William Nicholson’s original script will barely be changed in the production at the Aldwych Theatre, which opens next week, apart from updating a story that a character reads from a newspaper. Raised as a Roman Catholic, Mr Nicholson initially had no time for C. S Lewis, sharing his mother’s view that the Narnia author was a “drippy Protty”. But, when his colleage in the BBC’s religious department Norman Stone — filmmaker, Lewis fan, and Christian — suggested creating a television drama about Lewis’s relationship and marriage to an American mother-of-two, Joy Davidman, Mr Nicholson was transfixed by their slow-burn love story.

“I personally connected, as a much younger person — I was 36 at the time — to the whole question of fear of commitment in love, which is maybe more of a male thing, but it was certainly something I was experiencing. I wanted to love and be loved, but was very afraid of committing myself to a full love affair, love relationship, marriage, children.”

Lewis’s loss of his mother at the age of ten probably affected the author’s ability to form close relationships, Mr Nicholson thinks. “When the person who is most central to your life, who gives you your sense of being loved, disappears and leaves you in pain, it’s reasonable to conclude that something closed off at that point, and had to be opened again. I responded to the fear of being made vulnerable by love. I made that one of the central themes, because that related strongly to me. I wasn’t married at the time; so I was able to channel a bit of myself into Lewis, and Lewis into myself.”

Read it all.

"Shadowlands speaks to something deep in all of us about loss, love and loss, and the fear of loss."

The story of C. S. Lewis’s marriage, exploring love, loss, and faith, is back on stage, says @SusanGrayMeets #CSLewis #Shadowlands #grief #theatre https://t.co/ltrjwQftU9

— Church Times (@ChurchTimes) January 31, 2026

One is very often asked at present whether we could not have a Christianity stripped, or, as people who asked it say, ‘freed’ from its miraculous elements, a Christianity with the miraculous elements suppressed. Now, it seems to me that precisely the one religion in the world, or, at least the only one I know, with which you could not do that is Christianity. In a religion like Buddhism, if you took away the miracles attributed to Gautama Buddha in some very late sources, there would be no loss; in fact, the religion would get on very much better without them because in that case the miracles largely contradict the teaching. Or even in the case of a religion like Mohammedanism, nothing essential would be altered if you took away the miracles. You could have a great prophet preaching his dogmas without bringing in any miracles; they are only in the nature of a digression, or illuminated capitals. But you cannot possibly do that with Christianity, because the Christian story is precisely the story of one grand miracle, the Christian assertion being that what is beyond all space and time, what is uncreated, eternal, came into nature, into human nature, descended into His own universe, and rose again, bringing nature up with Him. It is precisely one great miracle. If you take that away there nothing specifically Christian left. There may be many admirable human things which Christianity shares with all other systems in the world, but there would be nothing specifically Christian. Conversely, once you have accepted that, then you will see that all other well-established Christian miracles–because, of course, there are ill-established Christian miracles; there are Christian legends just as much as there are heathen legends, or modern journalistic legends–you will see that all the well-established Christian miracles are part of it, that they all either prepare for, or exhibit, or result from the Incarnation. Just as every natural event exhibits the total character of the natural universe at a particular point and space of time; so every miracle exhibits the character of the Incarnation. Now, if one asks whether that central grand miracle in Christianity is itself probable or improbable, of course, quite clearly you cannot be applying Hume’s kind of probability. You cannot mean a probability based on statistics according to which the more often a thing has happened, the more likely it is to happen again (the more often you get indigestion from eating a certain food, the more probable it is, if you eat it again, that you again have indigestion). Certainly the Incarnation cannot be probable in that sense. It is of its very nature to have happened only once. But then it is of the very nature of the history of this world to have happened only once; and if the Incarnation happened at all, it is the central chapter of that history. It is improbable in the same way in which the whole of nature is improbable, because it is only there once, and will happen only once.

–C.S. Lewis (1898-1963), Miracles (cited by yours truly in the Sunday sermon)

John Ferguson Weir – "Christmas Eve" (1865) pic.twitter.com/v4gApSMvXY

— Museum (@DailyClassicArt) December 25, 2024

..[Jesus of Nazareth] was not a kind of demon pretending to be human; he was in every respect a genuine living man. He was not merely a man so good as to be “like God”–he was God.

Now, this is not just a pious commonplace: it is not a commonplace at all. For what it means is this, among other things: that for whatever reason God chose to make man as he is limited and suffering and subject to sorrows and death he [God] had the honesty and courage to take his own medicine. Whatever game he is playing with his creation, he has kept his own rules and played fair. He can exact nothing from man that he has not exacted from himself. He has himself gone through the whole of human experience, from the trivial irritations of family life and the cramping restrictions of hard work and lack of money to the worst horrors of pain and humiliation, defeat, despair, and death. When he was a man, he played the man. He was born in poverty and died in disgrace and thought it well worthwhile.

—Creed or Chaos? (New York: Harcourt, Brace and Company,1949), page 4 (with special thanks to blog reader and friend WW)

The Nativity #Nativity
BL Yates Thompson 2; The Ottobeuren Collectar'; Germany, S. (Ottobeuren); 12th century; f.57v@BLMedieval pic.twitter.com/mrNGISDFqq

— Ennius (@red_loeb) December 24, 2025

Incarnate God, who didst grant the grace of eloquence unto thy servant Dorothy to defend thy truth unto a distressed church, and to proclaim the importance of Christian principles for the world; grant unto us thy same grace that, aided by her prayers and example, we too may have the passionate conviction to teach right doctrine and to teach doctrine rightly; We ask this in thy name, who livest and reignest with the Father, in the unity of the Holy Ghost, one God, for ever and ever.

Bluntisham, Cambridgeshire, for #SteepleSaturday. The writer Dorothy L Sayers grew up in this parish. Her father was the rector, a bellringing enthusiast who restored the bells here and became the model for the Reverend Venables in her book The Nine Tailors.

The landscape of… pic.twitter.com/32423XEicR

— Simon Knott (@SimoninSuffolk) July 5, 2025

O God of searing truth and surpassing beauty, we give thee thanks for Clive Staples Lewis whose sanctified imagination lighteth fires of faith in young and old alike; Surprise us also with thy joy and draw us into that new and abundant life which is ours in Christ Jesus, who liveth and reigneth with thee and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever. Amen.

22 November 1963: Author and academic Clive Staples (“CS”) Lewis died. (aged 64). He’s best known for his works of fiction especially The Screwtape Letters, The Chronicles of Narnia and The Space Trilogy. pic.twitter.com/JhxfklLKSB

— Prof. Frank McDonough (@FXMC1957) November 22, 2025

People used to die. Now, it seems, they pass away. Or — say it quickly and quietly enough no one will even notice — they just pass. Media outlets report the passing of someone famous. Undertakers now refer to the deceased as having passed away when communicating funeral arrangements. Buckingham Palace, announcing the recent death of the Duchess of Kent, stated that she had “passed away peacefully” (News, 12 September). Is this the death of dying?

Euphemisms for death and dying are nothing new. But there is a subtle and important difference between the idioms that we have used in the past, and the increasingly normalised use of “pass” and “pass away”….

Jesus did not pass on the cross; nor did he pass away for our sins. If we believe that our hope of resurrection lies in the resurrection of Jesus, then we need to use the same language about our death as we do about his death. We need to reclaim the language of dying and death.

Read it all.

Went to visit my grandfather (and my great grandparents, greatuncle & greataunt). You hear the sound of the sea from the graveyard.

Hard to believe my grandfather is dead these 12 years. pic.twitter.com/VzExPZg3gW

— John McCafferty (@jdmccafferty) June 22, 2024

omething more powerful than philosophical argumentation is on display here. You can’t argue someone into seeing the Grand Canyon’s beauty. But you can point and say, “Look.”

Perhaps morality is like that. Encounters with both betrayal and loyalty, selfishness and self-sacrifice, greed and generosity—these are the experiences that shape our moral views. Philosophy simply refines them.

This means that weighing the validity of moral realism is never merely an academic exercise. It’s one of the most urgent and consequential tasks we can undertake.

If moral realism is false, then our deepest moral convictions—about justice and kindness, oppression and cruelty—are just preferences. How we treat others is negotiable. The Holocaust isn’t evil, and the abolition of slavery isn’t progress. All this leaves victims of abuse, persecution, and exploitation not only with the pain of their suffering but also with the silence of a universe incapable of calling it wrong.

But if moral realism is true—if there really is a moral structure to the universe independent of human opinion—then the picture changes completely. Our longing for justice is not naive. Charity and love are truly good, and cruelty and deceit are truly bad. Each human being has inestimable worth.

In this way, The Good, the Right, and the Real is not only a philosophical argument but also a gentle plea for moral attention….

Read it all.

'If moral realism is false, then our deepest moral convictions—about justice and kindness, oppression and cruelty—are just preferences. How we treat others is negotiable. The Holocaust isn’t evil, and the abolition of slavery isn’t progress. All this leaves victims of abuse,…

— Kendall Harmon (@KendallHarmon6) September 22, 2025

For the past three years, Church of the Holy Spirit’s Theology on Tap has been a staple in Daniel Island’s social and spiritual life. Hosted at New Realm Brewery, the monthly gathering blends panel discussions with community connection over drinks and shared curiosity. 

The intention is to create a relaxed, welcoming space for people to engage in conversations about faith, life, and the questions we all wrestle with, no matter their background. 

Open to all inquisitive minds, Theology on Tap brings together people of all ages and walks of life – a melting pot of diverse perspectives that cultivates genuine conversation and a strengthened sense of community.

Each month’s discussion is centered around a given topic, be it economics or the environment.

The laid-back panel structure is more like an open forum where attendees are able to submit their questions anonymously or share their own responses to the panel’s answers. This is no pulpit preaching or a sterilized sermon; it is a chance to come together and navigate different aspects of life as a community.

Read it all.

Who (or what) has shaped your faith the most?” 

As a campus minister, I have asked this question to many college students over the years. Lately, I have noticed a shift in their answers. 

Last fall, I sat across from a freshman at Vanderbilt University. We were chatting over tacos when I posed the question. I watched the gears spin in his head. Would it be a church from back home? A great book? An older mentor who discipled him? Maybe his parents? 

He leaned back. 

“YouTube.” 

I stared blankly, trying my best not to show my surprise. 

It hit me: What we were doing—eating lunch alongside one another—discipler and disciplee—might be an entirely new experience for him. In the digital age, disembodied social interactions have become the norm.

Read it all.

O God of earth and altar, who didst give G. K. Chesterton a ready tongue and pen, and inspired him to use them in thy service: Mercifully grant that we may be inspired to witness cheerfully to the hope that is in us; through Jesus Christ our Savior, who livest and reignest with thee and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen (moved from Saturday).

"So strong is tradition that later generations will dream of what they have never seen."

— G.K. Chesterton pic.twitter.com/CjYfodS1ad

— Humble Flow (@HumbleFlow) June 1, 2025

…particularly when we look at the disciples, the watered-down resurrection doesn’t seem credible at all. Remember that the Gospel of John (whose author had little to gain by making the disciples, future leaders of the early church, look bad) notes that the disciples were so frightened that they barricaded themselves behind locked doors after Jesus’s death. They had good reason to be. “If the authorities dealt that way with Jesus, who had so many people supporting him,” they must have thought, “what will they do to us?” Even before the crucifixion Peter shrank in fear from being identified as a follower of Jesus. Imagine how their fear would have intensified after witnessing the Romans’ brutal execution of their master.

With one exception, all of Jesus’s male followers were so terrified that they shrank from standing at the foot of the cross, unable to accompany Jesus during his final hours. Their reluctance may have stemmed from an inability to watch the agonizing death of their friend, but much was out of fear of being identified as a follower of an enemy of Rome. (The women, showed no such fear, though the situation may have posed less danger for them.)

The disciples were terrified. So does it seem credible that something as simple as sitting around and remembering Jesus would snap them out of their abject fear? Not to me. Something incontrovertible, something undeniable, something visible, something tangible, was necessary to transform them from fearful to fearless.

This is one of the most compelling “proofs” of the Resurrection.

Read it all.

Christus surréxit! – Surréxit vere, allelúja
Hans Memling: The Resurrection (1490) pic.twitter.com/vet5tsUC00

— K H Hardy (@khhardy) April 20, 2025

We believe Christ’s resurrection can be proved with at least as much certainty as any universally believed and well-documented event in ancient history. To prove this, we do not need to presuppose anything controversial (e.g. that miracles happen). But the skeptic must also not presuppose anything (e.g. that they do not). We do not need to presuppose that the New Testament is infallible, or divinely inspired or even true. We do not need to presuppose that there really was an empty tomb or post-resurrection appearances, as recorded. We need to presuppose only two things, both of which are hard data, empirical data, which no one denies: The existence of the New Testament texts as we have them, and the existence (but not necessarily the truth) of the Christian religion as we find it today.

The question is this: Which theory about what really happened in Jerusalem on that first Easter Sunday can account for the data?

There are five possible theories: Christianity, hallucination, myth, conspiracy and swoon.

1. Jesus died. Jesus rose. [ Christianity ]

2. Jesus died. Jesus didn’t rise—apostles deceived. [Hallucination]

3. Jesus died. Jesus didn’t rise—apostles myth-makers [ Myth ]

4. Jesus died. Jesus didn’t rise—apostles deceivers [ Conspiracy ]

5. Jesus didn’t die. [ Swoon ]

Read it all.

The Resurrection, by Sebastiano Ricci (1715) pic.twitter.com/mfCxffw9TA

— ♱ (@DreamlinerCo) April 20, 2025

Found courtesy of Alan Jacobs there:

What inclines even me to believe in Christ’s Resurrection? It is as though I play with the thought. — If he did not rise from the dead, then he decomposed in the grave like any other man. He is dead and decomposed. In that case he is a teacher like any other and can no longer help; and once more we are orphaned and alone. So we have to content ourselves with wisdom and speculation. We are in a sort of hell where we can do nothing but dream, roofed in, as it were, and cut off from heaven. But if I am to be REALLY saved, — what I need is certainty — not wisdom, dreams of speculation — and this certainty is faith. And faith is faith in what is needed by my heart, my soul, not my speculative intelligence. For it is my soul with its passions, as it were with its flesh and blood, that has to be saved, not my abstract mind. Perhaps we can say: Only love can believe the Resurrection. Or: It is love that believes the Resurrection. We might say: Redeeming love believes even in the Resurrection; holds fast even to the Resurrection. What combats doubt is, as it were, redemption.

Happy Easter
Frohe Ostern
Buona Pasqua
Feliz Pascua
Joyeuses Pâques
—
Resurrection of Christ (Attavante degli Attavanti, Florence). Cutting, probably from a missal produced for Pope Leo X, commissioned around 1513 for use in the Sistine Chapel
Dr. Jörn Günther Rare Books pic.twitter.com/PqR4wyso3R

— Vir Desideriorum (@VirDesideriorum) April 19, 2025

‘It ought to be noticed at this stage that the Christian doctrine, if accepted, involves a particular view of Death. There are two attitudes towards Death which the human mind naturally adopts. One is the lofty view, which reached its greatest intensity among the Stoics, that Death ‘doesn’t matter’, that it is ‘kind nature’s signal for retreat’, and that we ought to regard it with indifference. The other is the ‘natural’ point of view, implicit in nearly all private conversations on the subject, and in much modern thought about the survival of the human species, that Death is the greatest of all evils: Hobbes is perhaps the only philosopher who erected a system on this basis. The first idea simply negates, the second simply affirms, our instinct for self-preservation; neither throws any new light on Nature, and Christianity countenances neither. Its doctrine is subtler. On the one hand Death is the triumph of Satan, the punishment of the fall, and the last enemy. Christ shed tears at the grave of Lazarus and sweated blood in Gethsemane: the Life of Lives that was in Him detested this penal obscenity not less than we do, but more. On the other hand, only he who loses his life will save it. We are baptized into the death of Christ, and it is the remedy for the fall. Death is, in fact, what some modern people call ‘ambivalent’. It is Satan’s great weapon and also God’s great weapon: it is holy and unholy; our supreme disgrace and our only hope; the thing Christ came to conquer and THE MEANS BY WHICH HE CONQUERED.’

–Miracles, emphasis mine

Cecco di Caravaggio Resurrezione di Cristo 1619 pic.twitter.com/3UQBOzdJpN

— Ugo Ramella (@RamellaUgo) April 19, 2025

I have read many books by Alister McGrath, renowned scientist and theologian. I have appreciated all of them and, indeed, reviewed one very positively in these columns only a year ago (Books, 23 February 2024). This, though, is the best I have read (Feature, 21 February). It is quite simply brilliant, a must-read for those who want to reflect deeply on the whole question of belief. It will be particularly helpful to those who want to be able to defend their own. I remember Rowan Willams being quoted as saying something along the lines that it could be such a relief not to be made to feel foolish for embracing belief. No one who has read this book need do that.

The intention of the author is consider belief in general, not just religious belief. Demonstrating clearly that it just won’t do to pretend that we live in a “purely factual, belief-free world”, he concludes that “believing is not only intellectually defensible but existentially necessary” (his italics). He offers many fascinating references from a variety of disciplines as, with characteristic clarity and accessibility, he presents a highly sophisticated argument.

In powerful testimony, McGrath explains how, having been raised in Northern Ireland during the Troubles, he gave up on religion. His first love was the natural sciences; he became an atheist with a strong interest in Marxism. It was as an Oxford undergraduate — ironically, through reading the atheist Bertrand Russell’s History of Western Philosophy — that he began to realise that it was possible to hold beliefs without being able to prove them and, in fact, that to live life to the full it was imperative to do so. “Only shallow truths can be proven,” he writes, “not the profound existential, moral and spiritual beliefs that bestow dignity and significance upon human life.”

Read it all.

"It is quite simply brilliant, a must-read for those who want to reflect deeply on the whole question of belief." @BishopJohnInge reviews Why We Believe: Finding meaning in uncertain times by @alisteremcgrath https://t.co/njISQN0hnN

— Church Times (@ChurchTimes) March 7, 2025

To understand Douthat’s method, recall a scene from the end of the third Indiana Jones film. Indy is faced with a choice: Let his father die or take a leap of faith. The leap in this case is literal, a physical step into a chasm with nothing to hold him up. He takes the step, and by a miracle of movie magic, doesn’t fall. There was a bridge in front of him all along, invisible to the human eye.

For some, this is a picture of true faith: a passionate, even reckless jump into the unknown, based on blind trust, not reason. Douthat demurs. As he writes, “Joining and practicing [some faith] is fundamentally a rational decision, not just an eyes-closed, trust-your-friends-and-intuitions jump.” You can and should consider the case in your mind.

Moreover, whatever the social benefits of church—and they are many!—they aren’t the place to start. They’re a byproduct of the thing itself, and that’s of interest only if it’s true. That’s why Douthat opts to “start with religion’s intellectual advantage: the ways in which nonbelief requires ignoring what our reasoning faculties tell us, while the religious perspective grapples more fully with the evidence before us.”

This is not a case for mere Christianity, then, so much as “mere religion.” Though Douthat ends the book with a chapter explaining why he is Roman Catholic, his aim is to clear the ground for religious commitment in general, to show why Hindus, Muslims, Buddhists, and Jews as much as Catholics and Protestants are not exotic residue of a superstitious past.

Read it all.

Christianity is having a moment.

Intellectuals are converting. Atheists are softening. Agnostics are hungry.@DouthatNYT’s “Believe: Why Everyone Should Be Religious” is a response to this moment and to the readers he’s trying to reach. https://t.co/UfEYYzZxbb

— Christianity Today (@CTmagazine) February 11, 2025

One is very often asked at present whether we could not have a Christianity stripped, or, as people who asked it say, ‘freed’ from its miraculous elements, a Christianity with the miraculous elements suppressed. Now, it seems to me that precisely the one religion in the world, or, at least the only one I know, with which you could not do that is Christianity. In a religion like Buddhism, if you took away the miracles attributed to Gautama Buddha in some very late sources, there would be no loss; in fact, the religion would get on very much better without them because in that case the miracles largely contradict the teaching. Or even in the case of a religion like Mohammedanism, nothing essential would be altered if you took away the miracles. You could have a great prophet preaching his dogmas without bringing in any miracles; they are only in the nature of a digression, or illuminated capitals. But you cannot possibly do that with Christianity, because the Christian story is precisely the story of one grand miracle, the Christian assertion being that what is beyond all space and time, what is uncreated, eternal, came into nature, into human nature, descended into His own universe, and rose again, bringing nature up with Him. It is precisely one great miracle. If you take that away there nothing specifically Christian left. There may be many admirable human things which Christianity shares with all other systems in the world, but there would be nothing specifically Christian. Conversely, once you have accepted that, then you will see that all other well-established Christian miracles–because, of course, there are ill-established Christian miracles; there are Christian legends just as much as there are heathen legends, or modern journalistic legends–you will see that all the well-established Christian miracles are part of it, that they all either prepare for, or exhibit, or result from the Incarnation. Just as every natural event exhibits the total character of the natural universe at a particular point and space of time; so every miracle exhibits the character of the Incarnation. Now, if one asks whether that central grand miracle in Christianity is itself probable or improbable, of course, quite clearly you cannot be applying Hume’s kind of probability. You cannot mean a probability based on statistics according to which the more often a thing has happened, the more likely it is to happen again (the more often you get indigestion from eating a certain food, the more probable it is, if you eat it again, that you again have indigestion). Certainly the Incarnation cannot be probable in that sense. It is of its very nature to have happened only once. But then it is of the very nature of the history of this world to have happened only once; and if the Incarnation happened at all, it is the central chapter of that history. It is improbable in the same way in which the whole of nature is improbable, because it is only there once, and will happen only once.

–C.S. Lewis (1898-1963)

The world’s most beautiful Nativity Scenes 🧵

1. The Christmas Nativity at the Notre-Dame Basilica of Montreal, Canada pic.twitter.com/pvK6faehZd

— Jeremy Wayne Tate (@JeremyTate41) December 27, 2024

By stating that Jesus is “born of woman”—this Mary (as both St. Matthew and St. Luke attest)—St. Paul insists that Jesus is most emphatically human, the “firstborn of all creation. That this Mary is at the same time a virgin prevents the birth of Jesus from being reduced to what we know or can reproduce from our own experience.

Life that is unmistakably human life is before us here, a real baby from an actual mother’s womb; there is also miracle here, and mystery that cannot be brushed aside in our attempts to bring the operations of God, let alone our own lives, under our control.

The miracle of the virgin birth, maintained from the earliest times in the church and confessed in its creeds, is, in Karl Barth’s straightforward phrase, a “summons to reverence and worship….” Barth maintained that the one-sided views of those who questioned or denied that Jesus was “born of the virgin Mary” are “in the last resort to be understood only as coming from dread of reverence and only as invitation to comfortable encounter with an all too near or all too far-off God.”

–Eugene Peterson in God With Us: Rediscovering the Meaning of Christmas ed. Greg Pennoyer and Gregory Wolfe (Massachusettes, Paraclete Press, 2007), p., 5; quoted in the sermon posted below

Nativity high up in Norwich Cathedral, c1470 pic.twitter.com/wArIWKv8fn

— Rembrandt's R👀m 🖌 (@RembrandtsRoom) December 28, 2023

“Happy Christmas, that’s what they say in England. I’ve always loved it. Happy Christmas. I have a simple question for you. What does Christmas actually mean? Gonna go right down the middle of the plate, right for the jugular this morning. What does it actually mean? And can I just start out by observing with you that we’ve been given a tradition, we stand on the shoulders of people who’ve come before us, they’ve given us the church, the church has a liturgical calendar, and in the wisdom of the church and the liturgical calendar, Christmas is a 12-day season. Sometimes it even has two Sundays like this season. And the reason it’s a 12-day season is because it’s so super significant, we need time to fully try to think through some of what it means, which is what we’re going to try to do this morning. So here’s what I’m going to say. That it happened, how it happened, and why it happened. What does Christmas mean? It happened, how did it happen, why did it happen? You all with me? All right, ready, set, go. First of all, that it happened….

You may listen directly here

Or you may download it there.

London's National Gallery has restored Piero della Francesca's Nativity. The painting is unfinished and was damaged in the past: notably the faces of the two shepherds on the right have been erased. 1/3 pic.twitter.com/r6BiFjebmU

— Rembrandt's R👀m 🖌 (@RembrandtsRoom) December 22, 2023

I believe in man,
maker of himself
and inventor of all science.
And in myself, his manifestation,
and captain of my psyche;
and that I should not suffer anything painful or unpleasant.
And in a vague, evolving deity,
the future-begotten child of man;
conceived by the spirit of progress,
born of emergent variants;
who shall kick down the ladder by which he rose
and tell history to go to hell.
Who shall some day take off from earth
and be jet-propelled into the heavens;
and sit exalted above all worlds,
man the master almighty.
And I believe in the spirit of progress,
who spake by Shaw and the Fabians;
and in a modern, administrative, ethical, and social organization;
in the isolation of saints,
the treatment of complexes,
joy through health,
and destruction of the body by cremation
(with music while it burns),
and then I’ve had it.

–Dorothy Sayers, Christian Letters to a Post-Christian World: A Selection of Essays (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, Trade Paperback edition 1969)

My reading during convalescence: the Lord Peter Wimsey novels of Dorothy L Sayers.

Because detection, like healing, restores order to human lives that have been hit by trauma and fallen for a while into chaos. pic.twitter.com/9nTWv7XvKt

— Michael Sadgrove 🇪🇺 (@MichaelSadgrove) September 19, 2024

O God of searing truth and surpassing beauty, we give thee thanks for Clive Staples Lewis whose sanctified imagination lighteth fires of faith in young and old alike; Surprise us also with thy joy and draw us into that new and abundant life which is ours in Christ Jesus, who liveth and reigneth with thee and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever. Amen

22 Nov 1963, C S Lewis, writer, academic & Christian apologist, died, aged 64. English literature fellow at both Oxford & Cambridge Universities. Wrote more than 30 books including Mere Christianity & universally acknowledged Chronicles of Narnia (sold over 100 million copies). pic.twitter.com/RGNg0EdZ1E

— Revd Nicholas Pye (@RevdPye) November 22, 2024

But a funny thing happened on the road to nihilism. At many intellectual institutions, the wind had already begun to blow in the opposite direction. In the late 1960s, Christian philosopher Alvin Plantinga provided his classic free-will defense for the problem of evil, and in the late ’70s, Richard Swinburne began his trilogy on the philosophy of theism.

Before 1970, generations of philosophy students were fully expected to graduate from departments headed by atheists where belief in God was conspicuously absent. Yet a decade later, Time ran a story suggesting a quiet philosophical coup had taken place: Theistic arguments for God were making a modern comeback, and reports of God’s death turned out to be greatly exaggerated.

It seems many of the bright philosophers graduating from eminent programs and taking positions in prominent universities were—shockingly—theists. And many of them were Christians, bringing their intellectual powers to bear on the apologetic front. These scholars were slowly making inroads among the intelligentsia, and their influence was trickling down into the public square.

Soon, Christian philosophers were not only well-respected academics in their field but chairs of their departments. The early members of this class of faith-led scholars gave way to later members who carried the banner even further—such that by the 2000s, Christian philosophy of religion had become a powerful force to be reckoned with in the academy.

Read it all.

Some of Christianity’s biggest skeptics are becoming vocal converts. These “New Christians” are the result of decades of apologetic work.

But, @nathanpguy asks, is their faith merely intellectual?https://t.co/pXWodcXBX9

— Christianity Today (@CTmagazine) September 24, 2024

Then comes the real shock. Among these Jews there suddenly turns up a man who goes about talking as if He was God. He claims to forgive sins. He says He has always existed. He says He is coming to judge the world at the end of time. Now let us get this clear. Among Pantheists, like the Indians, anyone might say that he was a part of God, or one with God: there would be nothing very odd about it. But this man, since He was a Jew, could not mean that kind of God. God, in their language, meant the Being outside the world Who had made it and was infinitely different from anything else. And when you have grasped that, you will see that what this man said was, quite simply, the most shocking thing that has ever been uttered by human lips. One part of the claim tends to slip past us unnoticed because we have heard it so often that we no longer see what it amounts to. I mean the claim to forgive sins: any sins. Now unless the speaker is God, this is really so preposterous as to be comic. We can all understand how a man forgives offences against himself. You tread on my toe and I forgive you, you steal my money and I forgive you. But what should we make of a man, himself unrobbed and untrodden on, who announced that he forgave you for treading on other men’s toes and stealing other men’s money? Asinine fatuity is the kindest description we should give of his conduct. Yet this is what Jesus did. He told people that their sins were forgiven, and never waited to consult all the other people whom their sins had undoubtedly injured

He unhesitatingly behaved as if He was the party chiefly concerned, the person chiefly offended in all offences. This makes sense only if He really was the God whose laws are broken and whose love is wounded in every sin. In the mouth of any speaker who is not God, these words would imply what I can only regard as a silliness and conceit unrivalled by any other character in history. Yet (and this is the strange, significant thing) even His enemies, when they read the Gospels, do not usually get the impression of silliness and conceit. Still less do unprejudiced readers. Christ says that He is “humble and meek” and we believe Him; not noticing that, if He were merely a man, humility and meekness are the very last characteristics we could attribute to some of His sayings.

—Mere Christianity, Book II.3

Sunday Food for Thought from #CS Lewis 'In other words, fallen man is not simply an imperfect creature who needs improvement: he is a rebel who must lay down his arms”
–Mere Christianity (chapter 4) #theology #churchhistory #anthropology pic.twitter.com/nBRtjewUtO

— Kendall Harmon (@KendallHarmon6) January 3, 2021

O God of earth and altar, who didst give G. K. Chesterton a ready tongue and pen, and inspired him to use them in thy service: Mercifully grant that we may be inspired to witness cheerfully to the hope that is in us; through Jesus Christ our Savior, who livest and reignest with thee and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen.

“Tradition means giving votes to the most obscure of all classes, our ancestors. It is the democracy of the dead. Tradition refuses to submit to the small and arrogant oligarchy of those who merely happen to be walking about.”

G.K. Chesterton, 29th May 1874 – 14th June 1936 pic.twitter.com/yhexhFGjKo

— Mark W. (@DurhamWASP) June 14, 2024

We can say that the story of the Resurrection means simply that the teachings of Jesus are immortal like the plays of Shakespeare or the music of Beethoven and that their wisdom and truth will live on forever. Or we can say that the Resurrection means that the spirit of Jesus is undying, that he himself lives on among us, the way that Socrates does, for instance, in the good that he left behind him, in the lives of all who follow his great example. Or we can say that the language in which the Gospels describe the Resurrection of Jesus is the language of poetry and that, as such, it is not to be taken literally but as pointing to a truth more profound than the literal. Very often, I think, this is the way that the Bible is written, and I would point to some of the stories about the birth of Jesus, for instance, as examples; but in the case of the Resurrection, this simply does not apply because there really is no story about the Resurrection in the New Testament. Except in the most fragmentary way, it is not described at all. There is no poetry about it. Instead, it is simply proclaimed as a fact. Christ is risen! In fact, the very existence of the New Testament itself proclaims it. Unless something very real indeed took place on that strange, confused morning, there would be no New Testament, no Church, no Christianity.

Yet we try to reduce it to poetry anyway: the coming of spring with the return of life to the dead earth, the rebirth of hope in the despairing soul. We try to suggest that these are the miracles that the Resurrection is all about, but they are not. In their way they are all miracles, but they are not this miracle, this central one to which the whole Christian faith points.

Unlike the chief priests and the Pharisees, who tried with soldiers and a great stone to make themselves as secure as they could against the terrible possibility of Christ’s really rising again from the dead, we are considerably more subtle. We tend in our age to say, “Of course, it was bound to happen. Nothing could stop it.” But when we are pressed to say what it was that actually did happen, what we are apt to come out with is something pretty meager: this “miracle” of truth that never dies, the “miracle” of a life so beautiful that two thousand years have left the memory of it undimmed, the “miracle” of doubt turning into faith, fear into hope. If I believed that this or something like this was all that the Resurrection meant, then I would turn in my certificate of ordination and take up some other profession. Or at least I hope that I would have the courage to.

–Frederick Buechner, The Alphabet of Grace (New York: Harper and Row, 1970)

Everyone is welcome to attend ‘Alleluia! Christ is Risen: An Easter Carol Service’, taking place 28 April.

📅28 April 2024, 17:00. No booking required.

📷: Martin Cook pic.twitter.com/7nQM5a7JSO

— Salisbury Cathedral (@SalisburyCath) April 25, 2024

If there’s anything Catholics in the United States should have learned over the past two decades, it’s that order—in the world, the republic, and the Church—is a fragile thing. And by “order,” I don’t mean the same old same old. Rather, I mean the dynamic development of world politics, our national life, and the Church within stable reference points that guide us into the future.

Many of those reference points seem to have come unstuck, and that’s why we’re experiencing an unusual amount of air turbulence these days….Those who don’t remember the two decades immediately after Vatican II and haven’t taken the trouble to learn that history are understandably upset by the fragility of order in the Church today. But they should also understand that this is not 1968, or 1978, or even 1988, and that a lot of ballast was put into the Barque of Peter during the pontificates of John Paul II and Benedict XVI. For all the challenges it faces, and despite the determination of some to revisit what they regard as the glorious Seventies, the Church in the U.S. is in far, far better condition to withstand the air turbulence of the moment than it was forty years ago. And that’s because truth, spoken winsomely and in charity, but without fudging, has proven a powerful instrument of evangelization and spiritual growth in a culture wallowing in various confusions.

At the bottom of the bottom line is the Resurrection. It’s entirely possible to hold fast to the truth that Jesus of Nazareth was raised by God to a new form of bodily life after his crucifixion and be deeply concerned about the state of the Church today. But it’s not possible to know the Risen Lord and to indulge in despair. Despair died on the cross and unshakeable hope was born at Easter. That’s why Easter faith is the surest anchor for all of us in turbulent times.

Read it all.

Our picture of the month for March is 'Noli me Tangere' by Titian. It captures the moment on Easter morning when Mary Magdalene meets the risen Christ. Find out more here: https://t.co/jgUxvEaCWG pic.twitter.com/3n23UTGoT5

— National Gallery (@NationalGallery) March 2, 2018

I believe that Jesus Christ rose from the dead on the first Easter Sunday. And I do not see that as any sort of parable or metaphor. This is, frankly, the very heart of my faith. Also, I do not believe that we can or should reduce the great mystery of the resurrection to an experience that occurred within the community. This is what some contemporary theologians have posited: that Christ “rose” within the community. Theological approaches differ, but, in essence, some theologians offer the story of how, as the disciples came to reflect on the life and death of Jesus Christ, he became “present” to them in a new way, through the Spirit. This, in turn, empowered them to proclaim the good news of his Gospel. Some theologians offer this as a more credible or contemporary way of understanding the “resurrection.”

But there is a problem with this idea of the resurrection as the after-effects of a “shared memory.” Certainly, after the resurrection and the ascension the disciples would have “remembered” Jesus, and certainly they may have had powerful Spirit-filled experiences as they did so, often as they gathered in community. But, to my mind, only something as vivid, dramatic and, in a word, real as the multiple appearances by the risen Christ could have moved the disciples from abject fear (cowering behind closed doors) to being willing to give their lives for Jesus. Nothing else can credibly account for the transformation of terrified disciples into willing martyrs.

Moreover, for the disciples to have somehow found a body in the tomb would indeed mean that Jesus did not rise from the dead, which would negate the message of Easter. The tomb, as the Easter narratives recount, was empty—something that initially filled the disciples with fear and confusion.

Read it all.

Alleluia – Christ is Risen pic.twitter.com/d8zVc3fAMZ

— Rochester Cathedral (@RochesterCathed) March 31, 2024

…particularly when we look at the disciples, the watered-down resurrection doesn’t seem credible at all. Remember that the Gospel of John (whose author had little to gain by making the disciples, future leaders of the early church, look bad) notes that the disciples were so frightened that they barricaded themselves behind locked doors after Jesus’s death. They had good reason to be. “If the authorities dealt that way with Jesus, who had so many people supporting him,” they must have thought, “what will they do to us?” Even before the crucifixion Peter shrank in fear from being identified as a follower of Jesus. Imagine how their fear would have intensified after witnessing the Romans’ brutal execution of their master.

With one exception, all of Jesus’s male followers were so terrified that they shrank from standing at the foot of the cross, unable to accompany Jesus during his final hours. Their reluctance may have stemmed from an inability to watch the agonizing death of their friend, but much was out of fear of being identified as a follower of an enemy of Rome. (The women, showed no such fear, though the situation may have posed less danger for them.)

The disciples were terrified. So does it seem credible that something as simple as sitting around and remembering Jesus would snap them out of their abject fear? Not to me. Something incontrovertible, something undeniable, something visible, something tangible, was necessary to transform them from fearful to fearless.

This is one of the most compelling “proofs” of the Resurrection.

Read it all.

Doubting Thomas places his fingers in Christ's wound.

BnF MS 1186; Psalter of St Louis & Blanche de Castille; 13th century; f.26r @GallicaBnF pic.twitter.com/sFUramB7Ol

— Ennius (@red_loeb) April 7, 2024

This remarkable and deliberate recording of the first Christians’ incomprehension of what they insisted was the irreducible bottom line of their faith teaches us two things. First, it tells us that the early Christians were confident enough about what they called the Resurrection that (to borrow from Prof. Wright) they were prepared to say something like, “I know this sounds ridiculous, but it’s what happened.” And the second thing it tells us is that it took time for the first Christians to figure out what the events of Easter meant—not only for Jesus but for themselves. As they worked that out, their thinking about a lot of things changed profoundly, as Prof. Wright and Pope Emeritus Benedict XVI help us to understand in their biblical commentaries.

The way they thought about time and history changed. During Jesus’ public ministry, many of his followers shared in the Jewish messianic expectations of the time: God would soon work something grand for his people in Israel, liberating them from their oppressors and bringing about a new age in which (as Isaiah had prophesied) the nations would stream to the mountain of the Lord and history would end. The early Christians came to understand that the cataclysmic, world-redeeming act that God had promised had taken place at Easter. God’s Kingdom had come not at the end of time but within time—and that had changed the texture of both time and history. History continued, but those shaped by the Easter Effect became the people who knew how history was going to turn out. Because of that, they could live differently. The Easter Effect impelled them to bring a new standard of equality into the world and to embrace death as martyrs if necessary—because they knew, now, that death did not have the final word in the human story.

The way they thought about “resurrection” changed. Pious Jews taught by the reforming Pharisees of Jesus’ time believed in the resurrection of the dead. Easter taught the first Christians, who were all pious Jews, that this resurrection was not the resuscitation of a corpse, nor did it involve the decomposition of a corpse. Jesus’ tomb was empty, but the Risen Lord appeared to his disciples in a transformed body. Those who first experienced the Easter Effect would not have put it in these terms, but as their understanding of what had happened to Jesus and to themselves grew, they grasped that (as Benedict XVI put it in “Jesus of Nazareth–Holy Week”) there had been an “evolutionary leap” in the human condition. A new way of being had been encountered in the manifestly human but utterly different life of the one they met as the Risen Lord. That insight radically changed all those who embraced it.

Read it all.

"Alleluia, alleluia. Christ is risen, who made all things; he has shown mercy on all people. Alleluia, alleluia."

The Resurrection, by Piero della Francesca. pic.twitter.com/6d4oO3WiXb

— Christian Culture (@Christian8Pics) April 14, 2018

Jesus of Nazareth was certainly dead by the Friday evening; Roman soldiers were professional killers and wouldn’t have allowed a not-quite-dead rebel leader to stay that way for long. When the first Christians told the story of what happened next, they were not saying: “I think he’s still with us in a spiritual sense” or “I think he’s gone to heaven”. All these have been suggested by people who have lost their historical and theological nerve.

The historian must explain why Christianity got going in the first place, why it hailed Jesus as Messiah despite His execution (He hadn’t defeated the pagans, or rebuilt the Temple, or brought justice and peace to the world, all of which a Messiah should have done), and why the early Christian movement took the shape that it did. The only explanation that will fit the evidence is the one the early Christians insisted upon – He really had been raised from the dead. His body was not just reanimated. It was transformed, so that it was no longer subject to sickness and death.

Let’s be clear: the stories are not about someone coming back into the present mode of life. They are about someone going on into a new sort of existence, still emphatically bodily, if anything, more so. When St Paul speaks of a “spiritual” resurrection body, he doesn’t mean “non-material”, like a ghost. “Spiritual” is the sort of Greek word that tells you,not what something is made of, but what is animating it. The risen Jesus had a physical body animated by God’s life-giving Spirit. Yes, says St Paul, that same Spirit is at work in us, and will have the same effect – and in the whole world.

Read it all.

The resurrection of Christ, year 1700 by Noël Coypel University of Oxford, Ashmolean Museum The resurrection of Jesus is the central tenet of Christian faith and theology and part of the Nicene Creed: "On the third day he was raised according to the Scriptures." #art @lbchicago17 pic.twitter.com/l2pCrWDmWi

— Miguel Calabria (@MiguelCalabria3) April 17, 2022