Fr. Ron Rolheiser, omi

April 18, 2011

Few books have garnered as much respect during the past five years as has Charles Taylor's A Secular Age.

That respect is well deserved. Given secularity's convoluted history, there isn't any one, normative study that traces its evolution; but, if there was, Taylor's analysis might apply for the distinction. Deeply versed in history, philosophy, literature, theology and spirituality, Taylor has a deep well within which to dip to make his analysis. Few scholars, to my mind, bring so wide and deep a scholarship to the area of history and faith.

Taylor confesses that he is, personally, a man of faith, but strives insofar as this is possible for anyone, believer or agnostic, to not let his own beliefs colour his research. Few commentators, even those critical of the book, accuse him of that. He is generally as objective as the evening news, reporting what happened without either trumpeting or bemoaning it.

What he traces out is the big story of how we moved historically from a culture and a consciousness within which it was virtually impossible not to believe in God to the situation in which we find ourselves today, namely, where belief in God is merely one option among others and indeed often not the dominant one.


Until the full flowering of modernity (and, for many of us personally that has just happened in the past two generations) we lived with what Taylor calls a "porous" rather than a "buffered" consciousness. A porous consciousness is more naturally mystical. A buffered consciousness is what Karl Rahner had in mind when he said we would soon reach a time when someone would either be a mystic or a non-believer.

A porous consciousness is porous in its incapacity to protect itself against spirits and angels, demons and superstition, against good religion and bad religion. We don't have to go far back to remember when we used to sign ourselves with the cross and holy water during a lightning-storm. The other world, however it was understood, could bring us to our knees. We didn't always like how the supernatural could leak through our defences but we were helpless to prevent it.


A buffered consciousness is one that is buffered against angels and demons, against good religion and bad religion, leaking through. Today, rather than being frightened by a lightning storm, we enjoy the free fireworks, feeling safe behind our modern glass windows.

We are much more buffered against the other world and how it can break through in our consciousness. This makes secular consciousness a genuine option for us and makes faith more a choice than a given.

But, as Leonard Cohen famously writes: There is a crack in everything. That's how the light gets in. There is too a crack in our buffered, secular consciousness. Taylor calls this "the unquiet frontiers of modernity." There are certain things against which we cannot buffer ourselves, not just loss, depression and fear of death. These can, and do, sometimes shake the secure foundations of our lives and drive us to our knees in helplessness.


But we can be driven to our knees too for the opposite reasons: Love, beauty, hope and joy can also break through our buffered shell and open us to a meaning beyond what this world has to offer. There is disquiet and fragility on both frontiers - on those which threaten and frighten us and on those which beckon us toward deeper hopes.

Here's how Taylor puts it: The sense that there is something more presses in. Great numbers of people feel it: in moments of reflection about their life; in moments of relaxation in nature; in moments of bereavement and loss; and quite wildly and unpredictably.

Our age is far from settling in to a comfortable unbelief. Although many individuals do so, and more still seem to on the outside, the unrest continues to surface. Could it ever be otherwise?

People in this secular age seem at a safe distance from religion; and yet they are moved to know that there are dedicated believers, like Mother Teresa.

The unbelieving world, well used to disliking Pius XII, was bowled over by John XXIII. A pope just had to sound like a Christian, and many immemorial resistances melted.


It's as though many people who don't want to follow, want nevertheless to hear, the message of Christ, want it to be proclaimed. The paradox was evident in the response to the late pope. Many were inspired by John Paul's public peripatetic preaching, about love, about world peace, about international economic justice. They are thrilled that these things are being said.

God may not always seem evident in our world, but in our deepest fears and hopes, we still have his calling card.