The Mortgage Market Tightens

The Federal Housing Administration announced today a tightening of its lending standards for borrowers.

A little background is in order. The FHA provides an alternative financing option for borrowers who are short on cash. While private market lenders historically expected down payments in the 10-20% range of the sale price, the FHA underwrote loans with down payments of 3.5%. FHA interest rates are very competitive.

The agency has an interesting and pivotal history itself. Founded in 1934 as part of the New Deal, the FHA primed the housing market and accelerated middle class wealth accumulation and home ownership. Basically, the agency does not fund loans as much as it indemnifies private lender against default. This makes the agency carries out a credit insurance function as opposed to a banking function. Bankers traumatized by the collapse of the American financial system were suddenly incentivized to lend since the government covered their losses.

Additionally, the FHA did not spend tax dollars. Borrowers paid for the insurance as part of their closing costs and monthly payments. This is similar to mortgage insurance for those readers who own a home.

Prior to the FHA, bankers required borrowers to bring 50%-60% of the sale price to the closing table. Loans typically lasted five years and included a balloon payment which forced homeowners to scurry to the nearest lender and re-finance. The FHA changed this reality permanently by requiring willing and conforming lenders to fiance borrowers for 20 years with reasonable interest rates. This allowed middle income Americans to enter the housing market which created a real estate explosion.

While the FHA is still very much a significant player in the housing market, the agency simply cannot afford to underwrite loans for questionable borrowers absent some assurance of re-payment. This reality forced the FHA to increase the down payment to 10% for some borrowers with low credit. This move could significantly affect the housing market since 40% of all current mortgages are FHA paper.

One final note-bankers in the 1930's and 1940's were still leery of doing business with the FHA. specifically, the 20 year term (which eventually became 30 years) scared many lenders. While the mortgage insurance against default was nice, 20 years was a long time to tie up capital. enter the Federal National Mortgage Association or Fannie Mae. Fannie Mae paid lenders cash for their existing loan which allowed the banking industry to increase the churn rate of capital. This churn provided more money to lend and contributed to the American real estate explosion.

What are the lessons here? Both the FHA and Fannie Mae have changed the way they do business. of course, Fannie Mae has bigger problems than the FHA. Also, remember these lessons when the banking industry cries fouls over government regulation and interference. The government they criticize for limiting their wealth options actually played a large role in creating the modern real estate market.

Simone Weil and Rootedness--Part 3

In the third part of Weil's The Need for Roots she reflects on how the French might be inspired to again love their homes and communities. I confess that I (often) find her overly idealistic, even contradictory, but she is worth listening to here. She is primarily concerned with the means that education possesses to cultivate the imaginative and moral sympathies of persons. She suggests that intimidation, false promises, simple suggestions or examples, or publicly sanctioned statements will not do the trick, that what is needed is the inspiration that comes through organized action. Yet having said this, she goes on to urge the use of inspiring words to reach the heart of the French people. She particularly recommends words that set forth the absolute good which pours from a sure faith in God.

The power of these words from God, she suggests, should be received in much the same way as a soldier receives a command--as an order of a superior. The other option is that of the technician, whom she believes to be subversive of true order and seeking false autonomy. A good command comes to both the mind and the feelings and has the shape of friendship, meaning there is a communique of trust to it. Thus, action "gives the fullness of reality to the incitations which have inspired it. The expression of such incitations, as heard on the outside, only gives them as yet a semi-reality. Action possesses a virtue of quite another order" (206).

Her vision for education, then, is one in which desire and example are married to living acts. We need faith more than realism, she says, and to see political action as spiritual rather than pragmatic. But, she observes, there are four chief obstacles in the way:

1. "our false conception of greatness;
2. "the degradation of the sentiment of justice;
3. "our idolization of money;
4. "and our lack of religious inspiration."

To begin to overcome these, Weil urges that the French revise and renew how they teach history, science, literature and philosophy, and religion. She insists that history should not be reduced to a Darwinian study of war, though war must be taught to do justice to the past. Instead, the gifts of the geniuses of art, activism, and sanctity must be taught, too. In literature, the "current of purity" must be studied, by which she means a healthy commitment to the integrity of the art on the part of writers. The modernist attitude of superiority in general must be jettisoned if the French are to recover true rootedness.

She places much more of the blame at the feet of modern science. Researchers are motivated by power and pragmatism rather than a love for the beauty and truth of the universe itself. As a result, they posit a world of complete determinism where force is the only political option, and in which technique is the overriding value: means without ends. "If justice is erasable from the heart of Man, it must have reality in this world. It is [modern] science, then, which is mistaken" (241). Pragmatism has polluted even the pure faith of Christians, who should know better, Weil believes. "A truth is always the truth with reference to something. Truth is the radiant manifestation of reality. Truth is not the object of love but reality. To desire truth is to desire direct contact with a piece of reality. . . . Pure and genuine love is in itself spirit of truth. It is the Holy Spirit" (250-1).

Weil, then, makes a move typical for her that I find problematic. She insists that Christians should understand God, not as someone who intervenes in response to particular circumstances, but as present in every event: "The sum of the particular intentions of God is the universe itself" (280). The world is, from one view, a closed system of determined action, while from another view, it is completely open to God's comprehensive control. . She goes so far as to suggest that we see the universe as entirely one of "perfect obedience" always acting in love. What we experience as "the blind forces of matter" are really a creature obedient to eternal Wisdom and love. Thus, the pain and suffering we experience are motivated by love and act as the punishment we each deserve that will restore us to faith and holiness.

At first blush, Weil seems to be setting forth the classic Augustinian understanding of providence, but her view would also seem to undercut prayer and regulate God to a Platonic being who does not respond per se to our individual requests. She urges a re-visioning of the world:

"The order of the world is the same as the beauty of the world. All that differs is the type of concentration demanded, according to whether one tries to conceive the necessary relations which go to make it up or to contemplate its splendor. It is one and the same thing, which with respect to God is eternal Wisdom; wth respect to the universe, perfect obedience; with respect to our love, beauty; with respect to our intelligence, balance of necessary relations; with respect to our flesh, brute force" (291).

If this were all she had written, I would accuse of her of promoting fatalism, but obviously, she believes in political action and reform. Nonetheless, her position would seem to render any prayer for these things at best moot, at worst as pragmatism under the cover of middle-class piety. To reach this position, she must, like Marcion, that ancient heretic, deny much of the Old Testament, and thereby, as Eliot points out in his introduction to the English translation, the very basis for the Church.

Physical labor, then, she concludes, is the most holy work because its daily tedium and suffering bring us closer to our deaths and thus force us to a place where repentance is truly possible. Weil concludes that "physical labor should occupy in a well-ordered social life . . . its spiritual core" (298). By ending this way, she offers a vision of the physical world in which place, work, family, and making are at the center of a truly human existence--one marked by gratitude, reverence, and connection with God, the land, and others.

I just don't see that such a vision need exclude the practice of daily intercession. A God who acts in direct ways to special requests can be the same God who guides the every action of his universe of obedient love.

Simone Weil and Rootedness--Part 2

Weil's The Need for Roots begins with a basic assumption: rights and obligations are essentially two sides of the same thing, but with one key difference. Obligations remain whether human beings recognize them as such or not, while rights must be acknowledged. Our obligations to other human beings are eternal and without condition; they are the bond of love that arise from the needs of others. "The possession of a right implies the possibility of making either a good or bad use of it. While, on the other hand, the performance of an obligation is always, unconditionally, a good from every point of view" (275).

This distinction is important for Weil because obligations take root in physical and social relations. Writing in 1943, she sees the French as having been uprooted in the towns because of an education that prizes technical know-how at the expense of an expansive liberal learning. Workers have become alienated from their true obligations; the life of the factories is mechanical and inhumane. It demands work which is neither interesting nor lively. It is too often exhausting and dangerous. What is needed are "forms of industrial production and culture of the mind in which workmen can be, and be made to feel themselves to be, at home." She goes on to line out sixteen or so proposals that bear a striking resemblance to those of Catholic distributism, including the abolishment of large factories for small guild-run workshops; the ownership of the tools and machines invested in the workers themselves, and a system of vocational adaptation for those with superior or inferior talents in any one profession. Each one is intended to return workers to a life of natural obligation because they are connected to their work and their work to their lives.

Weil also laments the loss of rootedness in the countryside. This takes shape in the way "peasants" are denied the private ownership of the land, have no pensions to survive on when they grow old, and the general way in which rural persons are educated away from a love of the land. Weil argues that rural education should inspire in its workers a love of the beauty of the land and of the beauty of the lifecycle. Likewise, she holds that rural Catholicism should seek to prepare the people to engage a life of farming as a truly holy, noble task: "The contemporary form of true greatness lies in a civilization founded upon the spirituality of work" (97).

Nonetheless, for Weil, the most fearful trend towards uprootedness is in the nation a whole. Patriotism upon various levels has been replaced by a singular economy of state. The family, village, district, and region have all ceased to matter before the national interest: "Man has placed his most valuable possession in the world of temporal affairs, namely, his continuity in time, beyond the limits set by human existence in either direction, entirely in the hands of the State" (100). Her point is that life is made up of numerous intermediate communities and associations that stand between the individual and the nation-state, and patriotism has historically been made up of numerous types of loyalty to king, village, children, neighbor, region, and so on. These have been weakened by a nation that has money as its only value: "The State is a cold concern which cannot inspire love, but itself kills, suppresses everything that might be loved; so one is forced to love it, because there is nothing else. This is the moral torment to which all of us today are exposed" (114).

Weil overgeneralizes here; still, what she says has a a note of reality to it. Her key point is that the nation-state does not and cannot easily ask for the same kinds of personal obligations that other social formations more naturally call up. The general French disdain for politcs and for public life she sees as emblematic of this problem, one which has historical causes including that of the abuse of royal power, the large landed aristocracy, the military and social abuses of the republican regimes after the Revolution, and the colonial abuse of the country towards other nations. At the heart of these is the break up of the trades, families, and traditional education for morals. Nationalism has displaced obligations to family, fellows, and truth. To this, she replies that the only authentic patriotism at the moment is one of compassion, the same kind of compassion that one feels for those who are suffering and poor. "If their country is presented to them as something beautiful and precious, but which is, in the first place, imperfect, and secondly, very frail and liable to suffer misfortune, and which it is necessary to cherish and preserve, they will rightly feel themselves to be more closely identified with it than will other classes of society" (174-5).

Taken together, Weil's three concerns with uprootedness point to the local, human, and personal shape of our obligations and loyalties. We love what we know and what we are tied to. We respect, honor, and treat as sacred those to whom we are intertwined in the precious nets of family, neighborhood, town, and congregation. Of course, all of these can be abused, as Weil acknowledges. But they are also natural in a way that the power of national force is not. She concludes that the state is "sacred" only in the way an altar is, that is to serve a higher purpose, not to draw attention to itself. The only other options she thought were anarchy or the idolatry of communism.

Can There be a Christian Culture?--Part 4

In light of the threat to stable meaning and ethics that historicism brought, one of the urgent needs was for Christian thinkers to account for human choice in a meaningful way. Are human beings really free? Can they make decisions and choices that are meaningful in any way that the average person could point to? Thinkers, again, took different directions. Some looked to raise human beings above the material and social world, offering two levels of existence. They were faced with trying to bridge the Kantian divide between the material and moral worlds.

Theologian Reinhold Niebuhr, for example, condemned the modern attempt to master the historical process as sin and hubris; nonetheless, he looked to a kind of self-transcendence of history in which the repentant person’s heart is given "agape power" from on high, rising with the promise of Christ from the edge of history. For Niebuhr, who seems to finally deny the reality of a resurrection of the body or an afterlife, this transcendent freedom is somewhat limited: "Man, in both his individual life and in his total enterprise, moves from a limited to a more extensive expression of freedom over nature. If he assumes that such an extension of freedom insures and increases emancipation from the bondage of self, he increases the bondage by that illusion." Niebuhr by reducing the claims of Christianity to existential "heart" truths rather than real claims about the actual universe actual created a kind of ghostly neather-world. Niebuhr was no gnostic, but neither was he finally looking to a real eschaton.

Russian philosopher Nicolas Berdyaev went even further, seeing history not as a material but as a metaphysical work. Memory, being essentially non-material, points to the spiritual quality of human culture and its final eternal destiny. As such, a philosophy of history is to teach that the historical process is not “something that is alien to us, that is imposed upon us, that crushes and enslaves us.” As I've observed in another post, Berdyaev's personalism gave way to a real gnosticism.

Others, rather than posit a kind of two-tier world, embedded human responsibility within historical patterning itself. According to Herman Dooyeweerd, societies have religious ground motives that propel them along. What others identified as laws or forces of history are really God-given norms which can be obeyed or rebelled against with consequences: "Historicism . . . is the fatal illness of our 'dynamic' times. There is no cure for this unwholesome view of reality as long as the scriptural creation motive does not regain its complete claim on our life and thought." Dooyeweerd held that as long as historicism acted as a relativizing poison, anything like God-given norms could not be easily seen, but that did not mean they were not there,

For Brunner, too, human freedom is only true freedom when it acknowledges its dependence upon God. Human attempts to be autonomous from their Creator end in slavery. A “false liberalism,” which believes itself the ego-driven creator of reality, and “false determinism,” which robs human beings of any real creativity or action, both ultimately deny God’s existence. Yet this freedom was always to be bounded by the action of God in history.

For many Christian thinkers, the Incarnation of Christ was central to resolving the tension between destiny and freedom, for Christ made present what God promised for the future. For Eliot, as Dawson noted, religion is what gives spiritual freedom because “it alone brings man into relation with a higher order of reality than the world of politics or even culture.” While Eliot also believed in a more vertical world where eternity penetrates the world of time, he would not reduce that world to anything less than an incarnational one.

Hans Urs von Balthasar, too, recognized in Christ the concrete universal. Human freedom is a gift of God’s freedom, a locale for human action, yet “this space belongs to Christ,” and Christ’s incarnation as a human being and by extension in his people, “generates an inexhaustible abundance of Christian situations” in which his meaning may be imparted.

For each of these thinkers and writers, then, Christ in some manner freed people from the material relativism and determinism of history, but they differed significantly on how to conceptualize that salvation. What they did agree on was that Christians must navigate between the twin dangers of complete egotism and pure determinism.

Can There Be a Christian Culture?--Part 3

The participants in the twentieth-century debate were all in agreement, nonetheless, that the meaning of history, if it had one, was a human meaning. The question as to whether history has socio-psychological laws was not precisely the same as to whether history has an inner dynamic that propels it in a certain direction, though the two were (and are) related. Human freedom as opposed to social and biological determinism concerned thinkers of all persuasions, as did whether history should be considered a matter of progress or of tragedy in light of two world wars. Had the last 40 years of violence disproved the early modern notion of progress? Equally, had the Hegelian notion that the divine Idea was working itself out in history been discredited by Nazi misuse of it?

Individualism and collectivism were, thus, important themes, and not just because of the rise of fascism and Marxism. They were at the heart of what to make of the politic orders of the last 50 years. They were also at the heart of what it means to be a human being within a political and social context. Finally, they were at the heart of whether human culture had any stable meaning at all.

Even deeper, then were what Ernst Troeltsch in 1922 had called the “crisis of historicism,” and what Benedetto Croce in 1916 had identified as the “humanity of history.” Historicism, the predominant worldview of nineteenth and early twentieth century Continental historians, held that each nation has its own intrinsic meaning, its own language, and is shaped by its history and place in nature. For some this suggested a divine guiding hand in giving expression to each nation, while for others this increasingly implied that no overarching human nature existed across cultures. For Troeltsch the crisis was that with historicism no objective laws or truths existed which could be applied to all people. People in their entirety are the product of their culture.

Croce in similar fashion decried the practitioners of individualist and/or collectivist historiography as reducing history to either a few powerful “men of genius” or to collectives as the producers of ideas. “Let him who cuts individuals out of history pay close attention,” Croce warned, “and he will perceive that either he has not cut them out at all, as he imagined, or he has cut out with them history itself.”

The shadow side, some would say the “demonic” side, was how such notions when tied to doctrines of the state led to Nazism or Communism, but just as important and as disturbing was the implication that most or all human choices were meaningless. That historicism actually undercut claims of Enlightenment progress or Hegelian idealism only opened the window for a further sense of meaninglessness. Was history's "truth" finally reducible to set of existential decisions by otherwise culturally-determined individuals?

For some such as Paul Tillich the category of the demonic need not be understand as strictly a spiritual category, but more like a general human Gestalt or archetypal flowering of irrational evil: "The dialectics of the demonic . . . the unity of form-creating and form-destroying strength. That is true of the demon who determines the great destiny which disrupts all forms of existence; it is true of the demon who drives the personality beyond the limits of its allotted form to creations and destructions it cannot grasp as its own. Where the destructive quality is lacking, one can speak of outstanding power, of genius, of creative force, not of demonry."

If history is the product of social and economic forces, if culture is the product of national collectives or even of a few inspired geniuses, or if a non-human force drives history (be it biological and/or spiritual), then human freedom would seem to be an illusion.

Berlin labeled any system that posited discoverable laws or outcomes for history as "deterministic," and charged them with being not only fatalistic but even desirous of a system that excused them from human action and freedom. He was especially distrustful of teleological systems: "For the teleological thinker all apparent disorder, inexplicable disaster, gratuitous suffering, unintelligible concatenations of random events are due not to the nature of things but to our failure to discover their purpose."

Strangely enough, history became reduced reduced to theodicy.

Can There Be a Christian Culture?--Part 2

As I examined in the last post, the question of whether twentieth-century Europe could still be considered a Christian culture occurred amidst the violence of World War I and II. The second world war itself left many with serious questions as to why it had happened and what this revealed about the course of humanity in general. Writing in 1949, E. Harris Harbison observed a hunger for meaning among the young veterans returning to American universities after the war: "[They] made it clear to advisers and teachers that they were looking for answers. . . . Somewhere in history, many of them thought, the answer to how it all came about was to be found." The same year in Britain, historian Herbert Butterfield's six BBC radio lectures on Christianity and history made him a public celebrity, becoming some of the most listened to broadcasts in BBC history. Clearly the public on both sides of the Atlantic was hungry for some sense of what history as a discipline could reveal about Christianity, the West, and civilization. Did the twentieth century invalidate Occidental values and beliefs, and could history give a needed perspective on the past and the future?

After all, one could ask, do the events of history mean anything? Are they, as Elbert Hubbard once remarked, just "one damn thing after another"? Can there be a philosophy, science, or theology of history that speaks in any way to the historical particulars? "Can the thinker who utilizes the empirically achieved data of historical study stand, as it were, outside the historical process and see pattern or meaning in the whole historical process itself?" (Connolly 41) If not, can the historical thinker still offer some intimation of the whole from a more limited vantage point? Likewise, what does the theology of the Christian Church have to say to how history has unfolded? Can the gospel, for example, explain the twentieth century?

Typically, a Christian understanding of history had been understood to be linear as opposed to the wide cycles of history in Greek, Chinese, or Hindu thought, and twentieth-century Christian thinkers mostly rejected the cyclical view of Oswald Spengler’s infamous The Decline of the West, which traced eight “high cultures” through the cycle of birth-development-fulfillment-decay-death, as well as the view of Arnold Toynbee that civilizations arise, grow strong, fall, and die in reaction to cultural problems. Did civilizations, cultures, or societies have life cycles, or was it permissible to divide history into periods, such as ancient, medieval, and modern?

Particularly in response to the fascist claims of historical destiny, Christian thinkers of the period were quite divided on these questions. Jacques Maritain, William Albright, and Eric Voegelin, for example, all held that some order or process was observable in history, though each was cautious as to how much could be predicted or exhaustively understood. For Maritain, historical laws cannot explain history entirely or predict it, but they can help interpret it: axiomatic laws can point to general characteristics of history, while typological laws can suggest various periods in history: a growth is observable, so some periods are better than others. He held that history possessed "two faces."

1. Axiomatic laws included the law of two-fold contrasting progress; the ambivalence of history; the law of the historical fructifications of good and evil ; the law of the world-significance of history-making events; the law of prise de conscience ; and the law of the hierarchy of means.
2. Typological laws included the law of the passage from the "magical" to the "rational" regime or state; the law of the progress of moral conscience; the law of the passage from "sacral" to "secular" or "lay" civilizations; the law of the political and social coming-of-age of the people.

Maritain in general, then, held that one could predict that good and evil would bear results in certain ways, that certain means tend to overshadow others, and that in general history was moving to more secular and rationalistic expressions of culture. (Of course, this is a variation of the secularization thesis that has in the last two decades been called seriously into question.)

Albright, too, held the search for laws was not fruitless, but the larger the scope of observation, the less certain, “until we reach a plane where the number of variables makes prediction impossible.” Albright's simple point was that smaller local changes are more predictable than wide-spread national, continental, and global shifts. These later ones were better observed in hindsight.

Voegelin, not an entirely unrepentant Hegelian, nonetheless broke with Hegel in holding that one cannot predict the outcome of history even if one can understand some of its laws. Humans are too sinful to hold to anything like the ideal, divine plan: “The truth of order has to be gained and regained in the perpetual struggle against the fall from it.” For each of these, some observation of order and direction did not suggest total predictability. The fascist doctrines of an unopposable direction to the spirit of history were to be treated agnostically at best.

Others were even more cautious. Butterfield and Kenneth Scott Latourette stationed themselves in a middle ground. Only general principles and observations are possible from a Christian perspective, though these can still offer much. Though Butterfield himself condemned easy judgments on human actions, he did feel that in the broadest sense one could obviously conclude that human beings were sinful, that the personal nature of historical lives included sinful effects, and that general, historical judgments on evil actions, such as the militarism of Nazi Germany, were conclusive from history itself.

For Butterfield, broadly speaking there are three ways of looking at history:

1. biographically, which offers the meaningful life of individuals;
2. technically, in the study of the law-like social forces of larger history;
   
3. holistically, attempting to view the providence of God in broad strokes.
   

It is significant that while Isaiah Berlin praised Butterfield's position as a "prima facie very humane and convincing thesis," that he finally dismissed it as one in which "individual responsibility is made to melt away" because we declare ourselves never fit to judge, be that by virtue of ignorance or sinful ineffectiveness .

Latourette, the great historian of world missions, in different fashion, sought to provide for the Christian claims for history the sense that these truths, though they cannot be "proved" by history itself, nonetheless have "strong probability for the truth of Christian understanding.”

Still others felt even this went too far, such as Henri-Irénée Marrou and Mircea Eliade who rejected any philosophy of history, though each conceded a theology of history was still possible. Eliade sniffed that attempts at "scientific" laws of history were but the “decomposition product of Christianity,” seeking the sense of history’s meaning while denying “a transhistorical, soteriological intent.” Marrou, in turn, warned against “the sin of immoderation” so tempting to philosophies of history; history is always a subjective reconstruction of the past by the historian, and “[e]very problem in history, no matter how small, gradually and eventually demands a knowledge of universal history in its entirety,” which is impossible for any but God. Marrou, however, did not see this as a counsel of despair, rather humility.

Finally, not all would agree with even this claim. Gerhard Ebeling observed, "Wherever historicity is not taken seriously, there is also a failure to take really seriously either the text of the Scriptures or the man to whom this text must be interpreted." Likewise, voices like Yves Congar and J. P. Mackey insisted that without tradition no Christian dogma existed. Any large meaning in history was rightly obtainable only through God's revelation.

This wide-spread continuum suggests perhaps why no single Christian answer was available at the time to those in search of spiritual and theological insights into the twentieth-century ideological wars. We can still ask today, what did they hope to find in the study of history that might explain their political and social dilemmas? Likewise, what might we hope to find, if anything, in the midst of our own?

Can There Be a Christian Culture? -- Part 1

Over the next week, I will summarize and explore an intellectual debate that took place among a number of theologians, philosophers, social critics, and political leaders in Europe and the United States. I am particularly interested to ask what their concerns might teach us about current Christian reflection on culture, relativism, and the meaning of human existence.

"Upon this battle depends the survival of Christian civilization."

These famous penultimate words were spoken by Winston Churchill before the House of Commons on June 18, 1940. Delivered the day after France surrendered to Nazi invaders, Churchill's speech was intended to steel British resolve, yet perhaps not surprisingly, in retrospect it also raised important questions about the nature of Western civilization itself.In his 1947 Gifford lectures, the theologian Emil Brunner observed, "All Europe uttered a sigh of relief when those words were spoken."

That they were spoken as words of comfort and of determination suggests that a consensus, however fuzzy, still existed among many in Europe. For Brunner, however, Churchill's words raised a rather sticky question: can there be a Christian civilization, and if there can, does it follow that the Occidental world could in any sense still be considered Christian?

These were questions that many twentieth-century historians, philosophers, cultural critics, and theologians struggled with, and between the 1930’s and the 1950’s, a huge number of lectures, essays, articles, and books were generated on the issue of Christian civilization and history. For some, such as philosopher John MacMurray, European civilization could not understand itself or its success and failure without remembering that its origins were in Christian culture: “To understand Christianity is to understand the crisis of civilization in which we are involved." The twentieth century’s violence and loss of meaning were traceable to the incoherence of the West, he contended.

Historian Christopher Dawson, too, felt in 1949 that the relationship between Western and Christian culture had to be delimited. He held that every society at its heart was based on a religious vision. What distinguished the West was its long-term instability; the Christian consensus had always been a dance between temporal and eternal impulses, and this imbalance had led to its productivity and power. such moments of vital fusion between a living religion and a living culture are the creative events in history, in comparison with which all external achievements in the political and economic orders are transitory and insignificant.”

Poet and cultural critic T.S. Eliot was also convinced that a people's religion and their culture were intertwined, "culture being, essentially, the incarnation (so to speak) of the religion of a people." Culture is "a "lived religion," though no people ever have a perfectly pure religion. By incarnation, Eliot meant neither a simple relation nor an absolute identification but something more like two elements existing in tandem with one another. One cannot finally understood a civilization without having a sense of the religious vision that historically informed it, no matter how faded and shabby it has become. Yet Eliot was not claiming that Europe was somehow nor or had ever been a perfect place. Europe has always been more or less Christian, never totally so.

Theologian John Baillie, following Eliot, believed that what made the past Western civilization Christian was its common belief and opinion, and what made it vaguely one in 1945 was the continued presence of some Christian influence. Baillie, a Presbyterian, compared this to infant baptism, observing that a society with Christian influence need not be wholly full of Christians. He concluded that this was the best one might expect in a fallen world; there can be no final utopia on earth: "no pax Britannica no less than the pax romana, and Christendom no less than Babylon and Troy." Perhaps the days were simply limited in which such a Christian world could continue.

Brunner agreed, but like MacMurray, held that the crisis of the West was already quite far gone, “in some parts . . . more than shaken, in fact shattered and even annihilated.” There was not much of a Christian civilization left to hold on to. Yet even this crisis, Brunner thought, attested to the power of the gospel traditions that they could have such dynamic, long-standing impact “even where life has been only superficially touched by them, or where they are present in very diluted and impure manifestations.”

Notice that to make such claims required a sense of history, as to where the West had been and where Christianity had been with it, as well as some intimations as to where it was going. That these reflections occurred around the global cataclysm of World War II is quite understandable. Much that had seemed solid and stable was now in flux and troubled. Nonetheless, they explore the first question worth considering: could European culture (and the U.S. by extension) have ever been considered a "Christian" culture? And if so, what would that imply?