Philosopher Charles Taylor has spent a lifetime of careful study unpacking the meaning and development of secularism. One of the things he demonstrates in A Secular Age (2007) is that one of the most common assumptions about modern secularism is, in fact, so completely erroneous as to constitute a myth. Yet, it continues to be believed, and has assumed such mythic value that to question it can elicit surprise if not shock.

            The assumption involved is what Taylor refers to as “subtraction stories.” The idea is that previous generations, as they became more enlightened and educated, shed unfashionable and increasingly untenable beliefs about demons, miracles, virgin births and other propositions that science had revealed to be dubious. This process of subtracting traditional and unproven beliefs allowed people to get back to a view of reality that was simply natural and obvious—and entirely secular. Taylor says that’s not the way it happened.

            James K. A. Smith, in How (Not) to be Secular: Reading Charles Taylor (2014), defines it this way:

Subtraction stories  Accounts that explain “the secular” as merely the subtraction of religious belief, as if the secular is what’s left over after we subtract superstition. In contrast, Taylor emphasizes that the secular is produced, not just distilled (p. 143)

Near the beginning of A Secular Age, Taylor puts the issue this way:

I will be making a continuing polemic against what I call “subtraction stories”. Concisely put, I mean by this stories of modernity in general, and secularity in particular, which explain them by human beings having lost, or sloughed off, or liberated themselves from certain earlier, confining horizons, or illusions, or limitations of knowledge. What emerges from this process—modernity or secularity—is to be understood in terms of underlying features of human nature which were there all along, but had been impeded by what is now set aside. Against this kind of story, I will steadily be arguing that Western modernity, including its secularity, is the fruit of new inventions, newly constructed self-understandings and related practices, and can’t be explained in terms of perennial features of human life. (p. 22)

The significance of this is considerable.

            The myth involved in subtraction stories suggests that secularity is the more primordial view of things, what human beings would tend to believe if they were allowed to come to their beliefs without outside interference from parents and preachers. As Taylor demonstrates, this can be shown to be untrue in a careful reading of the history of ideas. So, the ideas and assumptions that led to modern secularism can be examined, must be examined, and must not be assumed to be more natural or obvious than religious beliefs.

            Another implication of this involves having confidence that the simple call to faithfulness for Christians—opening our lives and homes in warm welcome, giving the gift of unhurried time, sharing simple meals and conversation, listening and asking questions, probing into what our neighbors believe and why, providing safe places for people to be honest—remains radically countercultural even in our secular world. Christian faith is not contrary to humanness. The advent of advanced modernity does not mean only philosophers can bear witness to the vibrancy and relevance of the gospel.

           Every believer will not need to work through the 850 pages of dense argument presented in A Secular Age. Only a few of us need to do that. I would, however, encourage Christians to work through the 143 pages of How (Not) to be Secular, because the ideas presented here, though seemingly abstract, actually touch on what it means to live in the secular world of advanced modernity.

Sundays are feast days during Lent. How could it be otherwise on the day that marks the resurrection, when death was officially beat back so that new life could flourish, world without end? It is a grace to have hints of grace sprinkled through a period that daily reminds us that we are badly in need of the grace of new life.

On Sunday last I was browsing through a shelf of books and happened upon a volume of poetry by T. S. Eliot. His work has always intrigued me, exposing as it does both the dark abyss that a self-satisfied modernity never could adequately address and the glimpses of hope that spring up in a grace that modernity tended to reject.

You tossed a blanket from the bed,

You lay upon your back, and waited;

You dozed, and watched the night revealing

The thousand sordid images

Of which your soul was constituted;

They flickered against the ceiling.

And when all the world came back

And the light crept up between the shutters

And you heard the sparrows in the gutters,

You had such a vision of the street

As the street hardly understands;

Sitting along the bed’s edge, where

You curled the papers from your hair,

Or clasped the yellow soles of feet

In the palms of both soiled hands.

     [From “Preludes”]

This past weekend I saw a lightness of spirit in a daughter who has known what it means to have the dreams and vows of a lifetime shattered by unrepentant betrayal. We have helped her move twice within the past year, the first move a forced one, needing shelter that could no longer be found at home, deep under a cloud of mourning. The stuff to be boxed and carried and carried again and unpacked no heavier than this time, but it felt so. Looking back, the task completed ended in relief, which we mistook for happiness. This move was chosen, the new place alive with sun pouring in (the only room without a window has a skylight), with space enough for guests and hospitality (with energy to spare). We were able to help clean the new place, and unpack all but her own bedroom, so she could begin a new week feeling as though she truly belonged. But the best part, by far, is the lightness of spirit, gentle signs of healing long yearned for and prayed for that are not fully complete but are real, and hold out hope for more.

The dripping blood our only drink,

The bloody flesh our only food:

In spite of which we like to think

That we are sound, substantial flesh and blood—

Again, in spite of that, we call this Friday good.

     [From “East Coker” in Four Quartets]

It was a lovely feast day in the midst of darkness, a hint of grace in the midst of brokenness that is enough to remind me to be a person of hope not one of either cynicism or despair.

I’ve been trying in these three blog posts to capture a hint of what it means that our world has gone from modernism into what is often called postmodernism. Modernism saw people place faith in reason and science, optimistic that these tools could unravel the problems and questions that have always plagued humanity. It brought great advances in medicine, technology, and knowledge for which we can be grateful, but it’s central promise that humankind could solve all issues on its own turned out to be untrue. Postmodernism recognized that failure, and concluded there was no single story, no single belief system that was absolutely true for all times and cultures. With modern communication and transportation the world seemed smaller, pluralism increased dramatically in every area of life, and people found their time, consciousness, and relationships fragmented so that having a sense of wholeness and direction was so difficult as to seem almost impossible.

When we ask what Christian witness looks like in our postmodern world the answer is not that difficult to discover.

If we step back to get an overview, we can see that Christians have tended to do what groups always tend to do when they are a minority in a larger majority culture. “Sociologists tell us that dissonant groups within a larger society,” Dick Keyes says in Chameleon Christianity, “react to reduce the potential for friction in two predictable ways. One is to compromise their distinctive beliefs and way of life and so reduce their conflict with society. The other is to keep their dissonance and tribalize, retreating within their own group and thus losing contact with society.” The first option leads to compromise, and the second to withdrawal; the first slowly becomes indistinguishable from the surrounding culture, and the second does not develop close enough friendships to make engagement meaningful. The two groups are often motivated by a reaction against the other—both see the other as hopelessly misguided and unbiblical. Keyes says the first act like chameleons, blending into the wider culture so that their Christian distinctiveness isn’t so noticeable. The second act like musk oxen, defensive and aggressive in a tight circle to protect themselves from the dangerous wolves circling outside. Both groups fail to follow Christ and misrepresent the gospel.

A great many evangelicals agree that things have changed as our world slipped from modernism into postmodernism, but they argue that because the gospel hasn’t changed, it really doesn’t matter. Usually the “gospel” these folks believe and preach is the sort of reduced message I wrote about in my September 20 post, “When the gospel is not the gospel.” Heirs of the revivalism of the Second Great Awakening, these Christians have already lost the full orthodox message of the cross, and so unwittingly preach a gospel that has, ironically, changed. It’s true the biblical gospel has not changed, but their message has, and in the process the gospel’s scope, power, and depth has been sucked from what they present.

Many if not most of the younger generation in our postmodern world have experienced the fragmentation that comes when families are broken. Even many from intact biological families have sensed what abandonment means in all its disappointment, raising deep-seated fears. We know that children of divorce are usually nagged by guilt, believing against all evidence and in spite of reassurance that somehow their family’s fragmentation is their fault, that they did not do enough to prevent it. Now reflect on what the average Christian witness sounds like in the ears of this generation. These young adults usually are open about their yearning for spirituality, about their sense of drought of soul and longing for a deeper reality in their lives. So Christians could talk about living water like Christ did in John 4—but that isn’t often talked about. These young adults also often feel lonely as a result of being part of a generation who were abandoned by those who count most. So Christians could talk about being adopted by a Father who wants them so badly he’s been seeking for them—but once again, this biblical theme isn’t the usual one that is brought up. Instead, non-Christians usually they hear a message that runs (in their perspective) something like this: From before you were born you were alienated from your Father. Like any father he was very angry at your rebellion and disobedience. In fact, he took his anger out on your older brother who died in the process of absorbing your Father’s wrath. But that’s over now, and your Father says if you’ll come to him, admit it was all your fault and promise to obey him in everything from now on, he’ll forgive you. If you refuse, he says you’re not his child and will be punished. It’s up to you to decide, but one thing is certain: the alienation you experience is not his fault but yours. Is it any wonder so many young adults turn away unconvinced that evangelical Christian faith is worth considering?

To make matters worse, the community of believers non-Christians see today tends not to be attractive. Consider asking ten non-Christians this question: If you converted to Christianity today, do you think your life would be larger, fuller, richer, more attractive and creative, more winsomely involved with the people, circumstances, art, & culture around you? Or do you think your life would be smaller, narrower, more withdrawn, judgmental, disapproving, and negative, less winsome and creative, less winsomely involved with the people, art, circumstances, & culture around you? How do you think they would respond? So far, everyone I’ve asked—non-Christian and Christian—have answered in precisely the same way. But consider: If Christianity is true why does it produce people like this? This situation is a travesty, a practical denial of Christ by those who claim to follow him. No wonder so many assume that evangelical faith has little or nothing of substance to offer them.

My spiritual mentor, Francis Schaeffer insisted that the more the wider culture turned from the truth of God the more need there was for pre-evangelism. This is the time between a Christian befriending a non-Christian and that non-Christian’s readiness to understand and respond in faith to the grace of God. It’s the time to show them that true Christians need not be jerks, negative, quick to disagree, and cultural philistines. That becoming a Christian does not mean becoming a Republican. It’s the time to answer honest questions and allow challenges to be raised against the claims of the Bible. “Cold-contact” or aggressive evangelism fails to allow for either true relationship or careful understanding so that the truth can be expressed in a way a non-Christian might understand and appreciate. “Friendship evangelism,” on the other hand, that waits until the Christian has earned a right to share, suggests the gospel is a package to be sprung on someone. Not true—right from the start we can ask questions (I’ve written about this here), find places of agreement, share a love for beauty and wholeness, and let the person know that we care that they flourish as a human being across all of their life, and that at the heart of our caring is a gospel that speaks to every part of culture and reality.

Someone commented recently that well, even if all this is true, at least the aggressive evangelists confront people with their need to believe in Christ so that can’t be wrong. Don’t we have the responsibility, they said, to warn people of the fire that endangers them? Yes, we do. But if we insist on warning them in ways that they misunderstand because we do not listen to them, if we warn them in terms that sound inauthentic and rote and impersonal, and if our warnings seem unrelated and irrelevant to the life-threatening dangers they recognize and are concerned for—do we not share responsibility for their failing to take our warnings seriously enough?

The gospel is The Story revealed in Scripture—Creation, Fall, Redemption and Restoration—the story of history and reality that makes sense of our personal story and brings direction and meaning to life. Because it is not a narrow message that applies only to souls, to be told with techniques designed to lead to a decision, Christian witness can be as rich and powerful and winsome and creative and life affirming as the grace it celebrates.

The wonder of this is that Christian witness need not be something Christians fear and non-Christians dread. As Christians we are free to engage our world as Christ did, without defensiveness. We are free to develop deep friendships, demonstrating the gift of community and the wonder of treating every person as created in God’s image. We can welcome people into our homes and lives with warm hospitality, giving the grace of unhurried time, asking questions and listening, proving we care about them. We can affirm their humanity and creativity, learn from them, be authentic about our failures, fears and struggles, and let them see how the biblical Story shapes our perception of everything. We can invite them to challenge our faith and freely say, “I don’t know,” when we don’t know. As we talk about the things that matter most, we can find creative ways to show how the Bible provides us a lens to see things. And as movies, music, or stories raise the big questions that must be answered, we can affirm where we agree, ask about what we don’t understand, challenge things that are doubtful, and explain the answers provided by orthodox Christianity.

Often Christians give the impression that we were once messed up, then we met Jesus, and now things are good. The reason that this message fails to resonate with non-Christians is very simple: it is untrue and therefore comes across as inauthentic. Like our non-Christian friends we are on a pilgrimage through a broken world, living out the story of our life yearning for meaning, transcendence, and significance as death bears down on us. The gospel claims someone has gone through death, triumphed in resurrection, and will be our God as we bow before him in simple trust. The Story continues to amaze and to invite us into deeper reflection on what reality really consists of. And as we reflect, we find ourselves grateful and humbled and rather awestruck that the Source of goodness, and truth, and beauty would not only be willing to be our Older Brother, but not be ashamed of us (Hebrews 2:11). How good is that?!

This is getting too long. So, here are three resources—two books and one movie—for further reflection: The Reason for God by Timothy Keller Learning Evangelism from Jesus by Jerram Barrs, and The Big Kahuna (1999).

Image: Makoto Fugimura, "Sacrificial Grace" (1997)

In my last blog post I started answering a friend’s question about some of the characteristics of our world. She had requested that I define modernism and postmodernism, and reflect on what Christian witness might look like in a postmodern culture. I’m not using these terms technically, but as in a general way to try to get a handle on how culture and thinking has developed to what it is today. In the first part I touched on how modernism developed beginning back in the 6^th century, how it seemed to promise so much, and how by the 20^th century it was clear the modernist experiment had failed. Science and reason had produced great technological advances, but could not solve all the problems of human existence nor provide compellingly satisfying answers to the deepest questions of the human heart.

 Among the first to turn their backs on modernism were, interestingly enough, French literary theorists. In their field of study—literary criticism—modernism had promised that with reason, a careful study of texts would result in determining what the text actually meant, in other words, what the author had intended to communicate when they wrote the text. So, modernist critics would study a text and publish their conclusions, only to have another modernist critic study the same text and come to different conclusions. Though each scholar had wanted to approach the text with complete objectivity, somehow that could never be achieved. A feminist critic would always see things differently than a Marxist critic and a Christian critic would draw yet a third set of conclusions. The closer we looked at texts—any texts—and tried to identify their meaning the clearer it was that no reader could ever achieve complete objectivity. We all read a text with our own prejudices and assumptions. In a real way it was at this point that our world moved from modernism to postmodernism.

Among other things, the French thinkers argued that every author who composes a text brings to that task a set of prejudices and assumptions. This means that what the author intended to say might not be what the text that they wrote actually communicates. After all, we are usually unaware of our own prejudices and assumptions, so the text I produce will reflect ideas, values, and shifts from my culture—all much bigger than myself—that I am not fully aware of myself. The forces at work in the economic, political, and hierarchical power struggles in our historical moment shape us and shape the texts we write.

In one sense this was not a new idea, but in an increasingly pluralistic and globalized world, postmodern thinkers took it one step further. The meaning or true interpretation of any text, they argued, is determined not by the author but by the reader.

When we look in the church we find that evangelical Christians by and large had adopted a similar perspective. In Bible studies and personal devotions throughout the 19^th and 20^th century the central question was, “What does the text of Scripture mean to me?” We settled discussions with “proof texts,” verses of Scripture that would convince us of some point of view. This was all part of something we held dear, namely, the right of “personal interpretation.” As long as the meaning of the text was clear to me, that was its meaning.

The meaning of a text is determined by the reader, postmodern thinkers said but then pointed out something obvious: texts are not just books and manuscripts but anything that needs to be “read” by us in order to give it “meaning.” Events, objects, vocations, nature, everything we do and own and use, is simply there until we see it, name it, and interpret its significance. Is my car merely a mode of transportation or a measure of my success? Add to this insight the latest findings of neuroscience that questions whether we can be certain there is a direct link between our brains and anything outside of ourselves and you come to a logical but startling conclusion: life and reality is finally just a projection of our consciousness.

Modernists as young adults often went off to Europe to “find themselves,” while the postmodern generation are more likely to use networking technologies to build “social capital.” While a previous generation tended to remain loyal to an employer over a lifetime of work, people entering the workforce today fully expect to change employers several times before they retire. A pop star that captures the postmodern mindset perfectly is Madonna, who has recast her image numerous times over the course of a career as a celebrity.

Postmodernism as a formal academic pursuit has from the beginning been a bit unstable. It’s fine for a literary critic to write an article on how Jane Austin didn’t really mean what she wrote, but when a second critic claims the first critic didn’t mean what they wrote about Jane Austin, and a third critic claims neither of the first two—well, you get the picture. Still, thinkers like Jean-François Lyotard (1924-1998) and Jacques Derrida (1930-2004) have shaped the thinking of our world by exploring how postmodern conditions have shaped human existence and culture.

As the 20^th century moved past and into the 21^st, the reality of our lives changed in all sorts of ways. Some of them are obvious, while others simply occurred slowly but steadily. Several terms are often invoked to identify the changes. Globalization refers to the fact that the world has both become smaller and more accessible. People and goods are on the move, and calling a toll-free service number about a piece of technology made in China by an British company sold in an American store by a clerk originally from the Sudan may have you talking to a citizen of India. If you haven’t reflected on globalization you should read Thomas Friedman’s fascinating and important book, The World is Flat: A Brief History of the 21^st Century (2007). Pluralism refers to the increasing diversity we experience in terms of the goods, services, beliefs, ideas values, and lifestyles that are on offer in the marketplace. Religions that I heard about as a child only when missionaries visited my church have moved in next door. Whether we are talking about cell phones or living arrangements, all sorts of possibilities are available and the diversity shows no sign of slowing down any time soon. Since this is a blog and not a book, I’ll mention just one more: Fragmentation. In ways we may not even realize, technology breaks our daily life into tiny pieces, and in the media the same occurs to our consciousness. My grandfather’s generation spent days doing a single thing, concentrating on a single task, but few today ever have that experience—we multi-task. And since most young adults either come from broken families or have sensed abandonment from significant others, the fragmentation comes crashing in on our relationships, dreams, fears, and view of God.

Our lives unfold as a story, and if we are to find meaning and direction we need a larger, richer story to bring definition and significance to our little story. In a pluralistic world it seems narrow minded and judgmental to claim there is a single story—a meta-narrative—for all times and peoples and cultures. Besides, part of the promise of modernism was to use reason to find an answer to this sort of question, and we know how that turned out. Postmodernism concludes there is no one final meta-narrative, but there are local stories we can live in. Modernists failed to arrive at a final standard for justice and morality, for example, and so said everything was relative. Relativism doesn’t work for everyday life, though because we know some things are right and wrong (like not killing people). So though we can’t say there is a story that absolutely proves that murdering is absolutely wrong, we can live in a story in which we agree it is wrong, and so it is. We believe in proximate justice, not absolutes, but we aren’t relativists either.

Modernism took people to the edge of an abyss, an abyss of nothingness and meaninglessness and when they looked in, they felt despair. If you doubt that, watch films like Ingmar Bergman’s The Seventh Seal (1958) or Woody Allen’s Crimes and Misdemeanors (1989). In stark contrast, postmodern people love irony, feel at home with cynicism, and find solace in a network of friends that share daily experience in a virtual reality so encompassing that life is a movie and our music, the conversation of our hearts, is its soundtrack. Our movies are more like Garden State (2004) and The Matrix (1999), or Woody Allen’s Match Point (2005) and Vicky Christina Barcelona (2008).

Both modernism and postmodernism come with blessing and with curse. The advances of science, technology, and medicine are good gifts in a broken world, but the notion we can solve all problems and answer all questions with the scientific method and reason is a sad commentary on both the hubris in the human heart and an unwillingness to learn from sorry history. It was that sort of pride that paved the way for tyrannies that slaughtered their own populations and a capitalism that is willing to sacrifice everything for the bottom line. The increasing pluralism of goods and ideas mirrors the rich diversity of God’s good creation, but doesn’t the notion that ultimate questions of significance, identity, and spirituality can be formed out of our own experience and imagination seem at least a little dubious? Meta-narratives need not be oppressive if they are grounded in love, as The Matrix (1999) showed. Imagine if someone from the outside did come, lived among us as one of us, and against all odds walked through death onto the other side on our behalf. It would be a Story worth considering.

Images (in order): still from The Book of Eli (2010), Jacque Derrida, The World is Flat (2007), a still from The Seventh Seal (1958), and a still from The Matrix (1999).

…to be continued.

This week a friend asked me to define modernism and postmodernism. She didn’t want the sort of definition scholars use, she wanted a general sense of what they are, the sort of explanation someone might find helpful who wants to be faithful as a Christian. She raised her question in light of a discussion she and friends were having about what Christian witness should look like today. I said I’d try.

Modernism developed in the West at the end of the medieval period (also called the Middle Ages), which lasted (more or less) from the 5^th to the 15^th century. The 16^th century began a period of great change. Martin Luther posted his revolutionary 95 Thesis (1517), launching the Protestant Reformation. In 1543 the astronomer Copernicus published his finding that the earth revolved around the sun. Galileo’s (1564-1642) technical improvement of the telescope launched modern astronomy, while Kepler’s (1571-1630) study of planetary motion helped give birth to modern physics. And the fact that Gutenberg had already developed the printing press (1441) meant that these new ideas could spread more rapidly than ever.

Science took off with a seemingly endless series of amazing discoveries and a clear method by which to test its theories. Technology followed close behind, transforming daily life. Medicine began to identify the causes of disease, developing new techniques to diagnose and push back illnesses that had long plagued humankind. Since germs (not humors) were now known to cause illness, public health measures could eradicate vermin, provide clean water, and dispose of waste. Life in the West was increasingly defined by science and technology, and thinking was increasingly defined by reason and scientific method.

It was a time of great optimism. Thinkers were increasingly convinced that by carefully using reason, they could take any problem, reduce it to its essentials, and figure out a solution. That is what was happening in physics, astronomy, and medicine, and the progress was extraordinary. In fact, the progress was so astounding that people began thinking of the previous medieval period as the “Dark Ages.”

Progress continued. Isaac Newton (1643-1727) shaped physics by introducing the three laws of motion, and helped to develop calculus. James Watt (1763-1775) improved an earlier design and invented the first viable steam engine. The textile industry was revolutionized, factories took work outside the home and the Industrial Revolution took off. For the first time in history human beings could travel faster than a horse could run. Time was thought of differently when clocks and watches allowed trains and work to be scheduled—before that people had lived according to the rising and setting of the sun and the passing of the seasons. In 1837 Samuel Morse patented the telegraph and communications were revolutionized. The rest, as they say, is history.

I can imagine someone interrupting here. “But wait a minute. You are supposed to be talking about modernism—and doesn’t the ism at the end of a word mean that it is a philosophy or world view or way of thinking?” Absolutely correct—I was just getting to that.

At the heart of all this was a simple yet powerful conviction I have already mentioned: with reason, we can tackle any problem or challenge or question, dissect it into its basic parts, and given time solve the problem. And we can apply this approach to every aspect of life and reality.

The early scientists were people of faith, and their belief that nature was created and maintained by a personal God gave them confidence in the scientific method. Slowly though, as thinkers and scientists took this reliance on reason and applied it to more and more of life, the belief in reason seemed to make revelation unnecessary. Charles Darwin (1809-1882) published The Origin of the Species, Sigmund Freud (1856-1939) developed psychoanalysis, and Auguste Comte (1798–1857), the father of sociology, applied the scientific method to society as a whole.

This confidence about reason could also be found in the church. Friedrich Schleiermacher (1768-1834), for example, adopted the new approach to theology with what came to be known as “the higher critical study of the Bible,” resulting in a liberalism that rejected much of what had been accepted as historic orthodox doctrine. And during the Second Great Awakening, evangelical leaders like Charles Finney (1792-1875) reduced the message Christian evangelists needed to preach to help people make a decision for Christ, and introduced the “anxious seat,” a place non-Christians could come for prayer. This revivalism shaped modern evangelicalism and there was optimism that if enough Christians witnessed about their faith, the world would be won for Christ.

Then the 20^th century dawned, and with it doubts about the proud optimism of modernism. Science and technology advance, true, but they also produce weapons of unbelievable savagery and pollution that can no longer be ignored. A world war is fought—the “war to end all wars” if you can believe that—followed a few years later by a second, far more destructive world war. Racism, the breakdown of the family, the loss of meaning, bloody regional conflicts, brutal dictatorships, grinding poverty—all this and so much more seems intractable. Modernism had promised that with reason, problems like this could be diagnosed and solved, but it was increasingly clear the promise had not been fulfilled, nor could it. And modernism’s efforts to explain the bigger questions, about life after death, or God, or meaning had come to nothing. No matter how awesome the Milky Way is, if there is nothing and no one out there and if we are nothing more than molecules interacting by chance in an impersonal universe, then the feeling of awe is merely the some sort of neurological spasm that has no ultimate significance.

As part of modernism, some thinkers worked to address issues like finding meaning in a cosmos where everything is left to natural selection. Jean-Paul Sartre (1905-1980), for example, argued that we live existentially in that our choices have consequences and so we gain significance in the very act of choosing. Existentialism was very popular for a while, expressed for example in the films of Swedish director Ingmar Bergman (1918-2007). Others began to look to the East, to Hinduism and Buddhism, with pop versions of these ancient worldviews being introduced into the West, as in the case of Transcendental Meditation by Maharishi Mahesh Yogi (1917-2008) under the influence of the Beetles. By the time of the Sixties, the ferment below the surface of society from the broken promise of modernism burst into the open.

It was really quite simple: the modernist experiment had failed. Modernism, with all its vaunted promise, was a bust. Not the technology, or medical progress—though even here it became clear each advance came with blessing and with curse. But the promise of modernism, the promise that reason and the scientific method would solve all problems and answer all questions—that was harder and harder, if not impossible, to believe. The modernist experiment had failed.

Images (in order): Copernicus, Isaac Newton, Charles Finney and Ingmar Bergman.

…to be continued.