I have been fascinated not just by Pope Leo’s encyclical Magnifica Humanitas, but by both the Christian and secular response to it.
Fascinated, but not surprised. The encyclical is beautifully written, responding to what I perceive as a deeply felt need in the universal church: to articulate what it means to live as a Christian in a world seemingly dominated by AI and its accompanying ethos. In the encyclical, the Pope offers not just warnings about what ambitious and unchecked technology might do, but celebrates what it means to be human and to be made as human.
That Protestants found as much to admire as Catholics did speaks, I think, to the universality of the theme—and to a deep hunger among believers of all stripes for deep and integrative guidance on what it means to be a Christian in the world.
I can speak only for myself, but what I hear from pulpits and church leaders in my own milieu at times seems less like an integrated vision of life lived for Christ and more like a bullet-point lists of helpful, if scattered, tips on Christian living. At times, “life with Christ” can feel less like a spiritual journey or a call to self-sacrifice and more like the title of a self-help book, wherein a Savior serves as yet another way to maximize our productivity, impact, and satisfaction.
In a world where we are now beset by technologies that many of us don’t love and don’t completely understand, where today’s shocking news is yesterday’s forgotten memory and we are inundated by media at a clip that would have astonished our forebears, believers long for vision: what does it mean, or should it mean, to be Christian in the age of Claude and Gemini and Pangram? How can we think about creativity, the human spirit, the ethics of technology, and the path forward in an age characterized by cruelty, greed, and disregard?
Christians are often dismissed—and sometimes dismiss ourselves—as being contra mundi, against the world, against everything. In our “not of the world”-ness we can risk holding ourselves above and apart as superior, tending to whatever minor phenomenon enter our orbit without caring about anything else. And yet Magnifica Humanitas accomplishes the opposite: it is for the world, for an articulation of the good and the beautiful and the true against the bad and the ugly and the lie. It offers a compelling, even alluring vision of what a truly Christian spirit can look like and represent. This is the lantern, the flame, the city on a hill.
For that reason, or perhaps in spite of it, the encyclical has also caught and challenged non-believers. As I read responses in the secular world to the Pope’s words, I am struck by two common themes:
I’m not a Christian, but…
This is written by a Christian, but you don’t have to be a Christian in order to…
The first is a sheepish acknowledgement, at times a bald confession: I don’t believe in this whole Christianity thing and I find the idea of faith absurd, and yet—something here has captured me as true, as valuable and compelling, and will not release me.
The second is a sort of indignant defense wrapped in admiration. Yes, it acknowledges, this response was penned by the head of the Catholic Church. It is Christian in origin and deed. But anybody can agree with what’s written in it, so can we dispense with the emphasis on faith and belief and stop worrying about how ‘Christian’ it is?
And that, I think, is telling. “Anybody could write or agree with this”—and yet not “anybody” did. A Christian wrote it, from a distinctly Christian milieu. And if you don’t find it to be a distinctly Christian milieu, I suspect that is because not many often encounter Christ in such a way. From the encyclical:
“To eliminate suffering entirely would mean, in the end, extinguishing love and desire as well. Those who love and desire cannot avoid passing through trial and suffering; and over the years, we carry within us lessons that leave their mark like scars, the memories of a journey shaped by freedom and failure, dreams and disappointments. … To renounce this adventure, both tragic and splendid, in the name of a presumed transcendence of all limits, could mean many things, but it would no longer be human.”
Christ haunts every word: Lover, Chaser of Lost Sheep, Man of Sorrows. A faith that worships the God who became incarnate, who bears the scars of his own death, cannot but see the dignity in the human life, frail and flickering as it is. Cannot but attribute the transcendence of all things to God and God alone.
There is a Tolkienesque aspect to the encyclical, and not just because the Pope quotes Tolkien. It’s because, in the same way that Lord of the Rings does, the encyclical manages to both capture and translate to others, in a meaningful way, a vision of what Christianity can look like. Of what believers can and must do. Of what we represent.
The truth can be beautiful and compelling—the light of God, deeply desirable. I’m always grateful for those pieces of art and writing or other created works that, in some small way, open a door for others to what could be. In a world where Christianity and Christ are so well-known as to be nearly trite, a refreshing look at holy promise, at the richness and joy and values of holy life, means everything.
Samaritan's Song 