Revolution and Fall

This is about the most profound and far-reaching revolution in the history of Western Civilization, a revolution from our Christian foundations to what historians now call a Post-Christian World. No shot was fired, no government was overthrown, no one took to the streets. Yet it was a revolution which, over time, revealed itself to be more sweeping than any other social or political movement in our history. More profound because it represented a revolution in thought, which in turn became a revolution in beliefs which lie at the core of culture, beliefs as to who we are as human, how we should live together and where the future is taking us. The Post-Christian revolution drew much of its strength from its subtlety, a slow and and steady march over centuries, often under the pretext of science or philosophy, carrying the seemingly unassailable banners of freedom, progress or reason. For the most part the Church remained silent. Confronted by the revolution, it engaged in a slow ritualistic form of suicide in its attempt to adapt to this new spirit of the age. Abandoning its roots, it was unable to summon even a word of protest. The secular movement carried another advantage. It was a message that flattered man. It showed us a new humanity unbound and autonomous, free from all constraints of the past. Much like the serpent’s temptation in Genesis, to be like God, Western man ate the fruit and now finds himself in another kind of exile. Alienated from God, we are now alienated from one another and from our best selves. Mired in an age of anxiety and malaise, we are no longer at home in our world. In Europe the revolution is all but complete. In many of their countries, less than ten percent are affiliated with the Church. Here in America the struggle rages on, underlying our deep divisions. They appear political, but lie much deeper under the surface of things, two groups who can’t cooperate, who don’t even speak the same language because their differences lie in irreconcilable worldviews. I saw for myself the statistics of Europe while visiting the great cathedrals of London, Paris, Rome and elsewhere. In Milan I sat alone in a pew, worshipping with only a few elderly scattered about a massive sanctuary which once held thousands. Later in the day I returned when the cathedral was open to the public. The noise of tourists milling about, eating and taking pictures as they pointed at the architecture, spoke of a curiosity without a history. There was no sense of reverence for place. They gazed at the highest expressions of European art, unaware of the artists’ faith. They admired the majestic arches and stained glass windows, with little understanding of the builders’ devotion, a task of generations and centuries in its making. Filled with tourists, it was emptied of its spirit.