Could America Use More Secularism?

In 1971, John Lennon asked us to Imagine a world without religion. Turns out, a good chunk of us would rather not.

American pollsters have been seeing an increase in the country's "nones" for years now: About one-fifth of Americans say they have no religious preference, up from about 15% who said the same just five years ago. But according to a recent study by The Pew Forum on Religion & Public Life, many Americans see the decline of religion as a bad thing. And that includes a surprising chunk of nones.

Odd, huh?

Actually, all of Pew's numbers are pretty interesting—even if some of them make perfect sense. I, for one, am not too surprised that about half of Americans (48%) believe that the country's rise in secularism is a "bad thing." We're still a very religious country: Even with the rise of the nones, 80% of us are at least nominally affiliated with a religion of some kind. And it stands to reason that most of those affiliated would see some sort of tangible benefit to having faith.

But drill down to how the "unaffiliated" answered, and things grow more curious. While 24 percent believe that the erosion of religion is good (perhaps agreeing with the late Christopher Hitchens that "religion poisons everything"), nearly as many—19 percent—say it's bad.

The numbers are almost as surprising for my own demographic block—that of "white evangelical protestants.” While a gigantic 78 percent of them say that they're bummed by the country's growing secularization, 4 percent say they're kinda happy about it. Granted, that's not a huge number, but still. Why would evangelical Christians—a demographic prone to handing out Bibles and shouting from street corners and, sometimes, baptizing children against their parents will—be happy about our country's growing secularization? Do we just want there to always be a steady supply of people to heed our Baptist church altar calls? Do we love our Luis Palau crusades that much?

The whole study left Hemant Mehta of Patheos' Friendly Atheist blog a little perplexed. "I don’t know what’s weirder," he writes. "That there are evangelical Christians out there who are happy that more people are becoming non-religious… or that there are a lot of unaffiliated people who are upset by it."

But on further reflection, maybe those numbers aren't so weird after all.

First, the "nones." These are people who don't have a religious affiliation, but that doesn't mean they're happy about it. Maybe there are lots of people who'd like to believe in something but can't. They'd like to have faith, but they haven't found a compelling reason to go there. I know folks like this. I also know atheists or agnostics who reject religion, but they appreciate all the good that religion can do. Faith-based groups are behind some of the world's most beneficial charitable efforts. Religion can foster a tremendous sense of responsibility to the poor and needy. And even when we leave altruism out of it, churches can be great places to meet people and find community. Even if God's not in the picture, the Church (with all due respect to Mr. Hitchens) is responsible for a great deal of good in the world.

As far as those 4 percent of evangelical Christians who think a more secular culture is a good thing, maybe I can help answer. In a way, I think I might be in that 4 percent.

Don't misunderstand me. I think religion is a really, really good force in the world. I'd like for everyone to see not just how beneficial, but how beautiful and how real it can be.

But at the same time, I think that when Christianity goes unchallenged, it can get soft and even a little mean. We can take the beauty of the faith for granted. And then when we are challenged, we sometimes lose the knack to express our own views with kindness and thoughtfulness. "As iron sharpens iron, so one person sharpens another," the biblical proverb says, and I think there's some truth to that when it comes to faith, as well. I like to talk about this stuff. I like to be challenged some. I think it's healthy. Whether we're Christian or atheists or Muslims or Buddhists, we should know what we believe and why. We should know why it matters to us. Why it's important. Do you agree? 

Man of Steel: Longing for Superman

When I was a kid, my best friend Terry and I were obsessed with superheroes. Every day we were together, we'd strap on our capes, hope for some wind to make them flap dramatically and run around the back yard, saving imaginary citizens from disaster.

But I didn't imagine that superheroes were things that really walked (or flew) among us … until one afternoon when Terry told me that Superman was real.

"Is not," I said.

"Is too," Terry retorted. "He has a statue." Normally, that'd clinch it. After all, he was 6. I was 5. Terry knew far more about the world than I did.

But, my innate cynicism already beginning to surface, I refused to believe him. We argued for a good 10 minutes before Terry decided he was going to prove Superman’s existence to me once and for all: He was going to stand out in his front yard and call the Man of Steel in for a visit.

And so we tromped out, and we both shouted as loud as we could. Even in my skepticism, I was hopeful. Wouldn't it be great if the guy was real?

Superman, alas, never came.

That disappointing afternoon has been bouncing around in my brain ever since I saw Man of Steel, the latest Superman reboot (landing in theaters on Friday). Because, as even as I evaluated the movie and mulled the spiritual parallels and wondered just how much they spent on explosives or whether it was all just CGI, another thought—the same thought I had when I was 5—was percolating through my noggin.

Wouldn't it be kinda cool if Superman were real?

All due respect to Batman and Iron Man and Spider-Man and all those other Men-Mans, Superman's been the guy—the ultimate superhero—for 75 years now. And while perhaps he takes a backseat in terms of popularity, to more flawed heroes, he's still as recognizable and, in his own way, revered, as ever. He is a true hero: charismatic, polite, sacrificial. It's as if someone took everyone you liked and respected, rolled them up into one buff bod and gave him the ability to fly and weld with his eyes. I mean, what’s not to like about the guy?

And let's face it: We could all use someone who we could embrace without reservation—someone who'd never let us down. Someone who'd rescue us from the disasters and terror and misery that sometimes seems to stalk us. We could all use not just a hero, but a superhero.

As I write this, much of Colorado is on fire. My house isn't threatened this time, as it was last summer. But plenty of others are—and their owners are nervously watching news reports, perhaps gathering up precious belongings to evacuate, perhaps unsure of whether their home is still standing. It's terrifying, but it's more than that. Disasters like this leave you feeling powerless. And feeling powerless is one of the worst feelings there is.

Superman's never powerless—or, at least, hardly ever. Superman will always find a way to do something. Make things better. Save us.

***

From the very beginning of his career, Superman has always had some Messiah-like attributes. His Kryptonian name (Kal-El) has been translated to mean "Voice of God." He was of another world, yet became a "human" under the care of good but fairly nondescript mortals. He was meant to be a “savior.” In Man of Steel, those subtle nods become explicitly religious and Christ-like: This movie is as Christian a mainstream movie as maybe I’ve ever seen: Almost a Bible study in a cape. He revealed himself at age 33, asks advice from a priest in a church (as a stained-glass image of Jesus looks over his shoulder). He is, his adoptive human father tells him, “The answer. The answer to whether we are alone in the universe.”

And yet this Superman is very much human, too. He struggles with his nature, and seems a little appalled that God would’ve made him so freakishly, alarmingly different than everyone else. After his father dies, Clark becomes a vagabond—stopping to work in a far corner of the world for a while, then moving on when he fears his nature might be discovered.

But in the end he realizes he must take on a greater mantel to save humanity. And to do so, it seems, he must turn himself in. He allows himself to be handcuffed and led, presumably, to his fate. It’s a nifty little echo of Jesus’ own trip to the cross—a symbolic surrender to authorities that, really, had no authority or power over them.

Part of me would like to ramble on. There’s a lot of spiritual niftiness at play here.

But I want to go back to the anecdote that started this whole narrative … the day my friend Terry and I learned that Superman wasn’t real. And we must ask the inevitable question: If Superman and Jesus are so much alike, is Jesus real? Plenty of us call on Him in our darkest times. And sometimes, it doesn’t feel like we get an answer. Are we calling in vain? Are we just longing for someone to save us—someone who’s not there?

Superman, the original comic-book character, was the work of Jerry Siegel and Joe Shuster, both Jewish immigrants. And maybe Superman, if he was intended to be a Messiah, perhaps originally reflected more of what the Jewish people always expected a Messiah to be: A superhuman warrior, righting wrongs and rescuing us all from evil.

But as Christians, we interpret the concept of Messiah quite differently. God seems to love working with paradox, and Christianity is based on the greatest paradox of them all: A “Savior” who, it appeared, couldn’t even save himself. And yet in that act of apparent weakness—in a moment of apparent cataclysmic defeat—Jesus was both strong and eternally victorious. Weird.

Two thousand years ago, we were looking for Superman. We got something even better, even if it was hard to recognize at the time. Jesus didn’t just save our lives or homes or society: He saved us—the soul of us, the core of us.

We get that. And yet (paradoxically) we don’t. And maybe, in a way, we’re incapable of getting it. We’re human, after all—very much attached to our lives and livelihoods and stuff. We hurt. We suffer. We cry out for help.

Sometimes that help comes obviously and unmistakably. Every once in a while, miracles, or things that can seem like miracles, swoop out of the sky and give us exactly what we need. It comes like Superman, full of might and muscle and X-ray vision.

Sometimes it comes more quietly. We’re given a sense of peace. We’re given new determination to tackle our troubles, or perseverance to push through our trials.

And sometimes, it feels as though help doesn’t come at all. That’s hard to write and it’s hard to admit, but sometimes it’s true. There are times we shout for a Savior at the top of our lungs. We plead for help. And in the midst of our hurt and grief, it can feel as though no one came.

I don’t think, when we feel like that, it’s because (as sometimes happens with Superman) God’s too busy saving other people to tend to us at the moment. I certainly don’t think it’s because we’re calling on someone who’s not even there.

I believe that He’s there and He hears us. He loves us dearly. But at the same time, He understands—and wants us to understand—that in the deepest of ways, we don’t need saving: We’ve already been saved. It’s not that He’s not coming for us. It’s that He already has. 

James Bond, Model Christian

Who’s the best Bond?

It’s a question that James Bond fans seem to ask themselves with each new movie. Was Sean Connery’s lethal charm better than Roger Moore’s suave sense of humor? (Yes.) Could Pierce Brosnan wear a tux better than Timothy Dalton? (Yes.) Was poor ol’ George Lazenby wrongfully chastised for being the worst 007 ever? (No.)

Don’t spread this around, but I’ve been a big fan of Bond since I was a kid—in spite of his drinking, carousing, killing ways. I liked the dude so much that, when I was a religion reporter, I somehow conned my editors into letting me do a Bond-centric entertainment story when Daniel Craig was about to make his 007 debut in Casino Royale. I called it “Bonding Agents,” and it was tasked with weighing the attributes of each Bond as carefully and clinically as possible. Not who was “best,” mind you—that, now and forever, will be a matter of personal opinion—but who was the most lethal, the most lecherous, the most likely to quaff a vodka martini at any given moment.

(If you’re curious … Connery racked up the most confirmed kills during his seven-film run, including his unofficial outing in Never Say Never Again … but Brosnan was the most lethal per film, offing an average of 19.25 per film. Lazenby got around the most, having slept with three women in his one movie—but all the Bonds averaged more than two sexual conquests per flick.)

We can call James Bond many things: An assassin, a patriot, a lover, a fighter, a snob. But few would call him a Christian role model.

Except now, after seeing Skyfall, I might.

Oh, he’s still a horrible example of Christian living, no question. In fact, he might be a sober illustration of what we ought not to do. And yet for all his faults, in Skyfall he gets something right. He shows the heart of a servant.

Early in Skyfall, as Bond grapples with a bad’un, he overhears M asking another agent to take a shot at the villain—even though Bond might be in the way. Sure enough, he is. He gets hit and falls off a bridge, apparently to his death. Only he doesn’t die; he simply vanishes for a while, letting the home office assume he’s toast while he spends his nights drinking and sleeping around and playing with scorpions.

But when he hears the MI6 building has been attacked, Bond heads home and offers his services once again. He’s a bit of a wreck; he fails all of his physicals and the department shrinks suggest he has some addiction issues (imagine). But M ships him out to the field anyway; she trusts him. She believes in him.

Naturally, he doesn’t disappoint. But it’s a costly mission, and he loses a great deal along the way. And when Bond comes face-to-face with Silva, he endures what might be classified as a crisis of faith.

Silva, you see, was a former agent himself—a highly skilled operative who, like Bond, M eventually left to die. M, Silva tells Bond, is the real villain here—willing to sacrifice anyone and anything if it suits her purposes. Then he tells 007 a secret: He (Bond) is not fit for duty. Silva knows because he hacked into M16’s computer system. Bond failed all of his tests. M sent him out, knowing he’d likely die.

Bond is forced to ask whether his faith in M—his faith in Queen and Country—is justified.

I think most of us ask a similar question in our walks with God. Along the way, we’re invariably confronted with doubt and despair. We suffer and wonder how a loving God could be so silent in our time of need. We might, like Bond, grow angry. And some of us, like Silva, might get so mad that we leave the fold. He’s not there, we say. He doesn’t love us. I’m outta here.

We can’t know whether Bond ever wavered in his commitment—whether he ever truly doubted M during this temptation on a desert island. But M never apologizes for her decisions. When she learns what Silva’s been saying, M tells Bond she’d made the same decision again. If there’s a greater good to be had through risking an agent, she’ll do so every time.

But while M won’t flinch at making a difficult call, that doesn’t mean she’ll like it. When she believed Bond was dead, she mourned him in her own steely way. And Bond, in his own way as well, cares deeply for M. At the end of Skyfall, I find myself asking a strange, serious question—whether the spy has ever loved a woman more.

In the end, Bond accepted that he wasn’t his own man: He was an instrument in another hand. And if he could serve that hand through either his life or death, he was willing to do so.

In a sense, isn’t that what we all are? Instruments in God’s hand? We are made for His work and pleasure. We are at our happiest when we’re at the labor God intended for us, even if the work is dangerous. Whoever and whatever we are, we’ve been called to be servants of a higher purpose. How easy it is to forget that. Because, let’s face it: It’s a frightening thing to remember.

But even as we acknowledge that we are God’s to use as He will, we must also remember that God love us and wants the best for us. We are part of his plan. And I believe that, in that perfect plan of His, He wants us to be happy.

It’s a bit poignant in Skyfall, when M sees Bond’s test results and sends him out anyway. She doesn’t do so to be rid of him, but because she (in her own way) loves him. It reminds me of how many imperfect people God has called to do great things in His name—people who would’ve failed every aptitude test that an ancient MI6 might’ve rolled out.

Who’s the best Bond? I’ve always been partial to Sean Connery. But Daniel Craig, in Skyfall, brings something to the table I don’t think I’ve ever really seen in 007 before: Imperfection. Fragility. The inkling that not every mission will end with a vodka martini toast. And yet still he serves Queen and Country—not because he has to, but because he wants to. He’s not just a spy; he’s a servant. And serving a greater power can be a beautiful thing.