Philosophy

Review: Athens and Jerusalem

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Cover image of "Athens & Jerusalem" by Gerald Bray

Athens and Jerusalem, Gerald Bray. Lexham Press (ISBN: 9781683597728) 2025.

Summary: An in-depth survey of the parallel histories of philosophical tradition and Christian theology and their interactions.

I should lead off by saying that this book turned out to be something different than I’d expected. Instead of a critical analysis of the influences of philosophy on Christianity, this turn out to be more of a historical survey of both traditions, their differing perspectives, and interactions. That said, the survey offered by Bray is a highly readable one spanning the time from Socrates, Plato, and Aristotle down to the present.

Bray accomplishes that by a chronological history that begins first in Athens and the rise of the Greek philosophers followed by a history of Jerusalem and the Abrahamic faith of the Jews. Then Bray traces the intersection of both Jews and Christians with the Greek philosophers, first in Alexandria, and then with Origin. Following this, Bray describes the period from 313 to late medieval times as Jerusalem triumphant. Theological controversy demanded the systematic rigor of philosophy to clarify matters of doctrine. The high point of harmonizing philosophy and theology came with Thomas Aquinas.

The rediscovery of philosophical works in the Renaissance resulted in the rise of Neoplatonism and an increasing focus on human reason. For Protestants, Hobbes and Locke offered a kind of creed for civil society that opened the way for the secular, separated state. The longest chapter in the work treats the thinkers of the Enlightenment with its focus on rationalism. Often, this resulted in challenging Christian theological conviction. Some of examples of this are found in the works of Rousseau, Voltaire, Hegel, Marx, and Darwin. In addition, philosophers like Jeremy Bentham and john Stuart Mill promoted a pragmatic secularism.

So, we finally arrive at the present. Both biological and cosmological discoveries have led to a renewed openness of some to theism. In addition, Bray notes metaphysical premises that parallel theological convictions including an orderly and rational universe and the human ability to understand it, contingency, and more. However Bray seems more cautious than some when it comes to reconciling the two. He notes a basic difference of perspective. Theology begins with and focuses on God. Philosophy begins with human reason and lacks a fixed point of reference. He’s not without hope however and notes the work of Christians in philosophy.

What Bray offers is a highly readable yet in-depth survey of the history of the interaction of Christianity and philosophy. Summaries at the end of each chapter distill the main points of his survey yet further. We don’t get an in-depth critical analysis of the church councils and how philosophical considerations played into the debates and formulations. Nor do we study the synthesis of philosophy and theology in Aquinas and subsequent Catholic tradition. Some may also object to his summary treatment of philosophers.

What I would suggest is that this is a great first work to read, overviewing the landscape of the history. Of course, the interested student will want to zoom in on particular periods and people. It would have been helpful to have more in-depth bibliographies for each chapter rather than the brief “For Further Reading” at the conclusion. However, any student who has learned basic research methods can figure this out. This also makes a good reference work for pastors who need historical context if discussing a particular philosopher.

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Disclosure of Material Connection: I received a complimentary copy of this book from the publisher for review.

The Weekly Wrap: May 11-17

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woman in white crew neck t shirt in a bookstore wrapping books
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The Weekly Wrap: May 11-17

Story Keeping

We have always loved storytellers, from the stories told in oral cultures, to writers who spin stories, to historians who research and tell the stories of our past. Less glamorous, but just as important, I would contend, are those who are story keepers. Without story keepers, our stories may die within a generation or less, whether from neglect or deliberate action.

Who are the story keepers? They are the publishers who keep important stories in print. They are the librarians who keep the stories on their shelves and connect readers and books. Booksellers, who take financial risks to make books available to readers are story keeping heroes.

I believe we are entering a season where story keeping is taking on greater importance. For example, books are being removed from libraries in service academies and schools. Others have pressed for the removals of books from public libraries. It may be subjects labeled “DEI,” which may include many works of Black, or other ethnic histories. Or it may include books portraying non-traditional gender identity or sexual orientation. If it has been politicized, it has probably been challenged or removed.

I don’t necessarily agree with all the stories or how they ought to be told. It is messy because of the rich mosaic of people who make up our society. Some just think it is simpler to erase the stories that differ from our favorite rendering of the story. But when we do this, we only hear the versions of a story from those who hold power. Then dissenting stories that give a fuller perspective are silenced. Simpler but smaller is what we get.

We are all important to the work of story keeping. We can support publishers, librarians, and booksellers. Whenever we buy and read and talk about books, we are story keepers. And when we read diverse books, we help keep alive the stories of those on the margins whose stories are under attack. We should aggressively resist any effort to ban or destroy books. I hope we don’t come to the day of Fahrenheit 451, where it becomes the task of those who want to save the stories to memorize them. Ultimately, they understood that this is what it meant to save civilization.

Five Articles Worth Reading

Summer is coming and the reading is easy. The Atlantic “The Summer Reading Guide” offers recommendations of great books for the beach or those hot summer afternoons where we dive into a book while sipping our sweet tea.

Were there books that made you challenge the conventions, that opened your mind to new ways of thinking about life, relationships, society? Timothy Aubry explores this topic in “Gateway Books.” What were your gateway books?

Then, perhaps you would study philosophy to explore the meaning of life. However, Pranay Sanklecha describes how this is not what he found in his philosophy studies in “Philosophy was once alive.”

What is “close reading”? In a review of On Close Reading by John Guillory, Dan Sinykin explores how one defines “close reading” and its place in literary studies. The article is “Pay Attention!” His own argument for close reading in the penultimate paragraph made reading this one worth it for me.

Finally, Mrs. Dalloway is one hundred years old! “A Hundred Years of Mrs. Dalloway” explores how Virginia Woolf’s novel was so revolutionary both in its day and in its long-term impact.

Quote of the Week

Feminist poet Adrienne Rich was born on May 16, 1929. She observed:

“Lying is done with words and also with silence.”

It seems to me that this is a corollary to Edmund Burke’s famous statement, “The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.”

Miscellaneous Musings

Ron Chernow’s Mark Twain arrived at my doorstep today. It is another massive biography, coming in at over a thousand pages of text. I’ll literally be reading that all summer. But if it is like his previous works, it should be a great ride.

I was surprised how much I enjoyed Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow by Gabrielle Zevin. If anything, I have enjoyed The Storied Life of A.J. Fikry even more. And its main character is a somewhat cranky bookseller!

As an addendum to my thoughts on story keeping. I consider reviewing as a form of story keeping. I try to review a variety of diverse and important books and it is one of my ways to be a story keeper, making sure others know of these important stories.

Next Week’s Reviews

Monday: Wesley Vander Lugt, ed. A Prophet in Darkness

Tuesday: Agatha Christie, Third Girl

Wednesday: Jeffrey W. Barbeau, The Last Romantic

Thursday: Ezra Klein, Derek Thompson, Abundance

Friday: Michael J. Gilmour, Reading the Margins

So, that’s The Weekly Wrap for May 11-17, 2025!

Find past editions of The Weekly Wrap under The Weekly Wrap heading on this page

Review: Beyond the Wager

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Cover image of "Beyond the Wager" by Douglas Groothuis

Beyond the Wager: The Christian Brilliance of Blaise Pascal, Douglas Groothuis. IVP Academic (ISBN: 9781514001783) 2024.

Summary: Argues that Pascal’s brilliance extends beyond his famous “wager” to his scientific, philosophic, and Christian insights.

Justly or unjustly, Blaise Pascal is often most known for his “Wager.” He argues that faith in God is in one’s best interest. If indeed God exists and rewards belief in him, this is of infinite gain while unbelief entails infinite loss. By contrast if one believes and God does not exist, the losses are relatively minimal. In Beyond the Wager, Douglas Groothuis not only defends the Wager but argues for the brilliance of Pascal, particularly as a Christian thinker, as revealed in Pensees.

Groothuis, a noted Christian apologist, has been reading Pensees since 1977. This work is a revision and expansion on an earlier work, On Pascal, published in 2003. Specifically, he adds chapters on miracles and prophecy pertaining to Christ, the excellence of Christ, “Christianity, Muhammad, and the Jews,” and on Pascals critique of politics. In addition, he includes a delightful imagined dialogue between Pascal and Descartes.

In introducing his subject, Groothuis proposes that Pascal is both well-known and unknown. He made contributions in math and science (as well as inventing the first prototype of mass transit, the omnibus). What is less understood is his brilliance as a Christian thinker. Pascal, without jettisoning reason, recognized that belief “involved submitting the core of one’s being to a supernatural being who calls one into a transformational encounter and ongoing engagement” in response to the heart’s perception of God. This is what is behind his statement that “the heart has its reasons of which reason knows nothing.” He understands Pascal as one who lived between the Medieval Age and the Enlightenment, both a devout Catholic and yet reformer in sympathy with the Jansenists. And he was both a philosopher who endorsed much of the Cartesian world, yet never separated science from God.

After a brief biography of Pascal, who died at 39, he explores how Pascal developed our understanding of both the nature and limits of science. Then he turns to the theological controversy he engaged on behalf of the Jansenists against the Jesuits. The Jesuits argued that divine choice and human freedom were incompatible and emphasized human choice. Pascal, anticipating the Protestant Reformers, argued for compatibilism, that external determination and personal choice were compatible.

Following this discussion, Groothuis turns to the Pensees, which will occupy the remainder of the book. Noting its fragmentary and incomplete nature, Groothuis calls attention to Pascal’s basic plan for the work. Pascal divided it in two parts: the wretchedness of man without God and the happiness of man with God. He defends it as an apologetic and delineates Pascal’s three orders of being: the body, the mind, and the heart. Each are essential to knowledge of God.

Subsequently, Groothuis deals first with Pascal’s arguments for God, including his sense of the limits of natural theology. Instead he shows how our human condition as “magnificent wretches” points us not only toward God but toward our need. He explores Pascal’s ideas in the light of skepticism about the hiddenness of God and how this relates to our fallenness. Groothuis show how Pascal argues from the human condition to our need for divine revelation and redemption. He then discusses Pascal’s treatment of miracles and prophecy to attest to the uniqueness of Christ as the Savior who atoned through the cross, addressing the human condition. All of this culminates in a chapter on the excellence of Christ, captured in Pascal’s description of Christ’s “offices” in 106 words. Groothuis discusses what this means for our spiritual life, our experience of suffering and for a thinking body of Christ.

Given the contemporary challenge of Islam, Groothuis shows how Pascal argued for the superiority of Christ and the Bible. Interestingly, he outlines Pascal’s argument for Christianity from Judaism and against Islam, that Jesus, not Muhammad, is the prophet foreseen by Moses. Then, Groothuis comes to the Wager, expositing Pascal’s framing of the Wager, showing how one must wager and addressing objections to the Wager. This is followed by a chapter summarizing Pascal’s critiques of culture and politics. Pascal had a penetrating view of the pomps and pretenses of politics and culture. He argues that Christ offers the only sane point in an insane world.

Groothuis concludes by commending Pascal as a guide. He is a mentor who exemplifies ardent love for Christ. Pascal’s grasp of the human condition helps us understand both ourselves and others. His literary gifts across multiple disciplines may motivate writers to excellence. As an innovative scientist, he models a philosophy of science reflecting a biblical worldview. His biting wit as he considers culture and politics challenges us to forsake worldly embraces of pomp and power for godliness. And Pensees is a goldmine of insight for apologists.

Douglas Groothuis makes a strong case for renewed attention to the life and writing of Blaise Pascal as a Christian thinker. He brings a framework to our reading of the fragmented and unfinished Pensees, helping us to recognize the intellectual as well as devotional brilliance of this work. He defends Pascal against his detractors, including the arguments against Pascal’s Wager. But beyond all this, his discussion of the thought of Pascal shows the far-reaching character of his brilliance. Now to find my copy of Pensees….

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Disclosure of Material Connection: I received a complimentary copy of this book from the publisher for review.

Review: Lost in Thought

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Lost in Thought, Zena Hitz. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2020.

Summary: A defense of the love of learning for its own sake, for how it enriches our existence as human beings.

Zena Hitz grew up in a house full of books. Curiosity, lectures, exploration, family conversations. All of this prepared Zena for an academic career, with the stimulating years of graduate school followed by a faculty position. And then the let down:

In exchange for my comfortable salary, excellent benefits, and ample control over my work schedule, I delivered preprocessed nuggets of knowledge in front of a crowd and doled out above-average grades upon their absorption. The teaching that formed the central activity of my professional life seemed nothing like the lively and collaborative pursuit of ideas that had enchanted me as a student. (p, 17).

It led to three years in a Catholic retreat center, a process of discerning a vocation. She describes a journey of asking whether the love of learning may be defended for its own sake. She examines the things that may lure one away from this, as she was in her early faculty career: the love of money, social recognition, and spectacle. She takes a deep dive into the life of learning, the experience of refuge known to every bookworm, the inwardness it cultivates, in which she holds up Mary (thought in ancient times to be a reader), who understood that “a virgin must conceive” and so was prepared for the angel’s message. She is reminded of how learning gets at the core of what it means to be human–the common human experience that binds us together. She considers the uses of of the apparent uselessness of learning. Dorothy Day is a particular exemplar, whose service, advocacy, and imprisonments were sustained by her inner life of learning and prayer.

She wrestles with elitism. Is the quest for learning simply a preserve for the elite, those with enough time and money to do so? She recalls the workers libraries and the hunger for intellectual life of many who were not college educated. What she doesn’t address are those at the lowest rungs of poverty whose time and energy are devoted to surviving. As others have argued, there must be some time of leisure to pursue thought for its own sake. Perhaps this is as good an argument as any to pursue the eradication of poverty.

In the end, she comes to a renewed embrace of the intellectual life. She concludes:

I have argued that intellectual life properly understood cultivates a space of retreat within a human being, a place where real reflection takes place. We step back from concerns of practical benefit, personal or public. We withdraw into small rooms, literal or internal. In the space of retreat we consider fundamental questions: what human happiness consists in, the origins and nature of the universe, whether human beings are part of nature, and whether and how a truly just community is possible. From the space of retreat emerges poetry, mathematics, and distilled wisdom articulated in words or manifested silently in action (p. 185).

She longs that universities would become places once more where this would occur. I found myself wondering, though, whether this was ever the case en masse in colleges and universities or whether some gravitated more to this life than others. And for this to occur today amid the explosion of knowledge in every discipline, would this not require either extending the undergraduate degree to six years or more of full time studies, or making graduate education even more common? And this goes against the grain of our cultural imperatives of equating education with preparation for a job, and the pressures to shorten, not lengthen this time.

It makes me wonder whether the impetus must come from somewhere else in a soulless technological world. At one point, churches were the place where learning was preserved in Europe, learning not only of scripture but Aristotle and Plato. It is hard for me to see this arising from churches of the present day and it seems unclear, apart from the outposts like St John’s (where the author is a tutor) and a few others, mostly private institutions, where this might come from in the world of higher ed. Will our bookstores and libraries become the modern day athenaeums where those hungry for more than being instruments in our technological apparatuses seek refuge and insight? Will we find the resources to sustain these places and those who curate them? And who will teach the disciplines of careful thought? Will a title like Lost in Thought even make sense? I fear if it doesn’t we will have lost what makes us most human, what gives meaning and texture to life, that separates us from the automatons increasingly capable of learning but unable to derive any pleasure from it.

Review: Ideas Have Consequences

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Ideas Have Consequences, Richard M. Weaver. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1984 (first published in 1948, link is to expanded 2013 edition).

Summary: An argument tracing the dissolution of Western society to the abandonment of philosophical realism for nominalism and what may be done to reverse that decline.

Many authors have traced the decline of the West (if there is such a thing) to the ideas that shape our culture. Few have argued that more trenchantly or been cited more often that Richard M. Weaver, an intellectual historian and professor of English at the University of Chicago during the mid-twentieth century. I’ve been aware of this book for over twenty years but just now have gotten around to it.

Weaver’s argument begins with the abandonment of philosophical realism, the existence of transcendent or metaphysical truth for nominalism, the denial of absolute universals but only the particulars of our existence. He then traces some of the ways this manifests itself. First he discusses the obliteration of the distinctions and hierarchies which constitute society for an egalitarian ideal. He then notes the fragmentation of modern societies. No longer capable of philosophy, we are reduced to facts without coherent structure. Without the transcendent, the self is the measure of value. Egotism is a word that runs through his discussion. When work is only about self-realization rather than being divinely ordained, work becomes a matter of getting the better of others rather than pursuing the common good. Art, as it becomes solipsistic, degenerates. Weaver saves his harshest criticism for the distinctly American music of jazz.

In the rejection of a transcendent metaphysic, moderns come up with a modern synthesis which Weaver calls “the great stereopticon” consisting of the trinity of the press, the motion picture, and the radio (television was just coming on the scene in 1948). These foster the fragmented, disharmonious experience of our lives, often distracting us from their banal character, a critique that seems to have anticipated Neil Postman’s, Amusing Ourselves to Death. All of this fosters in us a “spoiled child” psychology amid technological advances that believes in a material heaven easily achieved.

Weaver’s final three chapters address his proposed remedy–what must be done. First is to reassert and protect the right of private property, the only metaphysical right he believes has not yet been jettisoned in the four hundred year decline he traces. The extension of this from homes to businesses to agriculture preserves and restores volition and undercuts authoritarian tyrannies–whether capitalist or communist. He also argues for the power of the word, both poetic and logical, advocating for instruction in logic and rhetoric. Finally, he contends for restoration of “spirit of piety” with regard for nature, for one’s neighbors, and the past.

For me, what I would most criticize is his concern about distinctions and orders, that seem for him established on the basis of heredity and immutable characteristics, like gender. It felt like women, and perhaps the races must be kept in their places, an idea more in a Platonic rather than Christian metaphysic. It also makes me wonder whether Weaver would want to extend private property to all in society, or is arguing for the protection of the “haves.” I also don’t think much of his application of egotism to the arts, and especially to jazz, rooted in the laments of the blues, and the transcendent hope of the spirituals. I thought this deeply dismissive and a critique imposed from a superficial extension of his basic idea of egotism that little considers the actual work of the artists.

That said, his basic discussion of the consequences of the shift from realism to nominalism, from absolutes to relativism, particularly in the rise of fragmentation, exacerbated by the stereopticon of our media is worth our attention, prescient as it was in 1948. I find myself wondering whether his remedies of private property, the power of words, and the recovery of piety toward the earth, our neighbors, and history get us all the way back to life grounded in transcendent realities, from which he traces our decline. These seem more a holding action at best.

I also found this a challenging read in which the thread of argument gets buried in prose, sparkling at times, and obscuring at others. It felt like reading John Henry Newman–there is a great argument in here, somewhere! It’s an important work, especially for classic conservatives, that anticipates the thought of others. Just be ready for some work as you read it!

Review: Grief

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Grief: A Philosophical Guide, Michael Cholbi. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2022.

Summary: A philosophical discussion of the nature of grief, why we grieve, and its importance in our lives.

The journey of the last several years has been a time of grief for many of us, losing loved ones to the pandemic or to other causes. A host of books have been written over the years, addressing psychological and spiritual dimensions of grief. What distinguishes this book is that, while referencing this literature, this work is a philosophical discussion that seeks to understand what grief is, who is the object of our grief, and how grief is important within the human experience.

Michael Cholbi observes that in much of the philosophical literature, grief is regarded as shameful, a sign of weakness. Cholbi argues otherwise, getting there through a sustained inquiry into the nature of grief. He admits that this may not help a person amid the tumult of grief, but may help prepare us to understand what is happening and how we may grow through it. He begins by considering for whom we grieve, why we grieve some and not others. He proposes that we grieve those in whom we have invested our practical identities, that is those who play important roles in our lives. He then considers what grief is, arguing that it is not a single emotion but a series of affective states, not necessarily those of Kubler-Ross’s five stages, or in that order. In addition, he suggests that grief is a form of attention, challenging us to interrogate the meaning of our emotions toward the one who has died, and what they reveal about our relation with the one who has died, a relation that has been transformed by death.

He then turns to some ethical questions. One concerns what he calls the paradox of grief. Grief is both painful and distressing, which seems detrimental to our flourishing and yet also capable of yielding insights and self-knowledge, shaping how we may live, moving forward. Can something so terribly painful be good? Cholbi moves on then and explores the rationality of grief. Instead of considering grief either arational or irrational, he argues that it is contingently rational, that is, it is “rational when we feel the right emotions in the right degree in light of the loss of the relationship with the deceased that we have suffered” (italics in the original). He then considers whether we have a duty to grieve. He argues that we do not have a duty to other grieving persons or to the deceased but to ourselves because of the good of the self-knowledge that may come when we attend to our relationship with the deceased and grow as rational agents. Most intriguing is that he wonders whether C. S. Lewis, at least on the evidence of A Grief Observed, grieved well in terms of growth in self-knowledge.

One of the most interesting questions Cholbi deals with is whether the peculiar “madness” of grief is a type of mental disorder. Cholbi would argue that grief is a human experience rather than a mental disorder, one from which most emerge, often with greater self understanding that shouldn’t be circumvented. Rather than treating grief as a pathology, he would want to treat the instances of pathology that emerge when grief goes awry.

In his conclusion, he distinguishes grief from other traumas, like divorce, contending that the loss of a person is more severe. I’m not so sure–sometimes the loss of a spouse or a parent to divorce is a living wound that never resolves. He also considers whether a considered philosophy of grief may change the experience of grief. While it may offer understanding of what we are undergoing, the emotional experience of grief and its course is unpredictable, nor can it determine what the specific content of our self-knowledge will be.

I suspect this is not the book to give someone amid grief, if one even can read books at some points during the grief process. I found the book helpful in reflecting upon what my experiences of grief have meant for me. I also suspect such a book, with its contention that we ought lean into the paradox of grief with attentiveness, is helpful. I believe attentiveness is the basis of various spiritually formative practices. It seems consistent that this would be so in the practice of grieving the loss of someone significant to us. Also, the careful discussion that distinguishes grief and mourning, that thinks about who we grieve and why, and that normalizes grief as part of the human experience are all important contributions of this work.

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Disclosure of Material Connection: I received a complimentary review copy of this book from the publisher.

Review: Shop Class as Soulcraft

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Shop Class as Soulcraft, Matthew B. Crawford. New York: Penguin Books, 2010.

Summary: A philosopher turned motorcycle mechanic explores the nature of satisfying work and the intellectual dignity of the manual trades.

Why would a Ph.D. give up a prestigious job in a Washington think tank to open up a motorcycle repair shop? Why does he find greater intellectual satisfaction tearing apart a motorcycle engine, working with solvents, grease, and oil, than producing articles on political philosophy? This work is Matthew B. Crawford’s personal answer to those questions.

He begins with some observations that caught my attention and helped explain the title of the book. When I attended middle school, all the boys (sexist as we were in those days) had to take classes in the mechanical arts–shop class. Even though I was on the geekier end of the spectrum, I had to buy the requisite safety glasses and learn mechanical drawing, basic wood and metal working including working around power equipment without losing a finger or other appendage. We learned what tools to use for different jobs. From about the 1990’s on, such classes were phased out because the emphasis increasingly was on preparing for college, and for becoming a knowledge worker. Which explains Crawford’s friend who has a surfeit of power equipment (as well as the dearth of people in the trades).

Crawford argues that our society’s focus on “knowledge work” has degraded the manual trades. Principally, it fails to recognize the kind of intelligence it takes to wire a house, build a building, plumb a bathroom properly, or diagnose a misfiring problem in a motorcycle when all the diagnostic procedures fail to yield an answer. Crawford observes that we no longer know how to care for and repair our stuff–indeed, some of it has been engineered by people who haven’t thought about making such repairs, or made those repairs a proprietary process. We’ve separated thinking and doing, denigrating the doers whose work takes skill, intuition, problem-solving ability, and imagination, while upholding knowledge workers often disconnected from the world of things.

Crawford narrates his own journey from electrician to working for an abstracting service whose productivity demands impaired his ability to do what the work really required. After completing a doctorate in political philosophy, he went to work for a Washington think tank but quit after five fatiguing months of struggling to do anything of tangible worth. He found he had more of a sense of individual agency and connectedness to his work and community as an electrician or mechanic.

He takes us into a deep dive into the work of motorcycle repair, describing challenging repair jobs on old machines he’d never encountered. We learn about the “guild” of mechanics, the wisdom acquired from years of experience that leads to a kind of intuitive knowledge when one encounters a particular problem. He traces the journey from apprenticeship to becoming a master mechanic. This work occurs in a community of other mechanics, parts dealers, enthusiasts, and novices in which one is alienated neither from the material one works on or the web of relationships within which the work occurs.

The subtitle of this book is “an inquiry into the value of work.” Crawford argues that many are disconnected from the value of their work, and sometimes find this in leisure activities. Meaningful work, he would argue, involves full engagement with the stuff of one’s work, allowing for “progress in excellence,” contributing to a life well-lived by those served by the work. He argues that a humane economy allows for and rewards such work. He also notes the built in accountability of good work–an improperly vented toilet stinks up the whole house! Such accountability needs to be built into knowledge work as well, and happens best in community. At one time, for example, mortgage lenders were in a community and knew their clients and were responsible for good lending practices. The loss of this connection to one’s work contributed to the disaster of 2008.

I found myself applauding much of this book. My father-in-law, a high school educated laborer, designed and built his own garage–a structure still standing fifty years after he passed. This kind of intelligence needs to be honored and those who work in these kinds of jobs held up to high regard if they do their work to the standard of excellence Crawford describes. I hope at the same time that this will not have the effect of denigrating all knowledge work. I think of researchers who build their own research apparatus, write their own computer code and combine mental and mechanical skill with the same skillful agency Crawford describes. I think of skillful managers who combine technical expertise and soft skills to develop products that serve others while creating flourishing environments for those on their teams. His larger discussion of what makes good work applies both to manual trades and “knowledge work.” All good work involves both thinking and doing, agency and engagement, the flourishing both of worker and the common good.

Both manual and knowledge work can be organized in ways that demean or dignify the worker. Good societies will not play one off against the other but recognize the dignity of meaningful work in all arenas. Crawford also raises good questions about the communities within which good work takes place. Increasingly, I find myself wondering if we can afford the global economy we have created, where we rely on workers and supply chains half way around the planet while living disconnected economic lives from our neighbors. This book is about a lot more than shop class!

Review: From Plato to Christ

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From Plato to Christ, Louis Markos. Downers Grove: IVP Academic, 2021.

Summary: A discussion of the most significant ideas of Plato, summarizing his works and the influence Platonic thought has had on Christian theology.

One of the things readily apparent to anyone who reads the theology of the church fathers is their indebtedness to the Greek philosophers, and particularly Platonic philosophy. Eusebius even believed that Plato’s work was a preparation for the gospel.

In this work, Louis Markos does two things. One is that he offers an introduction to Plato for those unfamiliar with him (and a good refresher for those of us who are). The first part reviews his major works and the key ideas that early Christian thinkers believed anticipated the coming of Christ. Of particular interest is the Cave and the rising path from the shadows of the forms to the forms in all their perfection, the sum of goodness, truth, and beauty. All this serves as a basis of our moral awareness and striving, and may become the basis of our awareness of our need for grace. He understood that we are both physical and spiritual beings. In The Laws Plato comes near a Christian understanding of a God intimately involved in his creation and a cosmology with which Christians deeply resonated. Markos notes where Christians part ways in the Platonic idea of the transmigration of souls, the relative denigration of the body, and the inferiority of women (although I suspect this also had an influence on Christian theology that Markos doesn’t discuss).

The second half of the book treats the Christian thinkers who draw upon his ideas beginning with Origen, the three Gregorys, Augustine, Boethius, and Dante, and more recently, Erasmus, Descartes, Coleridge, and finally C. S. Lewis, whose Professor Digory remarks in The Last Battle as they go “further up and further in” that “It’s all in Plato, all in Plato.”

The work also includes a bibliographic essay, not only of works drawn upon but comments on works and editions the reader may consult who wants to explore the connections of Greek thought and Christianity further. One of the most attractive things about this work is that Markos makes such a prospect inviting.

Aside from acknowledging some of the clear places Plato got it wrong, and some of the erroneous conclusions Origen reached, the book takes a very positive view of how Plato may prepare one for Christ. This may well be the case but I wish Markos would have dealt more with those who question the influence of Greek thought on Christian theology. While this engagement no doubt contributed to the spread of the gospel, the views of the body, the view of women, the “gnostic,” anti-material character of Christianity that led to a divorce of work and worship, of physicality and spirituality, are downplayed if acknowledged.

This needn’t detract from Markos’ argument. Plato undeniably influenced Christian thinkers through history, and if for no other reason (and there are other good reasons) ought to be read. At the same time, syncretism is not just a phenomena of modern missions. Christians have always faced the challenge of how to contextualize without compromising. They have always believed God has both left a witness to God’s self, and yet this is never unalloyed. I wish Markos would have done more with this which would have enhanced the instructiveness of a fine work.

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Disclosure of Material Connection: I received a complimentary review copy of this book from the publisher in exchange for an honest review. The opinions I have expressed are my own.

Review: On Consolation

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On Consolation, Michael Ignatieff. New York: Metropolitan Books, 2021.

Summary: On how significant figures through the ages have found comfort amid tragedy and hard times, enabling them to press on with hope and equanimity.

Finding consolation, the solace that enables us to face tragedy and not relent nor give way to despair, has not been a theoretical exercise in the past pandemic years. Many of us have grieved the untimely deaths of friends and loved ones, and the rancorous discord of our public health debates, while healthcare workers dealt with multiple deaths every day during the peak of the pandemic.

In On Consolation, Michael Ignatieff, novelist, columnist, sometime politician, and historian of ideas, explores how people through the ages have found solace when faced with the worst life can throw at one–war, plague, tragic deaths. Ignatieff writes his book particularly with those in mind who reject the comfort offered by traditional religion. How do those who do not embrace a religious faith find consolation? He would contend that many have and that we may find help from them.

He begins with Job and the Psalms of lament. These do not offer answers for Ignatieff, but model the “doubt that is intrinsic to belief” and their preservation affirms that we are not the first to ask these questions. He then turns to Paul, contending that when Paul, as an aging man realized he may not live to see the return of the Messiah, turned to love as the sign of what the God he does not see is like (even though the text Ignatieff cites is one of Paul’s earliest letters, written at a time he was bidding people to be watchful for Messiah’s return). I think Ignatieff misinterprets Paul, though noting the theme of love that remains is an important observation, and one that runs through all Paul’s letters.

He explores the great conflict in Cicero’s loss of his daughter between the self-command of Stoicism that did not allow the show of emotion and his deep grief. Consolation comes from one’s male peers for that self-command. And sadly, men have been holding back their tears since. For Marcus Aurelius, consolation came from fulfilling his duties, even amid loneliness and loss. Boethius, facing execution contemplates his death and his fear of how it would come and finds consolation in his writing, both in the knowing of himself and the contemplation of God that enabled him to endure. And he hoped that he would be remembered, and he is.

In Goya’s The Burial of the Count of Orgaz, Ignatieff identifies our longing for timelessness in the elongated figures of Goya. Montaigne points us in the other direction. We find consolation in our love of life, the succession of pleasures, pains, and indignities of our embodied existence that signals we are yet alive. For David Hume, consolation came in the form of an unsent letter as death approached, summing up his life and that he had been true to his ambitions.

Condorcet, facing his own death in the French revolution, found hope in the idea of historical progress and the progressive perfectibility of man. Marx was similar in some ways, envisioning a utopia beyond capitalism, and a materialist grasp of life in which consolation was no longer necessary if a just world order can be attained. Lincoln found consolation in the humility that renounced vengeance for reconciliation, drawing upon a store of biblical wisdom.

For Mahler, he worked out consolation in his music, supremely perhaps in the Kindertotenleider, adapting five Ruckert poems and the lieder style, to trace a journey of coming to acceptance of the death of a child. For Weber, consolation took the form of finding meaning with one’s calling, in a world without God, where calling may only arise from within the self. For several, Akhmatova, Levi, and Radnoti, consolation as survivors of the Holocaust came in the form of faithful witness. Camus wrestled with what it was to live outside the grace that offers final consolation, concluding that living with the grace that accompanies another at life’s extremities is the consolation afforded us.

The final individual focused on is Cicely Saunders, who founded the modern hospice movement. Her consolation was the compassion that relentlessly sought to create the conditions physically, socially, psychologically, and spiritually. Her watchword was that of Christ in Gethsemane: “Watch with me” and she created a setting where one could reflect on the shape of one’s live among their loved ones. She helped people find closure and console those from whom they would soon be parted.

This book might have been called “the varieties of consolation” and what this suggests to me is that in a world where transcendent belief has waned, consolation is something each must find for oneself, and often it is within the contours of one’s particular life, experience, and, especially, relationships. The book offers the consolation that whatever we experience, whatever we ask, we are not the first, which may be some comfort. Ignatieff argues in the end that it is not in doctrine but in people that we find consolation:

“It is not doctrines that console us in the end, but people: their example, their singularity, their courage and steadfastness, their being with us when we need them most. In dark times, nothing so abstract as faith in History, Progress, Salvation, or Revolution will do us much good. These are doctrines. It is people we need, people whose examples show us what it means to go on, to keep going, despite everything.”

Ignatieff, p. 259.

I think there is much in what Ignatieff says. “Presence” that walks with one in the hardest times, sometimes the “presences” of those who have gone before, are deep sources of consolation. Yet there is something that Ignatieff, in his “age of unbelief” fails to account for, I believe. That is faith incarnated in believing people. Ignatieff speaks of how the dying console others. This happened on a visit to my grandmother in the last weeks of her painful death from cancer. Through the pain, she spoke of her faith in life everlasting. I’m sure my love meant something to her but her embodied faith has touched my life and my view of dying to this day, 57 years later. Faith ceased being an abstraction for me that day. Ignatieff has written with eloquence of the consolation found apart from transcendent belief, a vital concern in our day. Perhaps for those who find consolation in our doctrines as well as our community, writing a similar work may be a timely contribution to the discussion Ignatieff has initiated so well.

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Disclosure of Material Connection: I received a complimentary review copy of this book from the publisher via LibraryThing’s Early Reviewer Program in exchange for an honest review. The opinions I have expressed are my own.

Review: A Philosophy of Walking

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A Philosophy of Walking, Frédéric Gros, translated by John Howe, illustrated by Clifford Harper. Brooklyn: Verso, 2014.

Summary: An extended reflection on the significance of walking as part of the human condition, consisting of short chapters interspersed with accounts of walking philosophers.

During the pandemic, the daily walk, usually about an hour before the last light of the day, has become part of my pandemic routine. It is the time I de-compress from a day of zoom calls and other activities that usually involve sitting in front of a computer. I need to move my body and clear my head. Sometimes I pray, sometimes I think, sometimes I notice the effects of the changing seasons on the yards of my neighbors. And sometimes I’m just present, putting one foot in front of the other in this most basic of human activities.

It turns out I’m hardly the first to reflect on something we’ve been doing since late in our first year of life. Frédéric Gros is a philosopher at the University of Paris, specializing in the philosophy of Michel Foucault. In this work, Gros explores the meaning of walking, the different ways and reasons we walk, and offers vignettes of other philosophers for whom walking was important. Each chapter is headed with finely drawn illustrations reflecting the chapter theme.

He begins by reminding us that walking is not a sport. We don’t keep track of rankings or times (although walking apps actually do this, which seems to be a good way to ruin a good walk). He observes: “Walking is the best way to go more slowly than any other method that has ever been found.” He considers the freedom of walking and the reversal of our normal indoor lives, especially on long walks where we spend our days outdoors and only shelter indoors, or sometimes in a tent we carry. Basic to walking is its slowness that lengthens and enriches time. He discusses the paradox of solitary walking, in which we are actually more aware of the company of the world about us. Even when we walk with others, we enjoy solitude as our paces vary. We embrace silence as the chatter of our days falls away. We experience states of well-being.

Gros considers various kinds of walks beginning with the ultimate walk, the pilgrimage, the walk that symbolizes our journey through life. Pilgrims embark to bear witness to and deepen their faith, and sometimes to expiate their sins. Over a couple of chapters he considers some of the most significant pilgrimage routes in various parts of the world. Then he turns to the Cynics, whose walks are a kind of protest against all the conventions of human society.

At the opposite end of walking is the stroll, probably describing the kind of walks that are part of my daily routine (as well as the philosopher Kant–although don’t set your clocks by mine!). Then there are the promenades in public gardens and the flaneurs, strolling and stopping to gaze at the crowds and the scene. That might describe our teen years at the local shopping mall!

Gros breaks up his musings on walking with vignettes on philosophers who walked. Most fascinating, and perhaps the most disturbing was Nietzsche, who walked to relieve his terrible headaches, who composed some of his greatest works while walking, and whose physical and mental decline corresponded with an eventual paralysis that ended his walks, his work, and his life. We meet the poet Rimbaud whose walking led to a swelled knee requiring amputation, which led to his death. We trace the passage from morning to night in Rousseau’s life, from the exaltation of his youth evident in Confessions, to the increasing solitude of his middle years when he identified himself as homo viator, and finally the last walks in the evening of life around Paris, when he wrote Reveries.

Thoreau’s writings are filled with his walks. We meet the melancholy Nerval who in the end hangs himself. Perhaps the great contrast to so many of these is Kant who loved his work and his table and adhered to a disciplined schedule people could set their clocks by. Gros contends that the monotony of bodily effort liberated the mind, that the regularity of walking fueled the steady and massive output of thought, and its inescapability reflected a will working steadily toward the arrival at an end. Most inspiring, perhaps was his account of Gandhi, who walked and marched throughout his life, a picture of simply keeping going.

It was fascinating how important walking was to the work of these philosophers. Yet walking was far from a panacea it seems–in some cases like Rimbaud, a contributing factor to his death. I wonder if there was something in walking, and this is apparent in Thoreau and Gandhi, of life stripped to its essentials, its marrow. I wonder if we also walk in an awareness of the shadow of death, walking while we can in the awareness of the coming day when we will be unable.

Frédéric Gros has given us a book filled with reflections of why we walk, stroll, go for hikes, embark on pilgrimages. He invites us to not leave our walking unexamined but to live in awareness of this elemental practice capable of giving us joy, wonder, clear minds, and awareness of our nature and destiny.