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.

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.

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.

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.

My latest: on the late Albert Borgmann, in HHR

This morning The Hedgehog Review published an essay of mine called “The Gift of Reality.” It’s an extended introduction to and exposition of the life and writings of the late Albert Borgmann, including a review of his last book, published posthumously last January. Here’s a sample paragraph from the middle of the piece:

At the same time, while Borgmann may have been a critic of liberalism, he argued that “it should be corrected and completed rather than abandoned.” In this he reads as a less polemical Christopher Lasch or Wendell Berry, fellow democrats whose political vision—consisting among other things of family, fidelity, fortitude, piety, honor, honest work, local community, neighborliness, and thrift—is likewise invested in preserving and respecting reality. Such a vision is simultaneously homeless on the national stage and the richest fruit of the American political tradition.

Click here to read the whole thing.

My latest: on pastors’ reading habits, in Sapientia

I’ve got an essay in Sapientia called “The Reading Lives of Pastors.” The prompt was to reflect on Pope Francis’s “Letter on the Role of Literature in Formation” and, more broadly, on why pastors should (if they should) include fiction and poetry as part of their regular reading diet. After clarifying at the outset that literature does not per se make you a better person, I write the following:

The fact of literature is in general a human good, in the sense that it is a sign of an advanced culture: symbol, narrative, myth, technology, writing, literacy, communication—these are to be celebrated, granting their capacity to be bent to any number of ends. But the act of wide reading in literature in and of itself entails nothing at all about a person. The voracious reader may be either selfish or selfless, vain or humble, vicious or virtuous, religious or secular, joyful or melancholy, full of life or obsessed with death, a treasured friend or a despised enemy, a cosmopolitan or a provincial, a sage or a boor. Hitler and Stalin may not have been men of letters, but they had men of letters for followers and apologists. The list of wicked writers and artists—who abused women, abandoned children, and passed in silence over the suffering of countless victims—is too long to recount.

It is a difficult lesson to accept, but learning and goodness are not synonymous or coterminous. More of one does not necessarily lead to more of the other. They are neither directly nor inversely related. The desire for a cleaner, clearer correspondence between them is understandable, but utterly belied by the facts. Ordinary experience is a trustworthy teacher: Are the holiest people you know the smartest, the best educated, the most widely read?

Click here to read the whole thing.

Writing without a platform

Is it possible? That’s what I’m wondering.

I can be a moralistic scold about social media—I’m aware. I’m also aware that, for many writers, social media feels like the one and only way to reach, much less build, an audience; to make a name for oneself in a time when anyone on earth can publish millions of words and just about no one pays for the privilege to read them.

I myself, for a time, benefited from social media. I was on Twitter from 2013 to 2022, with maximal usage coming in the span of years from 2015 to 2020. (Those dates are … interesting.) As it happens, I was ABD and dissertating from fall 2014 through spring 2017, then a newly hired professor starting later that fall. In other words, my Twitter usage peaked when (a) I was spending many hours daily staring at a laptop screen and (b) I was trying to get my life as a junior scholar and public writer off the ground. I got a handful of early writing gigs through Twitter and I made many more personal contacts through it, some of whom I still count as friends, colleagues, or nodes in my professional network.

That’s a long way of saying: I don’t have the luxury of strutting around on the moral high ground, looking down at folks building their platforms through X, IG, Substack, and YouTube. I did the very same thing, albeit to a lesser degree, and it undeniably helped my career, above all my career as a writer.

Hence the question. Is it possible, today, to write, to be a writer, without a platform?

A few thoughts.

First, credentials play a role. I was just telling an editor the other day that the academy is a backdoor into publishing books. My PhD opens doors. That’s a fact. Weirdly enough, since academic books aren’t bestsellers, it’s easier for me to creep my way into popular publishing than it is for someone who only wants to write popular books, since he or she has to make good from the jump. Or before the jump, in fact, through amassing followers and fans via “socials.”

Second, gender plays a role. I’ve written about this before, but the politics of women Christian writers was already complex before the rise of the internet and social media. Now it’s positively Byzantine. If you have a PhD, that’s one thing. If you’re employed in the industry—at a magazine, say, or at a publishing house—that’s another. If you just want to be a writer, though, your options for finding an audience and outlets are limited. If, further, you do not have a clear denominational or political tribe; and if, still further, you are not a culture warrior; and if, still further, you are not willing to post pictures of and share private information about your husband and children (assuming that you have them and that they are photogenic)—the circle just keeps getting narrower and narrower. I know exactly one contemporary female Christian writer who “broke through” without credentials, institutional home, tribal affiliation, or online platform, including Twitter. Otherwise one or more of these factors invariably determine the likelihood not only of getting written work into the world but of a sufficiently large audience finding it.

Third, expectations play a role. Almost no one makes an actual full-time living as a writer. Outside of those rare authors whose names we all know and who sell millions of books, writers either have a day job, or depend on a spouse’s income, or hustle like a maniac, or fundraise/crowdfund, or hit the speaker circuit, or live hand to mouth as a starving artist. Or they did one or more of these things for many years, probably decades, before reaching a threshold to just be able to pay their bills. This is not unjust. It’s just the way it is, and ever was it thus. Anger or resentment at lack of remuneration for the writing life is both a professional nonstarter and the product of a fantasy. A writer’s first rule is to live in the real world, and the real world doesn’t care about writers or what they write. The sooner one learns that, the sooner one can get started with what matters: the writing! Isn’t that what we’d be doing anyway, even if we knew we’d never get paid a dime?

Finally, the industry plays a role. This is the part where we get to complain. It’s common knowledge that trade presses use social media metrics as a gatekeeping mechanism. In plain speech, they ask first-time authors how many followers they have. If the answer is “a few thousand,” then they say “thanks for playing” and politely shut the door. If the answer is “zilch, because I’m not on social media,” then they laugh hysterically before slamming the door. (You can still hear them on the other side, doubled over in tears.) This is, it goes without saying, a new phenomenon, since social media is a new phenomenon. And writers eager to break through have followed these incentives to their logical conclusion: drumming up an online following by every means possible: Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, TikTok, LinkedIn, YouTube, Spotify, Substack, Threads—you name it, they’re there. Posting, re-posting, replying, commenting, replying again, sharing, re-sharing, streaming, recording in the car, recording on the run, recording with the kids, walk and talks, live tweets, and more. Always on, extremely online, creating memes, mocking memes, revising memes: keeping the content coming, letting the spice flow. And eventually, with a pinch of success come subscription deals, and after these come sponsorships, and after these come ads. And before you know it, you’re celebrating the free swag you got in the mail or reading an on-air advertisement for skin cream.

How’d you end up here?

That’s the question you should be asking. That’s the question I’m trying to pose in my repeated missives against social media. It’s why, although I’m anti-anti-Substack, and I’m no longer stridently anti-podcast, I’m still hesitant about the knock-on effects of podcasts’ ubiquity, and on certain days, if I’m honest, I’m anti-anti-anti-Substack.

What I mean is: Substack is an ecosystem, and one of the ways it forms both writers and readers is to make every writer a digital entrepreneur hawking a product. Further, it encourages a relationship between writer and readership on the model of celebrity fandom. (After all, you gotta give the people what they want.)

Put these together and the model becomes that of the influencer. The podcasting live-streaming YouTuber with a newsletter and a Patreon is a single genus—the hustling entrepreneurial influencer with fans in the hundreds, thousands, or more—of which Christians, including writers, become only one more species. They are different from Kim Kardashian and MrBeast only in degree, not in kind.

I’ve written elsewhere that there are wise, thoughtful people doing this in ways I admire, in service to the church. They’re digital lectors taking the gospel to an entire generation of (to be frank; I love them) uncatechized functional illiterates addicted to digital technology, and God be praised they’re finding a hearing. I don’t retract what I wrote. But we are fooling ourselves if we don’t step back and see clearly what is happening, what the nature of the dynamic is. Writers are being co-opted by the affordances of newsletters, social media, and audio/visual recording and streaming in ways that corrode the essence of good writing as well as the vocation of the writer itself.

A writer is not an influencer. To the extent that participating in any of these dynamics is necessary for a writer to get started or to get published, then by definition it can’t be avoided. But if it is necessary, we should see it as a necessary evil. Evil in the sense that it is a threat to the very thing one is seeking to serve, to indwell, celebrate, and dilate: the life of the mind, the reading life, the life of putting words on the page that are apt to reality and true to human nature and beautiful in their form and honoring to God. Exhaustively maintaining an online platform inhibits and enervates the attention, the focus, the literacy, the patience, the quietness, and the prayers that make the Christian writing life not only possible, but good.

In a word: If writing without a platform is impossible, then treat it like Wittgenstein’s ladder. Use it to get where you’re going, then kick it over once it’s done the job.

Links: three reviews, three podcasts

I’ve fallen behind in my link updates, partly because of busyness, partly because the Micro.blog is so much easier for such things. But! Here are three podcasts I appeared on in the last few months, followed by a round-up of three new reviews of The Church’s Book: Theology of Scripture in Ecclesial Context.

Podcasts:

• Holy C of E, “A Catholic View of Scripture” (July 1), available on Spotify and Apple. Lot of high Anglican content here.

• The London Lyceum, “The Doctrine of Scripture” (July 10), available on Spotify and Apple. A rich conversation about Protestant approaches to and questions about Scripture.

• Speakeasy Theology, “The Scandal of Theology” (August 12), available on Apple and Substack. A long, meandering, and wonderful chat with Chris Green about Robert Jenson, wicked theologians, and original sin. To be continued.

Reviews:

• Joel B. Green, Interpretation 78:2 (2024): 174–75. Green writes that

this book serves both as a charitable and analytical reading of three distinct approaches to the use of the Bible in theology and as a formidable proposal for the importance of one’s understanding of the church for one’s interpretation of Scripture. The result is a welcome contribution to theological hermeneutics and to ongoing discussion of theological interpretation of Scripture. For those who imagine that their theological engagement with the Bible proceeds from text to doctrine, East offers an important corrective.

• Keith Stanglin, Calvin Theological Journal 59:1 (2024): 191–93. Stanglin writes: “The excursus alone, with implications that transcend Yoder’s case, is a rather full and careful account of how” to engage work produced by Christians and other writers who, while alive, perpetrated great evil against others. Stanglin concludes: “Through it all, East effectively illuminates a significant link that sometimes remains obscure in theological discourse,” namely between ecclesiology and bibliology.

• John Kern, Restoration Quarterly 66:3 (2024): 184–85. Kern writes:

Ultimately, this book is an exemplary work in contemporary systematic theology. It is historically attuned to the nuances of the figures that it treats. Even so, it evaluates their strengths and weaknesses, all while offering clear paths for bringing the best of their proposals together for a fuller vision. East never loses his constructive edge even while simply trying to get the figures right on their own terms. Even more, he does all of this while keeping his eye on the primary objective: to account for the divisions found among practitioners of [theological interpretation of Scripture]. He accomplishes this and so much more. Even tracing the lineage of these three theologians from Karl Barth’s influence would have been contribution sufficient to warrant a monograph, but East has found multiple ways to carry this conversation forward. The book is necessary reading for theologians and biblical scholars alike for the way it shows a point at once simple and deep: how one understands the church impacts how one understands the Bible as Scripture. It might not ultimately unify the differences between the different ecclesiological paradigms for bibliology, but East has helped theology in a major way by disambiguating the conflicts, showing where they truly originate.

Theological Amnesia: dreaming a book to write in my dotage

I remain enamored with Clive James’s Cultural Amnesia.

By way of reminder, it’s an 850-page encyclopedia of twentieth century European letters, life, politics, and war, with diversions into Asia and the Americas as the occasion demands. It’s organized as a series of short essays on 112 writers, artists, musicians, dancers, comedians, actors, directors, generals, and politicians, ordered alphabetically by surname. There are maybe one or two dozen figures who antedate the twentieth century, mostly from the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries (Tacitus is premodern; I can’t recall if there is another). James selects the names entirely by personal preference, affection, and the importance he deems their role in the times—whether or not that importance is recognized by others. Most of the chapters are love letters: he wants his readers to love what he loves. But not all of them; Mao, Hitler, and Goebbels have entries, as do Sartre, Benjamin, Brasillach, and Kollantai. He despises them all. Another goal, then, is for readers to learn to hate what he hates, and why.

The themes of the work cluster around the twin disasters of Nazism and Stalinism, which is to say, the prelude to World War II, the nightmare of the Final Solution, and their contested half-lives in the Cold War. James celebrates the fragility and triumph of liberalism over communism and fascism. For “liberalism” read “humanism.” He wants his readers, whom he imagines as students, not to succumb to the forgetfulness so common to liberal cultures. Amnesia, in his view, is the precondition for political tragedy, because it makes the poison of ideology go down less noticeably. Memory is the antidote, necessary if not sufficient.

I noted in a previous post that, if all you had was James’s book, you would think religion was a failed experiment, universally accepted and proclaimed as such by World War I at the latest. He includes no explicitly religious writers and only a handful of Christians, whose faith, as he sees it, is utterly incidental to the value of their thought or the quality of their writing.

Although not all his subjects are writers, it is writing in which he is principally interested. This is a book about style: James admires no one whose prose lacks grace or verve; a unique voice on the page covers a multitude of sins. Each entry begins with a brief autobiographical introduction, then an epigraph from the artist, then an essay to match it. The essay is free to go in any direction it pleases, which sometimes means it isn’t about the name at the head of the chapter at all. But it is never off topic and never not a pleasure to read. That’s how he gets away with it. The book is a monument to his own vanity, and yet he pulls it off anyway.

Given how deeply personal such an endeavor must have been for James, I find myself imagining, as I come to the book’s close (I have around twenty chapters to go), what another version would look like. Scratch that: I wonder what my version would look like. It goes without saying that I could never write a book one tenth as good as this one. And for erudition and scope, only someone like David Bentley Hart could manage writing the book as it exists in my imagination.

That said, I can’t stop thinking about it.

Suppose the parameters were the same: An alphabetized encyclopedia of the century just past, centered on and after World War II, featuring mini-essays on more than a hundred authors, artists, and public figures, selected by whimsy and pleasure but centered around a determinate set of themes that would emerge organically as readers moved from name to name in a kind of spiral or web. But suppose, in addition, that the goal was to highlight religion, in particular Christian life and thought, in a supposedly secular century. Suppose, too, that the center of gravity moved across the Atlantic to North America, and instead of comedy, ballet, and journalism, attention was paid to film, sports, and philosophy. James’s interest in the lost world of prewar Vienna would be transmuted into contemplating the legacy of the American West and the subsequent export of American culture to the world. Further themes would announce themselves: the problem of atheism; the boredom of secularism; the rise of Islam; the irrelevance of public theology; the return of the convert; the renewal of monasticism; and the modern martyr, in all its varieties.

The secret of James’s selectivity is that, in considering only some, he sneaks in all the rest. He has no entries on Kant, Pound, Joyce, Auden, Berlin, Eliot, Heidegger, Solzhenitsyn, Costa-Gravas, Kissinger, Einstein, Shakespeare, Dickens, Stalin, Lenin, or Orwell, but look in the Index, and you’ll see plenty of page numbers for each of them. He makes no apologies for whom he does and does not include, since a potted history is the only possibility for a personal literary breviary such as this one. He’s certainly not choosing for race, gender, nationality, or ideological bona fides. Remember: this is a catalogues of his loves, together with a few of his hatreds, presented (with a straight face and tongue in cheek, neither somehow canceling out the other) as what’s worth remembering from the most violent century in human history.

If you don’t share my reaction—that the world needs more books like this one—I don’t know what to tell you. If you do share my reaction, read on.

*

The title of my imaginary book, naturally enough, is Theological Amnesia. It’s an antidote to an antidote. James has forgotten faith: not his own, but others’. It didn’t go underground. It was never relegated to the private sphere. He and his ilk just chose to ignore it, and given the genuine changes in Western societies since the Enlightenment, they could afford to do so. They did so, however, at their peril.

Two subtitles are competing in my mind: Authors and Artists from a Long Secular Century vs. Authors and Artists from the Long American Century. The former is clearer, in its irony, about the book’s subtheme, whereas the latter foregrounds the cultural focus. (Now I’m wondering whether I should add mention of martyrs, saints, and others besides. Hm.)

Either way, that’s the pitch. Below are the names.

A few words of explanation. First, the number ballooned from 112 to 150. That was only after nixing an additional 150. I do not know how James did it. It’s an impossible choice.

Second, I justified the larger number—for, I remind myself and you, dear reader, my completely imaginary book—by recourse to James’s word count. While some essays are 4-6 pages, many are 8-12 pages, and some are much more than that. All in all, his book totals around 350,000 words. If I wrote an average 2,200 words per entry, even with 150 names that would make for a smaller book than James’s. In the alternate universe where a more learned variant of myself attempts to write this book in my 70s … a publisher definitely goes for it. Right? (Let me have this.)

Third and finally, I did my best to keep to James’s temporal center of gravity. No one on my list is born after the mid-1950s, and any of them who are still alive today (a) are approaching their ninth or tenth decade of life and (b) became famous, having done their most important and influential work, in the closing decades of the last century. Everyone else on the list lived and wrote between the Great War and the fall of the Soviet Union—except, that is, for the handful of premodern authors (five or six) and figures from the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries (maybe a dozen) whom I felt compelled to include.

Without further adieu, then, here is the fake table of contents for my imaginary book. If I live long enough to be an emeritus professor, full of leisure time and surrounded by scores of grandchildren, don’t be surprised when I self-publish a thousand-page version of this idea, with copies distributed to friends and family only. I’ll leave it to history to decide whether it’s an unheralded classic or a painful exercise in imitation gone awry.

Theological Amnesia: Writers and Thinkers, Saints and Martyrs from a Long Secular Century

1. Thomas J. J. Altizer

2. G. E. M. Anscombe

3. Hannah Arendt

4. W. H. Auden

5. Augustine of Hippo

6. Jane Austen

7. James Baldwin

8. J. G. Ballard

9. Hans Urs von Balthasar

10. Karl Barth

11. Saul Bellow

12. Isaiah Berlin

13. Georges Bernanos

14. Wendell Berry

15. Dietrich Bonhoeffer

16. Jorge Luis Borges

17. Peter Brown

18. Sergei Bulgakov

19. Roberto Calasso

20. John Calvin

21. Albert Camus

22. John le Carré

23. G. K. Chesterton

24. J. M. Coetzee

25. James Cone

26. Christopher Dawson

27. Dorothy Day

28. Simone de Beauvoir

29. Henri de Lubac

30. Augusto del Noce

31. Charles Dickens

32. Annie Dillard

33. Walt Disney

34. Fyodor Dostoevsky

35. Frederick Douglass

36. Clint Eastwood

37. T. S. Eliot

38. Frantz Fanon

39. Patrick Leigh Fermor

40. Ludwig Feuerbach

41. John Ford

42. Michel Foucault

43. Sigmund Freud

44. Mahātmā Gandhi

45. Billy Graham

46. Graham Greene

47. Ursula K. le Guin

48. Adolf von Harnack

49. Martin Heidegger

50. George Herbert

51. Abraham Joshua Heschel

52. Alfred Hitchcock

53. Gerard Manley Hopkins

54. Michel Houellebecq

55. Aldous Huxley

56. Ivan Illich

57. P. D. James

58. William James

59. Robert Jenson

60. Tony Judt

61. Franz Kafka

62. Søren Kierkegaard

63. Martin Luther King Jr.

64. Stephen King

65. Ronald Knox

66. Leszek Kołakowski

67. Stanley Kubrick

68. Akira Kurosawa

69. Christopher Lasch

70. Stan Lee

71. Denise Levertov

72. C. S. Lewis

73. George Lucas

74. John Lukacs

75. Martin Luther

76. Dwight Macdonald

77. Alasdair MacIntyre

78. Malcolm X

79. Terrence Malick

80. Jacques Maritain

81. François Mauriac

82. Cormac McCarthy

83. Larry McMurtry

84. Herman Melville

85. H. L. Mencken

86. Thomas Merton

87. Mary Midgley

88. Czesław Miłosz

89. Hayao Miyazaki

90. Malcolm Muggeridge

91. Albert Murray

92. Les Murray

93. John Henry Newman

94. H. Richard Niebuhr

95. Reinhold Niebuhr

96. Friedrich Nietzsche

97. Flannery O’Connor

98. Robert Oppenheimer

99. George Orwell

100. Yasujirō Ozu

101. Blaise Pascal

102. Paul of Tarsus

103. Walker Percy

104. Karl Popper

105. Neil Postman

106. Thomas Pynchon

107. Sayyid Qutb

108. Joseph Ratzinger

109. Marilynne Robinson

110. Fred Rogers

111. Franz Rosenzweig

112. Salman Rushdie

113. John Ruskin

114. Bill Russell

115. Edward Said

116. Margaret Sanger

117. Dorothy Sayers

118. Paul Schrader

119. George Scialabba

120. Martin Scorsese

121. Roger Scruton

122. Peter Singer

123. Maria Skobtsova

124. Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn

125. Sophrony the Athonite

126. Wole Soyinka

127. Steven Spielberg

128. Wallace Stegner

129. Edith Stein

130. Leo Strauss

131. Preston Sturges

132. Andrei Tartovsky

133. Charles Taylor

134. Mother Teresa

135. Thérèse of Lisieux

136. Thomas Aquinas

137. R. S. Thomas

138. J. R. R. Tolkien

139. John Kennedy Toole

140. Desmond Tutu

141. John Updike

142. Sigrid Undset

143. Evelyn Waugh

144. Simone Weil

145. H. G. Wells

146. Rebecca West

147. Oprah Winfrey

148. Ludwig Wittgenstein

149. Karol Wojtyła

150. Franz Wright

*

Update (8/2): I should have thought to include a list of James’s entries, so that those unfamiliar with the book could see the names he chose, as well as compare them with mine. Apparently his list comes only to 106, not 112; perhaps I came to that number by counting the introductory and concluding essays. In any case, here you go:

1. Anna Akhmatova

2. Peter Altenberg

3. Louis Armstrong

4. Raymond Aron

5. Walter Benjamin

6. Marc Bloch

7. Jorge Luis Borges

8. Robert Brasillach

9. Sir Thomas Browne

10. Albert Camus

11. Dick Cavett

12. Paul Celan

13. Chamfort

14. Coco Chanel

15. Charles Chaplin

16. Nirad C. Chaudhuri

17. G. K. Chesterton

18. Jean Cocteau

19. Gianfranco Contini

20. Benedetto Croce

21. Tony Curtis

22. Ernst Robert Curtius

23. Miles Davis

24. Sergei Diaghilev

25. Pierre Drieu La Rochelle

26. Alfred Einstein

27. Duke Ellington

28. Federico Fellini

29. W. C. Fields

30. F. Scott Fitzgerald

31. Gustave Flaubert

32. Sigmund Freud

33. Egon Friedell

34. François Furet

35. Charles de Gaulle

36. Edward Gibbon

37. Terry Gilliam

38. Joseph Goebbels

39. Witold Gombrowicz

40. William Hazlitt

41. Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel

42. Heinrich Heine

43. Adolf Hitler

44. Ricarda Huch

45. Ernst Jünger

46. Franz Kafka

47. John Keats

48. Leszek Kołakowski

49. Alexandra Kollontai

50. Heda Margolius Kovály

51. Karl Kraus

52. Georg Christoph Lichtenberg

53. Norman Mailer

54. Nadezhda Mandelstam

55. Golo Mann

56. Heinrich Mann

57. Michael Mann

58. Thomas Mann

59. Mao Zedong

60. Chris Marker

61. John McCloy

62. Zinka Milanov

63. Czesław Miłosz

64. Eugenio Montale

65. Montesquieu

66. Alan Moorehead

67. Paul Muratov

68. Lewis Namier

69. Grigory Ordzhonokidze

70. Octavio Paz

71. Alfred Polgar

72. Beatrix Potter

73. Jean Prévost

74. Marcel Proust

75. Edgar Quinet

76. Marcel Reich-Ranicki

77. Jean-François Revel

78. Richard Rhodes

79. Rainer Maria Rilke

80. Virginio Rognoni

81. Ernesto Sabato

82. Edward Said

83. Sainte-Beuve

84. José Saramago

85. Jean-Paul Sartre

86. Erik Satie

87. Arthur Schnitzler

88. Sophie Scholl

89. Wolf Jobst Siedler

90. Manès Sperber

91. Tacitus

92. Margaret Thatcher

93. Henning von Tresckow

94. Leon Trotsky

95. Karl Tschuppik

96. Dubravka Ugrešić

97. Miguel de Unamuno

98. Pedro Henríquez Ureña

99. Paul Valéry

100. Mario Vargas Llosa

101. Evelyn Waugh

102. Ludwig Wittgenstein

103. Isoroku Yamamoto

104. Aleksandr Zinoviev

105. Carl Zuckmayer

106. Stefan Zweig

My latest: on athletes and public faith, in CT

My latest column for Christianity Today is called “Penalty or No, Athletes Talk Faith.” Just in time for the Olympics! Alas, I had to cut the opening two paragraphs on the 2023–24 Boston Celtics, the recent champs who may be the most religious NBA team in years. Thankfully I did get to include this paragraph:

In Game 1 of the 2014 NBA Finals, LeBron James—at the time the best basketball player on the planet—had to leave prematurely due to cramps. Why? The stadium was slightly warmer than usual. He’d been known to request ice-cold air conditioning wherever he played, so much so that fans speculated that the opposing team, my beloved San Antonio Spurs, kept things warm for a competitive advantage. True or not, the Spurs won the game and the series both, all because the league’s MVP couldn’t keep his muscles from spasming.

I even got to mention the famous anecdote about MJ peeking at his teammates during Zen meditation. They’ll let me write anything!

What does any of that have to do with God, faith, or CT? Read on to see.

Theological amnesia

It would be an understatement to say I’m taken with Clive James’s Cultural Amnesia: Notes in the Margin of My Time. I’m positively obsessed. I’ve never read anything like it. I’m smitten with the prose and gobsmacked by the coverage. The man has read everything, or at least he makes me feel like I’ve read next to nothing.

One thing he hasn’t read, though, is theology. You might even say he hasn’t read Christians. Of the more than 100 authors and artists that he canvasses, mostly from the twentieth century, maybe five are religious, and their religion is not, in his view, part of their genius. Sure, he likes Chesterton and Waugh and Kołakowski. But those exceptions prove the rule. James cares (cared—he passed away at 80 the same month the first Covid cases began appearing in Wuhan, quite a time to lose such a vital voice in politics and culture) about influence, stature, prestige, literature, artistry, and above these and all else two things: style on the page and wisdom in the world. The latter, to James, meant a rejection of ideology—in twentieth century garb, fascism and communism in equal parts—without apology or compromise. He was a pure product of the postwar period; his heroes were the post-Left French who suffered for their apostasies, like Aron and Furet and Revel. He was right to honor them.

Right, I say, in what he honored, but wrong in what he ignored. Even on his own terms, James should have read, memorialized, and found profit in Dostoevsky, Kierkegaard, Maritain, Eliot, Belloc, Knox, Greene, Undset, Bonhoeffer, Barth, Weil, Mauriac, Bernanos, de Lubac, Auden, Lewis, Tolkien, Fermor, Solzhenitsyn, Ratzinger, Percy, Illich, Berry, MacIntyre, Taylor, Levertov, and so many others. Instead, it’s as if religion in any form except the severely private disappears from the world by the end of the long nineteenth century. You certainly wouldn’t know that theists of any kind put pen to page in the twentieth, much less that it was good, sometimes, and that their words and deeds regularly made a difference on the public stage.

A writer like James, for all his erudition, has amnesia of his own, both in the immediate past and in the distant past. It’s a deficit common to most of his peers: highbrow journalists and elite critics who can’t bother to glance in the direction of the pious (at least, not without cringing). The deficit may be understandable, but it’s not defensible. It renders all that they write incomplete from the outset, by definition. Not just their knowledge but their love is circumscribed artificially by choice, and this alienates them from every human culture of which we have evidence. At one point James comments that humans wrote poetry before prose, spoke before they wrote, and sang before they spoke in sentences. He leaves the observation there, hanging, but he should have known better. After all, what did humans do both before and by means of song and speech and poetry and prose?

They prayed. Let the reader understand.

My latest: on weddings, in CT

My latest Christianity Today column is up this morning, and it’s called “Two Cheers for the Wedding Industrial Complex.” I may or may not defend ring by spring and other such sordid ideas. Enjoy!

My latest: on faithful fathers, in CT

Just in time for Father’s Day, I’m in Christianity Today writing about faithful fathers—especially mine. To kick things off, I riff on this remark by C. S. Lewis about George MacDonald:

We have learned from Freud and others about those distortions in character and errors in thought which result from a man’s early conflicts with his father. Far the most important thing we can know about George MacDonald is that his whole life illustrates the opposite process. An almost perfect relationship with his father was the earthly root of all his wisdom. From his own father, he said, he first learned that Fatherhood must be at the core of the universe. He was thus prepared in an unusual way to teach that religion in which the relation of Father and Son is of all relations the most central.

Click here to read the rest. Happy Father’s Day!

The best books about technology

are not about technology. They’re not about the latest innovation or invention. They’re not an intervention in the news cycle, much less punditry about A.I. or the internet or digital or television or motion pictures or radio or the automobile or the printing press. They’re not dated the moment the car rolls off the lot.

The best books about technology are about humanity—about what it means to be human and about life well lived and urgent threats to the good life. Because technology is essentially a human thing, good writing about technology is good writing about human things. A doctrine of technology is only as good as its doctrine of man; indeed, not only depends upon but is a doctrine of man. The technologist is an anthropologist, from first to last.

Which is why, incidentally, the best technologists are philosophers and theologians. In Calvin’s words:

Our wisdom, in so far as it ought to be deemed true and solid wisdom, consists almost entirely of two parts: the knowledge of God and of ourselves. But as these are connected together by many ties, it is not easy to determine which of the two precedes and gives birth to the other. For, in the first place, no man can survey himself without forthwith turning his thoughts towards the God in whom he lives and moves; because it is perfectly obvious, that the endowments which we possess cannot possibly be from ourselves; nay, that our very being is nothing else than subsistence in God alone. In the second place, those blessings which unceasingly distill to us from heaven, are like streams conducting us to the fountain.

What, then, are the best books (not) about technology that I have read? A short list would include Abraham Joshua Heschel’s The Sabbath; Walker Percy’s Lost in the Cosmos; François Mauriac’s The Eucharist; Wendell Berry’s A Timbered Choir; Josef Pieper’s Leisure, the Basis of Culture; Jonathan Lear’s Radical Hope; Stephen King’s On Writing; Albert Murray’s The Omni-Americans; Pascal’s Pensées; and many more.

These are my models for good technology writing: not because they talk about technology but because they comment—uniquely, stylishly, with voice and perspective and courage—on the human condition. Today’s apps are yesterday’s fads, but the human condition isn’t going anywhere. Write, therefore, when you set out to write about technology, about what it means to be human today; seek the latter and the former will be added unto you.

My latest: the loosening of American evangelicalism, for CT

My latest column for Christianity Today is up this morning. It’s titled “The Loosening of American Evangelicalism.” It’s an expansion of a blog post I wrote last fall. It’s speculative, noncommittal, and open to rebuttal and revision. An observational thesis subject to empirical or at least widely attested anecdotal verification.

Who knew I’d be writing about evangelical attitudes to alcohol, tattoos, TV, and Lent for CT? The Spirit blows where he wills.

I joined Micro.blog!

After years of hearing Alan Jacobs sing the praises of Micro.blog, I created an account this week. Not only that, I’m able to host my micro blog on this website’s domain; so instead of eastbrad.micro.blog, the URL is micro.bradeast.org. In fact, I added “Micro” as an option on the header menu above, sandwiched in between “Media” and “Blog.” In a sense you’re technically “leaving” this site, but it doesn’t feel like it. In this I was also following Alan’s lead. Thank you, ayjay “own your own turf” dot org!

Now: Why did I join micro.blog? Don’t I already have enough to do? Don’t I already write enough? Isn’t my goal to be offline as much as possible? Above all, wasn’t I put on earth to do one name thing, namely, warn people away from the evils of Twitter? Aren’t I the one who gave it up in June 2020, deactivated it for Lent in spring 2022, then (absent-mindedly) deleted it a year later by not renewing the account? And didn’t regret it one bit? Don’t I think Twitter and all its imitators (Threads, Notes, et al) unavoidably addict their users in the infinite scroll while optimizing for all the worst that original sin has to offer?

What, in a word, makes micro blogging (and Micro.blog in particular) different?

Here’s my answer, in three parts: why I wanted to do this; how I’m going to use it; and what Micro.blog lacks that makes it distinct from the alternatives.

First, I miss what Twitter offered me: an accessible public repository of links, images, brief commentary, and minor thoughts—thoughts I had nowhere else to put except Twitter, and thoughts that invariably get lost in the daily shuffle. I tend to call this main blog (the one you’re reading right now) a space for “mezzo blogging”: something between Twitter/Tumblr (i.e., micro writing and sharing) and essays, articles, and books (i.e., proper macro writing). I suffer from graphomania, and between my physical notebook and texting with friends, I still have words to get out of my system; minus all the nonsense on Twitter, the reason I stayed as long as I did was that. (Also the connections, friends, and networking, but the downsides of gaining those things were and are just too great, on any platform.)

Second, I am going to use my micro blog in a certain way. I’m not going to follow anyone. I’m not going to look at my timeline. I’m not going to let it even show me follows, mentions, or replies. It’s not going to be a place for interaction with others. I’m not going to dwell or hang out on it. In a sense I won’t even be “on” it. I have and will have no way of knowing if even a single soul on earth reads, clicks, or finds my writing there. It exists more or less for one person: me. Its peripheral audience is anyone who cares to click from here to there or check in on me there from time to time.

What am I going to be doing, then? Scribbling thoughts that run between one and four sentences long; sharing links to what I’m reading online; sharing books and images of what I’m reading IRL; in short, putting in a single place the grab bag of “minor” writing that pulls me daily in a hundred directions: email, messages, WhatsApp, even Slack (once upon a time). E.g., right now I’m enthralled by the NBA playoffs, but not only does no one who reads this blog care about that; my thoughts are brief, ephemeral, and fleeting. But I have them, and I want to remember what they were! So now I put them there, on the micro blog.

I don’t, for what it’s worth, have any kind of organizational system for note-taking, journaling, or any such thing. I do keep a physical journal, but it’s mostly a place for first-draft brainstorming; it’s not much of an archive. I don’t use Drafts or Tot or Notes or Scrivener or even an iPad or tablet of any kind. Nothing is housed on the cloud; nothing is interconnected, much less interoperable. I’ve always toyed with trying Evernote—I know people who love it—but it’s just never appealed to me, and I don’t think I’m the type who would benefit from it or use it well. My mental habits and ideas and writing instincts are too diffuse. At the same time, I love the idea of a one-stop shop for little thoughts, for minor scribbles, in brief, for micro blogging. That’s how I used Twitter. I ultimately just got fed up with that broken platform’s pathologies.

So, third, what makes Micro.blog different? In a sense I’ve already answered that question. It’s not built to do what Twitter, Threads, and Substack Notes are meant to do. There’s no provocation or stimulation. There’s no hellish algorithm. It doesn’t scale. It’s not about followers or viral hits. It’s self-selecting, primarily because you have to pay for it and secondarily because it’s not a way to build an audience of thousands (much less millions). It’s for people like me who want a digital room of their own, so to speak, without the assault on my attention, or the virus of virality, or the infinite scroll, or the stats (follows, like, RTs) to stroke or shrink my ego, or the empty promise that the more I post the more books I’ll eventually sell. No publisher or agent is going to tout my Micro.blog to justify an advance. It’s just … there. For me, and max, for a few other dozen folks.

And anyway, I’m giving it a 30-day free trial. No commitments made just yet. I already like it enough that I expect to fork over $5/month for the privilege. But we’ll see.

Either way, this is all one long way of saying: See, I’m no Luddite. I use Squarespace and Instapaper and Firefox and Spotify and Libby and Letterboxd and now Micro.blog. I might even get to ten whole quality platforms one day.

Clearly, I don’t hate the internet. I’m just picky.

My latest: the rise of digital lectors, in CT

My April 18 Christianity Today column was called “Biblical Literacy in a Postliterate Age.” Last week, on May 8, CT published my follow-up, titled “Digital Lectors for a Postliterate Age.”

I’d always intended a sequel, and later this summer I may write a final column to complete a loose trilogy of reflections on Scripture, literacy, and technology in the church. This latest one covers a range of creative responses to postliterate believers, seekers, and drifters, from the Bible Project to Father Mike’s The Bible in a Year podcast to Jonathan Pageau and the Symbolic World to Alastair Roberts and many others. I call them “digital lectors,” readers and expositors of Scripture for a digital—which is to say, a postliterate—age.

In between the two columns, there were a couple noteworthy interactions with my claims about the state of biblical literacy (and literacy in general) in the church. The first was a conversation on the Holy Post podcast between Skye Jethani and Kaitlyn Schiess; you can find it on video here, starting around minute 33. The second was a response from Jessica Hooten Wilson (whom I quote in the piece), in a piece on her Substack called “The Post-literate Church.” Both engagements are friendly, thoughtful, critical, and worth your time. I’m grateful to all of them for their reflections.

My latest: on incarnation, Theotokos, and abortion, in Commonweal

I have an essay in the newest issue of Commonweal called “Mother of the Unborn God.” It’s something of a sequel or peer to previous essays in The Christian Century on similar themes: “Birth on a Cross” and “Jewish Jesus, Black Christ.” This one takes conciliar confession of Mary as Theotokos as the metaphysical starting point for theological and moral reflection on Christian teaching about abortion—a topic, if memory serves, that I’ve never written about before. I hope I do justice to it, or at least to the confluence of theological questions raised by faith in Him who was conceived by the Holy Spirit / and born of the Virgin Mary.

Click here to read the full essay.