Letter #72: These Things Remain

What's left when the world falls to pieces?

Well, folks, we’re on our own. Very inconsiderate of Dad to go on vacation right as the country plunges into a terrifying new domain of Soviet-style political lawfare. And that’s just the start of the week!

We haven’t talked much about politics on this substack. That’s because faith isn’t really about politics, except as a backdrop. Wars, riots, persecutions, and other enormities are standard fare in what Jesus rather sardonically refers to as “the world.” The meaning of that word as he uses it seems to be something like the one conveyed by waving your hands around vaguely at everything and saying “that whole dumpster fire.” So when some breathless news junkie asks you whether you can possibly believe the state of things, the Christian answer is supposed to be: “bruh. What did you expect?”

I find this an interesting contrast to the classic parlor game in which everyone telegraphs what a responsible citizen he is by loudly expressing his shock and outrage at whatever’s currently most shocking and outrageous. If you don’t know what I mean, look at the most recent text message you received from a fundraising organization. Mine says, “ALL HELL JUST BROKE LOOSE!” This is supposed to make me feel like if I’m not in an all-caps FIT of RAGE and PANIC about Trump’s conviction in New York, then I am INSUFFICIENTLY COMMITTED to WINNING.

It’s very effective, because I am in fact very angry and uneasy about the trial’s outcome. One thing I’m not, though, is surprised. I was told what to expect. It’s funny that Christians have a reputation for naïveté, since our Lord was practically a cynic: when the world has its way, “brother will betray brother; fathers will betray sons.” Doesn’t mean corruption and injustice aren’t horrifying. Just means we’re the last people who should act like nobody warned us.

So while I have your attention this week, I’m not going to tell you how to feel about politics. I’ll assume you’ve already decided that on your own time. Instead I want to talk about what’s left when the world disappoints you and you’ve buried your illusions along with your dead. Sooner or later the noblest laws, the best-laid plans, even the prettiest churches will be ground down and wiped away. Christianity is about what’s left over after that.

And so, writes Saint Paul, when tongues of prophecy fall silent and even the slickest preachers find themselves at a loss for words, “three things remain: faith, hope, and love.” These spiritual gifts—known traditionally as the theological virtues—are anything but naïve. They’re tougher and more enduring than their critics could possibly imagine. I’ll spend a day writing about each of them this week. They’ll keep us going until heaven and earth pass away. Or at least until Dad gets back. Whichever comes first.