Pursuing Veritas

I have been reflecting lately on the peculiar sickness of modern life, and I have a theory which, stated somewhat like a math problem, is this: modern society (entailing economic, social, and labor practices) plus postmodern media (including communication technology, news consumption, and competing truth claims) leads to a kind of sickness. And the treatment for that sickness may be following Jesus through the historic practices of the Church.

My basic argument is this: for thousands of years, human beings lived in certain ways. Whether by divine design, adaptation, or some combination of the two, human bodies, minds, and spirits were set up for success while living a certain kind of life. People lived off to the land. They lived near extended family. Most people spent their lives in relatively small communities, surrounded by people they knew and who knew them. Work was physical and tangible. Information traveled slowly. The problems people encountered were usually nearby, visible, and connected to people who could actually help or be helped. This was by no means a perfect system, for pre-modern life contained many ills (physical and social). But this is the kind of the life that human bodies were prepared to live.

In the past 200-ish years, however, the technology of the Industrial Revolution and the development of (post) modern culture have placed enormous stress on that kind of life. Obviously, modernity brought with it a great many positive changes. It is easier to obtain food, clothing, medicine, and shelter now than at almost any other point in human history. Infant mortality has declined. Travel is easier. Communication is faster. Many forms of work are safer and less physically destructive. These are real goods, real ways in which human beings have flourished in ways never before seen, and such goods should not be dismissed.

But along with those good changes came new stressors. People became more mobile. Families became more scattered. Communities became less stable. Work became increasingly detached from the production of visible and tangible things. People became more reliant on systems and technologies that few of us understand and none of us can control. Almost no one practices subsistence living anymore, which means that nearly everything we need comes to us through a complicated network of strangers, corporations, machines, and institutions.

And for the past couple hundred years (less time in many places), as people adapted to modernism, human beings did their best to adjust. Many things worked reasonably well. We developed institutions, customs, and social practices that helped people endure the disruptions of modern life. But despite our best efforts, cracks began to form in the human experience. And as more and more research and lived experience attest, what seems to have shattered our humanity was the addition of postmodern media.

It was already difficult for human beings to carry the stresses of modernity. Then we placed in nearly every pocket a device that provides constant access to nearly every crisis, argument, tragedy, advertisement, opinion, and temptation in the world.

We are constantly connected, yet often deeply lonely. We possess unprecedented access to information but are less certain about what is true. We know what is happening across the globe almost instantly, while frequently knowing very little about the lives of the people who live next door. Our minds were not made to carry every tragedy. Our hearts were not made to process the suffering of the entire world before breakfast. Our identities were not made to be continually displayed, evaluated, marketed, and compared. Yet this is increasingly what we ask of ourselves every day.

So what is the cure?

Some might argue for a rejection of modernism. We might call this an Amish response: separate from the technologies and systems that deform human life. Others might argue for some form of the Benedict Option, in which Christians build durable communities and institutions while waiting for the present cultural disorder to pass. And I must admit that there are plenty of times when both of these seem like very appropriate responses to the ills of the current age.

My proposal, however, is a little different, and it goes something like this: the historic practices of the Church of Jesus Christ—specifically communion, baptism, and the penitential cycle—provide the way forward. (Not accidentally, these are essentially the three things Martin Luther—who is often credited, or blamed, for contributing to the rise of modernism—suggested were necessary for the life of the Church.)

Communion requires deep introspection and life in community. You cannot receive communion entirely alone. You need life with other people. You need to gather around a table. You need to confess your sins, reconcile with your neighbors, receive the gifts of God, and remember that you belong to a body larger than yourself.

Communion teaches us that we are not merely individuals consuming religious content. We are members of one another. We share one bread. We receive one Lord. We are brought into communion not only with God, but with the people standing beside us.

Baptism is historically a sign of entering into God’s family. It marks a person as belonging to Christ and to his people. But baptism has also historically been connected to deep formation in Scripture and theology. The early Church did not treat baptism as a passing religious moment. It was surrounded by teaching, preparation, examination, and a reordering of life. We desperately need that kind of depth today.

We must move beyond surface-level interactions shaped by postmodern media. We must dig deep and drink from wells that take longer than fifteen seconds to hear, understand, and digest. We need Scripture slowly read, theology carefully learned, prayers repeatedly prayed, and truths practiced long enough to reshape our instincts.

Then there is the penitential cycle: confession, repentance, forgiveness, and restoration.

The practice of confession is not simply something a priest holds over your head. Properly understood, it is a practice of introspection, conversation, truth-telling, and repentance. We deeply need these things today.

We need places where we can speak honestly about the ways we have failed. We need people who will tell us the truth without discarding us. We need the opportunity to repent, receive forgiveness, make amends, and begin again. Therapy, at its best, often offers a sanitized version of some of these practices: careful listening, honest self-examination, naming destructive patterns, and seeking a healthier way forward. These can be genuine gifts. But the Church’s penitential tradition goes further. It does not merely help us understand ourselves. It places us before God, names sin as sin, announces forgiveness, and calls us into new life.

*****

That is my diagnosis of this strange math problem. Modern society plus postmodern media has produced a sickness that cannot be solved merely by better technology, more information, increased efficiency, or improved self-care. The solution is actually practices which are much older. We lean back into the historic practices of the Church of Jesus Christ. We gather around the table. We remember our baptism. We confess our sins. We receive forgiveness. We read slowly, pray deeply, and share life with actual people in actual places. Will it be enough?

I hold this theory lightly. The problems of modern life are complicated, and the practices of the Church are not easy techniques or quick fixes. They are gifts, and they require patience, faithfulness, and time. Still, I wonder whether the ancient practices of the Church might be precisely the medicine our modern souls have forgotten how to receive. Shall we return?