How (Not) to Be Secular: Reading Charles Taylor

Preface

You’re a pastor or a church planter who has moved to Brooklyn or Berkeley or Boulder. Maybe you received a call to transplant yourself from Georgia or Grand Rapids or some other religious region of the country, sensing a burden to proclaim the gospel in one of the many so-­called godless urban regions of North America. You’ve left your Jerusalem on a mission to Babylon. You came with what you thought were all the answers to the unanswered questions these secular people had. But it didn’t take long for you to realize that the questions weren’t just unanswered; they were unasked. And they weren’t questions. That is, your secular neighbors aren’t looking for answers — for some bit of information that is missing from their mental maps. To the contrary, they have completely different maps. You’ve realized that instead of nagging questions about God or the afterlife, your neighbors are oriented by all sorts of longings and projects and quests for significance. There doesn’t seem to be anything missing from their lives — so you can’t just come proclaiming the good news of a Jesus who fills their God-­shaped hole. They don’t have any sense that the secular lives they’ve constructed are missing a second floor. In many ways, they have constructed webs of meaning that provide almost all the significance they need in their lives (though a lot hinges on that almost).

Suffice it to say that the paradigms you brought to your ministry have failed to account for your experience thus far. You thought you were moving to a world like yours, just minus God; but in fact, you’ve moved to a different world entirely. It turns out this isn’t like the Mars Hill of Saint Paul’s experience (in Acts 17) where people are devoted to all kinds of deities and you get to add to their pantheon by talking about the one, true God. No, it seems that many have managed to construct a world of significance that isn’t at all bothered by questions of the divine — though that world might still be haunted in some ways, haunted by that almost. Your neighbors inhabit what Charles Taylor calls an immanent frame; they are no longer bothered by the God question as a question because they are devotees of exclusive humanism — a way of being-­in-­the-­world that offers significance without transcendence. They don’t feel like anything is missing.

So what does it look like to bear witness in a secular age? What does it look like to be faithful? To what extent have Christians unwittingly absorbed the tendencies of this world? On the one hand, this raises the question of how to reach exclusive humanists. On the other hand, the question bounces back on the church: To what extent do we believe like exclusive humanists?

These are the sorts of questions this book aims to answer. Think of it as a doctor of ministry program between two covers — a philosophical ethnography of the world you inhabit, and in which you minister. Think of me as an assistant docent to this new world — coming alongside the primary guide, philosopher Charles Taylor, whose book A Secular Age is just the resource you didn’t know you needed.

But maybe this doesn’t describe you. Maybe you consider yourself secular — an atheist, perhaps, or at least agnostic, and generally just completely unconcerned with God or religion or church or any of that. It’s not like you’ve left the faith or killed God; he never existed in the Brooklyn you call home. Indeed, in the circles you run in, matters of spirituality or transcendence just never arise. The existential world is flat. You’re over it. Let’s move on. Sure, we’re all trying to find significance or make meaning and vaguely trying to figure out just what the hell this is all about. But c’mon: that doesn’t mean we’re going to entertain fairy tales.

Which is why you’re constantly puzzled by all these people you read about in the Times or the New Yorker who are, like, super religious — who can’t imagine that God doesn’t exist. They seem to inhabit some other universe than your own.

Then one of your friends starts reading Mary Karr’s memoirs, and even starts flirting with Catholicism. After a few months she invites you to St. Patrick’s Cathedral on Christmas Eve and you’re thinking this must just be a therapeutic strategy, a kind of puritanical form of self-­medication. But you can’t bring yourself to go along. So you stay home, alone, and before you know it, just as the bourbon is taking hold, one of those unbelievably ambiguous and nostalgic songs by The Postal Service comes on. You know, one of those songs with the sprite, light tune that lulls you into thinking it’s just banal triviality, but then somehow you hear it again as if for the first time and all of a sudden you feel yourself in the song . . .

And I’m looking through the glass

Where the light bends at the cracks

And I’m screaming at the top of my lungs

Pretending the echoes belong to someone —

Someone I used to know.

. . . and you’re spooked by the longings this articulates, naming something that wells up in you from some subterranean cavern in your consciousness and you feel stupid that you’re crying but you can’t stop and you want to just blame it on the bourbon and the loneliness and yet there is the oddest taste of some distant joy calling to you in those tears and you’re not sure what to do with any of this.

This book is for you, too.

On the one hand, this is a book about a book — a small field guide to a much larger scholarly tome.¹ It is both an homage and a portal to Charles Taylor’s monumental Secular Age, a book that offers a genealogy of the secular and an archaeology of our angst. This is a commentary on a book that provides a commentary on postmodern culture.

On the other hand, this is also meant to be a kind of how-­to manual — guidance on how (not) to live in a secular age. It is ultimately an adventure in self-­understanding, a way to get our bearings in a secular age — whoever we might be: believers or skeptics, devout or doubting. Whether we’re proclaiming the faith to the secularized or we’re puzzled that there continue to be people of faith in this day and age, Charles Taylor has a story meant to help us locate where we are, and what’s at stake. That existential aspect of Taylor’s project is admittedly buried in a lot of history and footnotes and long digressions. So I’m trying to distill and highlight this aspect of his argument precisely because I think it matters — and matters especially for those believers who are trying to not only remain faithful in a secular age but also bear witness to the divine for a secular age.

I am an unabashed and unapologetic advocate for the importance and originality of Taylor’s project. I think A Secular Age is an insightful and incisive account of our globalized, cosmopolitan, pluralist present. Anyone who apprehends the sweep and force of Taylor’s argument will get a sense that he’s been reading our postmodern mail. His account of our cross-­pressured situation — suspended between the malaise of immanence and the memory of transcendence — names and explains vague rumblings in the background of our experience for which we lack words.

I have several audiences in mind for this book, precisely because I believe A Secular Age incorporates several different veins of concern. I hope it will be a resource for social scientists, theologians, philosophers, and religious studies scholars grappling with issues of secularization and religion in our contemporary world.

This is a philosophical handbook intended for practitioners. To translate and unpack the implications of Taylor’s scholarly argument for practice — especially ministry — I will employ callout boxes like this one to raise questions for reflection and to consider some of the applications and implications that A Secular Age raises for the practice of faith.

But in fact, my primary audience is more existential. I hope this book will make Taylor’s analysis accessible to a wide array of practitioners — by which I mean, simply, those of us living in this cultural moment, who feel the cross-­pressures and malaise and fragilization that he identifies, those who have absorbed mental maps of our secular age from Death Cab for Cutie and David Foster Wallace. They might be artists or entrepreneurs, screenwriters or design consultants, baristas or political staffers — but they all intuit what Taylor is trying to diagnose: that our secular age is messier than many would lead us to believe; that transcendence and immanence bleed into one another; that faith is pretty much unthinkable, but abandonment to the abyss is even more so; and that they need to forge meaning and significance in this secular space rather than embracing modes of resentful escape from it. I’m thinking of my friends in Brooklyn and Berkeley, in Chicago’s Wicker Park and adjacent to Manhattan’s Central Park, in Toronto and Vancouver but also Milwaukee and Boulder, who have forged lives of significance that are nonetheless haunted by the ghosts of a secular age.

Among those friends are ministers, pastors, church planters, and social workers who are engaged in religious work in a secular age. Heirs of Dorothy Day and heralds of an almost unbelievable Story, they refuse to retreat to homogenous zones of shared plausibility structures. In fact, these are the core audience for this book precisely because I believe Taylor’s analysis can help pastors and church planters understand better the contexts in which they proclaim the gospel. In many ways, Taylor’s Secular Age amounts to a cultural anthropology for urban mission.

At the same time, Taylor’s account should also serve as a wake-­up call for the church, functioning as a mirror to help us see how we have come to inhabit our secular age. Taylor is not only interested in understanding how the secular emerged; he is also an acute observer of how we’re all secular now. The secular touches everything. It not only makes unbelief possible; it also changes belief — it impinges upon Christianity (and all religious communities). So Taylor’s account also diagnoses the roots and extent of Christianity’s assimilation — and hints at how we might cultivate resistance.

Finally, I also think Taylor offers a lexicon for cultural analysis and understanding. So I have bolded some of his unique terms and phrases because I think they could be introduced into our vocabularies — including the vocabularies of engaged practitioners — as a helpful shorthand. These are concisely defined in a glossary that tries to orient the reader to Taylor’s technical vocabulary. The glossary might also be helpful as the reader tries to follow the thread of Taylor’s argument — a quick way to reorient himself or herself while in the midst of the book.

My goal is concise commentary, identifying the thread and logic of Taylor’s argument in a condensed form. You might say I’m trying to give readers a map of the forest that is A Secular Age, hoping to provide orientation so they can enter the larger forest of Taylor’s book and thus attend to all the trees therein. In the process of concisely outlining and summarizing his argument and analysis, I have also tried to gloss some of his claims in a way that highlights their existential import, sometimes by providing contemporary cultural hooks and examples that might resonate with younger readers. While this book could be read independently by those unable to wade through the larger tome, ultimately my little book is meant to be a companion to the mother ship that is Taylor’s big book. For those following along at home, this book is organized in parallel to Taylor’s outline: my five chapters correspond to the five parts of A Secular Age; within those chapters, my sections roughly correspond to Taylor’s chapters.

* * *

The core of this book emerged from one of the highlights of my teaching career: a 2011 senior seminar devoted to a close (and complete!) reading of Taylor’s Secular Age. I’m profoundly grateful to the marvelous collection of students in that class who not only waded through a long, difficult text but also helped me to appreciate how the book touched a nerve for them, giving them categories and language to understand their present, including their malaise. It was their response to the book’s argument that led me to believe a book like this might help others.

I am deeply indebted to Chris Ganski and Rob Joustra, who took time out of busy schedules to read a first draft of this manuscript. If this book is helpful to some readers, it’s due in no small part to their feedback and suggestions.

I’m also grateful to Jon Pott and Michael Thomson, editors at Eerdmans, for welcoming a book like this, and patiently awaiting its completion.

As usual, my writing of this book was shaped by a veritable soundtrack — the artists who accompanied my writing in coffee shops in various neighborhoods of Grand Rapids. In the spirit of Taylor, I gravitated toward albums that reflected the malaise and cross-­pressures and furtive wonder that characterize our secular age. So readers might set the mood for this book by listening to The Postal Service, Death Cab for Cutie, Fleet Foxes, and especially Arcade Fire’s unique, holistic meditation, The Suburbs.

1. Think of it as Jean-­François Lyotard meets Walker Percy; Foucault fused with Flannery O’Connor; Kierkegaard’s Present Age crossed with Walter Benjamin’s Arcades Project.

introduction

Our Cross-­Pressured Present: Inhabiting a Secular Age

Pascal knew that Montaigne was cheating:

to most humans, curiosity about higher things comes naturally,

it’s indifference to them that must be learned.¹

Mapping This Present Age

Imagine a map of our present — of this present age, as Kierkegaard once put it. What’s the shape of the existential terrain in which we find ourselves in late modernity? Where are the valleys of despair and mountains of bliss, the pitfalls and dead ends? What are the sites of malaise and regions of doubt? Where are the spaces of meaning? Are they hidden in secluded places, or waiting to be discovered in the mundane that is always with us? Where should we look for the thin places that still seem haunted by transcendence? Or have they disappeared, torn up to make way for progress and development? Where’s that yawning existential abyss portrayed with clichéd abandon in Garden State?

Could we imagine an existential map of our secular age that would actually help us to locate ourselves and give us a feel for where we are?

Like those hucksters on Venice Beach offering maps to the homes of the stars, there is no shortage of voices hawking road atlases for a secular age. Confident new atheists, for example, delineate where we are with a new bravado. Employing a kind of intellectual colonialism, new atheist cartographers rename entire regions of our experience and annex them to natural science and empirical explanation, flattening the world by disenchantment. (Graveyards of the gods are always a highlight of this tour.) At the same time — and sometimes as a reaction — various fundamentalisms seem intent on selling us maps to buried treasure, pulling out yellowed parchments and trying to convince us that these dated maps tell us the truth about ourselves, about our present. But their maps are just as flat, and we feel like they’re hiding something. We feel like there are whole regions of our experience they’ve never set foot upon — as if they claim to have mapped Manhattan because they visited Madison Square Garden. Who’s going to buy that map?

Both of these sorts of maps are blunt instruments. They are road atlases that merely show us well-­worn thoroughfares, the streets and interstates of our late modern commerce. They do nothing to map the existential wilderness of the present — those bewildering places in which we are beset by an existential vertigo. These neat and tidy color-­coded road atlases are of no help when we find ourselves disoriented in a secular age, haunted by doubt or belief, by predawn fears of ghosts in the machine or a vague sense of the twilight of the idols. These road atlases of belief versus disbelief, religion versus secularism, belief versus reason provide maps that are much neater and tidier than the spaces in which we find ourselves. They give us a world of geometric precision that doesn’t map onto the world of our lived experience where these matters are much fuzzier, much more intertwined — where the secular and the religious haunt each other in a mutual dance of displacement and decentering.

Rather than a ham-­fisted road atlas, what we need to get our bearings is a detailed topographic map of our secular age — a relief map attuned to the uneven terrain whose contour lines help us find ourselves in the wilderness of our doubts,² and even the wilderness of our belief. An