Our Jan/Feb Issue: The Reading Life in a Tweeting Age

A look inside our books issue.

Unsplash / Hasan Almasi | Edits by Christianity Today

Making the case for books today typically means swimming against the currents of our digital age. That’s one reason social media plays the convenient foil in so many paeans to “the reading life,” to use the somewhat pretentious parlance of book partisans (and social media skeptics) like myself.

Over here, we say, amid the stately avenues and manicured lawns of Book Land, banners are raised for intellectual depth, curious minds, and respectful conversation. But over there, amid the desert wastes and toxic swamps of Social Media Land, shallowness, tribalism, and shouting fests rule the day.

While it’s tempting to paint stark contrasts or cluck disapprovingly at the vices of the Very Online, the realms of books and social media get jumbled together more than we might care to admit. This struck me afresh as we developed our editorial plans for this issue. Books, whatever one might speculate about their waning influence in our lives, still stir up the sorts of controversies that get our social media engines revving.

Take the recent spate of stories about pressure campaigns from politicians and parental activists to remove controversial books from public-school and library shelves. Here we have an easy recipe for social media outrage, an open invitation to parade one’s anticensorship bona fides while skewering opponents as either uptight fundamentalists or woke commissars. But Emily Belz digs deeper in her report on the Christian public librarians who navigate these tensions—not by wading into the frenzy but by humbly serving their local communities in practical, personal ways.

If books drive social media engagement, then social media engagement, in turn, often drives the making of books, in the sense of launching the writing careers of countless online “influencers.” Publishing types have a word for these measures of popularity—platform—and they often steer book deals toward figures who check these boxes, at times regardless of whether they can turn a phrase or fashion a compelling argument. Collin Huber asked a series of Christian authors and publishers about selling books without giving celebrity undue weight.

Articles like these bring a helpful analytical lens to the vocation of book writing and its role in shaping contemporary life. (Kara Bettis does likewise in her profile of the bearded, bespectacled poet and priest Malcolm Guite.) In the end, however, the reason for devoting much of this issue to books lies in stepping back from contentious debates and ethical puzzles to celebrate books and authors themselves—which is why we’re showcasing our annual Book Awards, as well as adapted excerpts from a handful of the finalists.

Tweet out these features if you must, but only after feasting your eyes.

Matt Reynolds is books editor of Christianity Today.

Books

Why Are There So Many Angry Theologians?

Theology should produce the fruit of the Spirit, not the works of the flesh.

Illustration by Chidy Wayne

What is the matter with theology today? Far from being described by the string of virtues that make up the fruit of the Spirit, much of what is labeled “theology” is insecurity and fury disguised as dialogue or thoughtfulness. Even the most cursory scrolling of social media could lead you to the conclusion that you must be angry in order to do theology. In our day, it is not uncommon to see theology used as a weapon and not as a well of joy.

Fruitful Theology: How the Life of the Mind Leads to the Life of the Soul

Maybe you’ve seen theology weaponized as an instrument of division. In this malpractice of theology, Christian truth is used to pit brothers and sisters against one another. Points of doctrine become the boundary lines in which an “us versus them” war plays out. And while there are indeed good and right times to draw lines in the sand, there are also those whose theological boundaries are so ever-shrinking that only they and a handful of their followers are seen as those who possess the truth.

Discord arises as theology is used to break unity with those fellow image bearers with whom we ought to be marching arm in arm toward the Promised Land.

Maybe you’ve seen theology weaponized as an instrument of pride. In this malpractice of theology, the accumulation of knowledge amounts to ever-inflating egos and the search for truth is but a grasp for self-importance. When the streams of arrogance flow from the source of ill-used theology, the goal becomes the applause of our neighbors instead of the good of our neighbors.

Instead of bending our intellectual life toward the pursuit of others, we bend others toward the observation of our intellectual capabilities in hopes of praise that ought to be rendered unto the Lord. In this way, theology can become a show; theologians are simply actors on the doctrinal stage hoping their articulation of a theological concept or their turn of phrase may entertain the audience.

Maybe you’ve seen theology weaponized as a replacement for sanctification and wisdom. There is a temptation to mistake theological clarity and confidence as Christian wisdom. However, a sincere devotion to the Lord is not measured by the memorization of theological lingo and logic.

God can use theology as a means of sanctification, and it seems he is often pleased to do so. Yet theological intelligence is not a valid reason to downplay or neglect the vital role of emotional intelligence, relational intelligence, cultural intelligence, and the like.

Christian sanctification is holistic, and while theology is a necessary ingredient, it is not in itself a sufficient ingredient. The Christian life calls for a multifaceted maturity and wisdom in which we are beckoned to love the Lord with not just all our mind but also all our heart, all our soul, and all our strength (Deut. 6:4–7; Matt. 22:37–40).

Scripture shows us that the life of the mind can actually lead to the life of the soul in the manifestation of the fruit of the Spirit. The glorious task of Christian contemplation should indeed lead to love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control. Theology as a means of cultivating Christian virtue, such as the fruit of the Spirit, is not a new idea.

Augustine once stated, “For this is the fullness of our joy, than which there is nothing greater: to enjoy God the Trinity in whose image we have been made.” We can go about stoking our joy in uncountable ways—family, food, vocations, vacations, materials, experiences, and so much more. Yet the greatest log in the fire of our joy is the triune God “in whose image we have been made.”

The enjoyment of the triune God is the purest of all enjoyments. For other joys will come and go. As the grass withers and the flowers fade, lesser joys are here today and gone tomorrow (Isa. 40:8). Yet our God is the same yesterday, today, and forevermore (Heb. 13:8), so the joy found in him is an unshakable and pure joy.

However, as Jen Wilkin so wonderfully stated in Women of the Word, “The heart cannot love what the mind does not know.” If we want to set our hearts free to live in the joy that comes from loving the triune God, we must set our minds on knowing him. Your mind and your affections are closer than you may recognize, and you will see that what you consistently contemplate you will grow to consistently appreciate.

Thomas Aquinas once declared, “The whole of our life bears fruit and comes to achievement in the knowledge of the Trinity.” Aquinas in this quote shows that there is “fruit” because of our achieving the knowledge of theology. There is a consequence to spending much time at the feet of the Lord in thought: The whole of your life will begin to bear fruit.

Contemplating the good, the true, the beautiful—all culminating in our Lord—has the ability to transform hate into love, despair to joy, division to peace, anxiety to patience, animosity to kindness, evil to goodness, disobedience to faithfulness, harshness to gentleness, and indulgence to self-control.

The diagnostic question, then, is simple: Does the way you think about theology, the way you do theology, or the way you talk about theology typically lead to love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control? Or does the way you think about theology, the way you do theology, or the way you talk about theology typically lead to moral impurity, idolatry, hatred, strife, jealousy, outbursts of anger, selfish ambition, dissension, factions, and envy?

As theologians rage, their zeal is aimed at one another. Instead of linking arms to pursue the Great Commission as fellow laborers, they engage in friendly fire, participating in a made-up war in which no one wins.

Theology done in the works of the flesh is characterized by strife, fits of anger, dissension, and divisions. Theology done in this way will lead to devouring one another. On the contrary, theology done in the fruit of the Spirit—which is characterized by love, kindness, gentleness, and joy—will lead to bearing one another’s burdens and loving our neighbor as ourselves.

The drastic difference in outcomes demonstrates the importance of the task at hand: Theology used poorly can indeed have sad outcomes, yet theology done well can drive the virtues that make up the fruit of the Spirit deep in our soul such that we become Christians marked by wisdom and stability.

Three passages from the apostle Paul (Phil. 4:8; Rom. 12:2; 2 Cor 3:18) can be summarized together in one sentence: Contemplate the good, the true, and the beautiful in Christ, and in so doing be transformed by the renewing of your mind by beholding Christ from one degree of glory to another. Or, to use Paul’s words: Think about these things, and be transformed by beholding.

Think about these things (Phil. 4:8). You possess something of immense value—your attention. The world wants it, and it will throw much at you to get it. There are folks whose primary job is to continually maintain and upgrade sophisticated algorithms to guarantee that your attention will stay fixed on your phone. Neil Postman was correct in his incredibly insightful book Amusing Ourselves to Death when he warned that we are people in danger of simply becoming an audience. The world is a stage where your gaze and attention are the commodity.

For this reason and countless others, Paul’s conclusion to his letter to the Philippians is just as relevant today as it was in first-century Philippi. Concluding his letter, Paul instructs the saints at Philippi, saying, “Finally brothers and sisters, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is commendable—if there is any moral excellence and if there is anything praiseworthy—dwell on these things” (Phil. 4:8, CSB, emphasis added).

What Paul understood, and what we must understand, is that whatever we give our attention to will form us as people. If our minds stay on the ever-changing and increasingly shallow events of our culture, we will continue to decline in our wisdom and reasonableness as followers of Christ. However, if we let Paul’s command sink into our lives and have the self-control to look up and out of the dizzying array of distractions surrounding us, giving instead a hard, sustained look at that which is good, true, and beautiful, we may be transformed into wise and stable men and women.

Be transformed (Rom. 12:2). In his epistle to the Romans, Paul writes, “Do not be conformed to this age, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind, so that you may discern what is the good, pleasing, and perfect will of God” (Rom. 12:2, CSB, emphasis added).

Contemplating God in Christian theology is no mere intellectualism. On the contrary, setting our mind on God and all things in relation to God allows us to gaze at him who is love. In so doing, we will be transformed by the renewal of our minds. A mind full of truth should lead to a heart full of love and hands full of care.

Behold the glory of the Lord (2 Cor. 3:18). In this glorious chapter, Paul contrasts the saints of the old covenant and those of the new. He recalls the scene in which Moses, after seeing the goodness of the Lord in Exodus 33, comes down from Mount Sinai with his face veiled so that he might not startle the other Israelites. Paul says that reading the old covenant is like attempting to look at God through a veil, like Moses. On the contrary, seeing God in the face of Jesus Christ is like seeing God with the veil removed so that we can behold his beauty and splendor uninhibited.

Paul writes, “And we all, with unveiled face, beholding the glory of the Lord, are being transformed in the same image from one degree of glory to another. For this comes from the Lord who is the Spirit” (2 Cor. 3:18, ESV, emphasis added).

This passage is brimming with beauty. While Christian theology has a considerable number of practical benefits, one of the greatest is simply beholding the glory of God. One of the most practical things you can do in your life—counter to the idea that theology is an irrelevant, ivory-tower pastime—is catch an eyeful of God’s grandeur and grace.

While we should always attempt to work out our theology and ask important questions like “How can I live this truth out today?” we should not forget that there is immense wisdom in simply beholding this great God of ours. When we behold him, we begin to look like him, as we are transformed from one degree of glory to another.

Ronni Kurtz is an author and assistant professor of theology at Cedarville University. This is adapted from Fruitful Theology: How the Life of the Mind Leads to the Life of the Soul (B&H Publishing, ©2022). Used with permission.

Books

The Church Was Meant to Enjoy Its Diversity, Not Wish It Away.

America is set to be minority white by 2045. Evangelicals need to stop thinking that’s a bad thing.

Illustration by Chidy Wayne

According to recent population projections, the United States will become a nonwhite nation by 2045. Lest we think this is still a faraway reality, for our kids who are 15 years old and younger, the nation’s future demographic reality is already the case. Fifty percent of this age group is nonwhite. For this reason and more, it is imperative for race-wise parents to be actively communicating God’s posture of valuing multiethnicity and embracing it ourselves in our families. Sadly, we can’t rely on the body of Christ to do this automatically.

In the North American church, there is evidence of postures and preferences that aren’t in alignment with God’s example and intent. According to a 2018 survey by the Public Religion Research Institute, “A majority (54%) of white evangelical Protestants say that becoming [a] majority-nonwhite nation in the future will be mostly negative.” When the family of God prefers that its composition remain largely monoethnic, fissures and a reduced witness are inevitable.

Jemar Tisby, author of the New York Times best-selling book The Color of Compromise, is quoted in The Washington Post as saying, “As long as white evangelicals either consciously or subconsciously assume that American means white or European descended, they will always perceive changing demographics as a threat to ‘the American way.’” The body of Christ still has a long way to go before we collectively value multiethnicity in the way our heavenly Father does.

It is equally dangerous to assume that the presence of different cultures alone is sufficient to ensure that the needs and concerns of people of color are being seen and heard. Sometimes well-meaning Christians think that as long as people of color are present somewhere in the system, then all shall be well. But there is a difference between representation and creating a truly multiethnic community and culture.

In January 2021, a well-known megachurch posted a video intended to teach children about the Bible. It featured a white pastor dressed in a Chinese shirt, making stereotypical martial arts sounds and then spitting out sushi he had made. The church received a flood of complaints, the video was removed, and both the lead pastor and the church issued apologies for the cultural misstep.

While the content might have been thought to represent Asian culture, it actually did much more harm than good. In his apology, the pastor indicated that the video demonstrated cultural and racial insensitivity and it was an inappropriate way to teach children and their parents.

How did such a misguided teaching tool even get created in the first place? Perhaps Asian Americans weren’t consulted at all, or if they were, those who were asked for feedback either didn’t feel comfortable being honest about their concerns or may not have been culturally sensitive enough to be aware of how the content could be damaging.

Pursuing multiethnicity isn’t just about getting one or two people to vet ideas that could ultimately prove to be offensive or insensitive. Instead, it is about making the systemic or structural changes needed to ensure that the experiences and voices of people of color will be fairly and appropriately represented and heard. It is about understanding how power plays a role in these discussions and dynamics and then finding ways to empower those who are on the margins.

Representation is important, and diversity is also needed in the books we read and the shows we watch, as well as in the churches, organizations, communities, and schools we are part of. However, diversity and representation aren’t enough. We must give honor and deference to each person’s culture as well. Thus, pursuing multiethnicity means we must enjoy one another in all our diverse personalities, idiosyncrasies, and ethnic backgrounds, with the aim of appreciating and edifying one another—not treating someone else’s culture as a prop or the brunt of a joke. As we lean into valuing one another, we will experience the power of our witness as the multiethnic body of Christ.

Unfortunately, our ethnic uniqueness hasn’t always been valued. Instead, we have both often experienced the sting of exclusion and occasions when it was clear that our presence was problematic precisely because of our ethnicities. I (Helen) can keenly recall the way I felt throughout the COVID-19 pandemic, especially when it was being repeatedly termed “the Kung Flu” and “the Chinese virus.” Whenever I was out grocery shopping for the family, I felt fearful and nervous with every sideways glance in my direction.

When those who are nonwhite experience being stigmatized or being seen as “the other,” they feel the opposite of valued; they can experience trauma and feel shame about their God-given ethnicity. This isn’t how God intends any of us to feel about how he created us.

Here in the US, because of our increasingly multiethnic demographics, we have an opportunity to provide a beautiful foretaste of Revelation 7 in a way that many other nations do not. Pursuing multiethnicity today means making space for different peoples and cultures in ways that honor them. It’s a posture that will require us to learn about ourselves and others and to love one another and work together despite our differences.

Whether or not multiethnicity is being addressed in our churches, we parents need to teach our kids about topics like these: Why did God choose to create humankind in different shades and ethnicities? What purpose do these differences serve in addition to giving God pleasure? How do we show people of other ethnicities and cultures that we value them as fellow human beings?

We believe that God’s intent is for all of us to lean into the beautiful differences inherent in the body of Christ and to demonstrate in no uncertain terms that the love of Christ ultimately overcomes all barriers and binds his people—his diverse and multiethnic people—in such perfect unity that “the world will know that [God] sent [him]” (John 17:23).

Helen Lee is director of product innovation at InterVarsity Press. Michelle Ami Reyes is the author of Becoming All Things. Adapted excerpt from The Race-Wise Family. Copyright © 2022 by Helen Lee and Michelle Reyes. Published by WaterBrook, an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC.

Books

God Is the Good Samaritan

And he teaches us to value diversity and individuality.

Illustration by Chidy Wayne

Part of the task of the church is making the case that the church’s mission actually contributes to the flourishing of the wider culture. While not supposing the church is free from corruption, its mission is to be a witness to the dignity of every human life, to the inevitable brokenness of every human life, and to the surprising mercy of God that is to be reflected in the intentional work of reconciliation of those at enmity with each other.

Evangelical churches have failed to make this a significant goal in the last several generations and desperately need to confront their negligence in not caring for the diverse contexts in which God has put them. Striving to be good, honest, and gracious neighbors ought to be part of the church’s task in every age, but especially in our polarized democracy.

Not only will this open doors for witness, but the logic of the gospel requires it. This is the logic that puts the well-being of others ahead of our own well-being. This is captured in the parable of the Good Samaritan (Luke 10:25–34). In this story, Jesus reminds the religious lawyer that his neighbor is anyone and everyone whom he finds in need and is surely not limited to those who offer him social benefits by their association.

The parable is startling because it overturns the accepted stereotypes then operative in the Middle East. The Samaritans would have been considered cultural outcasts in comparison to the priest and the Levite in the story. Yet as the story unfolds, it is the Samaritan who extends mercy to the one lying injured on the side of the road—a stranger who likely would have otherwise hated the Samaritan. All the while, the allegedly virtuous priest and Levite pass by the injured stranger, caring more for their own comforts than the needs of the other.

Being careful not simply to put ourselves in the place of the Samaritan, the deeper meaning of the parable is that God has come to us as the Samaritan came to the stranger—expressing mercy in the most surprising of circumstances. This is neighborliness as the gospel spells it out. It does not require us to be heroes, but servants. The hero is known for self-assertion in the face of great odds. The servant is known for self-sacrifice to help others.

We should continue to ask why certain differences have come to the front of our cultural consciousness. Understanding the historical contexts of the differences that have garnered our attention is a first step in dealing constructively with them. This understanding provides a means to evaluate the significance of the differences against the context of other times and places.

Racial divides have been part of the American experience for four centuries. We should not suppose these can simply be ignored or that they affect everyone in the same way. They are deeply ingrained in our historical narrative, virtually ubiquitous in contemporary culture, and maddeningly complex. Recognizing that a unique historical narrative has framed race relations also helps to resist the notion that these racial divides are a permanent part of the created order. The absence of these racial divides in other times and other places provides guidance for overcoming the tragedies of our own history.

It is not an option simply to accept these divisions at face value or to suppose that they do not undermine the biblical commitment of universal human dignity. How we treat each other across racial divides goes a long way toward illustrating how we understand the God who created this diversity.

We should remember that on a secular rendering of morality, there can be no absolute or universal moral values, which means that there would be no secular moral basis to claim anything is wrong with cultural forms of oppression to begin with.

It is only within a moral framework of universal human dignity arising from a transcendent source that cultural forms of oppression can be accurately diagnosed. And even then, wisdom is required to determine the difference between disagreement and disparagement. Disagreement happens for multiple reasons, and moral disagreement is not equivalent to disparaging those with whom one disagrees. Disparaging others manifests a disregard for the intrinsic dignity of human life. Discerning the difference between disagreement, disparagement, and discrimination is critically important in a time like ours.

The first ecumenical council in Acts 15 manifested theological checks and balances inherent in the gospel in order that the Gentiles would not be excluded. However one construes the structures of authority in the Jerusalem Council, it is clear that theologically informed democratic impulses were operative in the deliberations of the council. Diverse voices were given a platform to process the complicated issues surrounding the relationship of Jewish Christians and Gentile converts. There was a profound loyalty to the gospel, which in turn generated a generous spirit toward the Gentiles.

The gospel communities that emerged from the Jerusalem Council embraced diverse tribes, races, and cultures, all because Christ was the peace who had broken down the dividing wall of hostility in his death and resurrection. The gospel is expressed in the church as the reconciliation of estranged parties because they belong to the same Lord. At the heart of the gospel is not the overcoming of diversity but the reconciling impulse in dealing with “strangers.”

Reconciliation is the goal because of the prior experience of reconciliation with God in and through the gospel. Reconciliation does not obliterate the differences between strangers. In the divine-human experience of reconciliation, the two parties retain their differences. God is still God, and we are still creatures.

As a result of the gospel, we learn to interpret those differences charitably. So it is with the reconciliation that takes place within the church. Estranged parties retain many of the differences after reconciliation, though the differences no longer serve as fundamental obstacles to a renewed relationship.

Much of human experience within the church in our times expresses a very large “but.” Far too many people experience the church not as a place of reconciliation but as a place of conflict. Its profession of the gospel and the reality of the contrary make the church especially liable to the criticism of hypocrisy—by outsiders and insiders.

The answer to this criticism is to abandon the utopianism that underlies it. The gospel is not a story about the church’s perfectibility and especially not the appearance of perfection. It is a misunderstanding of the very character of the gospel that leads to this criticism. This misunderstanding works on the assumption that, by God’s help, the church and those within it somehow lose their moral deficiencies.

This erroneous assumption leads to the expectation that when the church manifests dysfunctions and brokenness, we should be surprised and cynical. This legalist heresy supposes that God demands (near perfect) obedience to a law as a prerequisite of being acceptable.

But the grace of the gospel is not grounded in obedience, and when the church (unfortunately) succumbs to the legalist heresy, it should rightly be criticized for losing sight of the gospel.

Navigating the mysterious tension between the free, unmerited grace of the gospel and the life of those forgiven by that grace requires a sacred wisdom. It is reflected not in a new kind of self-righteousness but in the humble, self-denying act of reaching out to those who are different and from whom one might be estranged.

This is the heart of the sacred wisdom of the gospel as it pertains to diversity and disagreement inside of the church.

How the church deals with diversity inside its own membership often reflects its understanding (or misunderstanding) of the gospel.

That is to say, the gospel itself contains the seeds of wisdom in dealing with internal diversity. It is theological wisdom precisely in the sense that it arises from the work and character of God in the gospel.

Richard Lints is senior distinguished professor of theology at Gordon-Conwell Theological Seminary. This passage is adapted from Uncommon Unity: Wisdom for the Church in an Age of Division, Copyright ©2022 Richard Lints. Lexham Press, Bellingham, Washington. Used by permission.

Read Like Nicodemus

Books invite us to ask questions, ponder, and even change our minds.

Illustration by Abigail Erickson / Source Images: Getty Images

When we imagine Nicodemus, we tend to think of night. We first meet the religious teacher in John 3. When Jesus tells him he must be born again, Nicodemus has questions about obstetrics. He sounds like an almost-immovable skeptic.

Arthur Brooks challenges us to hear the less-noticed questions Nicodemus asks later in a meeting with other religious leaders (7:45–52). Nicodemus’s questions, haltingly sympathetic with Jesus, provoke mockery as his peers ask if he, too, is a Galilean. In From Strength to Strength, Brooks argues that in this scene, Nicodemus is in “a transitional state, between his old beliefs and the new ones that attract him.”

By nearly the end of the gospel, Jesus’ disciples have fled during the night, yet Nicodemus is right there, in the broad daylight, caring for Jesus’ body (19:38–42). Brooks points out that Nicodemus is considered a saint in Catholic and Eastern Orthodox churches, “and, charmingly, the official patron saint of curiosity.”

Some wonder whether books really matter in an image-driven, social media age, but we at CT believe they matter more than ever. The nation is polarized largely because all the “thinking” we do is expected to be immediate and public. If one doesn’t have a position posted as soon as some question emerges, another likely asks if he or she is really “one of us” or will suggest that “the silence is deafening.”

But that’s not how we human beings change our minds about anything. We change after we wrestle through questions, as we ponder, as the “yeast” of a thought appeals to our imagination, our conscience, our expectations. That can only happen away from the judgmental gaze of tribal belonging—and with an attention that can seem like slowness.

That’s why we need books. A book offers a conversation and an argument. As we read, we ask, “But what about …?” and we linger over the possible answers. How many of us have been changed by imagining a scenario through the experience of a fictional character? How many of us have interacted with a book—perhaps expecting fodder for critique to prop up our own views—only to find it making sense to us? There’s a big difference between reconsidering a viewpoint and losing an argument.

Books help us in and out of those transitional spaces. They help guard our curiosity from old allegiances that don’t want us asking questions. Jesus told Nicodemus (speaking of the Spirit), “The wind blows wherever it pleases. You hear its sound, but you cannot tell where it comes from or where it is going” (3:8). Sometimes that sound is the turning of pages, and not until much later do we realize that all of our questions have changed.

Russell Moore is editor in chief of Christianity Today.

Books

A Poet for ‘Bruised Evangelicals’

Malcolm Guite has found himself a sort of tribal elder for younger generations of Christians.

Malcolm Guite

Malcolm Guite

Betty Laura Zapata

On a cool, drizzly summer day in Vancouver, a few Regent College students trailed after their visiting lecturer into a standard American-fare restaurant. But their 65-year-old professor’s tweed jacket, his shoulder-length white hair and full beard, the tap of his black cane, and the sweet, lingering scent of his pipe tobacco seemed to transport them to a smoky British pub where they were slowly imbibing Guinness and dialoguing about theology and literature.

Malcolm Guite tends to create such worlds. Much like the sonnets he writes, he lives wholly in this world yet transports those around him to an ethereal one.

“The teacher in me, the poet in me, the priest in me who’s administering the liturgy, the pastoral counselor in me, it all turns around words,” Guite told me. His calling, he feels, is “to kindle my own and other people’s imagination for Christ.”

Guite is an anomaly that somehow makes sense: He’s an Anglican priest, poet, academic, and singer-songwriter. He enjoys smoking a pipe and rides his Royal Enfield café racer through the English countryside. He meanders on lengthy daily prayer walks and sings and plays guitar in a blues band called Mystery Train.

Malcolm GuiteBetty Laura Zapata
Malcolm Guite

His sonnets and theological writings seem to have a particular appeal to evangelicals. Guite headlined Keith and Kristyn Getty’s Christmas tour at Carnegie Hall in December. He also presented at the Gettys’ global Sing! conference in Nashville last fall and has been promoted by Andrew Peterson’s Rabbit Room collective since 2013. He’s currently collaborating on an album with CCM artist Phil Keaggy.

Guite has written seven collections of poetry, many of which accompany the church calendar, such as Waiting on the Word: A Poem a Day for Advent, Christmas and Epiphany, and Sounding the Seasons: Seventy Sonnets for the Christian Year. He has also written several books on theology, including Lifting the Veil: Imagination and the Kingdom of God. In conversation, he overflows with Scripture and stanzas and prose that he has memorized, the result of a naturally retentive mind and a lifetime of soaking in the written word.

Betty Laura Zapata

His friends and readers have described him as “that rare poet who writes intensely while living joyfully,” or as “a living example of what members of the Inklings were during their time.” His bandmates call him “the Rockin’ Rev.” Other friends fondly refer to him as a hobbit. (Though he hated The Hobbit films. “You spend your whole life trying to be Gandalf, and you end up as Hagrid,” he told me with a chuckle.)

One of his Sonnet and Song tour promotions went so far as to describe him this way: “if John Donne or George Herbert journeyed to Middle Earth by way of San Francisco, took musical cues from Jerry Garcia and fashion tips from Bilbo Baggins, and rode back on a Harley.”

“This is a person, as I say, I was relieved to find existed,” wrote one blogger. “The relief, it seems, lies in seeing how content, self-possessed, and comfortable Malcolm Guite is, both as artist and as guide to greater art.”

Malcolm GuiteBetty Laura Zapata
Malcolm Guite

Both God and poetry chased Guite from an early age. Ayodeji Malcolm Guite was born in Nigeria, where his English father was a Methodist preacher and evangelist and his Scottish mother passed along her love of literature. His first name means “second joy,” Guite has been told—a traditional Yoruba name suggested by the Nigerian nurse who likely saved his life during his precarious birth.

Though Guite remembers his Nigerian childhood fondly, it was overshadowed by his grim adolescent years at a boarding school in England, where his parents sent him after they moved to Canada. There, he explored atheism, believing in scientism rather than the God of his childhood. “I was an existentialist,” he said. “I was reading Sartre on the bedclothes.”

But discovering John Keats toward the end of his boarding school years was a turning point for him. He awoke to his passion for poetry and realized that the feeling he experienced while listening to poetry didn’t align with his materialistic beliefs about the universe. During his undergraduate years at Pembroke College, he moved to agnosticism, writing that he had “begun to be sceptical of my scepticism.”

One night at Cambridge in 1979, Guite was reading Psalm 145—“The Lord is nigh unto all them that call upon him”—and he suddenly became aware of a spiritual presence in his room. “I was not alone. I was invoking him—comfortable in the assumption he wouldn’t come—but he did!” Guite said.

He believed and was baptized six months later, after listening to a Franciscan friar speak at Cambridge. “Somehow as he was speaking, a complete transformation happened,” Guite told Lancia Smith in an interview. “It’s not that I ceased to be aware of God in transcendent glory, it’s just that I suddenly also felt and knew Him as human and personal too.”

After receiving his master’s in literature, he taught in a high school setting and pursued a PhD at Durham University on how the sermons of John Donne and Lancelot Andrewes influenced poet T. S. Eliot. This led him to pursue the priesthood. He subsequently completed a divinity degree and was ordained as a priest in the Church of England at the age of 33. His wife, Maggie, is also a priest, and they have two children.

Although he loved reading and writing poetry, Guite’s primary calling for many years was serving his parish rather than publishing his writing. “He’s an extraordinary pastor,” said Jeremy Begbie, a theologian at Duke Divinity School who studies the intersection of theology and the arts and who taught at the seminary where Guite was a student. “He knows how to read people deeply, and I think that helps the poetry. He understands people’s temptations and desires and all the things that make us a mess.”

After two decades as a chaplain at Girton College, Guite recently retired to the countryside of Norfolk, England, to write, lecture, and serve local churches. During the pandemic, he took daily walks to meditate on the Psalms, and during the lockdowns, he wrote a poem for each of the 150 psalms, which he published together as David’s Crown (a play on the root meaning of corona).

“The core of my prayer life really happens when I go out for walks,” he said, adding that he typically takes three walks a day. “I take my two or three verses out for a walk. And I say them out loud while I’m walking.”

Malcolm GuiteBetty Laura Zapata
Malcolm Guite

The state of Christian poetry in the United States—that which is written by Christians or is overtly biblical—is complicated. Christian colleges, literary magazines like Image Journal and Plough, or publishing houses like Paraclete Press all platform and support Christian poets. But few professional poets choose to write on explicitly biblical or faith-oriented topics.

And even fewer readers in the US, including evangelicals, consume it. Evangelicals tend to prefer literal language rather than metaphorical, Begbie said. There’s an assumption that to understand something, you must use certain language to communicate. “The gospel is to be proclaimed, and so you want to proclaim it in a simple and lucid way. … Why waste time with metaphorical language? Why not just tell it straight?”

Yet the readership for Christian poetry seems to be growing. Since the ’70s and ’80s, when poets began to write more technically for each other, poetry became less accessible to the general public. But that’s changing. Micah Mattix, professor of English at Regent University, is optimistic about the future of poets who write through the lens of redemption.

“What has been unexpected is that so many gifted poets should write openly religious work that would be published in major trade and university presses—and that one of those volumes, Franz Wright’s Walking to Martha’s Vineyard, which begins with an apology for the existence of God, should win the Pulitzer Prize in 2004,” Mattix writes in his anthology Christian Poetry in America Since 1940.

Though Guite writes primarily in a formal sonnet structure, experts say that the familiarity of rhyme and his subject matter make his poems easier for readers to grasp than more opaque free verse. “He makes people uncomfortable in a comfortable way,” said Mattix. “It’s not a limiting factor to write in biblical language per se, but it is to do so in an original and surprising way. Because you’re writing in common language, the element of surprise is somewhat diminished. Part of that is the poet’s understanding of his or her purpose.”

A lot of people see poetry as a difficult thing to understand, Begbie said. “Malcolm’s work has an instant clarity and lucidity about it. And yet it has a profundity at the same time … without feeling manipulated.”

Guite’s readers find his poems accessible and easy to read aloud, “like a heartbeat” with its iambic meter, said Luci Shaw, a contemporary poet in Bellingham, Washington. She met Guite “as a young kid” when he was the poet in residence at a C. S. Lewis conference.

“I know how difficult it is for evangelicals—particularly those without a lot of education in literature—to understand Why poetry? What’s the point of it? Someone like Malcolm is aware of that and speaks to issues that are likable for evangelicals, and he’s bridged that gap in a profoundly effective way,” Shaw said.

She compared her writing (which is also full of faith themes and discussion of the natural world) and Guite’s as means through which readers could access literary poetry. Though Shaw works in free verse and Guite in sonnet, they both drop gospel crumbs throughout their poems, encouraging their readers to experience Christ.

“It’s like a doorway,” she said of Guite. “And he’s a wonderful door.”

Malcolm GuiteBetty Laura Zapata
Malcolm Guite

Guite’s doorway—his poetry—brings Scripture to life, struggles with doubt, and reveres Christ through a “baptized imagination,” a phrase Guite borrows from Lewis, one of his role models. Evangelicals love Guite because he is “so obviously orthodox,” Begbie argues. “He’s obviously a believer, but he brings that world alive, so you rediscover its freshness.”

Because of the trust he’s built with readers, Guite has helped evangelicals who may rarely read poetry to rediscover the world of rhythm and rhyme. Christian poetry helps readers apprehend the gospel rather than just comprehend it, he says, paraphrasing Shakespeare.

“He loves poetry, and he wants you to love it too,” said singer-songwriter Andrew Peterson. “More than that, though, he loves Jesus and wants you to love him too.”

Guite’s audience also includes those who are disenchanted with the church. Begbie observed that while some evangelicals are suspicious of the arts, other “bruised evangelicals” might have the opposite tendency: to use the arts to escape from orthodox faith. “But it’s a false binary. People like Malcolm show that,” Begbie said.

Guite writes for Christians of all denominations and backgrounds. He views himself as a storyteller of the global church. But he agrees that many of his readers are young Christians who were disenchanted with the church of their parents yet are still seeking Jesus. They are a lost tribe. And Malcolm has been surprised to find himself as one of their “tribal elders,” or even a sort of bard.

“I can write grungy, dark, shoegazing, bear-with-me-in-my-agony [poetry] as well as the next man, you know?” he said. “But I do belong to a tribe. I belong to this tribe of story keepers and believers who have this gospel—[who are] in the teeth of the resistance of a secular society that thinks they’re done. So I wrote these sonnets not to be self-expressive but to give beautiful, memorable voice to the story of my tribe.”

In one interview, he described his work as a “full-time poet at the service of the church, trying to sing the Christian song into the world and make it attractive to the world, and draw people in.”

Malcolm GuiteBetty Laura Zapata
Malcolm Guite

Guite also draws people in through social media. Begbie suspects that one reason Guite has risen to such popularity in the past decade is because of his skill in cultivating an online readership, posting sonnets daily to his nearly 12,000 followers on Twitter and on his blog. He knows how to harness the medium, Begbie noted. But Guite also knows social media’s limits.

“My publisher was very reluctant to take on my book, because ‘Nobody’s writing sonnets now, and young people won’t like that,’ ” Guite told me at a sandwich shop in Vancouver. “But actually, it turns out that’s exactly what they like, because it’s precisely not a tweet.”

Toward the end of our second interview, a Zoom call from Chicago to his home in Norfolk, I looked at the stacks of books lining the walls of his office and asked if he had an especially beloved volume. He pulled a brown hardbound title out of a collection of Alfred, Lord Tennyson’s poems that he had purchased with his 21st birthday money. He flipped to In Memoriam to read the prelude.

“It’s really the story of how he went through doubt and achieved faith again, which is very much part of my own story,” Guite told me.

Strong Son of God, immortal Love,
Whom we, that have not seen thy face,
By faith, and faith alone, embrace,
Believing where we cannot prove.

He skipped a few lines and continued:

Our little systems have their day;
They have their day and cease to be:
They are but broken lights of thee,
And thou, O Lord, art more than they.

“Whereas the Romantic poets that I loved—the Keatses and Shelleys and Byrons—all wrote intensely as young men and then died in a blaze of glory and never had to contend with middle age or growing old, Tennyson lived on and wrote some of his best poetry in his mature years,” Guite told me. “That seems very important to me to have that as a model—that creativity can come to you as much in your 60s as it can when you’re 16.”

It made me wonder if, in his decades of crafting poems, Guite was somehow also writing to his younger self: communicating the mystery of the gospel through the beauty of poetry for those who desperately want to find it.

Kara Bettis is associate features editor at Christianity Today.

Inkwell

After You Went and Died

Inkwell December 31, 2022
Photography by Ryunosuke Kikuno

I fell for you who filled with stones
Your bright blue, well-worn shoes.
You stepped into the six foot stream
And let the waters kill
The questions that had kept you quaked,
Awake at sunrise still.

I felt for you at first, then crooked
My neck when you complained.
I handed you a tissue (used),
A pocket full of pills
Prescribed to me when I was you—
When I had lost my will.

I wear your blues now, walk our park,
And listen on the bench—
Eyes wet and wide, I nod through cricks—
When perfect strangers cry.
They say the same things you had said
Before you went and died.

Joshua Hren is a poet, publisher, and founder of Wiseblood Books and co-founder of the MFA at the University of St. Thomas. Joshua’s books include: the novel Infinite Regress; the short story collections This Our Exile and In the Wine Press; the book of poems Last Things, First Things, & Other Lost Causes; Middle-earth and the Return of the Common Good: J.R.R. Tolkien and Political Philosophy; How to Read (and Write) Like a Catholic; and Contemplative Realism: A Theological-Aesthetical Manifesto.

Theology

To Dust We Will Return

In the New Year, we must view our time through a divine lens.

Christianity Today December 29, 2022
Illustration by Mallory Rentsch / Source Images: Unsplash

A month after the World Health Organization declared COVID-19 a global pandemic on March 11, 2020, a debate raged about the responsibilities of those of us turned safely inside. For those privileged enough to find their calendars suddenly cleared, what should we do with all this newfound time? Should we perfect our baking skills? Learn another language? Launch a business?

But in her article for Wired, writer Laurie Penny took issue with those “lucky enough to be able to shelter in place” who were “using that time to launch podcasts and personal projects and life-hack [their] way to some cargo-cult pastiche of normality.” In her essay, Penny defiantly opposed the idea that we were most optimized when we were most productive.

“‘Productivity,’” she argued, “is not a synonym for health, or for safety, or for sanity.”

In theory, I might have agreed with Penny. But busy had always been the most recognizable version of me. Like almost everyone, I counted motion as meaning. While I was getting things done, I felt useful to the world—even to God.

So, in the spring of 2020, I doubled down on time-management strategies. I read more books. I made longer lists. I cleaned every closet in the house, all in the effort to stem the tide of time-anxiety, a word to name the panic attached to modernity’s scarcest resource.

I felt worse and worse and worse.

Of the many traumas the COVID-19 pandemic inflicted on the world, its disruption to our experience of time is certainly one. Years have been entirely eclipsed from memory, time now cleaved into the before and the after. If for one brief and hallowed moment, we gained a sense of time as something to receive, not manage—perhaps also to suffer.

In A Secular Age, Charles Taylor recounts the story of the past 500 years, when we began to tell time differently than the ancients and the medievals. In part, the “secular” story is how all time became ordinary time. According to Taylor, since 1500, a shifting conception of time has given way to a rise in what Taylor calls “exclusive humanism.” This brave, new, modern world of ours has been drained of transcendent, otherworldly purpose.

We don’t grant the existence of God, much less our obligations to him. Today, the only time we owe is to ourselves: to our careers, to our picture-perfect families, to our bucket lists. This accounts, in large part, for our time-devotedness—or perhaps we should say time-greed.

Just as there once was sacred space (in the medieval cathedrals, for example), there was also once sacred time. Kairos time, as the Greeks called it: this time existing beyond the veil of a day and the standardized unit of an hour. In fact, prior to the Reformation, we looked to the monks and nuns to renounce earthly pleasures and commit themselves to prayer. They lived the Lord’s time for the rest of us.

Today, of course, no one really lives the Lord’s time. All we’re left with is chronos time and the successive moments “which we try to measure and control in order to get things done,” Taylor says. All we’re left with is ordinary time—and the relentless goad of productivity. The untested assumption today is that getting things done is an infallible good, never mind the relative worth of those “things” and the predictable irritability involved in the striving.

Perhaps one of the most important discipleship endeavors today is reforming our relationship with time—and encouraging practices of living time more fittingly, more faithfully, more joyfully, more hopefully. The habits of “higher time” don’t have much to do with traditional time management advice, tips and tricks, or techniques and tools.

There is an important difference between improved executive functioning—and the practice of time-faith.

Habits of higher time have little to do with time-savvy. Calendaring may be involved, but mostly these habits involve a “labor of vision,” to borrow a phrase from another writer. Despite our best efforts at productivity, our lives will fog, and then evaporate, like winter breath. We will die.

As the prophet Isaiah reminds us, “All flesh is grass, and all its beauty is like the flower of the field” (Isa. 40:6, ESV throughout). We will not finish all we’ve begun, will not accomplish all we’ve intended. Life will chill, the days shorten, and our bodies will catch in death’s wind and fall like autumn leaves.

Dust to dust. We will get no second chances on mortal time and its gifts.

If we fail to see time stretching beyond the final shudder, beyond the final slow wheeze of life, we are people to be pitied.

Jesus told a story about a man like this, a man without appreciation of eternity (Luke 12:16–21). He was a man whose entire life had been so entirely devoted to the accumulation of wealth that he’d postponed even the pleasures of enjoying it. After the rich man finally entered the golden years of retirement, putting up his feet poolside, somewhere in south Florida, he stretched out his hand to seize his first moment of peace: “Soul, you have ample goods laid up for many years; relax, eat, drink, be merry” (v. 19). That man, Jesus said, was a fool. He didn’t know the measure of time, didn’t know what would suffer loss—and what would last.

Habits of higher time require important unlearning: about time as instrument, about time as aspiration, about time as commodity, something to spend and waste. Habits of higher time don’t seek efficiency at all costs, especially as its project involves the slow growth of wisdom. Higher time invites each of us into a different imagining of time, which is to say the generous sweep of heavenly time, where God’s will is being done without delay or haste.

In the kingdom of productivity, the goal is to get more and more done in less and less time. Speed is success. In the kingdom of heaven, by contrast, there is no cheating the time it really takes: to visit the widow, to welcome the outcast, to cultivate a vocation, to tend a marriage, to raise a child, to nurture a friendship, to grow a deeply formed life.

In the world of heavenly time, which remains rather indifferent to the urgent ticking of the clock, we are free to be still, free to be small, free to take refuge in the one who was and is and ever will be God.

Jen Pollock Michel is the author of five books, including In Good Time: 8 Habits for Reimagining Productivity, Resisting Hurry, and Practicing Peace (Baker Books, a division of Baker Publishing Group, December 2022), from which this piece is adapted.

News

In Britain, There’s More to the Day After Christmas than Boxing Day Sales

Churches observing St. Stephen’s Day retain the charitable roots of December 26.

Shoppers out during the Boxing Day sales.

Shoppers out during the Boxing Day sales.

Christianity Today December 23, 2022
Jeff J Mitchell / Getty

Among the carols filling the air in Britain at Christmastime is the story of a 10th-century king braving the snow—“deep and crisp and even”—to help a poor man gathering firewood.

“Good King Wenceslas” sets out to deliver food, wine, and logs, and the shivering servant who accompanies him finds that the king’s very footsteps are warm. “Ye who now will bless the poor shall yourselves find blessing,” the final verse promises.

The carol begins with the king looking out “on the Feast of Stephen.” St. Stephen’s Day falls the day after Christmas and honors the first Christian martyr, whose story can be found in the Book of Acts. John Mason Neale, the 19th-century Anglican priest who composed the words to “Good King Wenceslas,” was alluding to a long history of charitable giving on the day.

Yet for the vast majority in Britain today, December 26 is simply Boxing Day. If there’s a tradition covered in the press, it’s that of the Boxing Day sales, when bargain-seeking crowds descend on the country’s malls, akin to Black Friday in the United States.

Francis Young, a UK-based historian of religion and belief, points out that even the idea of shops opening the day after Christmas is a recent development. “It would have been known as St. Stephen’s Day certainly right down to the middle of the 19th century,” he said in an interview with CT.

The name Boxing Day can be traced to around 1830, but “Christmas boxes” associated with the holiday date back to the 17th century. These were clay containers with a slot for coins, like piggy banks. At Christmas, the collected money was distributed to servants as well as tradespeople who delivered goods like mail, milk, and meat.

Not everyone was entirely happy with the system, Young noted. The 18th-century satirical writer and Anglican priest Jonathan Swift, author of Gulliver’s Travels, grumbled that he would be “undone” by the custom, complaining about the “rogues” in coffeehouses raising their expected donations.

Today, few British people are still familiar with the traditional Christmas boxes. While the custom of tipping tradespeople has not entirely died out, its decline reflects the centuries of economic shifts. With online shopping, parcels are dropped off by a courier or driver the purchaser will never meet again. The internet has given rise to brief, transactional encounters.

Yet across the country, churches are keeping the tradition of charitable giving alive. At St. Paul’s, Marylebone, in central London, the church serves a Boxing Day lunch to up to 100 guests. Many live alone; others come with family, keen to partake in a community event.

In recent years, a minibus has brought residents from a nearby nursing home. The church is filled with tables and chairs and volunteers come to cook and serve the meal, with food donated by a local hotel. The school connected to the church collects gifts to give out to guests while a local hairdresser sets up a salon in a back room. Carols are sung, and the meal begins and ends with a prayer.

“We’ve always tied it in [to] being St. Stephen’s Day as much as Boxing Day,” said St. Paul’s rector Clare Dowding. “It’s usually begun with a service of some sort at ten o’clock: either prayers or a Eucharist. What I’ve always loved about that is that the Eucharist is taking place at the church at one end with a portable altar, and then, as all our volunteers arrive in the morning to chop sprouts and carrots, they sit there chopping and listening and sharing the carols and Communion.”

For Dowding, the annual day-after-Christmas gathering “has a lovely sense of being part of the St. Stephens’ Day celebration: a feast day that not only connects with St. Stephen but also historically with that sense of caring for our community, caring for one another.”

Christmas Day and Boxing Day can be a lonely time for people, she observes. “Especially if you are watching TV and it’s all about the happy family story. … It’s not so much the food as actually the company, that sort of fellowship.”

Charitable giving is not the only custom associated with Boxing Day.

“It was very much, in medieval England, a continuation of Christmas,” said Young. Among the traditions observed were theater going and hunting (including the belief that this was the one day of the year on which you could hunt the wren, “the king of the birds”).

Centuries ago, rural communities could expect a visit from the mummers, amateur actors who would put on folk plays, such as the story of St. George defeating the dragon. These later gave way to pantomimes—comedies, often based on fairy tales, that continue to attract large crowds today.

Described by one early 20th-century bishop as “the great annual home festival,” Boxing Day was also a rare opportunity for servants and low-paid workers to visit their own families after spending Christmas Day serving someone else’s.

And while government statistics show that few if any weddings take place on Christmas in the UK these days, well into the 20th century it was a popular choice for poorly paid workers unable to afford to take a day off. Boxing Day was a chance for a brief honeymoon. In 1937, the Anglican newspaper Church Times reported that a minister in the East End of London, a working-class area, had 12 couples to marry on the 25th.

While unlikely to be conducting weddings the day before, many of today’s clergy receive Boxing Day as an opportunity for a well-earned rest. In recent years, UK pastors have started a new tradition on social media called the Clergy Malt Club, sharing selfies of drinking whiskey or a similar drink after midnight Mass on Christmas Eve.

twitter.com/redjules/status/1474541584507101192

But not everyone will be putting their feet up. When Andy Todd arrived in Worcestershire, in the English West Midlands, he was advised never to work for a church dedicated to St. Stephen “because it means that you don’t get to hang up your stole until well after Christmas Day.”

He has no regrets about taking up his position as priest in charge at St. Stephen’s, Barbourne in the city of Worcester. On December 26, the congregation gathers for a special service celebrating its patron saint.

The church burns incense, clergy wear their “finest robes,” and a senior church leader in the area comes to celebrate the Eucharist. The church also invites a newly ordained minister to preach, in recognition of the fact that St. Stephen was not only the first Christian martyr but also one of the first deacons.

For the relatively small number who attend the service, it’s a precious occasion, Todd says. “For many people, to be able to come and celebrate Communion on the day after Christmas is a really important part of their own devotional practice. … I must say, I come to the end of it with a feeling of real joy.”

Todd called St. Stephen’s Day a “poignant festival.” His church’s huge west window tells the story of the saint’s martyrdom. “A lot of Christmas celebration outside is rather superficial and a bit glitzy,” he said. “But actually, to the whole Christmas story, there’s this dark edge running through it, and coming back to St. Stephen at the end of it is a reminder of that.”

His congregation will be among those singing “Good King Wenceslas,” with its themes of poverty and isolation. With many in the UK facing a cost-of-living crisis, including rocketing energy bills, St. Stephen’s, like many churches across the country, is open this winter as a warm place where people can take shelter.

The Worcester church has another link to the tradition of charitable giving too. Wealthy residents funded its construction in the mid-19th century so servants living in the northern part of the city wouldn’t have to travel and pay tolls to worship each week.

“They built St. Stephen’s—a deacon, servant—for the servants to the city,” Todd said. “There’s a lovely historical resonance there.”

Having been ordained seven years ago, after working for decades in industry, he recalls that “Boxing Day, for me, had a slight sense of flatness after the Christmas hype and a sense of fullness from having eaten too much. It was TV, increasingly shopping, and it felt very inward-looking and a bit shallow. I found that coming to St. Stephen’s and having this particular emphasis on the day is a real celebration of community and of service.”

The Archbishop of York, one of the most senior leaders in the Church of England, agrees.

“For me, Boxing Day will always, first of all, be St. Stephen’s Day,” Stephen Cottrell said. “The Christian calendar confronts us with the remembrance of the first Christian martyr on the day after we celebrate Jesus’ birth. No cozy stable is allowed. If we choose to follow this child, there will be challenge, there will be conflict, there will be consequences.

“So, my Boxing Day will mean a walk, cold turkey, bubble and squeak, a movie on the TV, but also church. The Eucharist on Boxing Day, or St. Stephen’s Day, tells me what Christmas means for me.”

Madeleine Davies is senior writer at the Church Times in London and author of Lights for the Path: A Guide Through Grief, Pain, and Loss.

Why Educators Shouldn’t Be Worried About AI

AI Apps like ChatGPT are a wake-up call to redefine the holistic nature of education.

Christianity Today December 23, 2022
Illustration by Mallory Rentsch / Source Images: Getty

Technology and machinery have long exceeded human strength, speed, and efficiency. But OpenAI’s recent release ChatGPT is an artificial intelligence chatbot that—unlike previous technological advances—seems to mimic human intellect in a manner rivaled only by science fiction.

In general, ChatGPT can transact much of the work done in modern educational settings. This has led to a spate of articles with alarming titles like “Freaking Out About ChatGPT,” “Will Everyone Become a Cheat?” “The End of High School English,” and “The College Essay is Dead.” A recent article opened with this ominous forecast: “Professors, programmers and journalists could all be out of a job in just a few years.”

In response to its unnerving capacity to disrupt core fixtures of education like homework and essays, many are quick to point out the limitations of ChatGPT in order to prove human brainpower is still greater than increasingly intelligent AI. Yet while dialogue models like ChatGPT still have glitches and quirks, they will undoubtably get “smarter” and more adaptive with time.

ChatGPT’s capacity to arrange information and knowledge is a challenge to educational assessment from elementary to graduate school. More accurately, AI’s threat is proportionate to how we have come to define education.

As Amit Katwala writing for Wired put it, modern education is structured to teach people a single skill: how to collect and transmit information. And in this sense, alarm is warranted. To the extent education is reduced to absorbing and regurgitating information, AI like ChatGPT and other adaptive dialogue models will continue to surpass humans and radically reconfigure core dimensions of educational institutions.

But is this the right way to characterize education? Is this the role of a teacher?

Just as fears regarding automation and human labor reveal an impoverished view of what a human is, fears of artificial intelligence and learning reveal an impoverished view of education. If education is merely the transmission of information, then advanced AI could very well be a kind of death knell for conventional educational instruction and evaluation.

If, however, educational institutions exist for the formative development of students—their intellect, character, morality, wisdom, judgment, prudence, service, capacity, and unitive understanding of the world they inhabit and how they act within it (and here I have the Christian university in mind)—educational institutions will always have an important relevance for society, even a society increasingly occupied by AI.

In Nichomachean Ethics, Aristotle claimed that the purpose of education was to teach the student rightly ordered affections, desires, and impulses; to receive pleasure and pain from proper objects was “correct education.”

G. K. Chesterton referred to education as giving us “abstract and eternal standards” to judge fleeting conditions. French philosopher Simone Weil said that education is a form of attention—seeing beyond the subject and ordering our minds and hearts to higher things.

In this sense, educational instruction and learning should not be divorced from their proper use—which involve a distinctly moral dimension.

“If we are disposed to judge apart from the larger questions,” writes Wendell Berry in his essay The Loss of the University, “then a good forger has as valid a claim to our respect as a good artist.” Or, as ethicist Martha Nussbaum writes, “A good doctor is also a good poisoner.”

In other words, the difference between a life-saving doctor and a life-taking poisoner or between an able artist and a master forger lies not in the possession of knowledge or skill, but in its rightful application.

To use Berry’s phrase, addressing the “larger questions” of life must be part of any comprehensive educational curriculum. The enterprise of learning is not just optimizing an end goal or value, but the prioritization of values.

Yes, schools should teach technical skills, foster the social and economic potential of students, and prepare them for a dynamic workforce. But in its best sense, education does not solely exist for job preparation. It involves providing students with a unifying hub for the various academic spokes—to convey what knowledge, skill, and craft are for.

That is education worthy of its name.

Former Google chairman Eric Schmidt claimed that by giving Google greater access to your personal information, the popular search engine can “make you smarter.” But can Google or any other adaptive AI technology make you better? More empathic? Selfless? Virtuous?

Knowledge is not enough to constitute wisdom, judgment, prudence, and moral excellence. One can be, to use an expression once used by the playwright Molière, a “learned fool.” Or as Walker Percy reminded us, you can make straight A’s and “flunk ordinary living.”

For this reason, Stanford University professor Rick Reis said educators should aim for “productive discomfort”—creating fear in students because they “either cannot articulate … the values that guide their lives, or that their values and beliefs do not withstand scrutiny.”

To this last point, a holistic, unitive education says something about the teachers who provide it. As most can attest, impactful teachers are not simply intelligent, credentialed communicators who can effectively convey a concept or teach a skill—they are more. Good teachers care and show interest in their students, name their potential, broaden their imaginative horizons, and inspire them.

Though some have attempted to use AI in educational settings to create an empathetic community, AI cannot empathize in a way a teacher can.

If teachers maintain patterns of connection and compassion for students—drawing them into a larger story, pushing for “productive discomfort,” forcing evaluative judgments and moral fortitude (what Robert and Edward Skidelsky called “educating the sentiments”)—AI may change how assessment is proctored, but it will be unlikely to change the enterprise of teaching.

Years ago, while doing graduate work at an institution in Scotland, I was privileged to have renowned biblical scholar Richard Bauckham as a professor. We had to write five papers for the semester, all graded on a 20-point scale. Submissions would rarely, if ever, receive a score higher than 18—implying that there is no “perfect” paper.

My first submission returned a score of 17.5, the highest grade I had received in the program. At that point, I was convinced I had “cracked the code” on British assessment and the essay elements necessary to land a high grade. To my surprise, however, my next paper’s score was lower. The next, lower still. For the rest of the semester, the trend of decreasing scores continued.

During an end-of-semester feedback session with the professor, I spoke up. “I maintained the same quality of writing, the same volume of sourcing, and the same arc of argumentation,” I griped. “I met the stated criteria. I did what was asked. Why were my scores lower with each submission?”

I will never forget Bauckham’s reply. After patiently bearing my appeal, he calmly stated, “If you did not receive a favorable score on a paper, it is because you didn’t dazzle me.”

At the time, I was annoyed. How was I supposed to “dazzle” a world-renowned scholar? Is that really what I was being graded on?

Today, as an educator, I see the exchange much differently. Bauckham did not simply want students to follow a pattern and reproduce information. He was not merely looking for proficiency. Demonstrating understanding and competency was important, but not enough. He wanted authorial voice—connection and originality that advanced knowledge through reasoned argumentation.

Artificial intelligence like ChatGPT and its advanced future variants will continue to elicit both wonder and fear. But while impressive, they cannot dazzle in the manner Bauckham described. This speaks to the possibilities for modern education.

For this reason, I am encouraged.

First, technology can be used for beneficial purposes. Artificial intelligence can lower the costs of educational delivery. It can expand educational access across a broader spectrum of learners. AI can help students brainstorm research topics or consider alternative perspectives. It may even be used as a tool to share the gospel. But as Wendell Berry has warned, problems arise from our “willingness to allow machines … to prescribe the terms and conditions” for our lives.

In other words, AI is a good servant, but it is a poor master.

I am encouraged for another reason: the future of education. As AI capabilities grow, it will force institutions to define, describe, and practice education in a manner that mirrors a more holistic vision of formational learning.

If teachers are viewed as gatekeepers of information, then they are already obsolete. If education is merely rote memorization, information regurgitation, data computation, and proficiency demonstration, then education must soon be radically redefined.

AI will only grow in its capacity to accurately assemble information. But holistic education is teaching and learning from an empathic educator seeking to locate knowledge and skill in a larger unified context and assess its rightful application.

Poet John Keats warned of reductionist education that would “clip an angel’s wings” or “unweave a rainbow.” For this reason, CS Lewis said the task of an educator is “not to cut down jungles but to irrigate deserts.”

This kind of education is not only robust to withstand technological dynamism but also an increasingly important fixture for cultivating the minds, hearts, and hands of tomorrow’s citizens (including our citizenship in the city of God).

Educational institutions that embrace this vision have an opportunity to dazzle in a way that cannot be artificially replicated.

Kevin Brown is the 18th president of Asbury University.

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