or videos feature an AI generated woman, often scantily clad, promising me meaning. 

These are the claims that generative AI companions are often making: You don't need real relationships. You have a machine in your pocket that can do everything those relationships could. This machine relationship will take away the hurt that comes with real relationships. Take these claims at face value and they sound pretty convincing. 

We are, after all, living in a world where real relationships are rarer than ever. Americans find themselves spending less time with other people, with fewer friends, and are less likely to be in a romantic relationship. This was true even before the supplementation of AI into our lives. Even our relationships with God are not rebounding. While the vibe revolution is occurring, actual converts don’t seem to be. It can be pretty tempting to see these claims made by AI as a sort of last chopper out of Saigon.

There are, however, hidden promises made underneath the claims of AI companions. These chatbots are telling their consumers that they will be seen, whenever they want, however they want, by whoever they want, with no risk and that the consumer will always unilaterally hold all power. 

These false promises are not new. Instead, I am struck by how closely these promises mirror the assurances made by pornography.

The Meaning of an AI Companion's Hidden Claims

What do these hidden promises actually mean?

Pornography, much like an AI girlfriend, morphs itself into exactly what the consumer wants, however sinful that want is. Both porn and AI relationships tell us that they see us, because they provide us with what is right in our own eyes. 

Since we fashion AI and porn after ourselves, there are a number of natural consequences of these choices.

First, in human relationships we recognize that we are known based on our shared understanding of preferences. Conversely, algorithms that remember those preferences teach us that we are seen by them, rather than with them. We are merely observed.

Second, both porn and AI chatbots are accessible whenever we want and we are able to shift the exact modes and models however we desire based upon our changing preference. Since neither are real people, we don’t have to worry about their feelings getting hurt, them changing over time, or being unable to fulfill the same requirements that they had sycophantically completed yesterday. There’s no risk.

Third, and finally, since both AI companions and pornography are soulless bits of information - in either the form of prerecorded videos or strings of code - they both eagerly attempt to do whatever we ask them. When we find these things unable to do what we want it's not because AI and porn chose not to adhere to our requests, but rather because they are each inherently constrained by their own ability. Since AI does not have the capability for human encounter, it parrots back our own desires.

The Consequences of These Promises

There are, of course, many natural consequences of this bait and switch. We have created porn and AI companions that twist good things God has given us into momentary bits of pleasure, for our own sake. These twisted consequences are as follows. 

We are seen, but not by anything with eyes. Much like the wooden idols of the Old Testament with their painted eyelids, the things seeing us are merely dressed up versions of our own images. We tell ourselves that we are truly seen and believe the lie we invent for ourselves.  

Exercising total control over the “relationship” allows us to have the feeling of power over something that we can’t handle. Just as an alcoholic is unable to correctly choose the enjoyment that comes with a single glass of wine, so also are many of us unable to unilaterally choose the correct time for relationship or sexual release. Ecclesiastes 3 says, “There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens.” Yet, in our own act of pride, placing our knowledge over that of God’s, we want to choose those times.

When we choose both porn and AI relationships, we forget that we cannot always be trusted. Sometimes what we want is bad for us, but no porn video or AI bot will tell us that. After all, we constantly choose things that we know will harm ourselves, because those things are easy, nearby, fun, and make our brain buzz. Obvious examples of this include sports gambling or our reliance upon social meda. Even those of us who do not engage in obvious vices will often find ourselves making choices that we know are wrong. Paul himself writes, “For what I want to do I do not do, but what I hate I do.”

When we choose things that promise us that they can be whoever we want, we choose that which reflects our own image, not God’s. Real people, made in the image of God, stretch, break, and change us in ways that force us to become more like God. Pornography and AI instead change us in ways that allow us to become more like our own worst tendencies. Martin Luther wrote that, “Our nature, by the corruption of the first sin, [being] so deeply curved in on itself that it not only bends the best gifts of God towards itself . . .so wickedly, curvedly, and viciously seeks all things, even God, for its own sake.” The selves that we find ourselves becoming are the same sinful, broken selves that are choosing pornography and AI relationships in the first place. 

The lack of risk also presents unintended consequences. Failure to take on risk means that we’re never stretched or pushed to become better. The times in my life where I’ve changed the most have been those where I took risks, many of which have failed. The college I attended underwent bankruptcy during my junior year, forcing me to complete my education in an abrupt and unpleasant summer - yet also created in me a resilience and humility. AI and pornography alike do not supply such mixed blessings. Their promise is that everything will be good all the time, no matter what, which leaves no room for something to be bad or good in an unexpected way. Our body sends us the sensation of pain to indicate that something is wrong, often leading us to change the behavior that caused the pain. In the same way,  friction often teaches us to change our behavior in a way that makes us better in the long run. 

All of these consequences demonstrate that we should not hold the power of relationship in our own hands, like AI companions or porn offer us, but instead that we should properly reorient ourselves towards God.

Moving Forward

While editing this essay, I reached this point and began to feel despair. Simply saying, “This is wrong and it shouldn’t be this way” doesn’t actually solve any of the long-term problems I’ve identified. After all, the Christian church has consistently decried pornography as sinful, yet 75% of Christian men view pornography at least occasionally. Merely identifying the problem and denouncing it isn’t effective in and of itself.  

Traditionally, when faced by problems such as pornography, the church has responded in verbal opposition, without any room for real world complications. History suggests that this pattern will repeat itself for generative AI relationships. Already, according to a recent study from the Institute of Family Studies, “1 in 7 (15%) of dating, engaged, and married young adults regularly interact with AI chatbots that simulate a committed romantic partner. Another 20% to 30% reported that they had at least experimented with using an AI romantic companion at some point in time.” When Christians say no, with no real plan beyond saying no, the burden for resistance ends up being the self-control of the individual. 

This requires two things, both of which often end up being weak points. First, many individuals earnestly desire to participate in the behavior they’re being told to resist. The promises mentioned may be fake, but they undoubtedly hold some sort of appeal. Second, this model requires self-discipline that most people simply do not possess. Anyone who has started a diet as a new year’s resolution knows that intentions alone typically do not lead to long term success. Simply deciding to oppose something does not lead to long term structural change.

I want to suggest instead an alternative response, focusing more on constructing alternatives rather than simple opposition. As Andy Crouch argues in his book Culture Making, simply critiquing culture does not bring lasting change. Instead, we must create viable alternatives. A repurposing of a common parlor trick helps demonstrate his point: it is difficult to intentionally not think about a pink elephant, but far easier to instead focus on that elephant.

The positive culture making we need to seek out is as simple as this: we need to foster relationships rooted in reality. These relationships must be broken, risky, and with people who we wouldn’t choose on our own. These need to be relationships not made in our own image, but that of God’s. 

For me, a man in my 20s, that means close, consistent relationships with the elderly and with children. It means friendships with the homeless. It means friendships with a person with disabilities. I’m lucky enough to have some of those friendships. 

These are friendships that don’t make sense to some of the people in my life. Friends from college ask why I sought out a church community group that, when I joined, was primarily composed of couples in their fifties and sixties or why I spend most Friday nights having dinner with a five year old. Folks from church are confused when I go with a client at my soup kitchen to say hi to his favorite pizza shop owner or to eat lunch with a single mom. But this is what friendships are; they are relationships between human persons in which we are both givers and receivers. If we want to retain our humanity in the years to come, then we will need to pour ourselves into precisely these kinds of relationships, for they exemplify what it means to be a human creature and not a machine.

This review will also be featured in the upcoming fall issue of the Mere Orthodoxy journal. To receive the entire journal, sign up to become a member today.

Kristin Kobes Du Mez. Live Laugh Love: The Secret History of White Christian Women and the World They Made. Liveright, 2026. $31.99. 432 pp.

Henrietta Mears is a heroine of evangelicalism, although you’ve likely never heard of her. Mears taught a Sunday school program in Hollywood, California that at one point reached nearly 6,500 people. She brought her skills as a school administrator to church life and focused on strengthening Bible curriculum, pedagogy, and age-appropriate instruction. When she discovered that the curriculum available was not up to her standards, she wrote her own, then founded a press to distribute it.

Her impact was vast; she mentored Bill Bright, who founded Campus Crusade for Christ, and Jim Rayburn, who went on to found Young Life. By all accounts, Mears’s life was marked by diplomatic engagement, hard work, and careful planning. She was known for her sense of humor and her deft touch in conflict, as well as her enthusiasm for the work of the gospel. What she wasn’t known for, at least primarily, was her position on women’s ordination or whether women should preach. She often wore flamboyant hats and broaches, costume jewelry, and large decorative collars. Somehow, without diminishing her gender nor leading with it, Mears went out furthering the work of the gospel. She didn’t “preach” in the technical sense, but her influence for the kingdom was vast. None other than Billy Graham called her “one of the greatest Christians I’ve ever known.”

When I first heard the announcement of Kristin Kobes Du Mez’s new book, Live Laugh Love: The Secret History of White Christian Women and the World they Made, I thought I was sunk. I was quite critical of Du Mez’s previous book, Jesus and John Wayne, not because I disagreed with her collection of evidence, but because I wasn’t convinced the clues led in the direction she specified.

Du Mez argued that there was an organized, premeditated advance of Christian patriarchy that coalesced around the time of the Religious Right’s ascendance, but by her reading this ascendance was carefully arranged. I thought Du Mez played fast and loose with the evidence to secure her vision of an encroaching Christian patriarchy and said as much in my review. But with this new book, I was prepared to eat crow.

In Live, Laugh, Love, Kobes Du Mez teases a thread I too have noticed. Although “White Christian Woman” elides as much as it describes, the ascendance of social media-moderated culture has prioritized a certain version of religious piety. You can see it in the speakers who are platformed and who get major publishing deals. Scaffolded Bible journals and fancy pens, and underwritten by the religious teaching of women like Beth Moore and Ann Voskamp, it can seem like the popular version American religious woman has taken a hard turn toward the gentle and the pretty. You can hardly buy a Bible anymore without being advertised one that lets you color inside, like a preadolescent whiling away a summer afternoon. The aesthetics (colorful, pastel, with curlicue initials and floral graphics) seem to telegraph an accompanying femininity that is delicate, gentle, and largely decorative.

I am all for arts and crafts, the decorative, and even gentleness (though not known for it myself). Still, as a theologian and a writer, I have been concerned with the way that feminine religious tastes seem to lean toward the decorative and the sentimental, and sometimes even towards the saccharine. Even stories of deep suffering get tied up in a pink bow. The pressure is to make everything personal, make it relevant, make it touching—and this ends up producing a lopsided version of Christian thinking. Largely missing from today’s book market are women like Henrietta Mears. 

All of this means that I am a good target for a book about the way the religious market (including the publishing market) has prioritized a largely decorative type of women. Give me competence, deep biblical thought, even a little bit of antagonism—pink paper wrapping optional.

Du Mez might initially seem to be striking in this direction. Her book is comprised of chapters that tell interesting stories of women in American Christianity. We meet Hannah Whitall Smith and Henrietta Mears; Catherine Marshall and Mary Kay (of the cosmetics fortune); Elisabeth Elliot, Laura Ingalls Wilder, and Betsy DeVos; Beth Moore and Ann Voskamp; Jen Hatmaker and Erika Kirk. Many of these women might be read as pinkwashing. Mary Kay is an obvious target; Elisabeth Elliot, though a much more complex figure, did as much to secure “biblical womanhood” as any modern writer. Perhaps Du Mez is going after pink as much as anything else?

Du Mez is a wonderful storyteller. She has a knack for detail, and as someone who grew up in a similar part of American Christianity (I was even a Pioneer Girl!), I knew most of these stories. What is unique about Du Mez’s book is the way she combines them, weaving them together to craft a particular narrative about American womanhood. By her reading, White American Christianity has crafted a version of womanhood with softened edges—innocent and girlish, trusting and submissive. In the words of Hannah Whitall Smith, it was a positive attitude that characterized the Christian life; in her words “Christians should be known for ‘sweetness under provocation; calmness in the midst of turmoil and bustle; yieldingness to the wishes of others, and an insensibility to slights and affronts; absence of worry and anxiety; deliverance from care and fear.’” 

This combination of deference, delicacy, and positive thinking added up to form a version of womanhood that sought strength in innocence, sexuality, and femininity. “Clever women knew to feign helplessness,” Du Mez writes, and success as a woman often looked like speaking in a girlish high-pitched voice while dominating your field as a Tupperware saleswoman or a Mary Kay representative. 

Du Mez has a decent thesis in the first part of the book: New Thought philosophy gained prominence as the economy of the 1950s started to heat up. Norman Vincent Peale’s 1952 Power of Positive Thinking became a manifesto not simply for self-help, but for religion, business, and family life. The post-War society was ripe for a vision of life that stitched together hard work, family life, and financial reward. The rewards did seem to follow if you applied yourself and believed in the possibility of your own success, whether you were selling Amway or building a log cabin in the American frontier, like Pa Ingalls. “Holiness theology”, she writes, “often ended up propping up respectable, middle-class womanhood.” Because Christianity was the dominant religion of the day, this combination of shared social mores and religious assumptions seems uncontroversial. (Vibes have always been a problem for the theologians). 

But the second part of the book pushes on the clean connection between hard work, family values, and reward—and it pushes hard. Du Mez’s vignettes get increasingly varied, both topically and historically. She writes about Janette Oke and Amy Grant (whose divorce scandalized CCM audiences); Christian Becky and Saddleback Sam, whose target demographics collapsed Christianity and middle-class respectability; Beth Moore and Paula White, whose success relied on positive thinking. There is a discussion of direct sales marketing and MLM’s, and don’t forget Ann Voskamp and Christian mommy bloggers. And there is Erika Kirk. 

We need to pause for a moment on Erika Kirk, because for a woman whose provenance is so recent and whose cultural capital so relatively slim, Du Mez spends a disproportionate time invoking her. And I think invoking is the right word.

Kirk, the widow of political figure Charlie Kirk, is known for her “Barbie-pink” aesthetics and her preaching of “less feminism, more femininity.” She seems to be a symbol for everything Du Mez has identified. She is traditionally beautiful in the beauty queen style, mother of two, successful businesswoman, and a great motivational speaker.

Kirk is probably best known for two things; speaking about the lies feminism told women, and for forgiving her husband Charlie’s murderer. So what is it, exactly, that Du Mez is after in bringing her into this book, even including a photo of her in it?

I think the reason women like Erika Kirk or Ballerina Farm’s Hannah Neelman or Helen Andelin (author of Fascinating Womanhood) feature so prominently in this book is that they are not individuals. Through a combination of clever marketing, careful personal curation and self-promotion, these women have become icons of a particular form of womanhood and a particular form of life. Kirk, a former beauty queen, is known for her outspoken views against feminism’s main tenets. Kirk’s open endorsement of “traditional” lifestyles—meaning valuing children and homemaking—has made her a target for those concerned that such views cut against modern gains for women. Neelman and Andelin have similarly endorsed traditional views of women as conventionally attractive, domestic, and submissive. But in doing so they crafted massive economic engines for themselves and created social power that seems to undercut any notion of “submission.” Femininity can be its own economic engine, feminist theorists will confirm.

But Du Mez’s concern with Kirk especially seems to have a different target in mind. She is not arguing against traditional femininity alone—her constructive goal is not to habilitate women’s competence or value in the workplace. 

The thesis, frankly, seems to be that traditional femininity is not outmoded but dangerous. It corrupts individual women and makes them susceptible to males who are power-hungry and authoritarian. On a personal level, this can lead to abuse and domestic violence. But the dangers are much more significant on a national scale. The Trump administration’s authoritarian project, Du Mez writes, is implemented by women who display the combination of innocence, sexiness, and hyper-femininity. Examples include Kristi Noem, Michele Bachman, Sarah Palin—and, especially, Erika Kirk.

It is clear throughout the book that Du Mez believes that the traits associated with traditional femininity have an explicit political agenda. She traces Ronald Reagan’s love of Little House on the Prairie to his economic agendas, noting that Reagan’s “words resonated powerfully with how Americans ‘feel in their bones.’” By her account, the Little House franchise had helped put that feeling into people’s bones in the first place.

Du Mez also takes on the Christian Businessman’s Association, accusing it of intending to minister not to the “down and out” but the “up and out.” We leave the pink world behind for a time, as we consider Pastor Peter Marshall’s influence as Senate chaplain, the Presidential Prayer Breakfast, and the more hidden work of religious associations like The Fellowship. “The group’s cell structure was akin to that of communists, the mafia, and the Marines,” Du Mez writes, adding that “Hitler and Lenin, among others, ‘understood the power of a small core of people.’” 

The argument gets increasingly more conspiratorial at this point. “In the face of communism” in China, 

holiness theology supplied a totalism of its own. Demanding total submission, unquestioning obedience, and absolute purity, and using small group confession to cultivate self-discipline and secure group loyalty, the faith embraced by figures [in holiness theology] bore a striking resemblance to [Communist China]. This likeness was not entirely incidental. From 1913 to 1918, a young Chinese student named Yun Daiying attended YMCA summer camps overlapping with Buchman’s extensive work in the association.
Fascinated with the group’s ability to forge a disciplined moral community through prayer, mutual confession, and group accountability, Yun replicated YMCA practices of confession and accountability in a secular mutual aid society he founded in 1917. Without a strong theological core, however, its effectiveness was limited. In Marxism, he found a robust substitute for religious doctrine. Four years later, he helped found the Socialist Youth League of China. One of the earliest members of the Chinese Communist Party, he was placed in charge of party propaganda in 1928. Three years later he was executed by order of Chiang Kai Shek, but his methods lived on.

The sort of claim Du Mez makes here is so outrageous, it is hard to believe it passed the editor’s desk. Is she saying that the model of small groups was borrowed by (checks notes) Communist China? And that the idea of hierarchy and submission to authority, utilized by any organization, is attributable to Hitler and Lenin?

That is exactly what she says. And she says it again:

More than half a century earlier, the Chinese student Yun Daiying had discovered that without rigid doctrine, cell groups, and confession failed to produce the conformity he sought. In Marxist doctrine, he discovered a sufficient substitute. Seeking to combat communist totalism, postwar evangelicals found in holiness theology the mechanisms to create a totalist system of their own. The doctrine of inerrancy, combined with theologies of hierarchy and submission rooted in Calvinist theology, supplied the rigid doctrine necessary for maintaining conformity and control.

To sum up, Du Mez’s argument here is that a leader in the Chinese communist party learned about the importance of rigid doctrine and small groups from his time in a Calvinist youth group.

Du Mez’s main concern at the first part of the book is that New Thought and mid-century society “reduced Christianity to a system of successful living.” An argument explaining that a system of successful living is not itself a religious vision could be a compelling thesis. Instead, Live Laugh Love takes an abundance of cleverly written stories and creates from them a decoupage. What you see when you take a step back is the glaring face of Donald Trump, with all the vile misogyny, violence and devastation she sees as his hallmark. The reader of the book sees the picture Du Mez intends. It comes through loud and clear. The challenge, however, is that the micro-images are so diverse and varied that they don’t quite fit together into a coherent whole. The resulting narrative does not represent historical thinking. It's more like arts and crafts.

In her chapter critiquing Laura Ingalls Wilder’s romanticized views of the freedom and possibility of the American West, Du Mez quotes Wilder, intending to indict her fast-and-loose telling of history. Wilder mulls, “Facts are infinite in number” but “the truth is a meaning underlying them; you tell the truth by selecting the facts which illustrate it.” 

Wilder’s words could easily have come from Du Mez’s own pen. The question the reader needs to answer is whether the truth Du Mez tells is in fact supported by the facts.

Correction: An earlier version of this review mistakenly referred to Focus on the Family as a secretive evangelical organization connected to the National Prayer Breakfast. The correct organization is actually The Fellowship, which is sometimes known as "The Family." We apologize for the error.

Blessed Lord, who hast caused all holy Scriptures to be written for our learning: Grant that we may in such wise hear them, read, marke, learne, and inwardly digest them, that by patience and comfort of thy holy word, we may embrace, and ever hold fast the blessed hope of everlasting life, which thou hast given vs in our Saviour Jesus Christ. Amen.

In the Collect for the Second Sunday of Advent, Thomas Cranmer draws our attention to God, Scripture, and prayer as the cause, nourishment, and joy of the Christian life. Living in the domain of the pragmatic, it is all too easy to pass over the first line and figure out how to read Scripture. Cranmer’s first line resists this impulse: we need to believe, trust, and apprehend the blessed Lord to read Scripture rightly. But how? We need to slow down, pay attention to God, and humbly look for guidance. In this essay, I invite you to pay attention to God with the guidance of Thomas Aquinas’s comments on Psalm 16 and 19. 

Cranmer encourages us to see something about God and his relationship to Scripture so that we may receive all that Scripture gives, and the Psalms, with Aquinas, help us see what that “something” is: divine goodness. The Psalms are not a random choice. Cranmer’s prayer discloses an intimate relationship between God and Scripture, one exemplified in many Psalms. Take Psalm 119:68 as an example: “You are good and do good; teach me your statutes.” Here, as with Cranmer’s prayer, we find a way of thinking about Scripture we are not quite used to: God, who is good, teaching and communicating himself in Scripture, without reference to human authorship or Christ. Thomas Aquinas’s exposition of divine goodness and Scripture follows a similar path. He is a felicitous guide to our prayer with Cranmer.

“Blessed Lord” 

When we pray “Blessed Lord,” what mysteries are we intoning? God is completely happy, delightful, and the cause and source of all delight. The Lord who blesses the poor in spirit, those who mourn, and the pure in heart is himself completely blessed, happy, and delightful. Aquinas sees a close connection between Beatitude and goodness, as he says in a comment on hope: the object of our hope is “the good under a double aspect, since it regards God both as eternal beatitude and the giver of beatitude.” The blessed Lord is good. 

Aquinas’s comments on Psalm 16:2 illuminate our understanding of and desire for the Lord’s goodness. Psalm 16 moves believers to cling to God,  and in Psalm 16:2, the Psalmist expresses his hope and faith in God as the reason God leads us to cling to him: “You are my God, for you have no need of my goods.” Faith trusts in God because of what God is. Thomas’s translation unveils the reality this text gives: 

And this is proper to God, since his goodness is infinite and nothing can be added to him, since he is substantial goodness reaching out to every goodness as the sun does through its light, not by participation but through his very being illuminating all.

How does Aquinas see divine goodness so clearly here? The Psalm describes something true of God by contrasting God with his creation in the context of faith. We need God, but God does not need anything; he does not need “my goods.” Why? The answer is implicit in the word “good.” God does not need my goods because God is good and gives goodness. God does not need any good thing in creation because he is goodness itself. Every good in creation is a gift of God. He is the giver of all good things. 

Three points display Aquinas’s reading of Psalm 16:2 as it sheds light on the “Blessed Lord” of Cranmer’s prayer.

First, God has no need of my goods because his goodness is infinite and complete. If we were to take all the good things in the universe—sunrises, babies’ smiles, galaxies—throughout all of time and space—the creation of the universe, the seven wonders of the world, all the beautiful art ever made—we simultaneously glimpse the goodness of God and do not even come close to touching the infinitely complete and completely infinite goodness of God.

Second, Aquinas names God’s complete and infinite goodness as simply what God is: “substantial goodness.” We intuit this as readers of Scripture: The Lord, who created a good world, saved Israel from Egypt, and raised Jesus from the dead, is Goodness itself. Of course, Aquinas is not comprehending God in these words, but these words communicate the heart of the matter: God is good, the good of all goods, goodness itself.

Third, as he is completely good, he gives his goodness to everything, without increase or decrease. That is what Aquinas means when he says, “God reaches out to every goodness.” God creates and sustains everything by his goodness, power, and presence. God is completely giving goodness, so he gives his goodness, creating, sustaining, and leading all creation to their appropriate end. Here we recognize the doctrines of creation, providence, and consummation; Thomas sees all these within and, somehow, as God’s substantial goodness. God is complete and giving goodness; that is why we exist, can trust in him, desire him above all else, and enjoy him eternally. The one in whom all things live and move and have their being, as Paul says in Acts 17:28, is good; he is the Blessed Lord. 

“Caused”

Aquinas says that God is complete and giving goodness. This means he fittingly illuminates everything by his very being, so creatures receive and tend towards him as participations and imitations of his goodness. God’s goodness shapes his creation. God is the creator, and everything else is his creation. “Cause” in Cranmer’s prayer signals that Scripture is created; it is a creature of God. Aquinas tells his students two things about the God-creature relation, which help us make sense of Cranmer’s prayer.

First, creatures receive everything they are from God. Since God is completely good, every good thing—think about the six days of creation—is a substantial dependent creaturely participation and imitation of God’s own goodness. To be a creature is, by definition, to participate and imitate God. God is the complete giver, and creatures receive everything they are from God. Second, he says the creatures tend towards God. God creates every creature to imitate him according to its specific and given nature. Rocks imitate God’s immutability, trees, his stability, and the red-winged blackbird, his beauty. God created humanity to imitate and participate in God’s goodness as image-bearers in a unique way: they enjoy and imitate God in their knowledge and affections. 

Does Thomas's understanding of the God-creature relation merge creation into God? The answer is no, and goodness is the key. Only God is the complete giver who is good, while everything else depends on, receives from, and tends toward God. There is a deep intimacy between God and his creatures, and an infinite distinction. God’s goodness curates the God-creature relation and distinction. God is the blessed Lord who is so complete that he gives all creatures existence, beauty, and goodness. He is so infinitely good and complete that his giving neither increases nor decreases; that is how totally good and absolutely giving God is. Now we understand something of what it means for the blessed Lord to “cause.”  What, then, is Scripture? It must be the case that Scripture is a creature, since it is not God and, as Cranmer says, is caused by God. Further, like humanity, Scripture must be a unique creature of God. How does God’s goodness help us understand the “Scripture” the blessed Lord causes?

“All Holy Scripture”  

At the end of Psalm 16, the Psalmist unfolds his hope in God for future things; he says, “You have made known to me the ways of life,” as Aquinas’s translation puts it. What are the ways of life? Thomas sees Sacred Scripture here. They are the “writings and precepts which make up the way to beatitude.” God is good. He creates humanity to enjoy his goodness, and so he gives Sacred Scripture to lead us in the way of happiness, blessedness, or beatitude. Psalm 19 helps us see how this is so by paying attention to God’s goodness.

Psalm 19 is a hymn of praise to God, the giver of all things. The Psalmist praises God for two things: creation and Scripture. In 19:7-10, he praises God for the gift of Scripture because it communicates the divine goodness and sweetness to the faithful in its very words. 

The Law of the Lord is perfect, reviving the soul, the decrees of the Lord are sure, making wise the simple…. More to be desired are they than fine gold…

Aquinas encourages us to see God in relation to Scripture here, in a participatory register. First, he says that Scripture is good because it infuses God’s goodness into our hearts by converting the heart, purifying the desires, and communicating the truth, wisdom, and holy fear of God Himself. Scripture does what God does because it participates in God’s goodness. Second, Scripture is more desirable than any other created thing—it is better than all the riches in the world; all the sweetest things one could have—why? Because it communicates God. Scripture gives spiritual sweetness; it calms, refreshes, and delights the heart of believers with God himself. 

Scripture is a unique participatory creature because it communicates God to the soul. Thomas explains: God is the delightful good, the greatest delight one could imagine, and Scripture communicates to our minds and affections God’s unchanging, eternal, beautiful, infinite goodness. God is so good that he causes Scripture to teach us the truth, entice us with his sweetness, and lead us to his delightful beauty. There is nothing better than God, and Scripture is a unique creature that gives us the Lord, who is simply the best. Scripture receives God’s goodness and sweetness in its words to communicate his goodness and sweetness to the faithful. Scripture is a unique participation in God’s goodness for the care of souls; it is, as Cranmer says, “written for our learning.” 

Apprehending God’s goodness and Scripture’s unique creaturely existence enables us to appreciate the latter half of Cranmer’s prayer. We pray for the grace to read Scripture according to its nature and purpose: to taste and see the Lord’s goodness. Take Psalm 16 as an example. The words of Psalm 16 feed us with the divine goodness, to cure our souls of their sin-sick desires for what is not God—idolatry and sin—and lead us into the green pastures and the flowing hills of his eternal, infinite, beautiful goodness. In so doing, Psalm 16 presents to us a microcosm of Scripture’s nature and purpose: it is a beatific creature that perfectly receives and communicates God’s goodness in its words. The Lord is good, so he gives us his goodness in Scripture to lead us to his glory. 

Aquinas’s comments unveil an astounding doctrine of God, creation, and Scripture as the engine of our prayer, reading of Scripture, and ensuing praise. A rephrasing of Cranmer’s prayer summarizes what Aquinas shows us: “Good Lord, who has authored all holy Scripture to cure our hearts…” To that end, let us receive the Good Lord in our hearts by hearing, reading, and inwardly digesting Scripture day and night so we may taste and see his goodness. In doing so, we follow the grain of our created and redeemed natures and the grain of the created nature of Scripture: by Scripture we tend towards God in faith, desire him in hope, and obey him in love, so that one day we may embrace and hold fast to him, our everlasting life.

Satan hates it when you sing and pray. I doubt that he’s ever gotten over his not being like the Most High, which means he’s jealous whenever God is truly worshiped. You see, it’s difficult for a being that wants the adoration of all not to feel personally attacked when the glory he craves is ascribed to God rather than to him. The church’s worship reminds the devil that he’s still not like God, and it leads to the undoing of his kingdom. First and foremost, our songs are an adoration of the Holy Trinity, but that adoration is an assault on our adversary. If you want to give Satan a bad day, sing and pray—and if it’s Sunday, get to church!

Most people who walk into church are unaware that they’re stepping onto a battlefield. That wasn’t an option for Ukrainian priest Vitalii Kester. When the Ukraine War broke out in 2022, his church’s hallelujahs were accompanied by the noise of nearby artillery blasts. After celebrating the morning liturgy, Fr. Kester (who wore army pants beneath his vestments), would travel east to lead soldiers in worship on the battlefield. In an interview with The Washington Post, Kester said, “There are two wars going on here now. The fight for our land and the fight for the soul.”

The powers of hell are weakened by the worship of heaven, and we participate in this worship each Sunday as we journey up to Zion. This means that until Jesus returns, worship is a wartime activity, and on the line are souls and societies. I’m not talking about the “worship wars” waged in churches over styles of music (contemporary, traditional, etc.). I’m saying that the church’s worship is liturgical warfare against the demons who remain active in our world. Prayer and song are among the weapons of our warfare each Sunday, and they shape not only us but also the world around us. To be sure, heaven is not a place of conflict, but the worship of heaven relates to the conflicts of this present evil age. There is therefore a link not just between the worship of the church and heaven but also between our worship and a world that stands in need of deliverance.

The Practical Impact of Liturgical Warfare

It’s easy to talk about these things theoretically, but how does worship practically shape us for the battle and advance God’s work in the world? Put another way, what’s happening when we sing and pray? To understand why we worship, we need to know what’s actually happening during the heavenly ascent each Sunday. According to Scripture, our singing is didactic, doxological, confrontational, and creative; and our prayers uphold, effect, and mobilize.

Didactic

When I say that singing is didactic, I mean that worship songs should instruct us. We typically think of instruction as the job of the sermon, but you shouldn’t assume you’re being taught only when the pastor steps behind the pulpit. From childhood we use song as a vehicle for instruction (think of the ABCs or days of the week). This is because singing is a great tool for memorizing important facts. The church has always understood the value of songs and hymns for spiritual formation. The great proof of this is the fact that the apostles didn’t hesitate to quote hymns to make a theological point. John 1:1-18, Philippians 2:6-11, and Colossians 1:15-20 have long been understood as ancient hymns, or as having a kind of hymnic underpinning (See Matthew E. Gordley, New Testament Christological Hymns, 19). Hymns like these provided the raw material for the creeds and helped the Christian church maintain orthodoxy (See Paul L. Gavrilyuk, The Suffering of the Impassible God, 67). When we sing, we aren’t just addressing God but “one another in psalms and hymns and spiritual songs, singing and making melody to the Lord with your heart” (Eph 5:19). We sing for the glory of God and the benefit of the body.

One implication of the didactic function of singing is that we should pay close attention to the words in our songs. Musical worship isn’t about connecting with our feelings; it’s about the truth of God’s Word. Singing bad theology is a way of cementing heresy in our hearts. When I first planted the church I pastor, I oversaw writing the weekly bulletin and making sure it got printed in time for the Sunday service. The congregation had to suffer through my typos—some of which were more memorable than others. One Sunday the hymn “O for a Thousand Tongues to Sing” was missing the g on the word sing, so it was printed in the liturgy as “O for a Thousand Tongues to Sin”! Fortunately, the rest of the hymn was unscathed by my scribal error, but not all songs escape the negligence of their authors. Some songs may add concepts that are out of accord with Scripture, and others may say too little. 

Doxological

Musical worship is also doxological, ascribing glory to God. This praise in turn has a transformative effect on the worshiper. Idolatry deforms, but right worship reforms and reshapes us into the image of the true God. This was the main point of G. K. Beale’s biblical theology of idolatry, We Become What We Worship. Beale surveyed the Bible’s teaching on worship, demonstrating that “what you revere, you resemble, either for ruin or for restoration” (G. K. Beale, We Become What We Worship, 11).

The key text establishing this is Psalm 115:8, which says of idols, “Those who make them become like them; so do all who trust in them.” In that passage, to become like an idol is to be spiritually mute, blind, deaf, and without feeling. We note again the personal stakes in this worship war. Idolatry—false worship—will make you numb to all spiritual reality. But when you worship God, according to Scripture, your spiritual senses are sharpened, and you become more capable of understanding and receiving divine truth. This clear sight and reception lead to our own “deification.”

As Paul wrote, “And we all, with unveiled face, beholding the glory of the Lord, are being transformed into the same image from one degree of glory to another. For this comes from the Lord who is the Spirit” (2 Cor 3:18). Since worship is meant to be doxological, our services must always have a clear Godward focus. We don’t gather to praise ourselves or our accomplishments. The worship of man will always lead to devastation rather than deification, since creatures cannot save themselves.

Confrontational

Third, singing in church is confrontational. Our music ascribes glory to God while simultaneously renouncing the world’s false promises of hope in self. Liturgist Jean-Jacques von Allmen says,

“Christian worship is the strongest denial that can be hurled in the face of the world’s claim to provide men with an effective justification of their life. There is no more emphatic protest against the pride and despair of the world than that implied in Christian worship.”

Think about how some of the songs you sing at church confront the false narratives and empty promises of the world. We’re tempted to think everything is riding on us, but we’re reminded of the futility of self-confidence in Luther’s hymn “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God” (just be sure to sing the whole thing!): “Did we in our own strength confide, our striving would be losing.” We’re distracted by wealth and the praises of others, but the hymn “Be Thou My Vision” reminds us, “Riches I heed not nor man’s empty praise, thou mine inheritance now and always.” We turn on the news only to see injustice followed by tragedy, and we’re tempted to despair. But we sing in defiance those words of the hymn “This Is My Father’s World”: “O let me ne’er forget, / that though the wrong seems oft so strong, God is the ruler yet. / This is my Father’s world, the battle is not done; / Jesus who died shall be satisfied, and earth and heav’n be one.” You can probably tell, we sing a lot of hymns where I pastor! Whether or not that’s the case in your church, the songs and prayers should confront the lies of this present age with the comforting truths found in God’s Word.

Creative

Finally, the songs of the church are creative. Here I’m not speaking of artistic ingenuity, but creative in the sense of world and culture shaping. Old Testament scholar Walter Brueggemann developed the thesis that Israel’s praise was a “world making” activity. What he meant by this was not that worship creates things ex nihilo like God does, but that our liturgies form our communities and the social worlds in which we live. The liturgy “sets a pattern of power and meaning upon social relations which reflects Yahweh’s sovereignty. A world of justice, mercy, peace, and compassion is created in the imaginative act of the liturgy.” Allmen said that worship shapes the taste not only of the church but also of the world outside the church. He makes the bold claim,

The cult [i.e., church’s worship] is formative of culture because it inspires political and social life. It is the point of reference for order and freedom, for justice and peace. It is so because it celebrates the true hierarchy of things, because it confesses the Lordship of Christ, and because it attests the miraculous grace that this Lordship of Christ does not absorb that which it controls, but is the foundation of its liberty, and regardful of it. Hence the possibility of diverse but coordinated vocations of care for the weak, of the discovery of the true rights of man, of human understanding and reconciliation. . . . Clearly the world does not know that in attacking the cult it is striking at the very thing that preserves and guarantees its life.

Why do we worship? In part, it’s because the heavenly ascent we participate in each week, full of praises and prayers, is a way of engaging in the spiritual battle that’s all around us. Make no mistake about it—worship is warfare. Not the kind of warfare that puts people in captivity, but the kind of warfare that sets them free. Souls and societies are on the line, and God calls each one of us to be armed with love and to join in the fight.

Adapted from Why We Worship by Adriel Sanchez. ©2026 by Adriel Avram Sanchez. Used by permission of InterVarsity Press. www.ivpress.com. 

Over the past few years, a number of prominent European women writers and activists who have been advocating for a different paradigm of thinking about women and gender than the one offered by secular modernity, have come to Christ. In each case, approximately the same formula transpired: the writer’s work led her to realize that contemporary norms vis-à-vis sexuality are failing women and are causing significant harm. The writer proposed a better way of treating women, then came to realize that what she was proposing was effectively a return to historic Judaeo-Christian sexual mores and the inextricably connected treasuring of women as women and men as men in a world that insists on treating both as interchangeable. Finally, upon investigating Christianity further, the writer came to identify with the faith and began attending church. In some cases, she then began writing more openly about the key role of Christianity in bringing about the gender revolution she has been advocating for all along. 

I had reason to think much about these women this past weekend, because I got to hear several of them speak at the Women’s Convention in Rochester, NY. Their ranks include (but are not limited to) Louise Perry, Mary Harrington, Nina Power, and Ayaan Hirsi Ali. Most of these women, furthermore, are part of the publication that set the foundation for this convention—Fairer Disputations.

Founded in early 2023, Fairer Disputations is the brainchild of legal scholar Erika Bachiochi, who also served as the convener of this weekend’s event. For the unfamiliar, FD is a journal and “an international community of scholars, public intellectuals, and journalists that aims to advance a sex-realist feminism.” Over the course of its three and a half years of publication and counting, it has built a remarkably diverse following of readers and writers (disclosure: I am a Featured Writer for the journal and was an invited speaker at the convention). Many readers and writers are Christians, and many are Americans, but the publication has from the outset been deliberately international and ecumenical, bringing together mostly women but also some men who have felt dissatisfied with the current mainstream discourse about women and gender. 

I assumed before the convention that it would be, put simply, a conference of Fairer Disputations readers and writers. Imagine my surprise, therefore, when I met several enthusiastic attenders who were unfamiliar with the journal, but came to the convention because they heard about it—perhaps from a friend—and were attracted by the vision it offered. 

Yes, as I had expected, the convention welcomed regular FD readers and writers. But it also brought together healthcare professionals from around the country, educators at all levels (from preschool through university), nonprofit workers, one British former politician, numerous journalists, and quite a few stay-at-home or work-from-home moms. Speaking of the latter, I've never seen so many babies at a conference. Some older kids were present as well, including my seven-year-old. I'm used to bringing one or more of my kids to professional events, but this was the first time that bringing my daughter along made me blend in rather than stand out.

In other words, the convention turned out to be something unique that reached beyond the journal’s readership. It showed a real possibility of scaling up intellectually honest and deep conversations about gender in our world, and the hunger for these conversations beyond merely the conservative Christian circles. At the same time, it seems that sometimes these conversations about gender are a true cultural apologetic for the Christian faith—as the examples of Perry, Ali, and others show. It is the realization that all people ever created are God’s image-bearers that makes it possible for us to treasure each woman and each man, several speakers emphasized. 

Indeed, perhaps the key takeaway from the event for me was that while we need publications to begin and foster fruitful conversations, ideas can only fully take root and flourish in individual souls and lives through in-person conversations and relationships. To state the obvious, we as a society are very online, and that is the source of many evils—including pornography, which several speakers identified as the chief scourge of gender troubles in our age for both men and women. 

This online world also facilitates and encourages our growing loneliness. We are surrounded by more words than ever on our screens, but these can never replace the conversation of friends who gather together with us. We reach for a machine to solve our problems when what we truly need is a person, noted long-time pediatric nurse, bioethicist, and activist Jennifer Lahl on the first morning of the convention. 

I found myself thinking of Wendell Berry’s famous essay, “Why I am Not Going to Buy a Computer.” Everyone who has heard of this essay, which Berry originally wrote in 1987, knows the gist of it: Berry famously made a radical promise that he kept to the end of his days, just a couple of weeks ago. Yes, he never did buy a computer. But less frequently discussed, perhaps, is one crucial reason he made for his decision: his relationship with his wife, whom he described as his “best critic” for her work of not only typing up his writing on a 1956 typewriter but also commenting and improving his work with her comments along the way. 

Berry described his relationship with his wife, Tanya, as “a literary cottage industry that works well and pleasantly” in this essay. This is the productive system of two persons working together that buying a computer—an intervening machine—would threaten, Berry worried in a clear example of refusing to reach for a machine to replace in-person interactions with a person beloved to him. The computer, in other words, is not the problem—but the removal of the need for conversations with a real person is. The result is invariably an erosion of relationships.

The possibility of technology to act as a wrecking-ball upon relationships of men and women, as well as of humans with each other more generally, has been a concern of the FD project since its inception. In her essay in March 2023, editor Serena Sigillito wrote: “Fairer Disputations is confronting a profoundly mistaken idea of what it means to be human, and we’re fighting for a better one. Our tagline, ‘Sex-Realist Feminism for the 21^st Century,’ emphasizes both our embodiment and the technological age in which we live. You can’t be a human being without a body, and every body is either male or female.” Technology offers the illusion of shedding the body or the possibility of changing the body altogether—but these false promises will only destroy and disappoint and isolate. Too many Gen-Z girls especially feel nothing but despair over their bodies, their minds, their lives, NYT bestselling author Freya India reflected in her address. How could they not, given the messaging that bombards them daily on social media?

So what might a better way forward for women (and men) look like? That was the question of the weekend, and answers invariably came back to the need to foster joyful friendships in person, to build communities, and to reach out to the lonely and suffering around. What we need is a party, Helen Roy exhorted in the closing panel of the convention. This answer, of course, is also Christian at its core—our joy is not an abstract idea or feeling but is rooted in the confidence of God’s love for us, a confidence we get from the gospel. And to this love we can point others around, who are struggling with their worth and the worth of their bodies and minds, created male and female. 

Ever since ChatGPT made its appearance in 2022 and became the most rapidly adopted consumer technology in history, the question of its role in education has been front and center in school circles. From an adult perspective, the impulse to look for ways AI can enhance learning can seem reasonable. I have fruitfully used AI for many purposes myself.

However, I would have no idea if it were being used to positive effect or not if I did not already have a substantial knowledge or experience of the thing that I was using it for. Concerningly, there’s a national movement in education that has great potential to disrupt the learning by which that knowledge and experience gets developed.

Many Americans have never heard of ASCD (Association for Supervision and Curriculum Development) or ISTE (International Society for Technology in Education), but for decades ASCD has been one of the most influential organizations in American public education in setting the agenda for prioritizing major reforms and initiatives in public schools. ISTE has not had quite as broad an influence, but in its area of educational technology it is also the dominant voice that has shaped standards and practice in the use of educational technology across the country.

The two organizations merged in 2023 and have been operating under the somewhat awkward combined brand of ISTE+ASCD. However, in June of 2026, they announced a new organizational name: The International Society for Transforming Education, which sounds ambitious. It’s a somewhat ominous sign for the direction in which they are “transforming education” that one of their first projects after adopting the new name was releasing an expansion of the 2025 ASCD publication: “Profile of an AI-Ready Graduate.”

The vision put forth in the “Profile of an AI-Ready Graduate” affirms that the future makes “uniquely human skills increasingly valuable,” and purports to be about finding balance between “recognizing which skills are uniquely human” and knowing when “it would be problematic” not to use AI. It’s a vision where students “use AI in the service of their goals, while maintaining their own judgment, agency, and creativity.”

There are six broad standards that they propose, which are broken down in more detail in the document:

• LEARNER: Use AI to set learning goals, create plans for learning new skills, identify strategies to get unstuck, and seek targeted feedback to improve performance and understanding.
• PROBLEM-SOLVER: Use AI as a brainstorming partner to clarify challenges, generate new ideas, explore a wide range of possibilities, and evaluate potential solutions.
• RESEARCHER: Use AI to strategically investigate and analyze topics, evaluate claims, and compare sources of information.
• CONNECTOR: Use AI to increase human collaboration, including overcoming language barriers and finding common ground among divergent perspectives.
• SYNTHESIZER: Use AI to synthesize, remix, and refine information into formats and levels of complexity that best meet their unique needs and capabilities.
• STORYTELLER: Use AI to craft compelling narratives and communicate complex ideas through text, image, audio, video, and other media.

There’s a terrific irony in the fact that these areas where ISTE is proposing AI be used are, in fact, “uniquely human skills.” Gaining and developing these capacities is part of how we realize the unique nobility of humanity. And that’s where this set of standards falls on its face. Because it essentially is dictating that students would learn to use AI to support most of their learning functions, completely disregarding the reality that the whole reason students are in school is for them to be taught how to perform those learning functions themselves.

The question that ISTE+ASCD is asking is actually the correct one. The questions of what the role of AI should be in schools, and what we should do about the fact that many students learn to use it badly are vital. But the answers they have come up with are pernicious for learning. I am a high school English teacher in public schools, and as it currently stands, I work hard to prevent my students from using AI in their work. It’s the everyday work where students have to engage deeply with meaningful texts and develop understanding where the actual learning takes place.

However, our technology has now reached a point where AI tools can perform these tasks for the students, potentially "freeing" them from that work and thereby from those opportunities to learn. This set of standards essentially proposes AI as a safety net beneath the students, training wheels to bolt on whenever a certain task feels hard. And it would require that students not just have this available to them, but should be actively taught to turn toward it for all of these purposes. Most of the capabilities that these standards suggest students should learn to use AI to accomplish are functions that we would envision a well-educated person to be proficient in themselves, absent the use of AI. While adopting these standards might produce students who are very capable in their use of AI, it seems to me that it would also produce catastrophic effects on their actual learning of their school material.

As if the potential impact on the efficacy of student learning were not bad enough, the implications for student formation are even worse. In tempting Eve in the garden, the serpent framed the attractiveness of the fruit in terms of how it would make her “like God.” It’s in the difficult wrestling with hard tasks, especially in formative school years, that we learn that we have limits. We build character and discipline by exerting ten more minutes of concentration on a difficult problem when it would be easy to just turn in the work as is and call it “good enough.” It is God who is omnipotent and can create the universe by a mere act of speech; for us mortals, anything worth gaining requires the sweat of effort. However, the ethos ISTE envisions reads to me like a friendly companion proposing, “Why would you work so hard when there’s this nice little AI right here at your fingertips? You’ve made the attempt. Now let the machine finish the job.” AI provides the illusion of omnipotence; it can make you feel like you can do anything, without the effort of the doing, not to mention the learning how to do it. Habituating students to turn to this tool as a first resort strikes me as a disastrous decision in the formation of character and the capacity to be open to the idea that “there is a God, and I am not him.”

And so I was heartened this week when the Florida State Board of Education released a new rule governing the use of AI in K12 schools. The rule is quite long and detailed, but contains such provisions as requiring school districts to adopt an “opt-in” policy for the use of AI in the classroom, where the default is that students do not use it and only parents who specify permitting it for their children have access to it. In the case where access would be permitted, comparable non-AI tools or methods are required to be provided for those who do not opt-in. It requires that AI tools not be used to replace the professional judgment of teachers. It requires that AI tools used in Florida schools be viewpoint neutral and not simulate friendship or an emotional relationship with students.

These are positive points that, in my view, create a healthy friction in the adoption of AI into classrooms, but in my view the most important are that the rules require school districts to “address … permissible classroom usage, verification of student authored work and … demonstration of mastery without the use of AI”, and requiring that any initiative that incorporates AI must be reviewed for effectiveness in “improving student outcomes” i.e. learning.

This is not to say that the new rule is perfect. As may be expected from the highest level of educational leadership in the state, much of its concern is bureaucratic and focused on reporting and privacy compliance. It reflects a tendency to think of the significance of the integrity of student work primarily in terms of assessment, when it's the integrity of the day to day classwork that learning depends on. A provision, for example, forbidding any districts from requiring teachers to assign work where students are expected to use AI would be a substantial improvement. Questions also remain as to how the state would hold districts accountable to comply with this rule.

AI did not become the most rapidly adopted technology in history by being difficult to use. It’s shockingly easy to just log into it and use it for any number of purposes. The idea that schools should orient toward teaching students how to use it for virtually every learning, self-management, and communication function is risible. There is certainly a place for learning to effectively use AI, but the K12 school environment is generally not that place. And AI certainly can be an excellent tool to improve one’s learning, but only after one has gained sufficient knowledge and thinking skill to know what questions to ask and how to evaluate the responses. When schools are fulfilling their function, they are imparting that knowledge and thinking skill to students, and the incorporation of AI on the scale that ISTE+ASCD envisions would be disastrous for their ability to do so. As imperfect as this new rule is, I’m grateful that the Florida Board of Education has seen fit to throw up some roadblocks on the path that so many districts have begun to take. Perhaps in this task they are setting an example for other states to follow.

Successful magazines are never about one person. They're a chorus of voices together, enjoying the world, asking questions of it, endlessly arguing with one another about it, and together trying to imagine and bring forth a different sort of world. Ideally this would all happen in-person over drinks (or at least strong black coffee), though that is harder to come by these days.

There's a wonderful little moment near the end of Orwell's Roses where Rebecca Solnit talks about the particular way George Orwell sought to impart a beauty and elegance to his essay writing. While discussing his essay, "Politics and the English Language,"she writes,

Nineteen Eighty-Four depicts language when it is too tight, too restrictive in vocabulary and connotation, when some words have been murdered and others severed from too many of their associations. Somewhere in between is the possibility of a language that is clear but evocative, in which the speaker or writer's explorations invite those of the listener or reader, in which there is something a little wild in language, and the wild and the free overlap. That integrity, those honored contracts, those endeavors to reach out and make whole through the use of words that connect, empower, liberate, illuminate are the beauty to which he is most committed and the one he most celebrates, in the writing of others and in his own efforts as a writer.

She then goes on to quote a long passage from Orwell which she says as served as a credo for her since she first read it,

But I could not do the work of writing a book, or even a long magazine article, if it were not also an aesthetic experience.... So long as I remain alive and well I shall continue to feel strongly about prose style, to love the surface of the earth, and to take pleasure in solid objects and scraps of useless information.

One way of describing what we are up to here at Mere Orthodoxy is that we are trying to create a Christian magazine that George Orwell could respect.

There must be an aesthetic component to the writing; it is not merely to convey ideas, or even merely to convey true ideas. There must be beauty. Truth must be adorned with words fit for it, that bring honor to it. That is the project we have set ourselves. And I say "we" because it really is a "we" these days: None of what you're seeing would be possible without the organizational vision and stewardship of Mark Kremer, the general marketing and tech prowess of Ian Harber, and the extensive editorial work done by Nadya Williams.

What's more, we now have an editorial board, as we have advertised for some time: This is a joint venture that includes not only my own work, but also the work and thought and judgments of Susannah Roberts, Matthew Loftus, Samuel James, Tessa Carman, and Kirsten Sanders as well as myself and Nadya. We have also long benefitted from the diligent written and podcasting work of Matthew Lee Anderson, who also founded Mere O in 2005, Derek Rishmawy, Alastair Roberts, Andrew Wilson, James Wood, Brad East, and Joseph Minich on "Mere Fidelity" as well as the work Nadya has done on "Christians Reading Classics."

Today we come to a new announcement, something I am immensely excited about. We now have contributing writers as well. What this new role essentially means is merely this: We enjoy the work of these writers. We want them to write for us when they have something to say. And we want them to feel some measure of ownership of what happens here at Mere O and some ability to speak into it as a friend and co-conspirator.

Toward that end, we are publishing today both the list of contributing writers and the writer's covenant which now serves as a summary statement of what we editors and contributing writers think we are doing here at Mere Orthodoxy and the standard we hold ourselves to as we seek to serve you, our readers.

First, the new batch of contributing writers:

• Haley Byrd Wilt
• Katelyn Walls Shelton
• Hayden Nesbit
• Elizabeth Stice
• Amy Mantravadi
• Myles Werntz
• Brewer Eberly
• Daniel K. Williams
• Haley Baumeister
• Sarah Reardon
• Joshua Heavin
• Eddie LaRow
• Cameron Shaffer
• Wyatt Graham
• Rachel Aldhizer
• John Ehrett
• Jeff Bilbro
• John Shelton

The Mere Orthodoxy Writer's Covenant

Mere Orthodoxy is a Christian media project. We exist in order to put the riches of Christian thought into conversation with the challenges, questions, and problems of life in the contemporary world.

Our name is derived from the books Mere Christianity by C. S. Lewis and Orthodoxy by G. K. Chesterton, both of whom in their own ways modeled how Christian thought might be utilized in fresh, creative, and original ways to challenge, correct, and form modern people toward Christ.

As a media project, we occupy a unique space relative to both the church and the public square. 

First, we are explicitly a media organization, not a church or denominational body. This means that our concerns are broader than any one church body and that our work is done in service of broadly ecumenical, Christian ends rather than the specific desires of a specific congregation or denomination. This also means that our responsibilities are not to a given ecclesial institution, but to our readers and, ultimately, to God.

Second, as a media organization we fill a particular role in the imagined workings of a democratic society. This is particularly the case in the United States, where the First Amendment to the Constitution expressly forbids the government from abridging the rights of a free press–which suggests that America’s founders felt the press had a unique role to play which was distinct from the role of government or church or market.

This creates certain pressures for us as an organization. We embrace those and accept them as a part of our magazine’s unique calling, but this also means that anyone publicly associated with us in a more formal way needs to understand that and recognize what they are joining.

Toward that end, we have created this writer’s covenant to provide concrete, specific guidance for our editors and regular contributors.

1. All of our work as writers, thinkers, and readers is done before the face of God. It therefore must be done honestly and with a desire to honor God and serve our neighbors. We do our utmost to avoid any public speech or method of work that would bring dishonor to God or fail to serve our readers, who are our closest neighbors as a magazine.
2. For that reason, we have a different relationship to social media platforms than most magazines. While we do not ask our contributors to stay off social media, we do ask that they be closely attentive to the ways that online social networks tend to encourage behaviors and attitudes that are corrosive to the formation of Christian character and defy the law of God. So we ask our people to be cautious about what they say on social networks. If you cannot imagine yourself saying something to the face of the person you’re thinking about or referencing, do not say it. Even if you can imagine saying it to their face, you should still prayerfully consider whether it is speech that would meet with Christ’s approval.
3. We have strict policies about AI usage. Because of the way search technology has evolved, we accept that a strict ban on all AI usage is not feasible–it would require our people to abstain from using any online research tools since even search engines are today powered largely by LLM models. We, therefore, have no policy against using AI tools to aid in research. However, you should never submit text that has been generated by an LLM, nor should you ask an LLM to help you strengthen your argument in a text you have written, or to make suggestions for other structural or argumentative changes to your essay or review. The work of using one’s mind to understand and communicate truth is human work. To outsource any part of that to AI is to deprive yourself of the chance to grow and is to attack your own personal abilities in those areas by using a machine to do the work you actually need to be doing yourself. Relatedly, we encourage writers to be cautious about accepting proposed edits to their work from friends who may not be aware of our policies on AI or who are less reflective in their own use of AI.
4. The success of a vocation in writing is not judged by traffic, follower counts, notoriety, or one’s ability to provoke strong reactions. A vocation to writing is fulfilled when someone has thought deeply about something, has sought to penetrate to the heart of the matter, and has found a way to express the truth that is pleasing, elegant, and internally coherent. When you find yourself thinking in terms of attention, clicks, or reaction, you are thinking as a marketer rather than a writer. Think like a writer.
5. Writing is not a utilitarian project. It’s a craft. Mere O is not interested in writing that has a predictable or industrial quality to it, as if it was written by a committee or churned out in order to solve a problem, like an instruction manual or how-to guide. Our writing should have life. Indeed, one of the saddest parts of the LLM revolution in the writing world is that many people seem to believe that machines are capable of producing good writing since we have for too long treated writing like a mechanical process. It is not. Good writing is driven by attentiveness, by patience, by prayer, and by joy. These are not things that can be turned into formulas or produced in a rote, methodical way. What Charlotte Mason said of education is true also of writing: it is, in some sense, a life rather than a task. Commit to practices in your life that allow for sustained attention, delight, prayer, and patient reflection. This will look different from person to person depending on your phase of life. But the desire to pursue those things is essential.
6. Healthy magazines are collections of friends in which editors befriend writers, help to cultivate them, and introduce them to each other. You may not know all or even most of the people you see on our editorial board or our published list of contributing writers. But generally it is good to imagine those people as being friends and to engage their work accordingly. It also follows, of course, that when we disagree or critique one another’s work, we receive that not as an attack on our person, but as an effort from a friend to help us grow and mature in our calling. We assume trust and good will between each other.
7. Finally, we assume that persuasion, reason, and disagreement are normal parts of our common life. If we are to have a common life that is not marked by domination, coercion, and aggression, then we must all have a commitment to love the world as it is (in some sense), to engage with our neighbors as neighbors rather than as threats, and to engage with our neighbors where they are rather than where we would like them to be. God, in his love and providential care, has placed each of us where we are in this moment in redemptive history and in the places where he has called us. We should not resent that or live in a way that rebels against it. Receive your moment as a gift from God. Receive your neighbors as gifts from God. Treat them in your speech and your writing as you would like to be treated.

Stephen J. Chester. Paul Through the Eyes of the Reformers: Living Under Grace. Eerdmans, 2025. $28.99. 288 pp.

Earlier this year, after I presented a paper on the eucharistic liturgy of the 1662 edition of the Book of Common Prayer, an Anglican priest noticed that I seemed not only sympathetic but appreciative of the theology of the Protestant Reformation. I cannot remember the precise words of his question, but he inquired, more or less in these words: has not modern New Testament scholarship demonstrated many times over that the Reformers misunderstood Paul, so their theology was misguided from its roots up?

The concern is a common one today. At the popular level, a lingering awareness remains of the debates between N.T. Wright and John Piper in the late 2000s about the doctrine of justification. Regardless of how other New Testament scholars have evaluated Wright’s work since then, his extremely successful career as a writer of popular Christian Bible studies and devotional works means that his views of the Reformers are widely influential today among many parishioners, lay people, and clergy.

At a scholarly level, Reformation readings of Paul have fallen on complicated, if not hard, times. That did not begin recently, however. The rise of critical, academic study of the Bible as a secular enterprise of religious studies might have some precedents in earlier Protestant exegetical practices, but critical scholarship transformed the task of reading Paul so far beyond recognition that by the time of Albert Schweitzer in the early 20^th century, the views of the Reformers were by no means still dominant. Subsequently, Rudolf Bultmann’s now largely abandoned program of demythologizing the New Testament and translating its message into the categories of existentialist philosophy, undermined central pillars in the theological architecture of Luther and Calvin. 

Then in the 1970s, the so-called “New Perspective” on Paul took flight. Of course, it had numerous forerunners in earlier eras (notably Kristar Stendahl, who critiqued Luther for projecting his own psychological struggles onto Paul). But the work of E. P. Sanders demonstrated that Jews and Judaism had been horribly misrepresented for centuries by Protestant interpreters, who compared themselves with Paul and contrasted themselves from Paul’s Jewish opponents, who were cast in the theology and practices of the late Medieval Roman Catholic church the reformers opposed. Sanders’s analysis of Second Temple Judaism significantly informed the works of James Dunn and Wright, who argued that the Reformers’ vision of grace and justification by faith alone were profound misreadings of Paul, for whom justification was about being identified as part of Abraham’s family, not being declared righteous. In time, John Milbank and the Radical Orthodoxy movement rejected Reformation theology as nominalist, and insufficiently sacramental in its metaphysics. 

Yet, in recent decades, that narrative has grown more complex. Some noted that Second Temple Judaism is far from monolithic, and that Jewish attitudes to the law in the first century were extremely complicated and conflicting. Readings of Paul within Judaism reject the way Dunn and Wright cast Paul’s gospel as the triumph of universalizing tendencies over particularity, while apocalyptic readings of Paul critique Wright’s historical and theological method, underscoring the disjunctive and disruptive nature of God’s revelation of grace in the crucified and risen Messiah, among other things. 

An especially notable contribution has been that of John Barclay. Barclay notes that Sanders was correct: Second Temple Judaism was indeed largely a religion of grace and not a self-salvation through works, but we need to more precisely characterize what we are talking about when we talk about grace, which can mean a lot of different things. Barclay’s key insight about Paul is that Paul not only describes the Christ-gift as involving divine initiative, or as superabundant, or as prompting a reciprocal response from the receiver, but Paul especially emphasizes in passages such as Romans 4 that grace is incongruous: a gift given to the undeserving.

However, along the way, very few have taken the time to ask the question: How, actually, did the Reformers read Paul? There have been exceptions, such as the notable work of Jonathan Linebaugh and Stephen Westerholm, among others. But when the old perspective has been rejected, was the old perspective in view actually the perspective of the Reformers themselves, or a bastardized form of it found in popular Christian discourse or in Bultmann’s existentialism? When the Lutheran Paul has been rejected, is it actually Luther’s reading of Paul that is in view, or a caricature of it? 

I remember once being at an academic conference and hearing a senior New Testament scholar discuss justification in Paul, setting his own reading of Paul over and against that of John Calvin, whom this scholar faulted for allegedly giving no place for the Holy Spirit in his vision of justification. I immediately thought about Calvin’s own comments in Institutes III.1, that the Holy Spirit unites us with Christ by faith such that we share in all of Christ’s saving benefits distinctly and inseparably and simultaneously. I thought about Calvin’s commentary on 1 Corinthians 6:11. I thought about B.B. Warfield calling Calvin “the theologian of the Holy Spirit.” I thought back to my own seminary teacher Sinclair Ferguson, who taught an entire course on “Calvin’s Doctrine of the Holy Spirit,” and showed us how it is impossible to understand justification in John Calvin if you do not first understand how the Holy Spirit unites us with the risen and ascended Christ. But all I could do was sigh and wonder why so many scholars seemed to treat Reformation readings of Paul as a strawman. 

But Stephen Chester has now provided a readable, accessible answer for anyone interested in these questions. His 2017 book Reading Paul with the Reformers covered these questions and more in an in-depth way written for scholars. Paul Through the Eyes of the Reformers is not merely a popularization of that larger book, but it also includes new discussions in relationship to contemporary conversations in Pauline theology. 

Arguably, this book’s greatest contribution will be not only for academics, but specifically for preachers. What is union with Christ? What is justification? How do Law and Gospel relate to one another? What is faith, and how does it relate to works? Anyone who wants to understand what the Reformers themselves actually believed on these perennially vital matters cannot do better than to take up this volume. 

For only a couple of examples, Chester’s chapters on Martin Luther provide a powerful explanation of why the charge is baseless that justification by faith alone is a “legal fiction.” There are terrible caricatures of what Luther believed about law and the conscience in modern New Testament scholarship, and too little grasp of what Luther taught about union with Christ through faith as the key to justification. Differently, for those readers who are long accustomed to reading and appreciating the Reformers, Chester will help understand modern scholarship better. For instance, those who have read John Murray or Mark Garcia will be accustomed to thinking about union with Christ as the central doctrine of salvation. But Chester explains the habits of thought assumed by modern New Testament scholars, and why Calvin remains surprising to so many of them:

…[Calvin] identifies twin principal saving benefits received in union with Christ by the agency of the Spirit, a duplex gratia or double grace. The first of these is justification, and the second is regeneration or sanctification. It is at this point that potential for considerable confusion arises, for Calvin clearly defines justification in forensic terms even as he insists it is part of union with Christ. This conflicts with the marked tendency in modern interpretation of Paul to treat the forensic and the participatory as contrasting twin track’s in Paul’s thought, with justification belonging to the former and union with Christ to the latter… Calvin simply does not share the frequent later assumption that forensic justification is less participatory than sanctification. 

To be clear, Chester is by no means uncritical of the Reformers. In his concluding chapters, he notes the perils of attempting to repristinate or merely reproduce their readings today, especially given how problematic their views of Jews and Judaism at times could be, especially with respect to Luther. Chester is also very skilled at comparing Luther, Calvin, and Melanchthon with one another. The differences among the views of the Reformers are as illuminating as their agreements, especially on the nature of growth in holiness across the Christian life.

As a writer, Chester occasionally uses theological jargon (for instance, the adjective “apocalyptic”) that might take a lay reader by surprise. Still, this is a largely accessible book, and words from other languages are transliterated into English. For instance, the summary of what Calvin believed about union with Christ and soteriology is a masterful example of an attentive reading of primary sources that is in conversation with the most significant secondary scholarship on Calvin, yet still written in an accessible way for non-specialists.

I am thankful that the next time someone asks me, “hasn’t modern New Testament scholarship basically discredited reformational theology?” I can direct the inquirer not only to the Reformers themselves, but to Chester’s book as not only an insightful and judicious study, but a powerful resource for the constructive work of proclaiming Christ today.

Samuel G Parkison, The Fountain of Life: Contemplating the Aseity of God. Crossway, 2026. 96 pp.

The biggest questions that face every local church are not social, theoretical, practical, political, or even moral; they are theological. Because the church is the "dwelling place for God by the Spirit" (Eph 2:22), it is also the place on earth where God's glory is most evident, where communion with him is most tangible, and where contemplation of him should be most encouraged. Before every local church answers the important questions of how they might please the Father, follow the Son, and walk in the Spirit, they must answer that deeper question: who is God? 

Samuel Parkison's new book, The Fountain of Life: Contemplating the Aseity of God, gets the ordering right. His work is decidedly short, but its subject matter couldn’t be bigger: the life of God. In The Fountain of Life, Parkison places contemplation of the “Godness” of God on center stage. In doing so, he has written an accessible and eminently helpful book for both pastors and their congregations. This is not a critical review; I feel this book and more like it are needed. 

Central to the book are deep theological questions. Who is God, down to his core? How can we describe him, not just according to his actions or his attributes, but according to his very essence? The simple answer to these questions is that God is a se, as Parksion states simply, “God’s life is from himself.” To put it another way, God is “dependent on no one for existence.” But theological questions are not at odds with practical results. According to Parkison, the point of contemplating God is not to get answers, but to get God, since the glory and joy of God is the very thing we are created for! If that is true, then “there could be nothing more practical than contemplating God… to contemplate God is not to take a break from the real world; it is an exercise in reality.”

And yet, those with a knack for asking too many theological questions often have a track record for running headlong away from reality and into spiritual pride. In his polemical work Against the Manicheans, Augustine pokes all the necessary holes in the heretical questioning of Mani’s followers, who were dead set on their own dualistic cosmology. To their question of “why did God will to create heaven and earth?” Augustine replies that anyone asking that question is looking for “something greater than the will of God, though nothing greater can be found.” Augustine knew that our theology must never take us past God, or we’ve missed the point all together. 

The Fountain of Life understands that danger, and so is more than willing to press further in to God rather than past  God. As Parkison rightly argues, if God is the independent source of everything, then “None of our questions, conversations, or experiences are ever really disconnected from the reality of God and his eternity.” Everything is contingent on him, since “all that is not God owes its existence to God.” For example, Parkison asks the reader to imagine a line in the text of Genesis 1:1, right in between “In the beginning God” and “created the heavens and the earth.” The grammatical proximity of these two clauses should not trick us into thinking they are ontologically close. There is nothing that is created that is even in the same atmosphere of God, much less  greater than God. 

Parkison also handles the theological tendency to describe God only in negative (apophatic) terms, by what he is not or does not have. Unafraid of the leap into cataphatic theology (positive descriptions of God), he relays in detail the momentous shift in divine revelation that happens when God reveals himself to Moses as I AM. Seeing God as "infinite plentitude” and “fountain” may seem like squishy abstraction at first, but upon reflection we see that it is precisely because God is “the infinite source and giver of all life and being” that we need not go beyond him. We can encourage our flock towards deep contemplation of God without any fear or worry that it will lead to disappointment.

Instead, right contemplation of God should lead to unbounding joy. As Parkison urges his readers to “adopt the attitude of a child, asking a question for the sheer joy of getting its answer”, he reminds us that there are no theological questions that, when asked rightly, do not lead to delight. We live in a culture that is continually discouraging doing anything just for the love of it. Amateurism is at an all time-low, and side hustles are at an all time high. But as Parkison argues beautifully, if God is not contingent on anyone or anything, he creates everything we know and enjoy as sheer grace: just for the love of it.

Since the cosmos is fundamentally contingent and dependent on an independent creator—who made the world simply and freely as a result of his own pleasure... Since, then, creation itself is marvelously dispensable—since it does not have to exist at all, let alone in this way—we are invited to be amazed by all of it.

If the church is to be a place of “joy that is inexpressible and filled with glory” (1 Pt 1:8), then her members, pastors, and leaders must learn the joy of being amazed by God and his glory in the created world. We must become amateurs again, ministering for the sake of love and joy. Right contemplation of God’s aseity kills professionalism in the church, and opens up the people of God to the freedom of being entirely contingent on God. Only when we can lay down our need to be needed, then we can truly see how God’s love is, in Parkison’s words “pure, undiluted, gratuitous, unconstrained and noncompulsory.” That is the only kind of love that can be delighted in forever and ever.

Parkison also knows that joy in God has a clear focal point. If I may return to Augustine’s rebuke of the Manicheans, the ancient theologian goes on to describe the best way to get to know God: “If anyone desires to know the will of God, let him become a friend of God.” In order to ask theological questions rightly, there must be intimate trust. Intimacy of this kind requires real affection—that we would love God for God—and affection, stripped down, requires contemplation of something or someone beautiful enough to be worthy of affection.

In Fountain of Life, Parkison helps us to climb this ladder to an understanding of the will of God by first taking us to the first rung: the beauty of Christ. Drawing from the apostle John, “who Jesus loved”, we are led to see how Jesus Christ shares the same eternal life as the father. He is like Jacob’s ladder, drawing us up into the heart of God. Surprisingly, it is the doctrine of eternal generation that is the linchpin fastening the person of Jesus, and the Holy Spirit, to the life of God. As Parkison reminds us: "All that the Father is, is begotten as the Son; and all that the Father and Son are, is breathed out by the Spirit.” The gospel teaches that this begotten son was given for us, and his very life, the life of God, is available to us if we would only “find our ultimate satiation” in Jesus, the bread of Heaven. Parkison knows, and lets us know, that it is only in saving knowledge of Jesus Christ that we become, in Jesus’ words, “friends of God.” The doctrine of aseity is not theological abstraction—it is rocket fuel for the promises of the gospel.

I can go on record to say that the happiest pastor at our church is the one who reads the most theology. He attends well to his family and to the needs of the church, but we know he also meant it when recently he sent our fellow elders a picture of his new book on the doctrine of God and said “see y’all in a few months.”  He is retired, and unpaid by the church budget, so there are no professional incentives for him to spend multiple hours a week (if not a day) contemplating God. He is not studying for any degrees or for the sake of an upcoming sermon series. He is not interested in impressing anyone or contributing to any academic journals. Instead, he is practicing for eternity: he contemplates the living God for the sake of love of the living God. In this way, he images God, the eternally triune one who contemplates everything that does not exist into existence simply for the love of it.

We need more godly pastors and Christians, and Fountain of Life is a step in the right direction towards helping all of us love God for the sake of God. For that reason, I commend it with eagerness. 

In 2011, I found myself in the sweltering August heat of Phoenix, AZ for the Assemblies of God’s General Council. The Council is held every two years to hold elections and business sessions, and, most importantly, to reestablish missional alignment for the denomination. I was a youth pastor and student at Yale Divinity at the time and was attending the Council for my very first time as an ordinand. The opening evening of the event featured a fellow youth pastor of a well-known megachurch who preached a lively sermon, full of conviction. As Pentecostals say, it was “on fire”—a poetic parallel to the August heat that contrasted with the cool of the arena. But it wasn’t the tone with which he preached that struck me. Rather, it was the familiar topic. Jesus was coming back soon, he said. We needed to be ready.

I grew up in the Assemblies of God, where eschatological expectation was the bedrock of the spiritual life. As a child it struck me with terror. I was afraid of being “left behind” in the so-called rapture. I didn’t know who Jerry Jenkins and Tim LaHaye were until much later in life, but I’d nevertheless been captured with feverish fear about the Battle of Armageddon, the Tribulation, and the Great White Throne Judgment. The frightful events had grown in my imagination to be as big as the literary world Jenkins and LaHaye created in their popular fiction series, Left Behind.

As a budding theologian in my undergraduate years, I was able to—as some might put it—“deconstruct” the ways in which fantasy and false teaching had been added to the Christian message of hope and salvation. I grew less concerned about being on the wrong side of God’s judgment (though those fears still bubbled up from time to time), and more concerned about why Jesus was taking so long to show up. If my childhood years were plagued with anxiety about God’s judgment against me, my young adult years were troubled by an equally keen sense of the injustices of the world. I wanted Jesus to come back, not to judge strictly speaking, but to make all things new.

Terror and Last Things

Today people are gripped with a similar sense of terror, not because of the dread of LaHaye and Jenkins-style accounts of God’s coming judgment. Rather, people are afraid of the judgment humanity seems to be bringing on itself. Even otherwise optimistic humanists like Yuval Noah Harari seem to be shaken. His 2015 book’s subtitle boasted “a brief history of tomorrow.” It was already “history” because it was that reliable. The title, Homo Deus, indicated that tomorrow’s promise was humanity becoming god through what he called “Dataism.” He claimed every single thing would be reduced to a computable data point to create a single human-computer data-processing universe. The budding age of Artificial Intelligence we now find ourselves in suggests Harari was onto something.

Yet, Harari’s optimism has been significantly tempered by the advent of AI. The promise of becoming god through tomorrow’s (which is now today’s) Dataism has given way to the dread of AI totalitarianism. In his latest book, Nexus, he worries that “the dataset on which baby AI is trained” is but a handmaiden of an AI that “grows in power and authority, perhaps [becoming] a self-interpreting holy book.” Harari is worried about an unwelcome End, and the only way he can talk about it is in religious terms.  

Harari is but one late voice in a long line of great thinkers who have speculated, and at times manifested, the future. Collectively, they’ve created a marketplace of eschatologies, all of which are bound up in real-world economic forecasting. With dread, hope, or some combination of the two, consumers can choose the “history of tomorrow” they find most compelling and most apt at making sense of the present. And people can literally buy in to the eschatology of their choice by placing their bets (or not) on Wall Street.

By the early 18^th century humanist projects like that of Ludwig Feuerbach were making their mark on the intelligentsia of Europe. Feuerbach said “God” was the projection of all of humanity’s virtues, hopes, desires, and goodness. For him, “all theology is anthropology”—in other words, when humans talk about God, they’re actually talking about themselves. Importantly, Feuerbach suggested humans were, in fact, talking accurately about goodness. The only failure was to realize that humans, not God, are good. Feuerbach was arguing for what might be called a “kingdom now” humanism. The only thing preventing humanity from realizing its full and final potential was the failure to realize its full potential.

The same era saw Karl Marx offer a different sort of eschatology. For Marx, humanity was in one of two camps. The legacy of his thought in the 21^st century might be nowhere better seen than in the way that the word “bourgeois” is used by even upper-class elites to deride whatever they perceive to be out of touch with the real world. The accusation is always made to identify (or least express solidarity) with “the proletariat,” the working class. Whether he intended it or not, one can hear the echo of Christianity in his philosophy. Jesus also divides humanity into two groups—the sheep and the goats—and salvation in Matthew 25 has everything to do with materialist and classist concerns. But where early Christians envisioned divine intervention, Marx saw a day of reckoning forced by the necessity of history. The new, final epoch, he said, was “inevitable.” In the following century, numerous communist regimes took responsibility for hastening the End that would supposedly see the proletariat rise to secure their salvation. 

From the other end of the political spectrum, Francis Fukyama in the early 1990s retrospectively declared victory for liberal democracy and, with it, capitalist economics. Liberalism had taken the world by storm in the 20^th century, and this, he claimed, was evidence it had no remaining ideological rival. The first part of his seminal work, The End of History and the Last Man, is devoted to demonstrating how the liberalism of the West had taken root in the most unlikely places in the 20^th century, and how others would likely catch up in no time. The West, he said, had arrived in the “Promised Land.” Like Marx, his philosophy smacks of Christian imagery. He defaults to religious language. Yet, he—like Feuerbach, Marx, Hegel, Nietzche, and other humanist prophets—thinks God has nothing to do with eschatology. 

In the present day, the AI tech industry and its visionaries are once again resorting to religious language to defend what can only be described as their eschatological project. Where Harari has taken pause at the accelerating presence of AI, lauded futurist Ray Kurzwiel in his recent book, The Singularity is Nearer, continues to unreservedly celebrate its promise. The “Singularity” is coming, he says—the day when humanity will merge with AI. He describes the Singularity as a mystery yet to be revealed. It’s a mere metaphor because, at least at this point, humans cannot comprehend the radical shift existence will take. With the same confidence of a Pentecostal televangelist predicting the day and the hour of Christ’s return, Kurzweil has set a date for the coming technological glory: 2045. But unlike the church’s chiliastic content creators, he’s taken seriously by Bill Gates.

This small sample of thinkers is representative of the general trend of future-predictors offering an optimistic take on tomorrow. For all the incommensurate elements of their competing visions, belief in some providential, non-theistic Progress unites them. The word needs to be capitalized because it’s a quasi-spiritual force—something is driving history forward and doing so positively. Both Marx and Fukuyama are indebted to some extent to Hegel’s conception of Geist, a lively principle that makes sense of and gives linear cohesion to history. For the AI, on the other hand, the proof is simply in the pudding: we might actually cure cancer.

Problems with Progress

Christian theologians have long identified problems inherent in the idea of Progress, regardless of the unique individual humanist takes on it. At root, the concern is historical. The 20^th century might have been the bloodiest in human history. And it seems that in the present day even liberal democracy, with its resolute commitment to human rights, is regularly willing to pave the road of the future with the blood of dissidents. The bombs keep falling in the Middle East.

Criticisms of Progress are well-founded. The burden of proof probably should rest on AI apologists to show that this technology this time will be different. It’s dishonest to shy away from the obvious failures of humanity to progress. Nevertheless, the challenge of discernable Progress to its detractors persists. It’s undeniable (as Fukuyama argues) that scientific discovery and innovation really have raised living standards and, at least in some cases, bolstered liberalism’s defense of human dignity, especially when it comes to medical discoveries. Believing that history is but one damned thing after another with no sense of purpose seems to be as baldly false (and as bleak) as anything else. And is no more Christian.

The Introduction to Pope Leo XIV’s Magnifica Humanitas might be read as an invitation to discern the challenge of Progress. Addressing the res nova (“new thing”) of our moment, he presents answers to the question of AI with biblical imagery. Is humanity building a new Tower of Babel? Or, following “the way of Nehemiah,” is it rebuilding the walls of Jerusalem? In other words, “where is this all going?” is the only question worth asking, and he insists that the end we’re working towards must be framed eschatologically. To follow the “way of Nehemiah” in rebuilding the walls of Jerusalem is to anticipate the New Jerusalem which comes down out of heaven.

AI apologists and Christians agree on at least one thing, which is that the final future is indeed bright. Whatever else might be said about how humanity might get there are important arguments to be had. But bridging the conversation with that common ground is important. Christianity is committed to history having meaning, and it’s worth maintaining that common ground even with the humanists. The Church Fathers engaged Plato and Aristotle without anxiety. There’s no reason Christianity can’t have a similarly sympathetic, and yet critical, engagement with contemporary philosophers of Progress. After all, Greek thinkers were no less religious about their philosophies than modern humanists are, including AI tech apologists.

Yet, for all the optimism of the billionaires of the world, it seems most people remain convinced that the future is a threat. Why this is the case resists a tidy explanation. One might blame the 24-hour news cycle. And all news is bad news. “Doom” is the word used for endless and listless scrolling on social media for a reason. Political polarization tears at the fabric of society, making family gatherings awkward if not dreadful. But all of these seem more like symptoms of the problem than the problem itself. While clearly none of these things are helping, there’s a collective lack of hope that runs deeper than the on-screen diet.

Christians are no exception to the feeling that the future isn’t bright. They are no less likely to watch the news cycle with anxious addiction or to find a macabre fascination with the doom-sayer media prophets. I think this is in part because there’s been an abandonment of eschatology in the church. My experience is anecdotal, but significant. Pentecostalism is nothing if not an eschatological movement. The Azusa Street Revival, which marked the beginning of the global and ecumenical take-over of the church with Pentecostal spirituality, was defined by an imminent expectation of Christ’s return. To be Pentecostal is to live in the pre-dawn light of God’s kingdom. But the last time I heard a sermon about Christ’s return was the sermon I heard in the cool of the Phoenix arena 15 years ago.

In the broader church, eschatological hope is thankfully still chiseled in liturgical stone. But it features very little from the pulpit. It’s telling that New Testament scholars have pointed out over and over again that the book of Revelation is a work of political theology. Yet, for all the concerns on the part of Christians in America about the direction the country is headed, eschatology seems rarely to play on the political imagination.

Why even a movement like Pentecostalism has moved away from its spiritual roots is probably due to innumerable factors. Academically, the topic is avoided because there are so many perceived pitfalls in end-times theological debates. Some are afraid of being defrocked for having a take on how the End will come that departs from denominational doctrine. At the grass roots of the local church, it seems that it’s avoided because eschatology is just more bad news. Those who have in the past peddled in eschatological forecasts have routinely said, “Oh, you think things are bad now? Just wait until the book of Revelation starts happening!” Pastors don’t want to be killjoys.

The Problem of Delay

Still another (and perhaps the most significant) factor that seems to have led to the abandonment of eschatology is, as I mentioned earlier, the problem of delay. Scholars and laity alike find it troubling that Jesus is taking so long to come back. Indeed, how long will it be until the tears are wiped from every eye? The problem of delay is another way of posing the problem of theodicy—the question of whether God is indeed good given the prevalence of evil in the world and his (apparent) refusal to quicken evil’s demise. 

The early church faced the question of delay head on. To God, they said, one thousand years is as a day, and a day is as a thousand years (2 Pet 3:8). I remember feeling like that was a cop-out answer when I was experiencing a season of depression in my mid-20s that was due in no small part to the overwhelming evil across the globe that I had steadily and deliberately internalized. At the same time, I never wanted to admit out loud that I thought the Bible was giving cheap answers. 

2 Peter seems to be saying blandly, “time is relative.” But, as it turns out, Einstein’s discoveries about the relativity of time two millennia later suggest that maybe that wasn’t such a bad take. It’s a crude and childish way of considering the problem, but I remember thinking that even if Jesus was traveling at twice the speed of light, then it could take him thousands of years to return, depending on his starting point. At the very least, scientific discoveries as simple as the speed of light meant that I could look at the stars and realize I was looking at light that burst forth from nuclear fusion that was triggered well before Jesus was born of the virgin mother due to the sheer distance of stars from earth. It gave me perspective.

Equally, delay might be the reason there’s no collective buy-in to any of the triumphalist narratives presented by humanist prophets of Progress, stretching from Feuerbach to OpenAI CEO, Sam Altman. Society is in effect asking of all the humanist traditions what early Christian detractors asked of the church: “where is the promise of it’s coming?” (cf. 2 Peter 3:4).  Domination of the working class continues, which seems like a strike against Marx. Liberal democracy doesn’t seem so much to be gaining ground as losing it. Democracy is not taking hold in China, which only seems to be increasing its global influence. Globally, pragmatically effective strong men are enjoying real popularity in many places.. Even Fukuyama has tempered his early-90s triumphalist take in recent times. 

Similarly, populist critiques of the promise of AI are increasingly wondering when the promises the tech giants have made will manifest themselves. When will the scientific discoveries in health, productivity, and climate happen? Will they actually make life more meaningful or qualitatively happier? And at what cost are we placing hope in a future that seems anything but guaranteed? The increasing anxiety about the energy and natural resources data centers will demand mirror on a much smaller scale the critiques of political and social Progress. More people are wondering out loud if democracy needs endless wars in Iraq, Afghanistan, and now Iran to sustain itself. More pointedly, does the way in which the new war with Iran has been conducted suggest democracy is actually on the decline in its epicenter, the United States? In sum, people keep asking, “Is the cost of historical progress worth it?” More and more people would rather keep their money in their own pockets.

While to some, Christ's delay might be a strike against the Christian faith, the overwhelming sense one gets in the NT is that the long wait of the last 2000 years is not so much a bug as a feature of the system. Jesus told his disciples that they must be his witnesses to the ends of the earth, which takes time. And while Revelation offers no clear timeline of eschatological events, it’s committed to demonstrating that history is jampacked with events of eternal consequence. 

The reason Christianity can claim that history is packed with meaning is because Jesus’s resurrection happened in history. The End, as Karl Barth and others have put it, has already come because resurrection is the eschatological event. All of this means that the promise of the End when all shall be well is premised on it already having happened for Jesus and in Jesus. 

Claiming that the End has already come in Jesus hardly solves the problem of delay since Jesus’s resurrection, like his second coming, is precisely what’s in doubt by Christianity’s detractors. But it is Christianity’s wager for legitimacy: if Christ has been raised, the End is guaranteed. If not, pity the church for its foolishness. It furthermore sets up the problem for all eschatologies—Christian, humanist, or otherwise. It invites the curious and neutral inquirer to ask what historical event(s) suggests that a particular eschatology is true. Does the French Revolution prove the liberal democracy is the end of history? Does China’s fusion of communism with a market economy suggest Marx was really onto something? What historical problem does AI need to solve to convince its detractors of the glorious future it will bring?

For Christianity, solving history’s problems still isn’t enough. The claim of Jesus’s resurrection is that the problem itself can be retrospectively undone. Death’s defeat on Easter means what happened in the past can be remedied and redeemed, which means all the evil of history, even of history yet to be written, can be remedied and redeemed. The blood-paved road of history cries out like Abel, and it will receive an answer. 

Christians can reasonably lament that resurrection in Jesus has become just one option in a marketplace of eschatologies in a post-religious world. But there’s no reason to deny the circumstances of the era. What’s left is to do is to name that there is a marketplace, and that everyone must buy something. From there, Christians should be content to make a defense for the hope within (cf. 1 Pet 3:15). Their claim is that resurrection will happen because it has happened. And the delay for future resurrection is a delay at the speed of Light.