My latest: why Christians oppose Euthanasia, in CT

I’m in Christianity Today this morning with a piece called “Why Christians Oppose Euthanasia.” It is exactly what its title suggests. Here are two early paragraphs:

The church’s moral teaching has always held that murder—defined as the intentional taking of innocent life—is intrinsically evil. It follows that actively intending the death of an elderly or sick human being and then deliberately bringing about that death through some positive action, such as the administration of drugs, is always and everywhere morally wrong.

This ethical argument is very similar to the one Christians make about abortion. We could modify the oft-quoted line from Dr. Seuss—“A person’s a person no matter how small”—by substituting old or ill for “small.” (Other substitutions also suggest themselves: smart, abled, sexed, or hued.) To be sure, there are relevant differences between active euthanasia and, for example, removing a brain-dead person from life support. There are none, however, between administering fatal drugs and offering or prescribing them: Both directly facilitate the intended death of a patient under a doctor’s medical care.

Read the rest here.

Happy news: Letters to a Future Saint is the runner-up for CT’s Book of the Year!

Yesterday Christianity Today published its annual book awards for 2024. Besides awards for genres like fiction and theology, there is an overall award for Book of the Year. This year’s winner was the great Gavin Ortlund’s What It Means to Be Protestant: The Case for an Always-Reforming Church. And the runner-up?

That would be my own Letters to a Future Saint: Foundations of Faith for the Spiritually Hungry. It won the Award of Merit for Book of the Year!

I’m grateful beyond words. My deepest thanks to the editors and to all who voted. This is not something I or anyone could have expected when I set out to write this book. I’m still in shock about it.

Ideally I’ll wake up soon, because next week there is a special live event celebrating the occasion: a conversation with Russell Moore, Ortlund, and myself, as well as other CT editors. It’ll run for about an hour on YouTube, beginning at 8:00pm ET, and featuring (I believe) questions from readers and subscribers. I’ll see y’all there!

James

Ten thoughts on Percival Everett’s James; spoilers abound:

1. It’s a compulsive read. I finished it in a day. Everett’s prose is supple without being simple. And he lives up to his reputation: bitterly funny and brutally direct, often one when you expect the other. His racial politics are likewise unpredictable, incisive, and reliably scrambled—that is to say, they scramble the reader’s priors.

2. The worst version of this book would have been a Mark Twain “own”: a simplistic takedown of a “problematic” American classic. Everett doesn’t take the bait. His affection for Twain is palpable. There’s nothing “corrective” on offer here. Which doesn’t mean there’s nothing elaborated, investigated, or interrogated. (Joel Rhone’s is my favorite essay on the novel so far.) In fact, for good or ill, Everett extends or completes the Twainian ethos that, perhaps, Twain elected, or felt compelled, to mute. For example, Twain’s book remains thematically Christian in ways Twain abjured in his own life; Everett eliminates all traces of this, about which I’ll say more below.

3. The second worst version of this book would have been a Huck Finn “own”: not a rebuke of Twain but of the indelible little boy he created. In this case, the trick would be, not to reveal Huck as problematic, but to make him so. Once again, no dice. Everett clearly loves Huck and draws his friendship with Jim with affection and care, deepening a relationship we thought we knew: no longer merely friends—who are, of necessity, equals (I take this to be Twain’s first aim and lasting achievement)—but father and son. This change functions to undermine Huck’s priority in Twain’s tale, a fundamental problem given that Jim is a grown man and Huck is a boy.

4. The paternity twist is clever without being cute for many reasons. At the level of the text, it enables a subtext that Twain never countenanced in the original. It offers an emotionally authentic explanation of why Huck’s dad hates him so much. And it explains Jim’s special bond with Huck, both in Everett and in Twain. Beyond these, it entwines the bloodlines of two of the most famous characters in American literature. In Albert Murray’s words, it makes “omni-Americans” of Huck and Jim both. Huck in particular has a white mother and a black father; in other words, the prototypical good-hearted Southern white boy is now, by the retroactive power of the written word, biracial.

In any other hands, this idea would have been cloying or overwrought. In Everett’s hands, it’s deftly hinted at and masterfully revealed at just the right moment. It forces Huck to face questions of identity and maturity from which Twain protects him, as Wendell Berry once observed; Huck’s transformation in Twain is morally profound, but he never grows up. By the end of Everett’s novel, by contrast, he’s ready to.

5. Now to Jim himself. Even calling him by that name feels like a choice, but I think it’s the right one, since “James” is a name he achieves in and through the narrative, and he does not definitively name himself by it until the final sentence. The power of language and especially of naming is the thematic thread of Everett’s whole novel. With great cost, Jim pockets a small pencil and carries it with him throughout his odyssey, up to and beyond his reunion with his wife and daughter. Having earlier noted a narrative “as related” by a slave, Jim ruminates on telling his own story himself. The implication is that what we’re reading is what he’s written.

6. I was surprised that Everett chose to depart from so much of the narrative spine of Twain’s original. The opening third (maybe half) is Rashomon-like, but from then on there’s not even an attempt to make it “line up” with the Urtext; it’s simply Jim’s story, as written by him, an author rendering himself (his name) on the page.

I wondered more than once whether we are meant to suppose that Huck’s tale is the fiction, filled with some “stretchers”; or whether Jim’s is a kind of private fantasy, an escape from his life on the lam, or perhaps behind bars—a life-saving fiction enabled by the word. I even wondered whether the middle third of the book, or alternatively the final 10-20 pages, were a dream: after all, Jim’s dreams are regular features of the novel; the fiery coda to the story is abrupt and ecstatically triumphant; and the tree under which Jim first dreams on the island, after having been bitten by a snake, is the tree under which he awakes on the same island just before the climactic action occurs. There’s a there there, I’m convinced, but I’m not yet certain what I think it is.

7. I’ve not yet mentioned the brilliant conceit at the heart of the novel, namely the code-switching from slave dialect (in front of white people) to standard English (when whites are absent). Nothing to say here except that, in the hands of a lesser novelist, it would be painful to read, at best imperfectly executed; here, it is brilliant and effective. The trap doors are everywhere, and Everett doesn’t fall into any of them.

8. Except one. The only thing I disliked, even hated, was Everett’s decision—loudly made and consistently upheld—to rob his black characters of all faith, religiosity, and superstition. Every black character knows Christianity is false; superstition is a show for the white man; and atheism is the universal default setting, with one or two characters vaguely allowing that maybe something numinous is real.

To state my criticism as bluntly as I can, this is a failure of imagination on Everett’s part. The problem is not that the decision is ahistorical and anachronistic, though it is. It serves no purpose, unlike the linguistic code-switching. It flattens each and every black character into a single non-religious shape. Why? To what end? Sure, make some characters skeptical of the white man’s religion, of the white gospel or the white church or the white god; but what narrative or philosophical purpose is served by evacuating any and all religiosity as such from the inner lives of black slaves in the antebellum South?

As I read the novel, this felt like Everett projecting himself onto his characters—not just Jim but all of them. Making them all the same instead of vibrantly different is a very strange move, in my view. Moreover, the implication is both absurd and insulting. Am I really meant to nod along, as if it were simply and self-evidently true that black American religiosity in toto, Christian faith most of all, has been one great deception from the beginning—a trick pulled by white Americans on Africans too gullible to know better? Give me a break. Granted: I can imagine a book that does the heavy lifting to try to justify such a claim. James, unfortunately, is not that book.

9. A second shortcoming was the ending. I was caught off guard, underwhelmed, and, finally, unpersuaded. In just eight pages Jim finds an unknown plantation, discovers male slaves without being detected, sets them free, rallies them to his cause, finds the female slaves, including his wife and daughter, then sets fire to the fields, liberates all those held in bondage, shoots the master through the heart, and escapes north with his (apparently unharmed) family. Come again?

Sure, send Jim—James!—off into a sort of sunset, however qualified by the horrors of his time and place. But as a literary matter, the finale is rushed and unbelievable, with James himself as the deus ex machina. Oh well.

10. Best not to leave it there though. Everett’s other brilliant conceit is a character named Norman. Norman is a black member of a minstrel troupe who passes as white, including to Jim. (More than once Jim wonders if Norman is playing him. The self-doubt in his mind is a welcome repetition of frailty in a character who is otherwise heroic and self-possessed from the start.)

The best parts of James are Jim’s conversations: with Huck, with Enlightenment philosophers, and with Norman. And every scene with Jim as part of the troupe makes for excruciatingly compelling reading—laughing through covered eyes, cringing with anger and discomfort while letting out an involuntary snort. (By the way, painting Jim’s face white before applying blackface to the white paint called to mind another recent revisionist tale: Damon Lindelof’s Watchmen, in which Hooded Justice is revealed to be a gay black man—a survivor of the Tulsa Massacre, actually—who applies white around his eyes, dons an executioner’s mask, and fights injustice.)

In any case, because Norman’s character is so well drawn by Everett, his death is all the more bitter when it comes. And tragic, given that Jim must choose to save Norman or Huck, whose paternity we have guessed but do not yet know. One more reason to laud Everett for his wit, style, and wry perceptive slant.

In the end, I didn’t adore the book as much as others did, but I’m glad I read it, and I remain in awe at Everett’s accomplishment. Next time I’d just like to see him let his characters believe in God.

My latest: on Jordan Peterson, in CT

Yesterday Christianity Today published my review of Jordan Peterson’s new book, We Who Wrestle With God: Perceptions of the Divine. The title of the review is “Jordan Peterson Loves God’s Word. But What About God?” Early on I write the following:

The volume is, to put it mildly, an enormous undertaking—quite unlike Peterson’s self-help books. Running more than 200,000 words, it is a thematic and allegorical commentary on the law of Moses, especially Genesis and Exodus. It is gargantuan in every sense of the word: energizing and exhausting, brimming with ideas and asides, full of insightful connections and baffling conclusions, consistent in its viewpoint, maddening in its dodges, impressive in its ambition, and tedious, at times, in its sheer funereal solemnity.

Read the full thing here. For comparison, here is Rowan Williams in The Guardian with a rhetorically more negative but substantively similar assessment.

My latest: on providence and on the saints, both in CT

I have not one but two new pieces in Christianity Today this week (and another this coming Tuesday!).

The first is from the latest print issue; there it’s titled “Our Strength and Consolation,” online it’s called “The Consolation of Providence.” It’s a theological exploration of what the doctrine of providence teaches, what it’s there for, and what it’s not there for. It arose after political upheavals in July then was revised in October to be published after the election. It’s not really about politics; it is about God; it’s also about the uses and abuses of providence as a Christian hermeneutic for history (abusus non tollit usum).

The second piece is a review of Martin Scorsese’s new docuseries The Saints, which debuts in two days. I got to watch a couple episodes in advance—my first screeners! (I’m inching my way toward becoming what I’ve secretly always wanted to be: not a scholar but a film critic.) The title is “Saints Are Strange. Martin Scorsese Gets it.” And he does. Mostly I’m writing not about the technique or quality of the series but instead about the origins of sainthood in the early church and the question the saints pose to believers today.

As Tyler Cowen likes to say: self-recommending.

Stay tuned for Tuesday, when CT publishes my review of Jordan Peterson’s big new book on Genesis and Exodus, We Who Wrestle With God.

Graeber on making the world and Berry on attending to it

Rebecca Solnit on David Graeber (H/T Alan Jacobs):

That joy: maybe this is how everyone should feel about ideas and the ways that they open up or close off possibilities. The way that, as he wrote, “The ultimate hidden truth of the world is that it is something we make and could just as easily make differently.” If you truly believe that, if you perceive a world that is constructed according to certain assumptions and values, then you see that it can be changed, not least by changing those assumptions and values.

We have to recognise that ideas are tools that we wield – and with them, some power. David wanted to put these tools in everyone’s hands, or remind them that they are already there. Which is part of why he worked hard at – and succeeded in – writing in a style that wasn’t always simple but was always as clear and accessible as possible, given the material. Egalitarianism is a prose style, too. Our mutual friend the writer, film-maker, and debt abolitionist Astra Taylor texted him: “Re-reading Debt. You are such a damn good writer. A rare skill among lefties.” He texted back that August, a month before his demise: “Why thanks! Well at least I take care to do so – I call it ‘being nice to the reader,’ which is an extension of the politics, in a sense.”

Wendell Berry, “Writer and Region,” The Hudson Review (1987):

[Consider the concept] of artistic primacy or autonomy, in which it is assumed that no value is inherent in subjects, but that value is conferred upon subjects by the art and the attention of the artist. The subjects of world are only "raw material." As William Matthews writes in a recent article: "A poet beginning to make something need raw material, something to transform." For Marianne Moore, he says,

subject matter is not in itself important, except that it gives her the opportunity to speak about something that engages her passions. What is important instead is what she can discover to say.

And he concludes:

It is not, of course, the subject that is or isn't dull, but the quality of attention we do or do not pay to it, and the strength of our will to transform. Dull subjects are those we have failed.

This apparently assumes that for the animals and humans who are not fine artists, who have discovered nothing to say, the world is dull, which of course is not true. It assumes also that attention is of interest in itself, which is not true either. In fact, attention is of value only insofar as it is paid in the proper discharge of an obligation. To pay attention is to come into the presence of a subject. In one of its root senses, it is to "stretch toward" a subject, in a kind of aspiration. We speak of "paying attention" because of a correct perception that attention is owed—that, without our attention and our attending, our subjects, including ourselves, are endangered.

Mr. Matthews' trivializing of subjects in the interest of poetry industrializes the art. He is talking about an art oriented exclusively to production, like coal mining. Like an industrial entrepreneur, he regards the places and creatures and experiences of the world as "raw material," valueless until exploited.

The test of imagination, ultimately, is not the territory of art or the territory of the mind, but the territory underfoot. That is not to say that there is no territory of art or of the mind, but only that it is not a separate territory. It is not exempt either from the principles above it or from the country below it. It is a territory, then, that is subject to correction—by, among other things, paying attention. To remove it from the possibility of correction is finally to destroy art and thought, and the territory underfoot as well.

Ancient illiteracy

Literacy is not my area of expertise, whether ancient, medieval, modern, or contemporary. But I find myself talking about it a lot, so I thought I’d put down some markers here for the best resources on the topic, at least regarding mass illiteracy in those societies where Christianity took root early on.

Some relevant books include:

• Robert A. Kaster, Guardians of Language: The Grammarian and Society in Late Antiquity (University of California Press, 1988)

• William V. Harris, Ancient Literacy (Harvard University Press, 1989)

• Harry Y. Gamble, Books and Readers in the Early Church: A History of Early Christian Texts (Yale University Press, 1995)

• Peter W. Martens, Origen and Scripture: The Contours of the Exegetical Life (Oxford University Press, 2012)

• Carol Harrison, The Art of Listening in the Early Church (Oxford University Press, 2013)

Below are two long excerpts from Harrison and Gamble (the former is dependent on the latter); bolded emphases are mine.

First, Harrison (pp. 3–4):

In early Christianity … functional literacy was possessed by perhaps 10 per cent of the population. It was the preserve of a very small group of male citizens who were literally and metaphorically free: free (rather than enslaved) citizens, who had been educated in the seven liberal disciplines—those arts appropriate for free men (grammar, rhetoric, dialectic, arithmetic, music, geometry, astronomy). Having shared this homogenous education they were prepared for public service, and especially for those key jobs which required a facility in public speaking or rhetoric, and where the ability to teach, move, and persuade an audience of what they had to say was of the utmost importance: the law courts, the senate, the army, provincial administration. As we will see, this training meant that classical and early Christian culture was very much a rhetorical culture; one based on the practice and power of the spoken word. In this sense, we can speak not only of an oral culture, but of a much broader 'cultural' literacy, which those who possessed an ability to read and speak were instrumental in creating among a much larger, more diverse, less socially or gender exclusive group. The words of the formally educated—in teaching, law, politics, poetry, and (following the rise of Christianity) preaching and catechesis—were crucial in forming and perpetuating a shared world of memorial images, beliefs, expectations, and authorities, which together established what we have called a cultural literacy or a facility for “literate listening” among the illiterate majority in the ancient world. The unlettered were able to “read” and understand reality through the shared, often tacit, markers of complicit understanding, customary practice, and habitual ways of thinking created by speaking and hearing. It is this cultural literacy—the Christian culture which the writers and speakers we will be examining built up—rather than the formal literacy of the educated elite that will be out main focus of interest in examining how hearing formed, informed, and transformed the minds of early Christian listeners.

Next, Gamble (pp. 2–5):

To what extent were early Christians actually capable of writing and reading? The question has rarely been raised and has never been explored by historians of early Christianity. Biblical and patristic scholars have shared with classicists the sanguine assumption that literacy prevailed in antiquity on a scale roughly comparable to literacy in modern Western societies and so have imagined that early Christianity was broadly literate. This view has been tacitly disputed only by the early form critics, who aimed to study the oral transmission of early Christian traditions, and only for primitive Christianity, which they regarded as an illiterate or, at best, semiliterate folk culture that relied on oral tradition. But neither the view that early Christianity was broadly literate nor the claim that in its earliest phases it was illiterate is more than a hypothesis, and neither view has been systematically argued.

So the question remains unanswered: To what extent could early Christians read and write? This is a difficult question for several reasons. First, working definitions of literacy vary, and its indices are relative to its definition. If, despite the aid of empirical studies and statistical methods, it is hard to determine the types and extent of literacy in modern societies, it is far more difficult to do so for earlier periods, especially ancient ones. Literacy can refer to anything from signature literacy, which is the minimal ability to write one's name, to the capacity both to write lengthy texts and to read them with understanding. The problem of definition corresponds to the fact that "in reality there are infinite gradations of literacy for any written language," so that a useful definition would be neither too narrow nor too broad but would embrace a range of literacy and acknowledge its various types. Second, direct evidence about literacy is scarce for antiquity generally and scarcer still for early Christianity in particular. This problem may be remedied in part by attending to evidence about education and social class, for literacy has historically been a function of both. Comparative analysis is also useful. The diffusion of literacy in any society is known to depend on certain preconditions and stimuli, and we can infer the extent of literacy in ancient societies from data on the development and scope of literacy in early modern and modern societies by determining how far necessary conditions were satisfied. Third, the question of literacy in early Christianity is complicated by the fact that Christianity developed and spread in multi- cultural and multilingual settings and thus incorporated from the start a diversity that forbids the generalizations that are possible for more culturally and linguistically homogeneous groups. A Christian in first-century Palestine might have been thoroughly literate in Aramaic, largely literate in Hebrew, semiliterate in Greek, and illiterate in Latin, while a Christian in Rome in the late second century might have been literate in Latin and semiliterate in Greek but ignorant of Aramaic and Hebrew. So when it is said of a Christian holding the office of reader in the Egyptian church in the early fourth century that he "does not know letters," we should not suppose that he was illiterate, but rather that he was literate only in Coptic, not in Greek. Although the situation became progressively complex with the missionary expansion of Christianity into the provinces, the linguistic pluralism of Christianity was present from the outset insofar as Christianity originated in the Aramaic-speaking environment of Judaism while its earliest extant literature was in Greek.

The composition, circulation, and use of Christian writings in the early church are manifest proof of Christian literacy but say nothing in themselves about the extent of literacy within Christianity. The abundance of Christian literature from the first five centuries skews our perceptions and leads us to imagine that the production of so many books must betoken an extensive readership. Yet the literature that survives reflects the capacities and viewpoints of Christian literati, who cannot be taken to represent Christians generally. Even the wide use and high esteem for Christian writings among Christian communities do not indicate that the larger body of Christians could read, for in antiquity one could hear texts read even if one was unable to read, so that illiteracy was no bar to familiarity with Christian writings. Because neither the existence of Christian literature nor its broad circulation and use can reveal the extent or levels of literacy within Christianity, it is all the more important to have an idea of the nature and scope of literacy in ancient society generally, especially under the Roman empire.

In the most comprehensive study to date, William Harris has sought to discover the extent of literacy in the ancient world. Using a broad definition of literacy as the ability to read or write at any level, Harris draws on wide and varied evidence—explicit, circumstantial, and comparative—and takes some account of the types and the uses of literacy. He reaches a largely negative conclusion for Western antiquity generally: granting regional and temporal variations, throughout the entire period of classical Greek, Hellenistic, and Roman imperial civilization, the extent of literacy was about 10 percent and never exceeded 15 to 20 percent of the population as a whole. "The written culture of antiquity was in the main restricted to a privileged minority—though in some places it was a large minority—and it co-existed with elements of an oral culture." Although I have some reservations about the way Harris has posed and addressed the problem of literacy in the ancient world, his invaluable survey has made it clear that nothing remotely like mass literacy existed, nor could have existed, in Greco-Roman societies, because the forces and institutions required to foster it were absent. This recognition must stand as a firm check on the romantic and anachronistic tendencies that have too often guided scholarly assessments of literacy in antiquity.

If, as Harris recognizes, his conclusions "will be highly unpalatable to some classical scholars," they should be equally sobering to historians of early Christianity and its literature. There may be special factors in the Christian setting, but it cannot be supposed that the extent of literacy in the ancient church was any greater than that in the Greco-Roman society of which Christianity was a part. This is true in spite of the importance the early church accorded to religious texts, for acquaintance with the scriptures did not require that all or even most Christians be individually capable of reading them and does not imply that they were. It is also true should scholars reject the traditional view that early Christianity was a movement among the illiterate proletariat of the Roman Empire. In one of the most interesting developments in recent biblical scholarship, this conventional social description has been subjected to thorough criticism and revision. Studies of the social constituency of the early church have shown that, especially in its urban settings, Christianity attracted a socially diverse membership, representing a cross section of Roman society. Although it certainly included many from the lower socioeconomic levels, it was by no means a proletarian movement. Both the highest and the lowest strata of society were absent. The most typical members of the Christian groups were free craftspeople, artisans, and small traders, some of whom had attained a measure of affluence, owned houses and slaves, had the resources to travel, and were socially mobile. In terms of social status, Christian communities had a pyramidal shape rather like that of society at large. But since members of the upper classes were less numerous, high levels of literacy—as a function of social status or education, or both—would have been unusual. Still, moderate levels, such as were common among crafts-people and small business persons, may have been proportionately better represented within the early church than outside it. Yet these insights offer no reason to think that the extent of literacy of any kind among Christians was greater than in society at large. If anything, it was more limited. This means that not only the writing of Christian literature, but also the ability to read, criticize, and interpret it belonged to a small number of Christians in the first several centuries, ordinarily not more than about 10 percent in any given setting, and perhaps fewer in the many small and provincial congregations that were characteristic of early Christianity.

The greatest threat facing the church today

In my latest piece for Christianity Today, I propose the following thesis:

The greatest threat facing the church today is not atheism or secularism, scientism or legalism, racism or nationalism. The greatest threat facing the church today is digital technology.

That’s a controversial claim for many reasons, and I’m not dogmatic about it. It could be wrong. Moreover, it’s not self-evident that there is a meaningful hierarchy of threats facing the church. Perhaps there are a handful, all on the same level; or a variety that are incommensurable. Finally, a year or two back Alan Jacobs and Andy Crouch took me (ever so kindly) to task for a claim like this one, proposing instead that Mammon, not Digital, is the principal threat; and, further, that Digital is a wholly owned subsidiary of Mammon.

With those caveats in place, what are the candidates for this particular category? What are the most significant threats facing the church today? By what measures should we judge them? And which church, or churches, or regions and cultures of the world, should we have in mind?

The range of answers would at least need to be large enough and systemic enough to threaten millions of believers at once, and in insidious and powerful ways difficult to suss out and extinguish. In the excerpt above I mention some “isms” that people are worried about. Let’s expand that list:

• Capitalism

• Progressivism

• Liberalism

• Secularism

• Atheism

• Scientism

• Legalism

• Racism

• Nationalism

• Imperialism

• War-mongering

• Industrialism

• Environmentalism

• Utilitarianism

• Individualism

• Nihilism

• Anti-natalism

• Technophilia

• Thanatophilia (i.e., the culture of death)

The important thing to see is that the nature of the threat doesn’t consist in discrete events or even types of events—famine, plague, poverty, war. These are evils and cause mass suffering, but they aren’t threats to the church, at least not in the way I’m using the term. These and other trials the church will always have her. They’re part of the way of the world, the world we long for God to redeem. They aren’t systems or structures or ideologies perpetrated by human beings (except when they are—but they are rarely reducible to ideology or policies, for the simple reason that they are insoluble, perennial problems of finite, mortal existence in a fallen world). More to the point, in the midst of great suffering the church sometimes rises to the occasion in service, courage, and sacrifice. In the face of danger, damage, and pain the church can fail, falter, or flourish. But she can’t be what God calls her to be if she isn’t prepared—if, that is, her foundations are so eroded that she forgets her own reason for being.

It is the question of what enacts such erosion that I am naming with the language of “threat.” A major threat to the church would snuff out its life whether it was the best of times or the worst of times; it would silence the gospel before anyone could hear it or live it out at all.

Another way to put it would be to ask, as I did recently, what idol or idols a given generation or place or people worships, and why, and what counterfeit blessings it receives in return, and how its worship and what it receives in turn shape and form it in the image of said idol(s).

I’m far from dogmatic on this question, as I said at the outset. If I had to pick five, I suppose I would choose technophilia, individualism, utilitarianism, capitalism, and progressivism. But then, how many of these are birthed from or contained within liberalism, understood as the ideology developed and advanced in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries? Not to mention scientism, which arguably is concomitant with both liberalism and utilitarianism and, later, with the love of the future that finds concrete expression in progressivism and technophilia.

And is Mammon then the devilish father of them all? I leave the question open for others to chime in.

Update (seconds after pressing publish): I realize that I did not specify that I am here thinking exclusively about exogenous threats—if I were put on the spot about internal threats, I might say that church division is the single greatest threat to the church’s integrity and to the credibility of the gospel she proclaims to the world. Not in view here!

My latest: a plea to teach college students about God, in The Raised Hand

The Raised Hand is a Substack run by the Consortium of Christian Study Centers and edited by Daniel G. Hummel of the Lumen Center (Madison, WI) and Upper House (serving the University of Wisconsin-Madison). This school year they’ve been running monthly essays written by Christian academics asked to respond to the following prompt: “What does every university and college student need to learn?”

Yesterday they published my entry, titled “The Knowledge of God.” Here’s how it opens:

I am tempted to begin by saying that the first thing every university and college student needs to learn is how to read. But I’ve written about that plenty elsewhere, and you can’t throw a stone on the internet without hitting someone writing about the crisis of literacy on campus and in the public schools. Since I’m a theologian, moreover, there’s some low-hanging fruit (no pun intended) just waiting for me to reach up and take it.

Here's my real answer: If learning is about knowing, then every college student needs, through teaching, to come to know God. Another way to say this is that every student needs to learn how to pray.

Click here to read the whole thing. Thanks to Daniel for the invitation. And thanks to Sara Hendren, who already read and kindly boosted the piece. It was a fun one to write. Watch for a follow-up podcast conversation (sometime in the next week or two) that discusses the essay, also hosted by The Raised Hand.

My latest: a plea for screen-free church, in CT

I’m in Christianity Today arguing for screen-free church; here are the opening paragraphs:

Some years ago, author Hal Runkel trademarked a phrase that made his name: screamfree parenting. It’s a memorable term because it captures viscerally what so many moms and dads want: parenting without the volume turned up to 11—whether of our kids’ voices or our own.

I’d like to propose a similar phrase: screen-free church. It’s a vision for an approach to Christian community and especially public worship that critically assesses and largely eliminates the role of digital devices and surfaces in church life. But the prescription depends on a diagnosis, so let me start there.

Consider the following thesis: The greatest threat facing the church today is not atheism or secularism, scientism or legalism, racism or nationalism. The greatest threat facing the church today is digital technology.

Rest the rest here.

Links to a passel of podcast appearances (and a few reviews)

I’ve been on the podcast circuit the last couple months, hawking the two new books. I expect these appearances to continue for another month or so but then slowly disappear. I had no idea my sabbatical would really be about clearing my afternoons for book publicity, but there you go.

I usually remember to share links with friends and on Micro.blog, but I wanted to gather some of them here for folks who might be interested; I’ll follow links to pod with links to some reviews of either book that have been published this month. Plus a book launch here in Abilene at a local bookstore!

By the way, feel free to nag your favorite podcaster to have me on. I’m sure I’ll lose stamina by semester’s end, but it’s been so much more fun than I expected. Turns out that talking about God, church, theology, and your own writing with engaged strangers is fun! I’ve also gone on a few live radio shows that don’t record the audio for later—a rare instance of digital conversation not immediately disseminated in eternal form on the internet. Also also, more than once I’ve not realized the conversation would be captured in video form, for YouTube, hence my occasionally disheveled or casual appearance.

Last, I’ve either already recorded more podcasts or have plans to go on others that will be published in the coming months: Trevin Wax’s Reconstructing Faith, the Yale Center for Faith and Culture podcast, the Christian Chronicle Podcast, the Sacramentalists, and more. Perhaps Truth Over Tribe or Mere Fidelity, too—though I’m sure my bad takes and TV habits have led to Matt’s banning my non-Barthian, pseudo-recusant self for good.

Here’s the list for now:

• Eerdmans Author Interview – YouTube

• Crackers and Grape Juice – this isn’t available on Apple or Spotify yet, but a (sped up) version is available on Jason Micheli’s Substack Tamed Cynic

• Know Why – Apple | Spotify

• Mornings with Carmen LaBerge – Apple | Spotify

• Marc Jolicoeur (aka “Jolly Thoughts”) – Apple | Spotify | YouTube

• Gospel Simplicity – Apple | Spotify | YouTube

• That’ll Preach – Apple | Spotify | YouTube

• A History of Christian Theology – Apple | Spotify

And here are a handful of reviews:

• Christianity Today: Uche Anizor reviews Letters to a Future Saint

• Front Porch Republic: Alex Sosler reviews Letters to a Future Saint

• Fare Forward: Will Bryant reviews Letters to a Future Saint

• The Baptist Standard: Ben Faus reviews Letters to a Future Saint

• Christianity Today: Brett Vanderzee reviews The Church

• Holy Joys: Johnathan Arnold reviews The Church

• The Gospel Coalition: Samuel Parkison reviews The Church

• Joel Wentz: video review of The Church

Last but not least, if you’re here in Abilene, the local bookstore (co-founded by one of my former students!) Seven and One is having a launch party for both books this coming Tuesday. Here’s the flyer; come out and get a book signed!

It’s publication day! The Church: A Guide to the People of God is here!

It’s out! It’s here! Order a copy! My second book in the same month! There are no more to come anytime soon, so buy them up while you can!

Buy one for yourself, for your spouse, your children, your grandchildren, your nephews, your nieces, your godchildren, your parents, your pastor, your youth pastor, your college pastor, your professor—or all of them!

Don’t take my word for it—listen to Andrew Wilson, Stanley Hauerwas, Ephraim Radner, Karen Kilby, Matthew Levering, Karen Kilby, and Mark Kinzer, all of whom endorsed it. They can’t be wrong, can they?

The first review of the book came out last week in The Gospel Coaliation. Samuel Parkison writes:

Gentiles don’t become Jews, but they can become the true seed of Abraham through adoption (see Gal. 3:16). This deep awareness of the church’s Old Testament connections is a welcome emphasis. All the more so because of the undeniably beautiful prose in which East develops this idea. Indeed, The Church can just as easily be labeled a work of art as a work of theology. For example, his reflections on the typological resonances between Eve, Mary, Israel, and the church are nothing less than riveting.

He concludes: “This is a beautiful book. Taken in such a way, The Church should receive a wide and appreciative readership.”

Come on: There’s just no way a book that looks that good can be bad on the inside. By way of reminder, here is the book’s description:

You belong to God's family. But do you understand what that means?

The Bible tells the story of God and his people. But it is not merely history. It is our story. Abraham is our father. And Israel's freedom from slavery is ours.

Brad East traces the story of God's people, from father Abraham to the coming of Christ. He shows how we need the scope of the entire Bible to fully grasp the mystery of the church. The church is not a building but a body. It is not peripheral or optional in the life of faith. Rather, it is the very beating heart of God's story, where our needs and hopes are found.

Buy it wherever books are sold. And while you’re at it, buy the rest of the volumes in Lexham’s Christian Essentials series—The Apostles’ Creed by Ben Myers, The Lord’s Prayer by Wes Hill, The Ten Commandments and Baptism by Peter Leithart, and God’s Word by John Kleinig. Kleinig also authored the seventh in the series, due next March, called The Lord’s Supper. The last two should come out sometime in the next 12-24 months…

Get the whole set! Starting with mine! Today! Now! Ahorita! S'il vous plaît!

Thanks to all. This one’s a love letter to the church—both the Church and the churches that I have called home over the last four decades. I hope it shows.

My latest: a review of Rod Dreher, in CT

This morning Christianity Today published my review of Rod Dreher’s new book (out today) Living in Wonder: Finding Mystery and Meaning in a Secular Age. The title of the review is “Make Christianity Spooky Again”—just in time for Halloween!

Rod Dreher has some advice for you. First, put down your phone, close your laptop, and turn off the television. Next, begin to pray. Don’t pray just anything; recite the Jesus Prayer, preferably hundreds of times. Now you are positioned to begin your quest. The object of the quest is beauty. Seek to behold divine glory in the work of the Lord’s hands, whether in his creation, icons, or saints. If you have eyes to see, each of these is a mirror reflecting the light of Christ in a dark but not forsaken world.

In a word, you must become a “practical mystic.” If you don’t, you’ll lack the resilience to weather a godless, disenchanted culture. You and your children will lose hold of the faith. Like the apostle Peter, you will sink beneath the waters; unlike him, no one will lift you up. Or so argues Dreher in his new book, Living in Wonder: Finding Mystery and Meaning in a Secular Age. 

Just wait till we get to the aliens. Read the rest here.

What does an idol promise?

In a word, an idol promises blessing, but in general a false blessing or, at most, a mixed or penultimate blessing: either a poison pill, or a Faustian bargain, or a temporal good enjoyed for a limited time only.

I am tempted to say that an idol cannot bless, cannot impart gifts at all. But that cannot be true simpliciter. If, sometimes, demons lie behind idols, then it stands to reason that, as living beings, demons can exchange gifts for sacrifices, blessings for devotion. All these I will give you, if you will fall down and worship me. The false note is not that Satan’s offer is a lie without remainder but that, as always, it is intermixed with the truth; whether or not Satan can give what he offers, worship is due God alone regardless.

Others have done serious work on this topic, so I expect to be corrected in what I omit here. But on first thought, it seems to me that idols promise at least four concrete types of blessing, whether or not (like Satan) they can deliver on any of them:

1. Safety

2. Power

3. A future

4. A name

I almost included a fifth, “Beatitude,” but my instinct is that happiness is, in this context, a generic category that calls for concrete specification. In other words, each of these four types of blessing is a species of what makes humans happy, what they seek from the gods when they petition them, and so beatitude and blessing are two sides of the same coin.

What do I mean by these four variations on blessing?

By “safety,” I mean protection or deliverance from some opposing force or feared power beyond human control. Not all religion deals with salvation, but much of it does; furthermore, what one is saved from is not always known with exactitude, but remains formless and unnamed: whatever evil being or bad luck that keeps crops from growing, and rain from falling, and roofs from holding, and babies from being conceived, and marriages from lasting, and money from stretching, and so on.

By “power,” I mean the move from defense to offense. Here an idol offers not a protective wall but a weapon, not a shield but a sword, not preservation of life but the means of taking it. This is where, on an anthropologist’s account, religion becomes magic or superstition; what strength or force I lack by nature or circumstances, the gods provide in exchange for piety, prayer, or sacrifice.

By “a future,” I mean the promise of security and endurance beyond my life or the probable duration of my tribe—whether my household, clan, race, nation, or progeny. The biblical term is inheritance. This blessing is a ward against futility: the futility of finitude, time, and death, which threaten continuously to make a waste of every human life, not just your efforts or mine but all of them together.

By “a name,” I mean one’s reputation, or legacy, or heritage. Bound up with but not synonymous with one’s lineage and future descendants—the perpetual future of one’s nominal fame—this blessing increases one’s magnificence, elevates one’s personage, inflates the reverence and respect others owe the very mention of who you are and what you have done. The purported god promises a hallowing or halo effect, not just in years to come but here and now: People will recognize your name and [tremble with fear/shake with envy/give thanks/fall to their knees].

These, at least, are what came to mind yesterday morning, sitting in church. An idol promises its petitioners safety, power, a future, and/or a name. Unsurprisingly, these are echoes of God’s promises to Abraham and to his seed, the Messiah, and their fulfillment in Him and extension to all are in Him. Do idols make promises that God does not, or vice versa? Are there promises typical of false gods that I am missing? I welcome others’ thoughts.

The Three-Body Problem

I’ve not seen the show or read the sequels; I’ve read only the first book. It was originally serialized eighteen years ago, so not only am I not flying in with an urgent hot take, I assume this ground has been covered before. Nevertheless I wanted to share a few thoughts about Liu Cixin’s marvelous novel. (Spoilers galore, caveat lector.)

1. I was shocked by two things: first, how openly he writes about the madness and violence of the Cultural Revolution; and second, how spiritual the book is, from start to finish. I understand that Liu is an atheist, but it doesn’t show in the text; both the story and the way it’s told beg to be interpreted theologically.

2. A friend observed that the three-body problem itself—not least when it is pictured, as it is in the book, as three suns dancing around each other in an infinite, unpredictable, dangerous yet beautiful celestial choreography—is as obvious an image of the Trinity as you could imagine. Yet I’m not aware of ever having encountered it as an analogy or illustration before. Three-body perichoresis, anyone? Paging Saint Augustine.

3. I was worried, when Silent Spring appeared early, that the book would adopt an easy eco-radical, misanthropic posture. I was wrong. The narrative is bookended by the late appearance of another book, Peter Singer’s Animal Liberation, and its explicit citation alerts the reader to one of the major themes of the book: the way that sincere and legitimate concern for anthropogenic harms or, more broadly, for the misadventures and evils of humanity—its deep-rooted inhumanity, toward itself and all else—can so easily bleed into hatred for humanity as such, a hatred that justifies far greater inhumane activities than the original offenses that first troubled the conscience. Philanthropy curdles into misanthropy and finally terminates in betrayal of all one ever loved or held dear.

4. This process, which Liu narrates with precision and compassion, is itself a mirror reflection of every totalitarianism, Marxism-Leninism above all. The book, in other words, and whatever Liu’s intentions, is a science-fiction allegory of Chinese communism. Ye Wenjie, the catalyst of every major event in the book, goes from witness and victim of the brutalities of the Cultural Revolution to exhausted, listless, post-ideological grudging participant in the regime’s scientific research, to a desperate woman willing to place her hopes in the potential of radical transformation from beyond the capacities of decadent and immoral human civilization, to true-believing Trisolarian ideologist, liar, and remorseless murderer. When she finally meets some of the women who, decades prior, participated in the crazed struggle session and fatal beating of her father, and their soulless eyes and defensive words reveal only pain, not apology, she is looking at her own reflection. The chapter’s title, “No One Repents,” is the perfect summation of where total revolution ends, having begun with wide-eyed good intentions but now drawn, inexorably, to hatred, deceit, madness, and murder—with no regrets.

5. The name Mike Evans gives to his invented ideology—or “maybe you can call it a faith”—is “Pan-Species Communism.” Bingo. It is “a natural continuation of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights,” but in actuality (as he admits) of the French Revolution, which “we haven’t even take a step beyond.” The name of Evans’ ship is Judgment Day, and its single aim is “to invite Trisolarian civilization to reform human civilization, to curb human madness and evil, so that the Earth can once again become a harmonious, prosperous, sinless world.” The ETO’s goal, in short, is a return to Eden and a redemption from sin via otherworldly powers. Once their prayers are answered, they will usher humanity into a utopia, with help from a manufactured exogenous event (=alien invasion). As ever, the advent of utopia cannot come without secrecy, deception, and untold bloodshed. As ever, too, it is not the weak or the powerless who are the agents of utopia’s arrival: it is, as Liu insists over and over again, the elites of academia, technological industry, and the media. (“To betray the human race as a whole was unimaginable for [common people]. But intellectual elites were different: Most of them had already begun to consider issues from a perspective outside the human race. Human civilization had finally given birth to a strong force of alienation.”) These elites are the authors, the Red Vanguard, of a new and greater interstellar cultural revolution.

6. The vaguely named “Lord” heeded, obeyed, revered, and worshiped by members of the ETO is, it seems to me, a stand-in for Mao. An alien Mao, but Mao nonetheless—a conclusion supported by the late chapter offering a kind of window onto Trisolarian civilization and the role of the autocratic “princeps,” his consuls, their top-down control of the planet, and the immediate unsentimental “dehydration” and death penalty for anyone who makes even the smallest of mistakes.

7. Liu includes the following answer in response to an interrogator asking Ye Wenjie why she had such hope for the Trisolarians coming to earth: “If they can cross the distance between the stars to come to our world, their science must have developed to a very advanced stage. A society with such advanced science must also have more advanced moral standards.” To which the interrogator replies: “Do you think this conclusion you drew is scientific?” Ye: “…”

8. The single proton unfolded into three dimensions that swiftly reveals itself to be a kind of hyper-intelligent microcosmic civilization—a universal tao or logos embedded in all the logoi of creation, down to subatomic particles—that in turn seeks to destroy Trisolaris but is destroyed first … let’s just say I didn’t expect that scene, and I found it both frightening and sublime. Liu is a theologian, I’m telling you!

9. I’m well aware that Liu “believes in science” and that one reading of this book is that we ought to place our faith in scientific knowledge and development by using it, with true philanthropy, to benefit the whole human race (while remaining pessimistic and prepared for extraterrestrial visitors). This is not the only reading the book is patient of, though, and it’s not mine.

10. I’m eager to read the next two books. I’m also told that Ken Liu’s canonical books within the same world and story are worth reading. I hear that the Netflix adaptation is excellent, but a part of me wants to hold onto the text as text for a while before I allow Benioff and Weiss to replace my imagination with theirs. I’m particularly interested to learn why the Trisolarians don’t use the sophon to make all human beings simply go insane, as Wang Miao almost does within mere hours of seeing the countdown appear in his field of vision. Wouldn’t this remove the problem of human civilization and self-defense a full four centuries before the Trisolarians’ arrival? Just drive everyone mad, let them all die (like the “bugs” they are), then inherit the earth circa AD 2450? What am I missing?

To be clear, I’m sure it’s me. This is a brilliant novelist who deserves every benefit of the doubt. I can’t wait to keep reading.

It’s publication day! Letters to a Future Saint available now!

It’s out! It’s here! Order a copy! For you, your spouse, your children, your grandchildren, your nephews, your nieces, your godchildren, your parents, your pastor, your youth pastor, your college pastor, your professor—or all of them!

It’s called Letters to a Future Saint: Foundations of Faith for the Spiritually Hungry. It’s a catechism for believers on the way. It’s meat for anyone tired of empty calories. It’s ninety-three bite-size nuggets for the spiritually famished. It’s the good stuff of the faith for those sincerely seeking Jesus but unsure how to do so in today’s world.

It comes recommended by an array of Christian pastors, writers, and scholars from a variety of ecclesial backgrounds: Rowan Williams, Tish Harrison Warren, Russell Moore, Miroslav Volf, Alan Jacobs, Stanley Hauerwas, and Matthew Levering! Bishops and priests, scholars and theologians, Catholics and Baptists and Anglicans—heed their blurbs! Order the book today!

Or listen to Uche Anizor, who reviewed the book for Christianity Today. Or to Alex Sosler, who reviewed it for Front Porch Republic. Or to your conscience, which is telling you: Go ahead, you’ll thank me later.

Actual thanks, in all sincerity, to all who have done so or will do so and to those who, further, persevere in reading it and find something of use in it. If even one curious soul is pointed to Christ by it, then it was worth it and then some. Soli Deo Gloria.

My latest: on fantasy and theology in The Christian Century

In the latest issue of The Christian Century I have an essay on the divine comedy of epic fantasy, or as the editors titled it, “Gods Who Make Worlds.” It’s ostensibly a review of the final volume of Tad Williams’s quartet The Last King of Osten Ard, which is itself a sequel series to the original trilogy Memory, Sorrow, and Thorn—not to mention a prequel, a bridge novel, and a companion volume—for a total of ten books in this world. The name of that world is Osten Ard, and I use the glories of Osten Ard to think aloud about epic fantasy as a genre and its relationship to Christian faith.

Here are the opening paragraphs:

Three decades ago, Tad Williams published the final volume in the best epic fantasy trilogy written in English since The Lord of the Rings. Called Memory, Sorrow, and Thorn, the series ran from 1988 to 1993 and totaled over a million words. Half of those words came in the final book—one of the longest books ever to make it onto the New York Times bestseller list.

There is no overselling the significance of Williams’s achievement: the biggest names in fantasy in the intervening decades all acknowledge his influence, from Brandon Sanderson to Patrick Rothfuss to Game of Thrones creator George R. R. Martin. (There is no Westeros without Osten Ard, Williams’s fictional world.) Yet, although Williams is hyper-prolific and widely admired, he has never had the success or name recognition of these other authors. No streaming service has yet broken the bank in adapting Williams’s magnum opus.

Why have these books sold well but never set the world on fire?

Three reasons come to mind…

Click here to read the rest. Thanks again to The Christian Century for letting me write about these books and this topic—a big ask, given my lack of qualifications.

Boys and video games in different stages of life

Update: I’m told this entire post is the subject of Mere Fidelity’s August 27 episode with Andy Crouch (called “Put Social Media in Its Place”). Hand over heart, I had not listened to it when I wrote this piece and still have not listened to it. The relevant question now is whether my friend had listened to it or whether, more intriguingly, he is the next Andy Crouch. My bet is on the latter.

*

A friend made a remark the other day that I want to expand on here.

He commented that there’s an important difference between teenage girls’ relationship to social media, on one hand, and teenage boys’ relationship to video games, on the other. In the former case, social media both creates and exacerbates all kinds of antisocial problems: friend drama, FOMO, anxiety, depression, loneliness, eating disorders, body image issues, lack of self-esteem, and the rest. In the latter case, there appears to be very little of this sort of thing; the effects are, on the whole, neutral or benign, especially if the boys in question have a relatively healthy home life and a diverse “activities” portfolio: sports, reading, board games, outdoor exploration, camping, rough-housing, sleepovers, church, school, youth group, and more.

At the same time, much of our public discourse about technology, gender, and social ills focuses—rightly—on video games. Why?

Two reasons. First, video games can absolutely become an addiction, a mono-activity that swallows up all the other options in the healthy array listed above (together, that is, with YouTube and pornography). Second, video games’ antisocial effects play out in disordered male lives not primarily in preteen and teenaged lives, but when boys grow up: in their twenties and thirties.

As a matter of fact, my friend pointed out, so far as he could tell, his sons’ gaming habits were embedded in and reinforced a broadly healthy network of social relationships. It didn’t pull them out of friendship and face-to-face activities but further into them.

I think he’s right. It’s not something I’d considered in depth before, though, so a few thoughts.

First, this resonates with my own experience. I played Nintendo, Sega, and PlayStation from early elementary through the end of high school, and they were for the most part heavily social experiences. Even when the game was one-player, I either played while buddies watched (and vice versa—always providing running commentary) or consulted constantly with friends who were also playing the same game at the same time (The Ocarina of Time, say, or Metal Gear Solid). I even subscribed to multiple gaming magazines, which means that my gaming habits encouraged the regular reading of print media!

Second, this view resonates with my observations of my own boys. What they want to do above all is play with their friends, whether their friends are in the room (Smash Bros or Gang Beasts) or online (Fortnite or … Fortnite). When they see their friends, they talk about when they played together the day before and immediately plan times to play with one another later that day or weekend. When they have birthday parties, they all congregate in the same room and find ways to play (Deo volente) for hours on end. I recall a middle school birthday party when I did the same thing, with a house set up with multiple TVs and a round robin NFL Blitz tournament. Again: social, not antisocial.

Third, the key component here is that gaming time isn’t unlimited and doesn’t descend into the dark abyss of late nights and endless, lonely play. You don’t have to tell me that there are households with no limits on screen time. But assuming there are limits, and the limits are real, and the boys in question really do spend much or most of their waking hours not gaming but swimming and jumping on the trampoline and playing Risk and reading epic fantasy and playing foosball and climbing trees and riding bikes around the neighborhood and walking the dog and shooting hoops and, and, and … then I’m just not that worried about the presence of video games in the lives of boys in middle and high school.

Fourth, however, life doesn’t end at eighteen or twenty-two. What my friend’s remark also brought to mind was that the challenge of video games and young men in our culture is not pre- but post-graduation (whether graduation here refers to high school or college). That doesn’t mean that no adult man in his twenties or thirties should play video games—although, cards on the table, I will admit that I’ve not seriously played a video game since my freshman year of college. (I recall it fondly: Beating Half-Life 2 over the Christmas break. Probably the only thing that could ever pull me out of retirement would be a third entry finally getting made.) That was a full twenty years ago. I have buddies who’ve continued gaming to various degrees since college, but I can’t relate. It lost its luster a long time ago.

So with that caveat in place, it seems clear to me that the pressing social question for (present and future) adult men in Gen Z and Gen Alpha is what role, if any, video games should play in their lives. In my perfect world it would be nil, minus the occasional nostalgic afternoon or competition with one’s nephews, nieces, and children. Since that’s not this world, the practical question becomes: What is healthy gaming for adult men in the 2020s and 2030s? What types of game? Within what limits? And do the answers change based on the man’s employment, marital, or paternal status?

I’m not in a position to give universal, much less concrete, answers, except that my suggested limits would be predictably strict. More to the point, if it is true that the more one games the less likely one is to eat well, exercise, have good friends, go to church, find a spouse, and/or have and raise children in the home, then it would seem obvious that as a society we should desire the least gaming possible for men in their twenties and thirties. Gaming as a child and teenager and even young adult would, by the time boys leave the home, go the way of bunk beds and cooties, curfews and driver’s permits. The axiom would be Pauline: When I was a child I gamed like a child; when I became a man, I put away childish things.

That rhetoric is strong, I admit; I freely allow that, as a non-gamer, I’m biased against gaming in a way that may not let me see how it could find a small but meaningful role in a balanced adult life. If it can, the onus is on those who think so to make the case and display it in their lives. At the moment, video games and adult men don’t mix well, for themselves or for the rest of society.

More screens, more distractions; fewer screens, fewer distractions

It’s a simple rule, but I repeat it here because it is difficult to internalize and even more difficult to put into practice, whatever one’s context:

In any given physical space, the more screens that are present, the more distractions there will be for people inhabiting that space; whereas the fewer screens, the fewer distractions.

So far as I can tell, this principle is always and everywhere true, including in places where screens are the point, like a sports bar. No one would study for the LSAT in a sports bar: it’s too distracting, too noisy, too busy. It’s built to over-stimulate. Indeed, a football fan who cared about only one game featuring one team would not spend his Sunday afternoon in a sports bar with a dozen games on simultaneously, because it would prove too difficult to focus on the one thing of interest to him.

Now consider other social spaces: a coffee shop, a classroom, a living room, a sanctuary, a monastery. How are these spaces usually filled? Given their ends, how should they be filled?

The latter question answers itself. This is why, for example, I do not permit use of screens when I teach in a college classroom. Phones, tablets, and laptops are in bags or pockets. In the past I have used a single projector screen for slides, especially for larger survey/lecture courses, but for the most part, even with class sizes of 40 or 50 or 60, I don’t use a screen at all, just markers and a whiteboard. Unquestionably the presence of personal screens open on desks is a massive distraction not only to their owners but to anyone around them. And because distractions are obstacles to learning, I eliminate the distractions.

The same goes for our homes and our churches.

At the outer limit, our homes would lack screens altogether. I know there are folks who do this, but it’s a rare exception to the rule. (Actually, I’m not sure if I have ever personally known someone whose home is 100% devoid of any screen of any kind.) So assuming there will be screens of some kind, how should they be arranged in a home?

1. There should be numerous spaces that lack a permanent screen.

2. There should be numerous spaces in which, by rule or norm, portable screens are unwelcome.

3. There should be focal spaces organized around some object (fireplace, kitchen island, couch and coffee table) or activity (cooking, reading, playing piano) that are ordinarily or always screen-free.

4. What screens there are should require some friction to use, i.e., a conscious and active rather than passive decision to turn them on or or engage with them.

5. Fewer screens overall and fewer screens in any given space will conduce to fewer distractions, on one hand, and greater likelihood of shared or common screen usage, on the other. (I.e., watching a movie together as a family rather than adults and children on separate devices doing their own thing.)

There is more to say, but for those interested I’m mostly just repackaging the advice of Andy Crouch and Albert Borgmann. Now to church.

There are a few ways that screens can invade the space of public worship:

1. Large screens “up front” that display words, images, videos, or live recording of whatever is happening “on stage” (=pastor, sermon, communion, music).

2. Small screens, whether tablets or smartphones, out and visible and in active usage by ministers and others leading the congregation in worship.

3. Small screens, typically smartphones, in the pockets and laps of folks in the pews.

Let me put it bluntly: It’s often said that Sunday morning is the most segregated hour in America. In a different vein, it’s equally true that Sunday morning may now be the most distracted hour in America.

Why? Because screens are everywhere! Not, to be sure, in every church. The higher liturgical traditions have preserved a liturgical celebration often, though not always, free of screen colonization. Yet even there parishioners still by and large bring their screens in with them.

Certainly for low-church forms of worship, screens are everywhere. And the more screens, the more distractions. Which means that, for many churches, distraction appears to be part of the point. Those attending are meant, in a twist on T. S. Eliot’s phrase, to be distracted from distraction by distraction—that is, to be distracted from bad distraction (fantasy football, Instagram, online shopping) by good distraction (cranked-up CCM, high production videos, Bible apps). It is unthinkable, on this view, to imagine worshiping on a Sunday morning in a screen-free environment. Yet a screen-free space would be a distraction-free space, one designed precisely to free the attention—the literal eyeballs—of those gathered to focus on the one thing they came for: God.

I hope to write a full essay on this soon for Christianity Today, laying out a practical vision for screen-free worship. For now I just want to propose it as an ideal we should all agree on. Ministers should not use phones while leading worship nor should they invite parishioners to open the Bible “on their apps.” Do you know what said parishioners will do when so invited? They may or may not open their Bible app. They will absolutely find their eyes diverted to a text message, an email, or a social media update. And at once you will have lost them—either for a few minutes or for good.

The best possible thing for public Christian worship in twenty-first century America would be the banishment of all screens from the sanctuary. Practically speaking, it would look like leaders modeling and then inviting those who attend to leave their phones at home, in their cars, or in cell phone lockers (the way K–12 schools are increasingly doing).

I’m well aware that this couldn’t happen overnight, and that there are reasonable exceptions for certain people to have a phone on them (doctors on call, police officers, parents of children with special needs). But hard cases make bad law. The normative vision should be clear and universally shared. The liturgy is a place for ordering our attention, the eyes of the heart, on what we cannot see but nevertheless gain a glimpse of when we hear the word of the Lord and see and smell and taste the signs of bread and wine on the Lord’s table. We therefore should not intentionally encourage the proliferation of distractions in this setting nor stand by and watch it happen, as if the design of public space were out of our hands.

More screens, more distractions; fewer screens, fewer distractions: the saying is sure. Let’s put it into practice.

My latest: on the social effects of church, in CT

In 2016 David Brooks gave an address at the 40th Anniversary Celebration of the Council for Christian Colleges and Universities. Titled “The Cultural Value of Christian Higher Education,” the talk had a simple thesis: What every college in America is looking for can already be found at Christian universities across the country. In his own words:

You guys are the avant-garde of 21st century culture. You have what everybody else is desperate to have: a way of talking about and educating the human person in a way that integrates faith, emotion and intellect. You have a recipe to nurture human beings who have a devoted heart, a courageous mind and a purposeful soul. Almost no other set of institutions in American society has that, and everyone wants it. From my point of view, you’re ahead of everybody else and have the potential to influence American culture in a way that could be magnificent.

I happen to think he’s right about that, but in my latest column for Christianity Today, I use Brook’s remarks as a point of departure for thinking about another beleaguered American institution: the local church.

The piece is called “Worship Together or Bowl Alone”—a great title, kudos to Bonnie Kristian. Here’s an excerpt:

That’s why the instinct to meet our culture’s critique or ignorance of the church by downplaying its import is so misguided. Church is not an optional add-on to Christian faith. It is how we learn to be human as God intended. Indeed, it makes possible truly human life before God. 

Church has what we need, the purpose and community and cultivation of virtue for which the rest of our culture is grasping in the dark. It’s right here. It’s nothing to be coy or embarrassed about. It’s nothing to apologize for. Church is what people are hungering for, even if they don’t realize it. Sometimes we ourselves don’t realize it.

Click here to read the rest.