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Spotlight on the Liberal Arts

Spotlight on the Liberal Arts

Date: Apr 2014

Thank you for the gracious introduction.  Before I say a bit about my book and then respond to the thoughtful comments by Professor Gianoutsos and Hochschild, I would like simply to thank you for hosting me.  When Professor Strauss contacted me a few months ago and told me that over 30 colleagues, around 1/3 of the faculty at Mt. St. Mary’s, were reading and discussing The Unintended Reformation in groups this semester, I was astounded.  I also knew I had to find a way to accept his kind invitation to visit, above all so that I could do what I’m doing now: thanking you in person.  I don’t think there’s any better way for a scholar to be honored than having this sort of discussion, dialogue, and debate devoted to one’s work.  Quite frankly, it’s moving to know that so many of you took the time to read my book.  So in a certain sense, from my perspective the most important part of my task in coming to Emmitsburg has now been discharged.  Thank you so very much.

            That said, I’m fairly confident I wasn’t invited here just to tender my gratitude!  I am specifically grateful to Professors Gianoutsos and Hochschild for their comments on my book, and appreciate the trouble they’ve taken actually to understand it, unlike some reviewers whose criticisms reflect manifest incomprehension.  Before I reply to their remarks, I will say a few things about how I regard The Unintended Reformation and what it seeks to do.  This will in turn, I hope, be relevant to my subsequent reply. 

            The Unintended Reformation is straightforward albeit ambitious in the basic question it asks, but unconventional, unexpected, and complex in how it goes about answering it.  The question is: how did the Western world’s current combination of heterogeneous truth claims about matters of meaning, value, and morality, and its hegemonic institutions, most importantly sovereign nation-states and the market, come to be as they are?  This is a historical question about change over time.  The answer for which I argue, as you know from having read the book, is that the unresolved doctrinal disagreements and concrete religio-political conflicts of the Reformation era set in motion ideological and institutional changes that sought to cope with the unintended and unwanted consequences of the Reformation.  Because late medieval Christianity was not “religion” in any modern sense, but was intertwined with all domains of human life, the Reformation’s rejections of many traditional Christian teachings and practices, as well as of the Roman church’s authority and institutions, affected all those domains.  This was important in two ways.  First, with respect to the Reformation’s transformation of historical processes that were already underway (such as the increased exercise of jurisdictional control by non-ecclesiastical authorities over ecclesiastical institutions).  Second, the Reformation’s rejection of many traditional Christian teachings and practices, as well as of the authority and institution of the Roman church, was crucial for the new realities it introduced (such as pervasive disagreement about Christian truth in Latin Europe—which had certainly existed in the Middle Ages, but not in anything like the sustained way or on the scale of the Reformation, and therefore with nothing close to its transformative impact).

The Unintended Reformation is a genealogical and antiteleological historical analysis that starts in the late Middle Ages and concentrates on human realities without which we cannot account for our ideological hyperpluralism and hegemonic institutions.  I start then because that is how far back we need to go to explain the present.  And I chose to focus on what I do because no credible account of today’s world is possible that does not encompass science and its applications, sovereign nation-states, modern philosophy, industrial capitalism and consumerism, and higher education.  My book therefore includes them all in relationship to the Reformation era’s doctrinal disagreements and religio-political conflicts, and in relationship to one another.  At the same time, as you know, I make no claims to comprehensiveness and explicitly acknowledge that the book scarcely mentions other major domains of human life (5, 365), the inclusion of which would have further strengthened my argument. 

The book is carefully constructed and tightly argued; the six chapters must be understood together in order to grasp the whole.  The highly compressed exposition means that more could and should be said about virtually everything in it.  My aim is explanatory power with respect to change over time in ways that account for the stipulated explanandum, without losing the forest for the trees.  How one evaluates the outcome in the present is separable from the historical analysis per se; notwithstanding modernity’s many widely acknowledged benefits, where we have ended up seems to me also troubling for multiple reasons I suggest in the book.  But one might agree with the analysis and evaluate the present and our future prospects more positively than I do.

            Moving on to the comments of our two respondents, which I will take in order.  Professor Gianoutsos’s principal criticism is that I too unilaterally identify the Reformation as the distant source of our present condition, “the only plausible culprit that destroyed a harmonized, Christian society,” and therefore ignore other important causal factors that have contributed to the world as we know it today.  First of all, as she implies elsewhere in referring to “the significant problems and abuses of the Medieval Church,” “harmonized” is hardly an adjective that characterization of pre-Reformation Latin Christendom.  The “late medieval church’s many real, pervasive, and undeniable problems” (85), as I write in Chapter 2, are part of my explanation of long-term historical change no less than the doctrinal disagreements and religio-political conflicts of the Reformation era.  The disruptions of the Reformation era are the key, not the claims and actions of Protestant reformers per se—and although the early modern conflicts followed from the rejection of the Roman church, that rejection was as successful as it was because of the church’s egregious, long-standing problems. 

            The more fundamental difficulty with Professor Gianoutsos’s criticism, however, is that it misses my point about why the Reformation was so consequential: because Christianity in the early sixteenth century was not “religion” in the modern sense, but sought to inform and influenced, for better or worse, every area of human life.  Therefore a rejection of the authority of the institution behind that influence was bound to affect all those areas of life—which the Reformation did.  Professor Gianoutsos’s implicit distinction between “the Reformation” and “several different phenomena related to the Reformation” seems to suggest that “the content of intellectual debate and practice in the Reformation” can be separated from the way in which disagreements about true Christianity “divided Europe, created an authority crisis, and instigated often brutal wars.”  I don’t think they can, and my book shows how they’re related.

Without question, an additional chapter on forms of communication that included the impact of the printing press, as well as a chapter on the relationship between Europe and hitherto unknown peoples in the Americas and Asia—two of the additional six chapters, incidentally, that were originally part of the book’s conception—would have enriched it.  But would they have changed the basic argument, or have identified important influences on the shaping of our world that were separate from the Reformation’s influence?  I think not. They would rather have strengthened the book’s argument by showing, for example, how the early German Reformation radically altered the already thriving medium of print, providing a medium for polemical theological controversy on a vast scale that lasted throughout the Reformation era and beyond.  Print crucially helped to spread the rival truth claims, whether religious or secular, that are central to my argument.  So too, although Spanish and Portuguese commercial and missionary efforts began prior to the Reformation, starting in the 1550s with French Huguenot efforts in Brazil, the story of early modern European expansion is simultaneously one of “exported confessional conflict” (to use the felicitous phrase of Anne McGinness, a recent Notre Dame Ph.D.)—between France and Portugal, between Spain and the Netherlands, between England and France, and so on.  Deep into the eighteenth century, European colonial commerce and colonialism were thoroughly intertwined with confessional rivalries. 

To criticize my argument one would have to show that Christianity on the eve of the Reformation, for better or worse, really was not all that important for intellectual life, social relationships, the exercise of power, economic exchange, ethics, or universities.  More than half a century of scholarship by medievalists have made clear that it was, which is why I make use of it in my book.  Indeed, the ways in which Christianity was so influential was partly what outraged the reformers who rejected the Roman church.  That is why the Reformation is the crucial watershed without which we can’t understand the world we’re living in today, however we evaluate it.  None of this, in my view, has anything to do with whether Protestant readers might not like the book.  Catholic readers might not like the way I call attention to the problems of the late medieval church, or the unresponsiveness of popes to the intellectual challenges posed by modern knowledge.  The point is that the past has made the present what it is, whether we like it or not.  The possible objections of certain readers are never sufficient reason, in my view, to pretend otherwise.  There are countless things about the past I wish were different; wishing doesn’t change them, and ignoring them simply diminishes one’s own understanding of and in the present.  Historical arguments must always be criticized by pointing out problems with the interpretation or neglect of evidence, not because of readers’ preferences for a more congenial, user-friendly past.


            I readily concede that I don’t mention any particular ways in which protagonists in the English Revolution contributed to the formation of modern political rights and “fundamental freedoms,” when I say e.g. that the “spread of protective individual rights is perhaps the greatest outcome of modern Western liberalism” (375).  I am well aware of everything Professor Gianoutsos mentioned about the contributions of the English Revolution to modern liberal democracy.  But my deeper point is that politically protected individual rights regarded not in the abstract but combined as they are with no shared substantive morality, ever-widening technological capabilities, and ever-increasing levels of consumption seem not to qualify as an unqualified good in their effects—heretical as this point has seemed to some secular reviewers.  The separation of church and state, protection of individual religious preference, and circumscription of religion helped to solve certain problems inherited from the Reformation era.  They also helped to create unforeseen problems, the character of which is only now, perhaps, starting to become apparent.

            I will move on now to Professor Hochschild’s two points.  First, I am agnostic as to what particular form a metaphysics might assume such that the incomprehensible simultaneity of divine transcendence and sacramental immanence is maintained, as understood in traditional Christianity prior to the advent of metaphysical univocity.  I really have no horse in this race; I am neither a theologian nor a metaphysician, and am not one to devote my intellectual energies to arguing for an Augustinian, Thomistic, or some new conceptual direction that from the start takes into account post-Newtonian physics.  So long as basic teachings about e.g. the reality of the creator-God, creation, the incarnation, the resurrection, grace, the efficacy of the sacraments, and so forth are maintained, I have no problem at all with multiple approaches.  But I regard this as an intellectual question internal to Christian theology, one fundamentally different from questions about unsecularizing the academy so as to bring theological discourse from different religious traditions into dialogue with modern academic disciplines in universities; and this is different yet again from trying to imagine a serious public discourse about God in a society like ours in which, as David Bentley Hart has recently and I think rightly said, “we have reached a moment in Western history when, despite all appearances, no meaningful public debate over belief and unbelief is possible.”[1]  Although I’m not especially keen on Gadamer, my book’s final chapter is meant to contribute to the unsettling of complacency about “our own disciplinary narratives of self-sufficiency” for which Prof. Hochschild rightly calls.

            On her second point, about what Catholic institutions might contribute to secular research universities, I hope that my call for unsecularizing the academy—a claim I make on the basis of its own ostensible commitment to academic freedom—might itself be a source of hope not only to Catholic scholars but more broadly to religiously committed academics in different disciplines.  In the context of the contemporary academy, which is dominated by elite research universities, Catholicism can show itself to be intellectually credible only by demonstrating awareness of cutting-edge research and showing either (1) how research findings are compatible with whatever religious truth claims are being claimed as true, or (2) why the findings should be questioned, or how the assumptions underlying them are mistaken, arbitrary, or otherwise problematic.  In claiming, near the end of Chapter 6, that Catholicism is a tradition whose “fundamental mode” is the participatory over the propositional, I did not mean to denigrate the critical intellectual role played in the articulation and defense of the faith by those whose participation in it includes theological understanding.  Catholicism makes truth claims, and to be credible they have to be made articulately by persons of learning and judgment in relationship to the findings of the natural sciences and other disciplines.  My point is simply that as far as Catholicism is concerned, one needn’t earn an advanced degree in order to pursue holiness by imitating Christ.  Being smart is not a prerequisite for being a Christian.  I am sure we all personally know extraordinary, committed Christians who have somehow managed without going to graduate school.

            Thus far my remarks.  Once again, thanks to Professors Gianoutsos and Hochschild, and more generally to all of you.


As the semester draws to a close, five candidates for the Master of Arts in Philosophical Studies degree will be presenting their Qualifying Papers over the next two weeks.  All presentations are open to the public.  Unless otherwise specified, they will take place in the Theology Conference Room (Bradley, 4th floor).  Topics and presentation times are as follows:

“Restoration of Nature and the Natural End: Natural Law and the Debate on the Supernatural,” by Br. Peter Gruber. Thursday, 4/24 @ 12:15, Smith Board Room.

“Testimony and Supernatural Faith,” by Br. Justin Bolger. Monday, 4/28 @ 10:00.

“Art, Empathy, and the Moral Consciousness: A Cognitive-Immoralist Position on the Moral Benefits of Immoral Art,” by Howard Jankowski. Monday, 4/28 @ 12:00.

“Just War Tradition: Preventive War is not in Accord with the Theory,” by Eric Zuniga. Wednesday 4/30 @ 12:00.

“The Christian Trinity Chez Plotinus,” by Cameron Hahne. W 5/7 @ 3:00.

For further information, contact MAPS program director Dr. Christopher Anadale.

The following is the second response from Paige Hochschild:

It is a great pleasure to have Brad Gregory here with us at the Mount.  The best thing about his book is that a number of us read it together—an indirect sort of thanks to the author!  The Unintended Reformation was the occasion for the display of some real intellectual rigour and inter-disciplinary conversation.  It was also the occasion for intra-denominational combat, pro- and anti-modern hymnody, methodological crises, and political-theoretical indignation.  In the end, however, as a small Catholic institution attempting to ask just the kind of questions about “Catholic identity” to which Gregory alludes, reading this book was (I hope) a constructive move on the part of our faculty to take on-going intellectual responsibility for our heritage and mission.[1]  John Haldane, a celebrated intellectual who spends about half of his time at Notre Dame, recently passed through town, giving a fine lecture on the modern Catholic university.  He proposed that small institutions like the Mount might become the last places where learning for wisdom could prevail over the forces of specialization, research outcomes and technical-career preparation; as a place where history would dominate broadly over the humanities as a method and sensibility; and finally as a place where something like Newman’s university could at last be instantiated—non-sectarian, but ordered to truth. 

Gregory’s book has received plenty of press, with some critiques more substantial than others.[2]   Even the title, over the striking cover design, immediately provokes a reaction.  I believe this is the intent, given that the final two chapters find Catholics and magisterial Protestants united as both perpetrators and victims of modernity.  While Gregory concludes without any trace of “nostalgia,” many readers wonder what the wistful praise of the Benedictine ideal might really conceal.  Gregory is not an ideologue; he is a cultural critic and an untimely prophet, and his overall “genealogical narrative” is deeply compelling.

Whether one considers outcomes such as economic injustice or environmental degradation (as Gregory frequently does), or whether one considers cultural symptoms such as the negative effects of social mobility, the shallow tone of public discourse, or the sad eschatology proclaimed from the side of a Walmart semi-trailer: “buy more stuff, for less money, and you will have a better life”—one must receive Gregory’s book as yet another warning about the dangers of modern forgetting.  Gregory freely admits that his argument is not original, following as it does in the line of Nietzsche, Funkenstein, MacIntyre, Lasch and Berry.  It is hard to celebrate our apparent inability to negotiate properly moral categories in a polity that prizes “negative liberty.”[3]  It appears that religious pluralism can only be preserved by the combination of a powerful secular state and the near-total subtraction of religion from public discourse: this is a crucial theme in Gregory’s book.  We all feel in our daily lives the price that we pay for the great benefit of progress through technological economy—and if we do not feel it, we should.  We should reflect upon the costs of our luxury, our ease, our shallow carelessness with the lives and well-being of others; we should feel that our excess de iure belongs to the wounded neighbor at our doorstep.

I offer two comments, one a constructive critique of Gregory’s philosophical starting-point, and the second as a word of encouragement to my colleagues to continue the conversation occasioned by Gregory’s book.  First, the foundational argument about a univocal metaphysics that almost inevitably generates Weberian disenchantment: this part of Gregory’s genealogy is familiar from various narratives of intellectual decline from the high Middle Ages on.  I am sympathetic with these, as a student of Augustine.  It is not clear what Gregory would like to see as a corrective, “non-dualist” theology of creation.  A world in which the God of Israel is appropriately transcendent, and yet “related to” creation not only in the order of grace—this could take many theological forms.  For Thomas Aquinas, the order of secondary causality can offer a total account of itself (even when it remains at heart unknown).[4]  It is not clear what it would look like to “invite God” into the university curriculum, or into a new, modern polity.   Disenchantment, at least for St. Thomas, might be a price worth paying for keeping philosophy and theology at the table of scientific wisdom.

The subordination of the divine to natural reason and a mechanistic world-view might be more effectively challenged through the hermeneutic-epistemological approach of Gadamer.  The criterion of certitude, and thus of scientific respectability, has been narrowed: reserved on the one hand to the empirical research of the hard sciences (‘empirical’ construed as quantifiable), and on the other hand to the conscience of Luther, who cried “faith that is not certain, is not faith at all!”  The “failure” of modern philosophy that Gregory diagnoses is at heart a matter of epistemology. Before we issue an invitation to God to return to the university, we must challenge our own disciplinary narratives of self-sufficiency.[5]

My second point, offered to my colleagues with whom I have shared these few weeks of conversation: with all the negatives, I think Gregory stands for us as a good example of a historian mindful of his limitations, even in his willingness to range far and wide in the hope that his story will resonate as truth-telling.  I am inclined to be as negative as Gregory—things are surely getting worse!  (I am waiting for another St. Benedict.)  However, I will offer a word of hope in the form of a non-triumphalist Catholic exhortation to the modern, over-specialized academy.  In 1998, a genuinely odd Polish Pope offered an encyclical to Catholics, particularly academics, which he claimed had special value and significance to him: Fides et Ratio said many things, but most important was the Pope’s conviction that the modern university was a microcosm of spiritual and intellectual malaise at large.  Could this place once again awaken and address the deepest questions of the human spirit?  Who am I?  What am I for?  What are we humans about?[6]  This text was not really about faith, but about human knowing: it was a call to return to a conviction that a) there is truth; b) we cannot know that truth exhaustively, ever, but we can still know things; and c) this truth is more precious than any other thing in life.  The encyclical was John Paul II’s treasured life-work, speaking to the arts, sciences, humanities and the social sciences: look for the truth proper to your discipline; just don’t forget what you are. 

In 2008, a planned lecture by another Pope (at La Sapienza University, Rome) was cancelled due to protests led by faculty.  In the text of this address, the autonomy of the secular university, founded originally by Pope Boniface VIII, was warmly acknowledged.  He claimed nevertheless good reason to speak in such a context, because of his role as Bishop of Rome, but even more because of the moral authority of a Church that could no longer claim anything like political authority in a pluralistic society.  He said it was his task to remind that university that its sole authority was truth.  What is truth?  Good question, and what would the Church have to say?  Well, Pope Benedict XVI talked about Rawls, and Plato’s Euthyphro; he asked, “what is the good that makes us to be true?”  He looks to the university, with its “proper autonomy of reason” embodied above all in the supreme place that Newman gives to philosophy (as the discipline that holds all others accountable to humane reasoning).  But the role of theology is significant: while the academic study of both philosophy and theology draw from a “great dialogue of historical wisdom,” theological reflection above all reminds human reason (“as a purifying force”) that it is limited

There is no tone here of sectarian anxiety over “Catholic Identity”, but a strong confidence that if the disciplines in the academy a) seek to order their work, by their proper principles, to truth-seeking; and b) converse openly, critically and above all humbly with one another, then a significant gesture is being made in the restoration of human culture.  Gregory at the end of his book opposes within Catholic intellectual life the “propositional” to the “participatory” (363).  This may be a true statement about the modern condition.  The reduction of “theological speech” to praxis-theory always runs the risk of ‘historicist black-holes.’  I would not give up too quickly on the transformative power of genuinely contemplative truth, even in the “historical and humanistic sciences.”[7]

PAIGE E. HOCHSCHILD is an Assistant Professor of Theology here at the Mount, and this is her second year full-time. She graduated from King's College and Dalhousie University in Halifax, Nova Scotia, with a BA and MA in Classics; she spent three years at Notre Dame in the Medieval Institute before completing her PhD at University of Durham, England. Her dissertation was last year published by Oxford University Press, "Memory in Augustine's Theological Anthropology." In addition to Patristics and medieval theology, she has recently been doing research in modern Catholic theology and history before, during and after the 'Modernist Crisis.”


[1] Gregory, 363.

[2] Gregory has received plenty of scholarly criticism: from Mark Lilla, for writing an homage to After Virtue while pretending to do history; from Mark Noll, for a narrative that is basically correct, but which fails to lay adequate blame upon the medieval Church; from Dale Van Kley, for being an “unapologetic exercise in Catholic apologetics”; from Thomas Pfau, for inadequate hermeneutic attention to the sources that themselves have shaped the modernity that Gregory laments.,1; for a video of the Lumen Christi event at University of Chicago (May 9, 2012), see; for Van Kley, see; for Pfau, see

[3] 18-9.  By contrast, Gregory does not support argumentatively his use of the term “teleological Christian morality” (233, 244); certainly this is not the only form of distinctively Christian morality.  Does the “fissiparous” genre of this book require the articulation of this teleology in philosophical terms, or not?  Are ‘practices’ (364; 266) enough to bring this morality to light?  On “negative liberty” see Isaiah Berlin, “Two Concepts of Liberty” (1958), upon which Quentin Skinner patterns a “gothic,” Rawlsian (cf. ‘negative’ liberty of) freedom from restraint, as opposed to a positive, “Roman,” republican sort of liberty; cf. “A Third Concept of Liberty,” Proceedings of the British Academy, 117 (2002), 237-68.  By referring to Nietzsche, the association with Gregory is one of method, and not of the historiographical telos of the will-to-power.

[4] Thus Milbank may not constitute the most metaphysically reliable diagnostician of modernity; cf. Summa contra Gentiles 2.18.2, “creation is not a change, but the very dependency of the act of being upon the principle from which it is produced”; and on the non-redundancy of the perspectives of theology and (natural) philosophy, which “considers the proper causes of things… [which] belong to them by nature” (2.4.2).  On the essential unknowability of the “principles of things” see In Aristotelem De Anima, 1.1.15 and J. Pieper, The Silence of St. Thomas (South Bend: St. Augustine’s Press, 1999), 59-65.

[5] To my esteemed colleagues in history, a friendly provocation: yes, Skinner and Pocock admit that, at the end of the day, the historian has to buckle down and tell a story (even if cautiously described as a ‘narrative’).  This acknowledges that the historian must possess a measure of prudence and mature good sense in intuiting the whole that she cannot see materially or linguistically (as Skinner does, for example, at the end of Foundations of Modern Political Thought (1978), where he submits the striking historical generalization/story that “political thought became modern through a process by which ‘the state’ came to be seen as an impersonal structure and not merely an attitude of the ruler…”).  Pocock says that philosophers who do history are no better than “historiosophers”—fair enough, and perhaps Gregory reveals his basically philosophical interests too quickly.  However, the supposition that (all?) philosophers are unaware of the history within which their own questions are formed, precisely by making history into something that of itself generates knowledge and/or wisdom (and not by mere attempts at “relevance”), implies in turn that a good historian is safely committed to “what can be shown or said to have happened.”  Admitting the real danger of writing “historical fiction,” it seems that there is an opposite danger for historians who reckon that they attain “facts” through the methodological assumption that words are deeds—and in so doing, run the risk of making the facts of history to be the interpretation of history.  See J. G. A. Pocock, “Quentin Skinner: The History of Politics and the Politics of History,” Common Knowledge 10:3 (2004), 532-50.

[6] Fides et Ratio, 1.

[7] And I would take a look at Grant, on the university.  Cf. La Sapienza Address: “And that means at the same time that reason, in the end, bows to the pressure of interests and the charm of utility, constrained to recognize it as the ultimate criterion. To put this in terms of the point of view of the structure of the university: The danger exists that philosophy, no longer feeling itself capable of its true task, might degenerate into positivism; that theology, with its message addressed to reason, might become confined to the private sphere of a group more or less sizable. If, however, reason -- solicitous of its presumed purity -- becomes deaf to the great message that comes from the Christian faith and its wisdom, it will wither like a tree whose roots no longer reach the waters that give it life. It will lose courage for the truth and thus it will not become greater but less. Applied to our European culture this means: If it wants only to construct itself on the basis of the circle of its own arguments and that which convinces it at the moment -- worried about its secularity -- it will cut itself off from the roots by which it lives; then it will not become more reasonable and more pure, but it will break apart and disintegrate.”  Accessed at


One of the most fascinating books read by Mount faculty members that has caught the interest of many is Dr. Brad S. Gregory’s (University Notre Dame) book The Unintended Reformation. During the past fall semester, thirty-four members of the Mount faculty participated enthusiastically in three reading groups facilitated by theologians David Cloutier and David McCarthy, and historian Charles Strauss. The members make up approximately 1/3 of the faculty, and participants came from all four of the university’s colleges as well as the seminary. The reading groups have met four to five times each to actively discuss the points brought about from the book, the implications it has on Catholic universities, and interpretations of Dr. Gregory’s message.

On Friday, April 25th, the author of the book Dr. Gregory will be visiting the Mount to give a public lecture at 3:00 PM, followed by a faculty seminar at 5:00 PM. During the faculty seminar, two Mount professors, Dr. Jamie Gianoutsos and Dr. Paige Hochschild, will have the floor to each give a prepared response to Dr. Brad Gregory about the book. Following the responses, Dr. Gregory will respond to the comments. Afterwards, Dr. Cloutier will facilitate questions and answers, as well as general discussion, between the reading groups, respondents, and author.


The book is described as the following:

In a work that is as much about the present as the past, Dr. Gregory identifies the unintended consequences of the Protestant Reformation and traces the way it shaped the modern condition over the course of the following five centuries. A hyperpluralism of religious and secular beliefs, an absence of any substantive common good, the triumph of capitalism and its driver, consumerism—all these, Gregory argues, were long-term effects of a movement that marked the end of more than a millennium during which Christianity provided a framework for shared intellectual, social, and moral life in the West.

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