Religion

Challenging the Secularist Narrative

In former times, secularism denoted the state’s neutrality in the face of competing worldviews and comprehensive claims about reality. Ideas could be freely trafficked in a pluralistic environment, whilst no one religion or creedal system could claim official establishment. Although people adhered to a minimum set of shared values – the better to preserve social and political harmony – all were permitted to enter the public square according to their own lights and their own convictions.

More recently, however, a new conception of secularism has arisen. Unlike its intellectual forebear, the contemporary model is neither neutral nor passive in regards to contrasting worldviews. Quite the contrary. In fact, it is largely built upon a fundamental antipathy towards what it sees as the unwarranted encroachments of mere “belief”. Much of this ire has been directed, of course, at religion. Scientists like Richard Dawkins and Neil de Grasse exemplify this view, whilst Australia is also home to its own tribe of new secularists. Via various means, proponents of this view devote themselves to a vision of the public square expunged of the apparently baleful effects of anything allegedly lacking scientific objectivity.

The new secular project rests on two, complementary claims: that certain value-systems – particularly those codified in religious traditions – are hobbled by a corrosive irrationality; and that secularists enjoy the benefit of an objective, unmediated view of reality. For the new secularists, there exists an irreconcilable division between these two realms; between a grounded, life-giving realism, and an enervating superstition. However, despite their increasingly widespread popularity, these assertions are, I think, quite unfounded.

Let’s examine the first claim – namely, that religion is irrational. Dawkins encapsulates this view well when he condemns (religious) faith as “blind trust, in the absence of evidence, even in the teeth of evidence”. For him and those of his ilk, religion is bereft of rational justification and evidentiary grounding. This isn’t merely the claim that this religious adherent is irrational or that doctrinal formulation is without foundation; it is, rather, the much stronger assertion that religion as such is rationally deficient – the product of delusion, wishful thinking or a stultified intellect. Unfortunately, it illegitimately flattens out the diversity of religious belief and religious experience, in both nature and origin. An impossibly broad claim, it ignores the rich intellectual traditions of some of the world’s major religions, and the sophisticated arguments that have been developed to substantiate such beliefs.

For instance, I myself am rather partial to Thomas Aquinas’ arguments for that most fundamental of religious questions, God’s existence. In his First Way, a type of cosmological argument, Thomas argues that the everyday objects our experience, and their causal interactions with each other, furnish a base from which a person might reason, via metaphysical principles, to a sustaining cause of the structures of reality. He saw that finite things are possessed of latent properties that can only be “actualised” (that is, brought from the realm of the potential to the realm of the actual) by external forces; change within an object is the result of those forces acting upon it, whatever they may be. To take a simple example, a red rubber ball left in the sun will eventually turn a lighter shade of pink; place it near a hot flame, and it will, over time, change into a puddle of viscous goo.

According to Aquinas, these apparently trivial changes are part of larger, and more complex, chains of causation. Each member within that chain has only secondary causal power, simultaneously depending on earlier members for whatever potency it exercises. Delving down into ever deeper layers of reality, the First Way takes one to its basic structures. Simultaneously, it also argues against an infinite regress – that is, an infinite ribbon of casual activity, stretching downwards ad infinitum. According to Thomas, it would be metaphysically “groundless”, having nothing upon which to become extant. And if so, then it must terminate in a fundamental cause, sustaining all else and actualising all secondary causes. Sitting at the foundational strata of reality means that it could not, in principle, be a part of it – as if it were merely some finite feature of our world. Rather, it would have to be the very ground of all being, the metaphysical basis upon which the world exists in the first place. And for Aquinas, it would have to correspond to what people traditionally know as God.

Of course, new secularists might retort that most religious folk don’t think this way, but rather construct their beliefs in a more unreflective manner. However, this fails to realize that many arguments for, say, God’s existence – no matter how intellectually demanding – actually build upon the quotidian experiences and intuitive impulses of ordinary people. Aquinas’ own explorations depend on empirical observation in order get off the ground. Other arguments of this kind are partly based on a person’s ordinary (yet reasonable) reflections concerning causal principles, a sense of the transcendent, a belief in the world’s rational intelligibility, and even its apparent contingency. As the theologian Keith Ward notes, belief in the kind of God Aquinas sought to substantiate plausibly fulfils many of these longings – “for God”, he writes, “is ultimate reason…[and] the only belief which gives reason a fundamental place in reality”. Such arguments may distil, challenge or stretch certain aspects of a layperson’s unfocused understanding of theism. Nonetheless, they are not fundamentally at odds, and imply that the basic drives people possess towards the divine may be quite consistent with rational theistic accounts.

New secularists might still contend that such arguments simply fail to supply evidence for God’s existence – and therefore, lack any rational warrant for religious belief. For them, a reasonable belief is largely synonymous with what is empirically demonstrable. But as the philosopher Edward Feser has perceptively argued, this criticism founders for the very reason that it adopts an a priori (i.e., non-empirical) assumption about what counts as “rational”, “evidence”, or “warranted belief”. The scientific enterprise is merely one avenue towards knowledge and truth; other methods of rational inquiry exist, including mathematics and philosophy, which do not rely fundamentally on empirical observation. Moreover, the very assumptions scientific study takes for granted – the existence of the external world, its rational intelligibility, the reality of causation, or the general reliability of one’s senses – suggest that such a project cannot even get off the ground without implicitly appealing beyond itself.

What, then, of the new secularists’ other assertion: that they alone, as people free from the encumbrances of bias (both religious and otherwise), enjoy an unadulterated understanding of reality? How should one respond, say, when a Neil de Grasse Tyson argues we need a new “country” – Rationalia – whose constitution stipulates that public policy should be stripped of all value-statements, and formed on the basis of pure (scientific) facticity?

One might point out that such an epistemological position is intrinsically impossible, for no one makes enquiries about the world in a vacuum. As Lesslie Newbigin has pointed out, human beings are inescapably bound by their finite vantage-points, and are invariably conditioned by prior plausibility structures that legitimise, reinforce or screen out certain patterns of thinking. Similarly, the sociologist and political theorist, Barrington Moore, Jr., wrote that,

…Human beings…do not react to an “objective” situation…There is always an intervening variable, a filter…between people and an “objective” [event], made up of all sorts of wants, expectations, and other ideas…”.

I’ve already noted that even those who prize empirical observation above all else must still begin with a received picture of the world. Moreover, secularists who tout the predominance of “facts,” and who ground their view of the world in an exclusive kind of empiricism, have unwittingly committed themselves to their own set of plausibility structures – in this case, presupposing that reality can only be captured by the methods and processes of modern science. The new secularist, just as much as the religious devotee, is inherently incapable of adopting a completely value-free position.

Additionally, facts by themselves can’t do all that much; they need to be strung together coherently, according to an overarching narrative or interpretive framework, if they are to mean anything beyond their own referents. The debate over abortion is a good example of this dilemma. Modern science might be able to determine in great detail when a foetus begins to develop vital organs, when it is able to feel pain, and so forth. But how can it tell us whether or not abortion is, under any circumstances, morally right? How can it determine when, if ever, a baby with developmental disabilities should be terminated? Even framing the questions in such terms is a category mistake: thanks to Hume’s observation that one cannot derive an ought from an is, it’s clear that simplistically trying to read prescriptive truths off descriptive data cannot be done.

Some, like Dawkins, think that one of the crucial questions regarding the morality of abortion is that of foetal suffering. Though important, such consequentialism is simply not the logical product of scientific enquiry. He proceeds to argue that the moment of birth forms a “natural Rubicon” between permissible and impermissible acts of killing. But again, how does the scientific enterprise lead to such a distinction? What essential difference is there between a child who has been in its mother’s womb for eight months, and a child just born? Dawkins’ line-drawing is arbitrary, having little to do with a pure, empirical appraisal of the situation. One might equally argue that conception marks the basic ontological transition from non-being to being, and is therefore the “natural Rubicon” one ought to use; indeed, everything subsequent to that epochal moment simply represents its unfolding. The point, however, is that these issues – the nature of personhood and the value one should ascribe to it – are fundamentally philosophical and metaphysical. Scientific enquiry alone cannot provide complete answers. Consequently, the secularist’s much-vaunted neutrality dissipates, and she once again finds herself in the same boat as the religious adherent – compelled, that is, to rely on a basic array of presuppositions to guide her ethical analyses and prescriptions.

***

As much as the new generation of secularists would have us believe their claims regarding religion, truth and reality, it is clear that those arguments are deeply unsound. It is therefore difficult to avoid the conclusion that attempts to squeeze religious and other value-laden convictions out of the public sphere do not proceed from innocent scientific or rational enquiry. Rather, those methods have been pressed into service to help prosecute an agenda possessing quite different origins. If this essay has succeeded in anything, then it has at least shown that the self-styled opponents of myth and superstition have been shrewdly peddling a few myths of their own.

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(Christian) Religion and Secularism: A Response to Brian Morris

Note: this article first appeared in the online newsletter Engage.mail, published by the Evangelical Alliance’s ethics think-tank, Ethos.

I am usually fairly sanguine about the place of Christianity within modern society. Claims that an aggressive secularism is systematically attempting to extirpate religion in general, and Christian faith in particular, from the public square can often seem exaggerated. Every so often, however, I find my insouciance disturbed by some honest pundit or commentator, who with unusual clarity reveals the intentions of a certain strand of secular thought. Aside from providing (some) warrant for those anxious about anti-Christian hostility, such candour does have the advantage of giving one a fairly clear target at which to aim.

The opinions of Brian Morris, which appeared in both print and online media outlets last year (see, for example “It’s Time: Make Politicians Wear Religion on their Sleeve,” New Matilda, 17th August, 2015), constitute one such example. Morris, a former journalist, has turned his hand to advocating for his particular conception of secularism. As part of this project, he called on MPs to openly declare their religious commitments, in much the same way that elected officials reveal any pecuniary interests that may conflict with their parliamentary duties. Morris contextualised his view by saying that ‘politicized religion’ has surreptitiously retarded progress on a number of fronts, including efforts to legalise same-sex marriage and voluntary euthanasia. For him, parliamentary debate around SSM ‘subverts any notion of a secular Australia’.

Targeting Christianity especially, Morris argued that in a multicultural and multi-religious country such as Australia, it made sense for Christian MPs to be more transparent about their views. He suggested that one way of ensuring greater openness was to have politicians’ beliefs – and their influence on whatever views they may happen to hold – placed on public record. Others, like Fiona Patten (head of the Australian Sex Party) appear to have gone even further, suggesting for example that some kind of register of religious affiliation might be appropriate.

But let’s stick with Morris for a moment. One might be tempted to agree with him, at least to some extent. Say an MP is both a staunch member of the Catholic Church and has parliamentary oversight for various social welfare organisations (many of which have roots in, and are connected with, institutional Catholicism). It’s fair and reasonable to think that such an individual would be completely transparent in revealing his or her religious links. If that’s what is meant by politicians’ religious commitments being registered or placed on public record, then one will hear no argument from me.

The trouble is that Morris means more than this. Indeed, the suggestion that the airing of religiously-grounded views in parliament (say, in relation to the SSM debate) is itself evidence of the subversion of secularism indicates as much. So, too, does his interpretation of the Australian Constitution, which he argues was intended to ‘keep religion out of politics’. At base, it seems that Brian Morris wants to excise religion and opinions rooted in religious devotion from the public square. This is not merely advocacy for the institutional separation of church and state – something with which we can all agree – but for the rather radical idea, common among a more aggressive species of secularist, that religion’s presence in public-political life should be completely uprooted.

There are, however, several glaring problems with that kind of position. To begin, one must ask how it would even be possible, logistically-speaking, to achieve such an aim. How does Morris and others of his ilk propose to interrogate politicians on their religious commitments or to ensure those beliefs are publicly registered? Lying behind this is the very basic question of how one actually defines religion, which – notoriously – eludes all efforts at delimitation. What counts as a ‘religious’ commitment in the first place? Mere church membership? General theistic belief? A relatively doctrinal construction of religious convictions? What about the certainty that the cosmos is unified by a ‘higher’ meaning? In an age of spiritual pluralism, where all kinds of beliefs may fall under the umbrella of ‘religion’ (including those of politicians), arguing for some kind of public record comprising such beliefs is to engage in a project that defies precision by its very nature.

Similarly, how would Morris propose MPs corral their religious convictions in order to approach contentious issues in a manner that pleases him? He dismisses, for instance, Eric Abetz’s complaint that only the ‘intellectually bankrupt’ could expect a religious individual to ‘leave their religion at the doors of parliament’. But what’s to object to here? In my view, it reflects the common-sense view that religion – like any kind worldview (even atheistic ones) – is often embedded in the deepest strata of a person’s thinking and behaviour. Asking, say, a Christian to view policy issues without framing them through the lens of his or her worldview is akin to asking someone who wears glasses to remove them in order to ‘properly’ appreciate the lines and contours of a landscape painting.

This appears to be joined to Morris’ (unworkable) suggestion that religion in Australia should be ‘re-positioned’ as a wholly privatized phenomenon. However, short of barring religious individuals from entering public life, it would seem impossible to guarantee that religiously-inspired beliefs – which constitute a ‘framework of reality’ that enables many people to make sense of their world – seep into public discourse and parliamentary debate. Indeed, as social entities, religious individuals are themselves evidence that religion cannot be a purely private matter; their very presence suggests that the public and private dimensions of life can never be truly walled off from each other. Moreover, it seems that Morris has ‘solved’ the question of how one is to define religion only by conveniently opting for a narrow conception – driven, one thinks, by Enlightenment dualisms. Unfortunately, he has ignored the phenomenological diversity of religious expression, substituting for it a reductive characterisation that simply assumes (wrongly, I might say) its inherently privatized nature. Morris adopts a very ‘thin’ understanding of spirituality, which, apart from anything else, fails to reckon with both its ubiquity and its formative role in driving many individuals to work for the common good by way of public and political service.

In promoting his views, Morris evinces a fundamental misunderstanding of religion. But he also fails to understand the nature of Australian secularism, and does so in two main ways. First, Morris’ view that the Australian Constitution was meant to banish religion from political discourse is quite misleading. It was not intended to purify the political process of the apparently baleful effects of religious thought. Rather, the Constitution’s provisions regarding religion prohibit the passage of laws that establish an official creed, hamper religious freedom or disqualify anyone from public office on the basis of their religious (or non-religious) convictions. Here is the relevant statement, from S.116:

The Commonwealth shall not make any law for establishing any religion, or for imposing any religious observance, or for prohibiting the free exercise of any religion, and no religious test shall be required as a qualification for any office or public trust under the Commonwealth.

The text says nothing about individual politicians forming and articulating their opinions on a range of issues according to a religiously-grounded worldview, and to say that it does suggests adherence to a peculiarly aggressive form of secular absolutism. If anything, the Constitution ensures a kind of ideational pluralism, where a host of ideas, creeds, norms and principles – both religious and non-religious – can compete with each other on an equal footing. The infrastructure of the state may be free from formal religious control, certainly; but this in no way means what Morris thinks it means – namely, the public invisibility of religious or spiritual worldviews, or the people who embody them.

Second, in advocating a shift of religion’s place in contemporary Australian life, Morris seems to ignore the very deep roots it has sunk into the country’s political, legal and social landscape. As such, he has de-historicized the country’s institutions, divesting them of their religious-ethical content. I regard it as uncontroversial that Australia’s political culture, its laws and many of its normative principles (whether codified or not) owe a great debt to what might broadly be called its Judeo-Christian heritage. Of course, we are the beneficiaries of a number of intellectual streams, including that constellation of ideas known as the Enlightenment. But it is more than a little churlish to suggest that religion – in this case, Christianity – has no place in the very institutions it helps underpin. No one is suggesting, say, that Christian individuals should be given carte blanche simply because of the spiritual tradition they carry. But again, it would seem intrinsically impossible, given the origins of many of our political and ethical values, to completely leach the public square of religious influence. Calling for politicians to reveal their religious commitments (as they might their financial interests) frames the debate in terms of a basic conflict between one’s spirituality and a fully-orbed devotion to democratic processes. But if what I have said about the foundations of Australia’s political culture is correct, then there is no necessary conflict; quite the opposite, in fact.

* * *

Those like Brian Morris seem to be espousing a revolutionary kind of secularism, which seeks to effect a tectonic change in the conduct of Western politics, and religion’s place in modern society. Unfortunately, Morris badly misconceives both religiosity and secularism, even as he casts himself as the latter’s defender. Calling for elected officials to publicly declare their so-called religious interests – part of a wider attempt to ‘re-position’ religion as a purely private matter – is logistically impractical and intolerably intrusive. It fails to reckon with the ubiquitous reality of a dimension of life that can never be wholly privatized, whilst hollowing out a favoured concept in the interests of zealously prosecuting a particular agenda. Of course, this is not an implicit call for spiritual revanchism; I don’t think we should seek a return to the pre-secular past. That said, Christians ought to be confident as they step out into the public sphere, knowing that the cultural framework is not only not inimical to their values, but owes a great deal to them. The efforts of radical secularists notwithstanding, one’s attempt to influence public discourse or enter the political arena as (say) an avowed Christian is a legitimate enterprise.

Religious Truth and Tolerance in Contemporary Society.

In late November 2010, the British newspaper, The Economist, ran a story in its weekly opinion page for its American bureau. “Lexington”, as the pundit is known, wrote about the contemporary religious and social landscape in the Land of the Free (“One Nation, with Aunt Susan”, November 27th, 2010, p.46). Although the research he used as a springboard for his piece is an interesting addition to the study of religion in society, I want to focus on the article itself. In isolation, the piece is nothing unique: it represents the prevailing spiritual and theological wisdom in the contemporary west. But the fact that it is representative means that it is noteworthy, for it both reflects and reinforces our society’s understanding of religious truth, presenting a challenge to those who (like me) beg to differ. Since this blog is in turn attempting to challenge prevailing views where they depart from Christian truth, the article in question (and the issue that lies behind it) is fertile ground for discursive engagement.

The premise of Lexington’s piece is a recent sociological study conducted by Robert Putnam and David Campbell, who argued that religion is a unifying force in contemporary American society. As our pundit quotes, they argue that religion is like, “civic glue, uniting rather than dividing”. Although that unifying effect has strict limits (it seems that tolerance for people of other faiths does not always extend to Muslims or Buddhists), the article approvingly suggests that acquaintance with people from other religious traditions has beneficial social implications. So far so good. The fact is, knowing people from other faith traditions and religious beliefs is good for social harmony. Of course, there are debates over the balance between individual diversity and the integrity of social and communal norms. But, as Christians, we can agree with the potential benefits (I say “potential”, since they are not always actual) of social interaction between diverse people. Knowing people personally, rather than as ciphers or as faceless representatives of an alien belief system, affords us the opportunity to witness the image of God embodied in others. That is something that all of us – regardless of colour, faith or creed – share, and our getting to know others will help us to realize that. In this, at least, Lexington is on the money (even without the injection of Christian wisdom).

However, things take a decidedly worrying turn when our author conflates social tolerance (“Even though we are of different faiths, and I may disagree with you, I will treat you with respect and dignity”) with epistemological and spiritual equality (“Even though we are of different faiths, we are all on our own journeys towards God, and all of us will enter Heaven”). Indeed, at one point, he says that if one was a Jew, but was well-acquainted with the hypothetical “Aunt Susan”, a Methodist, one would nonetheless “know that Aunt Susan deserves a place in Heaven”. Our sagacious pundit later states things slightly differently, by citing statistics that indicate 9 out of 10 Americans believe that people of other faiths can get into Heaven. Something is amiss.

Such statements of belief are widespread in the contemporary west, and they are as philosophically inaccurate as they are tediously common. There is no reason why tolerance of another’s beliefs should give rise to the belief that they, too, are on the way to Heaven. It’s one thing to suggest that people of different faiths get along and tolerate each other in a social setting – vitally important in any cosmopolitan environment. It’s quite another to then go and suggest, as Lexington does, that tolerance of another’s views extends into the realm of epistemology and truth claims. This is simply not so, and there is nothing compelling us to accept such a claim (Christian or otherwise). In the final analysis, it is a confusion of categories. To use an analogy, my acceptance of another’s Marxist beliefs does not thereby compel me to accept their epistemic equality – relative to my own political beliefs – or that Marxists have a roughly equal chance of building a prosperous society, with a good standard of living, as advocates of free market capitalism do. To suggest otherwise is folly, since once we do that, we throw the whole notion of truth-seeking and discursive engagement out the window. If one belief is as good as any other, then what is the point of civil discourse? What use is there in discussing such matters? I imagine that Lexington would not be so quick to suggest such things if he were referring to political disagreements; why, then, does he accept the provisional equality of religious beliefs? Our pundit may not go so far as to say it, but by merging these two types of tolerance, he effectively inhibits religious disagreement. I mean, if tolerance means accepting the epistemic equality of (in this case) all religious truth claims, then there is very little point in debating their respective merits or whether any of them is commensurate with reality.

I can offer several explanations, but I will save that for the end of this article. In any case, tolerance of another’s views plainly does not mean that one has to agree with them. In fact, tolerance points in the other direction; you don’t have to tolerate someone whose beliefs elicit nothing more than passivity or blind acceptance. Similarly, just because I disagree with the Muslim down the road, and believe that he will not “get into Heaven” if he persists in his beliefs, does not mean that I will not treat him with dignity and civility. Indeed, my openly disagreeing with his beliefs is a mark of the utmost respect and, one might say, love. It’s respectful, since I am treating my Muslim neighbour as a real person who is capable of handling differing views in a mature manner; and it’s loving, since, from a Christian point of view, there is nothing more compassionate than telling another of the way in which God has revealed himself exclusively and uniquely in the life, ministry, death and resurrection of Jesus. Be that as it may, Lexington, in his rush to commend the kind of religious tolerance that flattens out all theological differences, fails to perceive just how real and deep those differences are. Even when it comes to the notion of ultimate hope, he is painfully naïve (and, ironically, comes across as rather “religio-centric”, in his use of the Judeo-Christian term, “Heaven”). Although he may approve of the person who says that people of other faiths can get into Heaven anyway, he seems unaware of just how different various conceptions of ultimate hope actually are. Christians believe that only those in Christ Jesus will take their places in a renewed creation. The Buddhist conception of Nirvana, however, is vastly different. Even if God were not so worried about various religious differences, and only concerned about letting everyone into the great Heavenly rave party, why should we expect Buddhists to fit themselves into that particular notion of “the end”?

It’s not just eschatology that Lexington seems to ignore. He also ignores the very, very different truth claims the various religions make regarding the past and the present; about the current state of humanity, and the remedy for it. Each religion contains within it a distinct narrative. Again, only someone who is able to completely ignore such distinctions, or who believes that religious truth is merely a matter of myth, could suggest that religious tolerance means accepting that all people have an equal shot at Heaven (and are, therefore, all on the right track). Christians believe that Jesus was God “in the flesh”. Muslims, on the other hand, strenuously resist this theological claim as a lapse into idolatry. Similarly, Christians believe that Jesus rose bodily from the dead, which signified God’s complete triumph over sin and death, and the commencement of new creation. Again, Muslims deny this claim outright. These are not minor differences on the minutia of religious truth; they are fundamentally at odds in their conception of reality, and the respective solutions they offer to a world in need. With beliefs of such wide variance being propagated (and this is only amongst the so-called Abrahamic, monotheistic religions), it is strange that Lexington should then nonchalantly claim that all will end up seeing God anyway.

Lexington may claim that he did not actually say that all religions are equal. He may argue that he simply suggested that people, of whatever religious stripe, have a chance of entering Heaven, regardless of the very real differences that exist between religions. But this seems unlikely, for as I have stated, only a person who does not think religious and theological differences are important could argue what Lexington has argued in his piece. In any case, his easy acceptance of all beliefs jars horribly with the Christian belief that God is deeply interested in truth – chiefly, in truth about himself and his interaction with the world. For Christians, there is no easy acceptance of other religious beliefs, even as we treat the adherents of said beliefs with the utmost dignity. Of course, our pundit rules exclusivity out of court: “strong and inflexible” is how he describes these kinds of believers. But, given the profusion of contradictory religious beliefs (to which I have already referred), it is difficult to be anything other than exclusive, at least philosophically and theologically. To do otherwise commits one to an insurmountable logical flaw.

There are a couple of other noteworthy points, both of which speak volumes about Lexington’s – and, increasingly, the west’s – perspective on religion and religious truth. First, our author speaks of people “deserv[ing] a place in Heaven…” This claim runs into trouble when one considers the cardinal Christian belief that salvation is by grace. No one deserves a place in Heaven, for as the Apostle Paul puts it, “…all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God (Romans 3:23); it is only via the mercy of God that any of us will escape the pernicious effects of sin and the holy opposition that accompanies it. Proof-texts notwithstanding, that biblical quote teaches an important point: our alienation from God is the inevitable consequence of sin’s hold over humanity. Our only way out of it is, as I have just said, God’s grace and mercy. Lexington’s approval of some sort of inherent right for all to a place in the hereafter reflects the widespread belief in the undifferentiated tolerance of the liberal God. Our pundit may not think that religious truth matters enough to conduct debates over it, but in suggesting that all people deserve a spot in the big bash in the sky means that he has (ironically, it turns out) already bought into specific truth claims regarding God and his nature. Aside from advocating an utterly anaemic view of God, our author seems to have adopted a self-contradictory stance: on the one hand, he seems to think that differences between religions are of no importance; on the other, however, he himself seems to approve of a very specific claim about the divine.

Second, he also approves of the increase in inter-faith marriages as a sign that American society is becoming more tolerant. That may well sound fine for someone who is enamoured with a religious and spiritual potpourri (which, again, leads that person to accept a false notion of tolerance as naïve acceptance), but the sociological literature tells a very different tale. Naomi Schaefer Riley, writing in The Washington Post (“Interfaith Marriages are Rising Fast, but they’re Failing Fast, too”, June 6th, 2010), argued from the literature that inter-faith marriages fail at much higher rates than same-faith ones. Inter-faith marriages may be a sign that people from different traditions are mixing more, but their failure – aside from the grievous harm it does to estranged spouses and their children – reflects the deep-seated nature of religious belief. Some may decry this persistent fact, but in dealing with beliefs of such deep existential import, it seems inevitable that marriages conducted under the auspices of religious pluralism should run into trouble. The only way out of that trouble, whilst still maintaining some commitment to religious pluralism – that is, ignoring religious differences and their impact on every arena of life – would mean divorcing oneself from deeply-held convictions (in some cases), or committing oneself to a philosophical fallacy (in all cases).

The reasons for Lexington’s views, reflecting as they do the views held by many in the western world, are manifold. One might suggest the increasingly pervasive influence post-modernism has within contemporary society, reducing truth claims to personal opinion and reality to an individual construct. Or one might go further back in time, and cite the influence of the Enlightenment project, which relegated religious truths to the status of unverifiable values in a scientific, empiricist age. That split meant that theological truth claims could never be seen as true knowledge; thus, all truth claims in that field had to be treated with equal openness (and scepticism). Lastly, it’s possible that a particularly American brand of civic religion – nice, pleasant, socially acceptable, and founded upon civility and good works – has been woven into the fabric of contemporary thinking in that country, and has found its way into our pundit’s article. All of these explanations are possible, perhaps simultaneously. One thing is for certain, however: as Christians, we can never buy into such claims, no matter how “inflexible” we may appear to be.