Faith Among the Fractures

Introduction: A World Unravelling 

There are moments in history when the ground shifts beneath our feet, leaving us disoriented, uncertain of where we stand. I remember the fall of the Berlin Wall in 1989. I was 18, newly arrived at university, and the air seemed charged with promise. The 1990s, in my memory, were bathed in a kind of perpetual sunlight, a decade where democracy expanded, technology wove the world closer together, and the future shimmered with possibility. Labour’s anthem, Things Can Only Get Better, captured the buoyant optimism of the age. Some even spoke of the ‘end of history.’ 

Yet, less than four decades on, the world feels as though it is teetering on the edge of a precipice. War has returned to Europe, artificial intelligence advances with little regard for its consequences, corporate power grows unchecked, and trust in democratic institutions erodes. Many young people now question whether democracy is worth preserving at all. The optimism that once defined the post-Cold War era has given way to something far more anxious and fearful. 

The war in Ukraine is a grim reminder that history does not march inexorably toward utopia but is instead exposes the ambitions of rulers and the fragility of nations. The technological revolution, once heralded as a great equaliser, has concentrated power in the hands of a few, raising profound questions about human agency and moral responsibility. Innovations like artificial intelligence, over which most of us have no say, are reshaping our world at an astonishing pace. Many predict that within 3-5 years, we’ll see the arrival of general AI—perhaps the most transformative development in human history. 

And what of the Church? Once a key voice in public life, it now finds itself sidelined by secularism, undermined by scandal, and fragmented by the culture wars. We’re called to be a visible sign of unity in Christ, yet we mirror the fractures of the world. How, then, do we bear faithful witness in an age marked by tragedy, fear, and technological hubris? 

This question has been weighing on me. When I’m out walking the dogs, or speaking with those I minister to, I’m struck by how many feel anxious about the uncertainty of it all and impotent to do anything about it. The world hasn’t felt this febrile since the fall of the Berlin Wall, but instead of hope, many are gripped by despair. So, I find myself wondering: what does it mean to be faithful, not just successful, in a world slipping beyond our control? 

I don’t claim to have answers. But I think best through my fingers, so I’m writing—laying out my thoughts in a series of blog posts—as an invitation to think together, to explore what it might mean for the Church to bear faithful witness in a time such as ours. 

Over the coming posts, I’ll explore three interwoven themes: the tragic nature of history, the unchecked force of technological change, and the possible dawn of an age of pessimism. And through it all, I want to ask—where does the Church stand in this shifting landscape? How do we remain faithful, and hopeful, even now? 

To clarify my initial thoughts, allow me briefly to outline the thesis of each post in this series. 

I. The Tragedy of History: The Fragility of Human Endeavour 

Imagine a future where humanity’s hubris has plunged us into a new dark age. It’s easy if you try. Our story of progress wouldn’t end in triumph but in tragedy. Would we start to see history not as a march towards enlightenment but as a cycle of hubris and downfall? What if enlightenment itself contained the seeds of our undoing?

I’m not suggesting this is the only way to see history, but such a perspective forces us to rethink our narratives. We’ve long told ourselves a story of progress—from ignorance to knowledge, oppression to freedom. But that story is unfinished and until we know its ending we can’t really judge if it’s a comedy or a tragedy. More to the point, to say see history as tragic is to recognise how our victories are invariably implicated in our failures. The Greeks gave us democracy and philosophy but built their society on slavery and war. Rome imposed order through conquest, only to succumb to decadence and ruin. The Industrial Revolution brought prosperity but also exploitation and environmental destruction. Even the 20th century, for all its advances, witnessed world wars, genocide, and the ever-present threat of nuclear annihilation. Time and again, triumph and tragedy are woven together. 

Today, we see these patterns repeating. War in Ukraine and political turmoil in the US have shattered the illusion of a stable global order. Climate change threatens life itself. Technology, once a force for liberation, is increasingly a tool of control. Democracy—something we once took for granted—feels more fragile than ever. 

To see history as tragic isn’t to dismiss human achievement or to succumb to despair. Rather, it’s to acknowledge that every victory comes with hidden costs, that progress often carries suffering in its wake, and that no civilisation is immune to decline. This isn’t cause for despair but for humility—a humility that allows us to face our time’s challenges with clear eyes and mature judgement. 

II. The Undemocratic Force of Technological Development 

The digital age was supposed to be a great equaliser. The Internet, we were told, would empower individuals, democratise knowledge, and foster a more connected and informed society. Artificial intelligence, automation, and social media platforms were expected to enhance human agency and economic opportunity. Yet the reality has been far more complex—and, in many ways, far more troubling. 

Technology is no longer a neutral tool; it has become an undemocratic force shaping every aspect of our lives, often without our consent or understanding. The world’s most powerful companies—Google, Meta, Amazon, Microsoft—control vast networks of information, profoundly influencing what we see, how we think about ourselves, and even what we believe. Algorithms, designed to maximise engagement, have deepened social polarisation and eroded trust in truth itself. 

In the workplace, automation threatens to replace millions of jobs, leaving workers powerless against economic forces they cannot control. AI models, built by a handful of elites, make decisions that affect people’s lives without transparency or accountability. As history has shown, power tends to concentrate, and those who control the tools of production—whether in the industrial age or the digital age—shape the fate of entire societies. 

The problem is not technology itself, but the fact that its development and deployment are driven by profit and control, not by democratic deliberation or moral responsibility. If unchecked, the continued rise of artificial intelligence and corporate surveillance will only deepen existing inequalities and strip individuals of their agency. In this new world, where do we find our voice? How do we resist a system that seems too vast to challenge? 

III. From Optimism to Pessimism 

Anxieties about climate change, the sense of an increasing loss of agency, and the massive cracks now appearing in the global world order of the past 80 years are causing the Enlightenment’s confidence in human reason and progress to fray. Only recently, figures like Barack Obama could echo Martin Luther King, Jr’s conviction that the arc of history bends towards justice. Yet many now find that hard to believe, and some would rather it didn’t bend that way at all. 

In place of the threadbare belief in progress, there now arises a pervasive pessimism—a sense that the future is not something to be anticipated with hope but met with increasing anxiety. Climate change threatens the very stability of our planetary ecosystem. Technology, once seen as the primary engine of progress, is increasingly recognised as a source of surveillance, disconnection, addiction, and manipulation. Democratic institutions are faltering, economic systems are under strain, and for many, the promise of social mobility has turned into a cycle of precarity. One of the starkest indications of this new pessimism is the growing number of young men and women doubting whether even to have children. 

When the dominant worldview assures people that history is a straight road towards human mastery and utopian stability, any disruption to that narrative breeds despair. The crises of the 20th century—two world wars, economic collapses, genocides—were supposed to be aberrations, lessons from which we would learn and improve. But the 21st century is proving more complicated, and people are beginning to suspect that progress, at least as we have imagined it, is neither linear nor guaranteed. Instead, we are rediscovering what older civilisations always knew: that human history is cyclical, that human nature is flawed, and that manmade utopias are elusive. 

IV. Bearing Faithful Witness: The Church as a Community of Hope 

So where does the Church stand in all this? If history is tragic, if technology is out of control, and if optimism is giving way to despair, how do we bear faithful witness? 

It’s tempting to think that faithful witness means reclaiming power, rebuilding influence, or finding some way to force the world to listen again. But that’s not the path we’re called to, even if it were still possible. Instead, we are called to be a people of hope. 

Hope, theologically understood, is not the same as optimism. Optimism assumes things will get better; hope trusts that even in the darkest times, God’s purposes will not be thwarted. It is the hope of the exiled Israelites, who built homes and planted gardens in Babylon. The hope of the early Christians, who held fast to their faith even under persecution. The hope of those who, throughout history, have borne witness not through dominance but through faithful endurance. 

To be a community of hope is not to deny the reality of the world’s brokenness. It is to live as a people who believe that, despite tragedy, despite injustice, despite the forces arrayed against us, God’s kingdom is real and coming. It is to bear witness not through grand proclamations but through the way we live together—showing the world what it looks like to love, to serve, to hold fast to the truth even when it seems foolish. 

This kind of witness doesn’t depend on the Church speaking with one voice or regaining cultural influence. It depends on small, faithful communities embodying hope in a world that is losing it. It means refusing to be drawn into the despair of the age, not because we are naive, but because we know that even in the darkest moments, God is at work. 

In the next post, I’ll explore what it means to read history through the lens of tragedy—and how this can shape our understanding of faithful witness. In the meantime, if you’d like to engage with me on this topic—or tell me why my view is wrong—then leave a comment below. I’d also be grateful for any suggested books, articles, or columns that might help develop my thinking. Although my main aim is simply to be a better priest, who knows, all this might one day become a book.