On the Incarnation: Athanasius, Christmas, and the Healing of the World

A Theological Reflection on “On the Incarnation” in Its Historical Moment

In the early fourth century, Christians went from facing persecution to receiving uncertain support from the empire. Athanasius of Alexandria wrote On the Incarnation during a time of confusion and exile. Many believers lost homes and were divided over who Christ was. For them, the question of Jesus’s identity had real and urgent consequences (Athanasius, On the Incarnation 1–2).

Athanasius lived and wrote in Alexandria, a city known for its intellectual life. Here, Greek philosophy, Jewish theology, Roman authority, and Christianity all met. The main conflict was about one question: Who is Jesus? Was he fully God or a created being? The Arian controversy was serious, as it affected Christian worship, prayer, and salvation (John 1:1–3; Colossians 1:15–20).

Athanasius said that if Christ is not fully God, then humanity stays trapped in decay (Athanasius, On the Incarnation 7). A created being cannot restore creation; only the Creator can heal what is broken (Psalm 36:9; Hebrews 2:14–15). Only God saves; Jesus saves; therefore, Jesus is God. This fundamental principle forms the basis of Athanasius’s argument and guides the whole book. Athanasius is not just focused on philosophical detail; he wants to show that the world is being restored.

Athanasius retells the Christmas story as a struggle involving the whole universe, underscoring its importance for his message. He moves beyond simple sweetness or just historical views, placing the empire’s power alongside the quiet strength of Christ’s simple birth. Where others see only a child in a manger, Athanasius sees a revolution: the incarnation as God’s bold action in the world of power.

Jesus was born during a time of empire, census, displacement, and fear (Luke 2:1–7). Caesar Augustus claimed to bring peace, but did so through taxes and military force. Joseph and Mary travelled because of an imperial order. Jesus was born not in a palace, but in a borrowed place, far from power. For Athanasius, this is important. While the empire tries to keep order, creation is falling apart (Athanasius, On the Incarnation 4).

Athanasius says that humanity’s problem is not only moral failure, but also corruption. God made people from nothing and keeps them alive through relationship. When people turn away from God, they move toward nothingness (Athanasius, On the Incarnation 4–5; Genesis 1:26–27; Romans 1:21). Sin breaks things apart. Death serves as more than a punishment; it is what happens when we separate from the source of life (Romans 6:23).

Athanasius sees Christmas as the turning point, the moment when God enters humanity’s broken world.

The incarnation shows that God does not abandon creation. The Word does not rule from far away or just send messages from heaven. The Word becomes flesh (John 1:14). For Athanasius, being truly human is essential. Salvation cannot happen from a distance. Healing requires closeness. What is not assumed cannot be restored (Athanasius, On the Incarnation 8–9).

Athanasius focuses on Christ’s body for a reason. The manger leads to the cross, not simply a feeling, but as a core belief. The body placed in the straw is the same body placed in the tomb (Athanasius, On the Incarnation 20; Luke 23:46). God chooses to be fully vulnerable from the beginning. Hunger, tiredness, suffering, and death are not too low for God (Hebrews 2:17).

The Controversy

The Arian controversy questioned whether Christ was truly God. It said the Son was separate and lower than the Father. Arians said that if the Son was born, there was a time when he did not exist. This made him a created being, not the Creator. The idea made God seem easier to understand by making the Son less than fully God. These arguments became popular because they seemed logical and because explaining the Trinity is hard. However, Athanasius challenges this by asking: How can something created save all of creation? He argues that if death holds humanity, only the Author of life can break that hold (Athanasius, On the Incarnation 7; Acts 2:24). Therefore, when the immortal Word enters death, death meets what it cannot control. Athanasius says the resurrection is not an afterthought, but the public result of what the incarnation began (Athanasius, On the Incarnation 25; 1 Corinthians 15:54–57).

Athanasius shows that incarnation and salvation go together. What we believe about Christ is linked to what we believe about humanity. To say Christ is truly human also says something about all people (Athanasius, On the Incarnation 54; Romans 8:29). Jesus is not an exception; he reveals what it means to be human. Salvation brings humanity back to what it should be.

This vision deeply affects how we live our faith. If God has entered human life, then every part of our physical existence matters spiritually (Athanasius, On the Incarnation 8; Genesis 1:31). Eating, working, loving, suffering, and rejoicing are all ways we can meet God (1 Corinthians 6:19–20). Holiness is not about leaving the world; it’s about living in it. Practically, this means engaging in kindness and service, seeing God’s face in each person. It also means practising daily gratitude and being mindful of God’s presence, whether in quiet reflection or in busy work. By fostering loving, compassionate relationships, we reflect Athanasius’s incarnational theology, connecting deeply with others and God through our everyday actions.

In the fourth century, there was political turmoil, theological conflict, and fear. Athanasius makes a bold claim: reality’s centre is now in human flesh (Athanasius, On the Incarnation 16; Ephesians 1:10). The world’s stability depends not on empire or philosophy, but on a child born under occupation (Luke 2:7). This is a profound challenge to powers that demand ultimate loyalty, both then and now. The focus shifts from secular dominance to divine presence in unexpected places.

For Athanasius, that is what Christmas is all about.

Christmas means that God joins his life to the world (Matthew 1:23). Heaven does not wait for people to reach up; it comes down. Instead, heaven comes down and lifts us from within (Athanasius, On the Incarnation 54; John 3:13). The manger is the main path, not a side road.

Athanasius believes that because the Word enters our story, history now moves toward life rather than emptiness (Athanasius, On the Incarnation 56; Revelation 21:5).

Even though it is deep theologically, On the Incarnation is easy to read. Athanasius writes in a clear, urgent, and caring way. This theology is not only for experts; it speaks to a Church trying to remember God during times of confusion and fear. That alone makes it worth reading.

But even more, this book gently changes how we see things. It moves past sentimental Christmas ideas and offers something stronger and more hopeful. God does not control humanity from a distance. Instead, God enters our weakness and heals it from the inside. That vision stays with you long after you finish reading.

For those seeking a Christmas book that is honest, challenging, and full of life, On the Incarnation stands out. It does not offer easy comfort. Instead, it presents a vision of a world upheld by the Word made flesh.

Recovering the Lost Books: Why Protestants Need the Deuterocanon Again

Why don’t we (Protestants) read the apocrypha? The first Christians read Scripture with wider eyes. Their Bibles included books like Wisdom, Sirach, Baruch, Tobit, Judith, and the Maccabees. These books shaped their imagination, their theology, and their understanding of God.

Modern scholarship confirms this (N T Wright, Larry Hurtado, Lee McDonald). Jesus and the apostles inherited a Greek Jewish Bible that included these writings. In other words, the world of the New Testament is Deuterocanonical.

A Lost Inheritance

During the Reformation, these books were not removed because they were unspiritual or unorthodox. They were moved aside for practical and historical reasons, not theological ones (see Alister McGrath, Bruce Metzger). The Reformers wanted to emphasise Hebrew manuscripts and guard against medieval excess, but in doing so they quietly set aside a treasured part of the early Christian imagination.

The result was a thinner canon. Not heresy-free, but texture-free. A loss of the voices that shaped the spiritual air that Jesus and the early Church breathed.

What These Books Give Us

The Deuterocanon does not contradict Scripture. It enriches it. And the New Testament writers show they knew these books intimately.

1. A wider imagination of divine mercy

The Deuterocanon constantly describes God as patient, restorative, and willing to heal what is broken. Wisdom 11 – 12 speaks of God whose judgment is measured by compassion. Sirach 2 and 17 emphasise mercy that endures and seeks the sinner. Baruch 4 – 5 offers hope of restoration for the scattered.

This is the same tone we hear in the New Testament. Paul’s language of God’s patience in Romans 2 resonates with Wisdom 12. James 1 echoes Sirach 2 almost line for line. Jesus’ teaching on generous mercy mirrors the moral vision of Sirach and Wisdom (see Ben Witherington, Richard Bauckham). Readers who know the Deuterocanon recognise these currents immediately. Those who do not simply sense beauty.

2. A deeper sense of spiritual formation

Sirach in particular reads like the spiritual director of ancient Israel. Its wisdom shaped the early Church fathers (see Athanasius, Augustine, Basil).

Its themes echo throughout the New Testament:
Jesus’ teaching on humility in Luke 14 echoes Sirach 3. The Lord’s Prayer resembles Tobit 13 and Sirach 28.
James’ emphasis on speech discipline mirrors Sirach 19 and 28, and
modern scholars note that James may be the most Deuterocanonical letter in the New Testament (see Richard Bauckham, Luke Timothy Johnson).

3. A vision of suffering that prepares the soul

Four Maccabees shaped the early Christian understanding of martyrdom (see Origen, Gregory of Nazianzus).

Its themes appear in:
Hebrews 11 where the Maccabean martyrs are referenced directly.
Hebrews 2 where the suffering of Christ mirrors the noble endurance central to Maccabean theology and
Revelation’s language of faithful witness through death. Wisdom 3 describes the righteous shining like sparks among stubble. Jesus uses the same imagery in Matthew 13. This is not a coincidence. It is continuity.

4. A sacramental view of creation

The Deuterocanon carries a world where God speaks through the ordinary. Tobit reveals divine guidance in family life. Judith portrays courage as sacrament.

Wisdom 7 paints a breathtaking vision of divine presence infused in creation, a passage that influenced early Christian theology of the Logos (see Justin Martyr, Irenaeus). When John opens his Gospel with the Logos who enlightens everyone, he is standing on the shoulders of Wisdom literature, especially Wisdom of Solomon.

5. A bridge between the Old and the New

The Deuterocanon does not stand apart from the biblical story. It is the bridge between the Testaments. Some examples where the New Testament expressly draws on these books:

Direct Echoes

Hebrews 1 draws heavily from Wisdom 7, describing Christ as the radiance of divine glory.
Romans 1 mirrors Wisdom 13 to 14 in its analysis of idolatry.
Ephesians 6 echoes Wisdom 5 in speaking of divine armour. Matthew 27’s mocking of Jesus recalls Wisdom 2 and its portrait of the righteous sufferer.

Thematic Echoes

Jesus’ parables of divine patience mirror Wisdom 12. Paul’s theology of immortality aligns closely with Wisdom 3.
James’ ethical teaching parallels Sirach everywhere. Revelation’s vision of the righteous shining comes from Wisdom 3. Scholars widely note that New Testament authors quote or allude to the Deuterocanon more often than to many books in the Protestant Old Testament (see Craig Evans, David deSilva).
Without these texts, the New Testament stands true, but strangely suspended. With them, it stands grounded and alive.

Why Protestants Need This Today

Reading the Deuterocanon does not mean abandoning Protestant convictions. It means recovering the breadth of the early Christian mind.

These books deepen:
our vision of divine mercy our understanding of justice as restoration
our sense of the spiritual life as a long obedience
our view of creation as a place where God moves
our ability to understand the New Testament’s theology. When Christians rediscover these books, their faith grows more ancient and more alive. Their picture of God widens. Their hope deepens. Their spirituality becomes more rooted in the world that formed Jesus and the apostles. Not because these books overwrite Scripture, but because they illuminate it. They give back to the Bible its original texture.

A Closing Thought

I am not arguing for a new canon. I am inviting us to remember the older one. The one that shaped the earliest believers. The one Jesus’ world knew. The one the apostles assumed. The one the Church prayed with for centuries.

The Deuterocanon reminds us that God’s story has always been wider than our traditions. That divine mercy is deeper than we imagine. That judgment aims at healing. And that the hope of God stretches further than we often dare to believe.

Sometimes recovering lost books is less about changing doctrine and more about expanding the heart.

Advent: Maybe Christ Is Waiting For Us

Advent is usually described as a season of waiting.
Waiting for Christ.
Waiting for light.
Waiting for hope.
Waiting for God to draw near.

But I have begun to wonder if that might be the wrong way round. Because the more I sit with the story, the more I sit with Scripture, the more I sit with the strange and holy hunger of Advent, the more it feels like Christ is not the one who is slow.

Maybe Christ is already here. Maybe he has already arrived and keeps arriving.
Maybe the world is full of him and we simply have not caught up.

Maybe Advent is not waiting for God. Maybe Advent is God waiting for us.

The slow awakening of the human heart

When Paul tells the Ephesians to wake up from sleep so Christ will shine on them (Ephesians 5:14), he is not telling them to summon Christ from a distant place. He is urging them to open their eyes to a presence already at work. When Jesus says the kingdom is near and among you (Luke 17:21), he is not pointing to a future event on the horizon but to a reality already pressing against the surface of the world.

It is not that God has not come. It is that we have not yet learned how to see.

The Church has always spoken this way. The early fathers taught that the coming of Christ was not a moment locked in the past but a mystery that unfolds in every age. His birth is once for all, but his appearing keeps breaking open wherever hearts soften. Wherever we forgive (Matthew 6:14). Wherever we love without fear (1 John 4:18). Wherever the image of God in us pulls free from the dust (Genesis 1:26). Wherever humanity remembers what it was made to be. In these places Christ is born again.

This is not sentiment.
It is the pattern of salvation itself.

The God who is always arriving

We imagine Christ’s coming as if he moves and we sit still. But what if the deeper truth is that Christ moves in every direction at once and we are the ones struggling to move with him?

Advent hints at this.
The prophets speak of God drawing near (Isaiah 40:10), yes, but they also speak of people returning, lifting their heads, following the path back to the face of God (Isaiah 55:6–7). The story is mutual, relational, alive. James says draw near to God and he will draw near to you (James 4:8). Not as an ultimatum, but as the rhythm of communion. God moves. We move. God comes. We awaken.

Augustine once wrote that God is nearer to us than we are to ourselves. If that is true, then the Advent hope is not that Christ will one day close the gap. It is that He already has.

The long formation of the soul

Most of the time we do not see Christ clearly because we have not grown into the kind of humanity that can recognise him. He is not absent. We are unformed.

Like Israel in exile, we wait for freedom but carry the habits of captivity (Jeremiah 29:11–14). Like the disciples on the Emmaus road, we walk beside him but do not know his name (Luke 24:13–32). Like Mary in the garden, we think he is the gardener until he speaks (John 20:14–16).

Advent is the slow work of becoming attentive.
Advent is the discipline of desire becoming mature enough to discern God’s presence. Advent is the training of the eyes so that we can see the world as it truly is: full of God, held within God (Acts 17:28), moving towards God.

This is why the season emphasises repentance and preparation. Not because God is unwilling to come, but because receiving divine presence requires a heart that is being reshaped. The fathers said that God is always giving God’s self. The problem is not God’s giving. It is our capacity to receive.

Advent asks us to grow that capacity.

Christ in our midst

When Jesus promises that he will be with us always (Matthew 28:20), he is not speaking in metaphors. His presence fills creation and also dwells uniquely among his people. In the gathering of believers (Matthew 18:20), in the breaking of bread (Luke 24:30–31), in the quiet prayers whispered through tears (Romans 8:26), he is there. Not symbolically. Truly.

The Church is not the whole of his presence, but it is the place where his presence becomes visible, embodied, and communal. The early Christians called themselves the body of Christ (1 Corinthians 12:27) because they believed something profound: Christ continues his life in and through the community that bears his name.

In other words, he has already come. He keeps coming in the world.
He keeps coming in the Church. He keeps coming in the human heart.

Christ is not running late.
Christ is waiting for us to join him.

The goal of all things

Advent stretches our desire toward the future. Toward a world renewed. Toward a humanity restored. Toward creation set free from its groaning (Romans 8:19–22). Toward the final unveiling of Christ in all things (Colossians 1:27).

But even this future is not passive waiting. Paul says creation groans as in labour pains. Something is being born. Something is coming to term. God is drawing all things toward fullness (Ephesians 1.9–10), and Christ is the centre of that movement. Everything bends toward union. Everything bends toward restoration. Everything bends toward the One who holds all things together (Colossians 1:17).

The promise is not that Christ will eventually arrive.
The promise is that all creation will eventually open its eyes and be made new (2 Corinthians 5:17, Revelation 21:5).

The end is not Christ drawing near.
The end is us becoming able to recognise the One who has always been near.

Advent as invitation

So perhaps this is the quiet scandal of Advent. We wait for Christ. And Christ waits for us.

He waits for us to trust that God is near.
He waits for us to grow into the likeness he planted within us (2 Corinthians 3.18).
He waits for our vision to sharpen.
He waits for our love to deepen.
He waits for our courage to rise.
He waits for our wounds to be healed.
He waits for our communities to become homes of mercy and fire.
He waits for us to finally recognise that the world is not empty but saturated with his presence.

Advent is not the countdown to God’s arrival. It is the training of the human gaze and heart.

It is the season where Christ says, again and again:
I am here.
Catch up.
Grow.
Wake.
Become.
Step into the fullness I have already begun in you.

Maybe the question is not:
When will Christ come?

Maybe the question is:
When will we become the kind of people who can see that he’s already here dwelling among us?

“The Saviour has already come to dwell among us, and still we must awaken, for only those who learn to see him now will more easily know him in the age to come.”
St Athanasius, St Symeon the New Theologian

Becoming Men Again: A Theology and Philosophy of Manhood

There is a crisis beneath the noise. Beneath the podcasts, the influencers, the political crusades, and the cultural anxiety, there is a simple truth we rarely dare to admit: men no longer know who they are supposed to become.

Culture tells men to be either harmless or dominant.
The church tells men to behave.
Marketing tells men to consume.
Politics tells men to react.
And so men float between bravado and passivity, between swagger and numbness, between silence and anger.

But Scripture does not ask men to perform masculinity.
It calls men to become fully human, and that is far more demanding.

The biblical story begins not with stereotypes but with vocation. Genesis does not give Adam chest hair and a six pack. It hands him responsibility, presence, and the freedom to love.
“Be an image,” God says. “Reflect Me back to the world.”

Every vision of manhood that does not begin with imaging God is too small.

The Counterfeits We’ve Inherited

Much of what masquerades as masculinity today is insecurity wearing armour.
Richard Rohr bluntly observes that most men never leave their boyhood emotionally; they simply acquire “adult toys, adult addictions, and adult costumes.” They age, but they do not grow. They take on roles, but not initiation. They wield power, but not wisdom.

Robert Bly, in Iron John, says the modern world stole the rites of passage men once had. Without initiation, men are left “unparented,” wandering the world with unclaimed grief and an untamed inner life. They try to be men by instinct, imitation, or rebellion instead of transformation.

Gordon Dalbey warns the church has often been complicit. Instead of forming men into courageous, vulnerable, God-shaped humans, it has pushed them toward quiet compliance or performative strength. Men learn to hide their wounds and call it holiness. They learn to avoid sin instead of confronting their brokenness. They learn to serve the institution instead of listening for the voice of God.

And Walter Trobisch, writing decades ago, saw the fracture clearly: men try to find masculinity in sexuality, status, or control because they lack an inner identity rooted in Christ.

The result?
A generation of men strong in the wrong places and weak in the right ones.

The Biblical Shape of Manhood

Scripture forms men not through slogans but through story.
God does not give men a blueprint; He gives them encounters.

Adam must name and cultivate.
Abraham must leave and trust.
Moses must stand and intercede.
David must repent and learn to shepherd, not conquer.
Jeremiah must weep.
Joseph must endure the hidden years.
Peter must fail, break, and rise again.
Paul must unlearn power to embrace suffering love.

None of these men fit a cultural stereotype.
All of them are formed through responsibility, weakness, and divine presence.

Notice the pattern:

God does not build men through ease, applause, or self-expression.
He builds them through responsibility, sacrifice, and surrender.

This is the scandal.
This is why modern visions of masculinity fall apart.

Real masculinity is not the will to power; it is the will to give oneself away.

James K. A. Smith reminds us we become what we love and practice.
If a man loves comfort, he becomes soft.
If he loves dominance, he becomes violent.
If he loves applause, he becomes shallow.
If he loves God, he becomes like Christ.

And Christ is the truly human one.

Jesus and the Inversion of Male Power

Jesus does not abolish masculinity, He purifies it.

He is strong enough to sit with children.
Bold enough to confront injustice.
Tender enough to weep.
Courageous enough to be silent.
Secure enough to be misunderstood.
Steady enough to face death without vengeance.
Alive enough to rise without bitterness.

He shows men that authority is given for service. That strength is measured by restraint.
That courage is the ability to remain present in suffering.
That manhood is not dominance but devotion.

As N. T. Wright says, virtue is not instinct but habit, the shaping of character into Christlikeness. Jesus reveals that the true telos of manhood is not control but communion, not impressiveness but integrity.

The world either romanticises male strength or condemns it.
Jesus redeems it.

The Philosophical Crisis: When We Lost the Meaning of “Man”

Modern society has no unified definition of manhood because it has no unified definition of humanity. When there is no Creator, there is no design. When there is no design, there is no vocation. When there is no vocation, identity becomes performance.

The modern man is told to invent himself, then shamed when he chooses wrong.

In a disenchanted age, the male soul is unmoored.
Without teleology, masculinity fractures into absurdity.

Robert Bly saw this coming long before the cultural debates exploded. He warned that a man without initiation becomes spiritually thin, reacting rather than responding, consuming rather than creating.

Rohr argued the same: uninitiated men misuse power. Initiated men channel power toward blessing.

This is the prophetic word men need today:

Your identity is not self-generated.
It is received.
It is bestowed.
It is discovered in relationship with the God who formed you.

A man without God becomes a caricature.
A man in God becomes a vessel.

The Cost When Men Shrink

This is where the blog becomes uncomfortable.

Most of the pain in the world is carried by women and children when men refuse the call to grow.

When men choose comfort over courage, families bend under the pressure.
When men choose silence over confession, wounds deepen.
When men choose escape over presence, children learn to parent themselves.
When men choose control over love, communities fracture.
When men choose pride over repentance, churches rot.

Every abusive man was once a boy who learned that power is easier than humility.
Every emotionally absent man was once a boy who learned that numbness is safer than love.
Every angry man was once a boy who learned he was not allowed to cry.

The world bleeds when men shrink.

And the church bleeds when men hide.

The Way Forward: Initiation, Identity, and Surrender

Biblical masculinity is not an aesthetic.
Not a stereotype.
Not a political project.
Not a posture.

It is a journey of initiation.

Dalbey says a man becomes a man when he hears the true voice of the Father calling him “beloved” and “responsible.”
Trobisch says a man becomes a man when he learns self-mastery, not self-protection.
Rohr says a man becomes a man through suffering that breaks open the false self.
Bly says a man becomes a man when he faces the wild parts of his soul without fear.

And Scripture says a man becomes a man when he takes up his cross.

When he cultivates instead of consumes.
When he protects without dominating.
When he loves without demanding.
When he speaks truth without cruelty.
When he sacrifices without applause.
When he repents without shame.
When he stands, stays, and gives himself away.

This is not masculinity as performance.
This is masculinity as Christlike maturity.

Men are not called to be impressive.
Men are called to be present.
Men are not called to be invincible.
Men are called to be faithful.
Men are not called to be conquerors.
Men are called to be servants of resurrection.

The Invitation

International Men’s Day should not be a celebration of stereotypes.
It should be a summons.

A call for men to rise from passivity.
To unlearn dominance.
To confront themselves.
To seek healing.
To pursue God.
To become men who carry weight without crushing others.

Men do not need to reclaim power.
Men need to reclaim presence.

The world does not need louder men.
It needs deeper men.

Men who refuse to hide.
Men who listen before they speak.
Men who bless instead of break.
Men who take responsibility for the atmosphere they create.
Men who look like Jesus.

This is not the world’s masculinity.
This is not reactionary masculinity.
This is not churchy, polite masculinity.

This is reborn masculinity.

A Benediction for Men

May you be a man of quiet strength,
rooted in the love of Christ,
guided by His wisdom not fear.

May your courage be gentle
and your power used to heal.
May you carry compassion in your hands
and truth in your bones.

May the wounds you bear find mending,
and the wounds you’ve given find mercy.
May you walk with humility,
speak with kindness,
and live with holy wonder.

And as you go,
may Christ lead you,
steady you,
and shape you into a man who becomes whole.

Without Beauty the Church Drifts Into Quiet Heresy


Orthodoxy remained. Enchantment died.

This is the tragedy of the Western church. We kept the truth of the faith, but somehow lost the world that made that truth electric. We preserved our creeds but let go of the awe that once made them tremble with life. We defended the doctrines but abandoned the imagination that once knew how to kneel before mystery.

We defend what we believe with admirable resolve. Yet the rooms we gather in often feel thin, as if something essential slipped out the side door while we were busy guarding the front.

Christians today live in a church that is theologically sound yet spiritually hollow. The faith we inherited still stands tall, but the world around us has gone flat. Many of us feel the dissonance deep in our bones.

Charles Taylor gave us the word in A Secular Age.
Disenchantment.
And he was right.

The World Used To Be Alive

For most of Christian history, believers assumed the world was alive with God. Creation was a saturated place, humming with divine presence. Early Christians did not hear the Psalms describing rivers clapping or mountains singing and think it was poetic exaggeration. They believed creation participated in praise.

Mircea Eliade, in The Sacred and the Profane, describes this older imagination as a world structured by the sacred. People did not divide reality into spiritual versus natural. Everything was drenched in meaning.

Consider Augustine in Confessions, seeing God in every breath and heartbeat.
Think of Hildegard of Bingen in Scivias, watching creation erupt with the green fire of the Spirit.


Think of the Desert Fathers whose fragments in the Apophthegmata Patrum speak of a God found in silence, hunger, wind and sand.

Even Calvin, in the Institutes, called creation “the theatre of God’s glory.”

Somewhere along the way, we forgot this.

We did not lose God.
We lost the sense that God saturates reality.

The Age of the Flat World

Max Weber, in his lecture “Science as a Vocation,” spoke of the modern world as “disenchanted.” Everything became explainable. Predictable. Manageable. We stopped expecting the sacred to break in sideways.

Taylor expanded this diagnosis in A Secular Age, arguing that we now live inside an “immanent frame,” a mental world that assumes transcendence is distant. Even believers feel this pressure.

The Western church absorbed this frame quietly.

We still recite the creed on Sundays.
But we live Monday to Saturday as if God only operates inside our private prayer lives or church programs.

Orthodoxy remained.
But the enchanted world those doctrines were meant to inhabit collapsed into two dimensions.

The Loss of Awe

Evelyn Underhill saw the storm coming in Worship and later in Mysticism. She warned that the church was becoming “efficient but not deep,” organised but not alive, polished but not prayerful.

Look around. She was right.

We know how to run services. We know how to build teams. We know how to create streamlined worship. But awe – that tremble of spirit before the holy – has become rare.

Awe is not emotional excess.
Awe is what happens when a finite soul meets infinite presence.

When awe disappears, something essential dies.

The Concrete Consequence: A Hollow Faith

James K A Smith reminds us in Desiring the Kingdom and You Are What You Love that humans are shaped more by imagination and desire than by information. When the church becomes a place for ideas instead of encounters, we shrink souls without noticing.

David Bentley Hart in The Beauty of the Infinite argues that Christians have become “tourists in a world that used to belong to them.” He meant that our faith still stands, but our world feels colourless.

Many Christians believe the right things yet feel strangely untouched by them. They trust the doctrine but feel little life.

This is not scepticism.
This is dis enchantment.

How We Lost the World

There was no single disaster. Just a slow erosion.

Rationalism – Descartes and his heirs made ideas the centre of the Christian life.


Fear of superstition – Protestants and Catholics both cleaned their spiritual houses a bit too vigorously.


Technique – Eugene Peterson warned about this in The Contemplative Pastor. We replaced mystery with methods.


Professionalisation – Ministry became a career rather than a calling.


Systems over stories – We read Scripture like a manual instead of the world of God.
Imagination’s collapse – We forgot that truth is often seen before it is understood.

Hans Boersma in Heavenly Participation describes the pre modern world as a sacramental tapestry in which every created thing pointed beyond itself. Modern Christianity tore that tapestry apart and kept only doctrinal threads.

An Examined Faith That Forgot To Look Up

Taylor says modern people live with “cross pressure.” We feel the pull of transcendence while living inside a worldview that keeps the sacred at arm’s length.

Many Christians carry this inner ache. Their minds know God exists. But their world no longer feels alive with God.

Faith becomes technically correct yet practically thin.

Orthodoxy remains intact.
Enchantment fades.

The Tragedy Beneath the Surface

The early church did not survive by orthodoxy alone. It survived because people encountered God. They saw visions. They experienced miracles. They felt the Spirit as rushing wind. They took bread expecting Christ to be present. Acts was not ancient folklore. It was the shape of reality.

We inherited their creed but not their world.

Hart says in The Experience of God that modern Christians have reduced the infinite mystery of God to something manageable. Something tame.

The tragedy is not that God stopped speaking.
The tragedy is that we lost the capacity to hear.

A Crisis of Perception, Not Theology

This is not a doctrinal crisis.
This is a perceptual crisis.

We have the truth.
We have forgotten how to see the truth.

Boersma insists that Christians need a return to “sacramental ontology,” a way of perceiving the world that reveals God in the ordinary. In other words, reality must become transparent to grace again.

Our imaginations must be baptised.

The Ache That Remains

Yet the story does not end in the ruins. Beneath the thinness of Western faith there is still an ache. A longing. A stubborn rumour of transcendence.

Taylor calls it “the nova effect” – the sense that more is possible.


Lewis called it “joy” in Surprised by Joy.


Tolkien spoke of “the far off gleam” in his essay On Fairy Stories.


Underhill simply said it is “life.”

People are not leaving the church because they want less mystery.
They are leaving because they want more.

More presence.
More beauty.
More depth.
More world.
More God.

Disenchantment may describe our condition, but it is not our destiny. Something deep in us remembers the fire. Something in us knows the sacred can return.

And that is where the next blog will take us.