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.

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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.

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.

My latest: an essay and response in Restoration Quarterly

An essay of mine is featured in the latest issue of Restoration Quarterly (66:3). In fact, the entire issue is organized around it. Let me give a little back story.

Two years ago on the blog I wrote a series of reflections on the past, present, and future of churches of Christ. They got a lot of traction around this neck of the woods, and James Thompson, the editor of RQ, asked me to synthesize and elaborate the posts into a single essay. The result is called “Churches of Christ: Once Catholic, Now Evangelical” (pp. 133–44). It’s preceded by a brief reflection by Thompson on the “almost Catholic” ecclesiology of churches of Christ (pp. 129–32), then followed by three replies:

• “A Response to Brad East” by Wendell Willis (pp. 145–51)

• “Churches of Christ: Always Evangelical, Still Catholic” by John Mark Hicks (pp. 152–58)

• “A Response to Brad East” by Paul Watson (pp. 159–62)

I in turn wrote a response to the responses (pp. 163–69). All around a good time was had by all. My response is followed by a proper scholarly article on the New Testament (authored, again, by Thompson), then book reviews. As it happens, a review of my own book, The Church’s Book: Theology of Scripture in Ecclesial Context, is the first of this section.

It sort of feels like the Brad East Issue. I’m honored, humbled, and a little embarrassed.

Nevertheless it was a pleasure to engage such serious and pressing issues in a public forum with such thoughtful and generous thinkers and churchmen. My only regret is that while RQ does have a website it doesn’t have an obvious or convenient way to access current issues online or in digital form. Back issues are catalogued in ATLA but this one won’t be there for a while, at least from what I can tell.

I’m not in a position to share the whole issue with folks, but if you email me, I’d be willing to share a PDF of my essay and response. I’ll be curious to hear what folks make of my case, both regarding the absorption of churches of Christ by and into American Evangelicalism and regarding the precipitous institutional decline of the movement. The tone of the pieces isn’t doom and gloom, but it is quite sober and, if readers take it seriously, sobering. Which it should be, if I’m right.

All together now: social media is bad for reading

We don’t have to mince words. We don’t have to pretend. We don’t have to qualify our claims. We don’t have to worry about insulting the youths. We don’t have to keep mum until the latest data comes in.

Social media, in all its forms, is bad for reading.

It’s bad for reading habits, meaning when you’re on social media you’re not reading a book. It’s bad for reading attention, meaning it shrinks your ability to focus for sustained periods of time while reading. It’s bad for reading desires, meaning it makes the idea of sitting down with a book, away from screens and images and videos and sounds, seem dreadfully boring. It’s bad for reading style, meaning what literacy you retain while living on social media is trained to like all the wrong things and to seek more of the same. It’s bad for reading ends, meaning you’re less likely to read for pleasure and more likely to read for strictly utilitarian reasons (including, for example, promotional deals and influencer prizes and so on). It’s bad for reading reinforcement, meaning like begets like, and inserting social media into the feedback loop of reading means ever more of the former and ever less of the latter. It’s bad for reading learning, meaning your inability to focus on dense, lengthy reading is an educational handicap: you quite literally will know less as a result. It’s bad for reading horizons, meaning the scope of what you do read, if you read at all, will not stretch across continents, cultures, and centuries but will be limited to the here and now, (at most) the latest faux highbrow novel or self-help bilge promoted by the newest hip influencers; social media–inflected “reading” is definitionally myopic: anti-“diverse” on principle. Finally, social media is bad for reading imitation, meaning it is bad for writing, because reading good writing is the only sure path to learning to write well oneself. Every single writing tic learned from social media is bad, and you can spot all of them a mile away.

None of this is new. None of it is groundbreaking. None of it is rocket science. We all know it. Educators do. Academics do. Parents do. As do members of Gen Z. My students don’t defend themselves to me; they don’t stick up for digital nativity and the wisdom and character produced by TikTok or Instagram over reading books. I’ve had students who tell me, approaching graduation, that they have never read a single book for pleasure in their lives. Others have confessed that they found a way to avoid reading a book cover to cover entirely, even as they got B’s in high school and college. They’re not proud of this. Neither are they embarrassed. It just is what it is.

Those of us who see this and are concerned by it do not have to apologize for it. We don’t have to worry about being, or being accused of being, Luddites. We’re not making this up. We’re not shaking our canes at the kids on the lawn. We’re not ageist or classist or generation-ist or any other nonsensical application of actual prejudices.

The problem is real. It’s not the only one, but it’s pressing. Social media is bad in general, it’s certainly bad for young people, and it’s unquestionably, demonstrably, and devastatingly bad for reading.

The question is not whether it’s a problem. The question is what to do about it.

Church leadership by generation

A friend of mine has a pet theory about church leadership—in this case, leadership within southern/Bible Belt low-church or evangelical settings. Nothing ground-breaking, but useful as a rule of thumb, especially for folks in ministry, I think.

It depends on generational markers, so let’s say these are roughly the four main groups that make up the church today, whether pastors or laity:

• Baby Boomers (60+)

• Gen X (mid-4os to late 50s)

• Millennial (late 20s to early 40s)

• Gen Z (under 25yo)

Southern Christian Boomers are different than the popular image of American Boomers in general. They weren’t at Woodstock. They weren’t hippies. They weren’t even disenchanted by Nixon and Watergate and public institutions of authority the way “the culture” was.

Instead, they were upstanding family men with jobs, wives, and kids. They went to church, and the churches they attended were theologically conservative, doctrinally firm, and morally rigorous. They knew what they believed, and what they believed was the truth. That’s the sort of household and spiritual environment their children, belonging to Gen X, were raised in.

Something happened to both these Boomers and their adult children. What happened was a sort of delayed social and spiritual shock. The Gen X kids found themselves beset by doubts that called into question the certainty of their fathers. Their fathers, in turn, unlearned their once certain confidence. Both, together, began to undertake the journey of faith less as a roadmap with all the landmarks known in advance and more as an open-ended wandering. Doubt became a virtue, not a vice. Wrestling with the unknown was an invitation and a compliment. Living with unanswered questions named the reality of Christian faith for everyone, whether or not they wanted to admit it. “We don’t know” was the pastoral watchword: an admission of humility before the great mystery of God.

There was good reason for this. The unquestioned certainties of the 1970s and ’80s turned out to be all too questionable, and an environment in which everything was known in advance and nothing was open to discussion was stifling, cramped, suffocating. A lot of people got hurt. Those Gen X–ers who remained in the church needed to avoid the mistakes of their fathers, lest their own children fall away from the faith. Crippling conformity was not the way.

So once Gen X began to assumed leadership in the church, around two decades ago, the two generations have largely worked in tandem: Boomers unlearning their hard-edged sectarian self-assurance, Gen X helping them toward a kinder, gentler pastoral presence. Both leading the church toward “accompaniment,” self-critique, theological modesty, and a well-developed allergy toward dogmatism and legalism both.

So far, so descriptive. I’m thinking of folks from about 45 years old to about 75 years old. I hope my portrait sounds sympathetic. It’s meant to be! There’s a reason why these folks are where they are.

Here’s the catch. Where the church is today is not where the church was in the 1980s, 1990s, or 2000s. Neither Millennials nor (especially) Gen Z grew up in sweltering swamps of dogmatic certitude. They certainly don’t—for the most part; I’m generalizing—inhabit those spaces at the moment. On the contrary. Granted, some older Millennials may be caught up in deconstruction. But most are treading water. They’re not firmly planted in gospel soil, however arid. They’re floating, tossed to and fro by the slightest of waves, the smallest of breezes.

And what do they see in their Gen X and Boomer leaders? What they see is people—men, mostly—fighting the last generation’s battle. They see church leaders who still spy fundamentalists around every corner. But that’s not what’s threatening young believers today. It’s an absolute lack of anything solid or firm to hold onto. It’s shifting sand beneath their feet. It’s nothing at all worth living for, much less dying for.

Gen Z and Millennial Christians aren’t leaving church because there’s too much. They’re leaving because there’s too little. Too little doctrine, too little dogma, too little firm and unbending teaching about the essential matters of God and faith, Christ and gospel, Spirit and Scripture, word and sacrament. What then shall we do? and How now shall we live? are the driving questions. “We don’t know” doesn’t cut it. “We don’t know” means they’re headed for the exits.

At any rate, that’s my friend’s theory. Boomer and Gen X church leaders are stuck in the past. The problems they battled and conquered in their younger days drive how they approach the problems facing believers today. But the problems are different. Millennial and especially Gen Z pastors understand this. They know young Christians are drowning. They know they need to throw them a lifeline. That lifeline must be sturdy enough to save; must be built to float, no matter how choppy the seas.