For centuries, Christian theology held a near-monopoly on explanatory power in the Western world.

It functioned not merely as a system of belief but as the central framework through which reality itself was understood. Theology was the lens for explaining why the world existed and how it operated, blending cosmology, morality, and metaphysics into a single vision rooted in divine purpose. When medieval minds asked why the stars moved, why kingdoms rose and fell, or why suffering occurred, the answer was sought not in nature alone but in the providence and will of God.

Before the emergence of modern science and critical history, Western reasoning was expressed through myth, symbol, and sacred narrative. The world was interpreted analogically, every natural process carrying a moral or spiritual significance. The medieval cosmos was a living tapestry of signs—a “book of nature” written by God, meant to be read alongside Scripture. Allegory and typology shaped understanding more deeply than empirical observation; truth was less about factual correspondence than about participation in a divine order.

This theological imagination gave rise to a culture that reasoned through metaphor and mythopoesis—the creative making of meaning through story. Figures such as Augustine and Aquinas sought coherence between faith and intellect, yet both assumed that theology reigned as the “queen of the sciences,” grounding all other branches of knowledge.

Only with the gradual rise of empirical inquiry and historical criticism did theology’s interpretive monopoly begin to wane. But for much of Western history, theology was not one voice among many—it was the very grammar of understanding, the unifying structure through which humanity’s deepest questions about themselves and the cosmos were posed and answered.

The displacement of theology by science was neither abrupt nor wholly antagonistic. It unfolded gradually, as shifts in intellectual method, cosmology, and confidence in human observation altered how the West conceived of knowledge.

Early modern science emerged from a theological culture—its pioneers were often believers who saw no opposition between studying nature and honoring the Creator. Yet the methods they refined—empirical observation, experimentation, and mathematical modeling—soon generated a new kind of authority.

Knowledge was no longer revealed through divine illumination or Scripture alone, but discovered through the disciplined interrogation of nature itself.

This methodological revolution carried profound implications. Copernicus, Galileo, and Newton did not intend to dethrone God; they proposed that the universe operated according to lawful regularities. Yet in doing so, they displaced the need for immediate divine causation. The heavens no longer spoke symbolically of divine order but moved with measurable precision and impersonal force. The cosmos, once alive with angels and purpose, became a vast mathematical system comprehensible to reason.

The Enlightenment extended this transformation into social and moral realms. Human progress began to seem achievable through rational inquiry rather than through prayer, spirituality, or divine intervention.

History, too, shed its theological frame. The past was no longer interpreted as the unfolding of divine providence but as the product of material, political, and cultural forces that could be studied empirically. This did not necessarily abolish theology but it relocated it—from the public sphere of explanation into the private domain of meaning and value.

By the nineteenth century, explanatory power had decisively shifted. The world no longer needed theology to make sense of its structure. The grandeur of God was increasingly found, if at all, not in the design of nature but in its mysterious intelligibility. In that sense, science did not extinguish theology’s flame but changed its color—from the focused light of authority to the subtler glow of contemplation.

The theological response to the rise of science and modern thought was, in many quarters, marked more by fear and retrenchment than by creative engagement.

Faced with new methods of inquiry that undermined long-held explanatory claims, much of theology turned inward, erecting boundaries rather than expanding horizons.

Nowhere was this more evident than within the Catholic Church of the nineteenth century. In the wake of Enlightenment rationalism and secular revolutions, Catholicism sought stability through authority. The definition of papal infallibility at Vatican I (1870), the infamous Syllabus of Errors (1864), and a flurry of anathemas served to consolidate power around the papal magisterium.

This produced a kind of “papal fundamentalism,” an absolutism that froze theological development for decades. Theologians were discouraged from innovation, biblical scholarship was constrained, and faith was defined increasingly in juridical rather than mystical terms. It was not until the mid‑twentieth century that this ice began to thaw, culminating in the aggiornamento of Vatican II—a long-delayed recognition that defensive certainty cannot substitute for authentic spirituality.

Mainline Protestantism reacted differently but with its own hazards. Seeking relevance, Protestant theologians endeavored to reconcile theology with modern science and scholarship. The adoption of historical‑critical methods, engagement with psychology, and sociological readings of religion yielded genuine insight; Scripture and tradition were examined in new, dynamic ways.

Yet the same project also risked reducing theology to anthropology or cultural commentary. In its effort to remain credible to modern minds, Protestant theology sometimes surrendered its distinctive voice, dissolving transcendence into moralism or therapeutic self-understanding. The very tools that deepened interpretation also tempted theologians to conflate revelation with human insight, leaving faith diluted—more sociological than sacramental, more political than prophetic.

Among evangelical and low‑church Protestants, the opposite tendency prevailed. Alarmed by perceived relativism and cultural erosion, many turned toward literalism, legalism, and an embattled triumphalism. Rejecting scientific and historical study as threats to biblical authority, they built intellectual fortresses of inerrancy and suspicion. This anti-modern posture became a defining identity, but at colossal cost: faith was wrenched from dialogue with reason, leaving a theology increasingly implausible to the educated conscience and alienated from lived experience. By conflating fidelity with rigidity, this movement rendered itself incapable of genuine growth or credible witness in a changing world.

Across these divergent paths—Roman authoritarianism, Protestant accommodation, and evangelical fundamentalism—a common spirit of fear and control prevailed.

Each sought to preserve mastery: Catholics through hierarchy, liberals through intellectual domestication, conservatives through defensive exclusion. The result was a fragmentation of theological imagination and a loss of confidence in the Spirit’s freedom.

Rather than engaging modernity as an occasion for renewed wonder, much of theology hardened into ideology. The damage endures—in wounded credibility, diminished creativity, and a faith too often confused with power or relevance.

One of the most damaging errors in post‑Enlightenment Christianity has been the reification of myth, metaphor, and symbol—the impulse to treat the figurative, poetic, metaphorical, and existential dimensions of Christian claims, insights, and wisdom as if they were empirical descriptions subject to scientific scrutiny.

Before the modern era, theology, liturgy, and devotion thrived in a symbolic register. Sacred stories were not meant to compete with science or history; they gestured toward spiritual truths that transcended literal explanation. But as modern science began to claim explanatory dominance, theology grew anxious.

In response, it attempted to defend its wisdom by translating metaphor into mechanism, parable into physics, and mystery into metaphysical assertion.

This shift transformed theology’s imaginative language into a brittle literalism. Doctrines such as the virgin birth, resurrection, or miracles were once understood as narratives conveying the divine breaking into human limitation—a language of meaning, not mechanics. Under the pressure of modern rationalism, however, theologians and apologists increasingly sought to “prove” these events as empirical facts, emphasizing the physical impossibility of the events as evidence of divine intervention. “It’s a miracle” came to mean not an encounter with mystery, but a suspension of nature’s laws—a claim that could be debated, disproven, or dismissed.

What was originally mythos—a mode of truth through story—and logos—assertions of meaning, were mistaken for scientific propositions competing in the wrong arena.

The result has been both absurd and banal. In defending the mechanics of virgin births, resuscitated bodies, or magic bread, theology has often missed the point of its own poetry. These claims were never meant to describe laboratory events; they were symbolic articulations of divine presence, transformation, and communion.

By reifying them, Christianity not only reduced their spiritual depth but also rendered itself intellectually incredible to modern sensibilities. When myth becomes fact‑claim, it loses its mythic power and becomes a failed science.

Ironically, this literalism was born not of Christianity’s confidence but of its insecurity. Unable to inhabit its own mythic language with trust, theology capitulated to the modern demand for explanation. Yet myth and symbol do not need to be “defended” against reason; they speak a different kind of truth—the truth of the heart, imagination, and moral vision.

The task of theology is not to mechanize the miracle but to interpret it, drawing from its layered meanings a vision of human and divine possibility. Only when Christianity rediscovers the courage to think symbolically again will it recover the depth and wisdom that once made its stories vessels of truth, rather than puzzles for apologetic repair.

What is desperately needed is the revitalization of a theology of meaning.

Contemporary theology is rife with category errors. 

These errors arise when theologians and Christians assume that ancient theological claims are propositional truths, crafted within an Enlightenment mindset of empirical rationality. 

This misstep distorts the nature of Christianity’s foundational claims, many of which were not intended as simplistic, factual assertions but as expressions of truth using metaphor, mythopoesis, and symbolism. 

Theology isn’t competent, nor is it its purpose to comment on evolution, astrophysics, biology, or even history.

Rather, theology examines the same phenomena and analyzes their meaning within the context of its narrative (the kingdom of God).

The Enlightenment, emphasizing reason and propositional clarity, conditions modern thinkers to interpret ancient texts through a lens of literalism and historical accuracy. As a result, many Christians today, especially in Evangelical or conservative circles, interpret theological claims as if they were scientific or historical reports. 

For instance, the six-day creation account in Genesis 1 is often debated as a factual timeline, with young-earth creationists arguing that it refutes evolutionary science. 

However, such assertions and interpretations are the result of a category error. Ancient theological claims, rooted in pre-modern contexts, operated within a different epistemological framework. 

Genesis, written in a mythic style common to Near Eastern cultures, employs poetic language—“Let there be light”—to convey theological truths about God’s creativity and the goodness and coherence of creation, rather than providing a scientific-historical account. 

The seven-day structure mirrors ancient temple inauguration rituals, symbolizing cosmic order rather than literal chronology.

Mythopoesis and symbolism dominate Christianity’s foundational claims. The Virgin Birth, for example, employs the motif of divine birth, a common theme in ancient literature, to signify Jesus’ unique spiritual status, rather than a biological fact. 

These claims were crafted to evoke awe and convey transcendent truths through narrative and imagery, rather than to assert propositional certainty in the Enlightenment sense of certainty.

This category error—treating metaphor and mythopoesis as fact—leads to rigid literalism, which then morphs into theological absurdities, fueling conflicts such as creationism versus evolution or debates over biblical or doctrinal inerrancy. 

Amid the turbulence of modernity, genuine renewal has nonetheless taken root within Christian theology.

The Catholic world, once paralyzed by authoritarian certainty, began to rediscover its own depth through ressourcement—a return to the living sources of Scripture, the Church Fathers, and the early liturgical and mystical traditions. Thinkers such as Henri de Lubac, Yves Congar, and Jean Daniélou sought not novelty but vitality, retrieving the richness of pre‑scholastic Christianity to invigorate theology for the modern age. This nouvelle théologie moved Catholic thought away from rigid neo‑Thomism toward a sacramental and historical consciousness that could breathe again.

The Second Vatican Council (1962–1965) institutionalized much of this recovery. It opened the Church to dialogue with science, other religions, and the modern world, emphasizing revelation as a dynamic encounter rather than a static deposit.

The renewal of biblical hermeneutics, liturgical reform, and the embrace of historical consciousness represented Catholicism’s most significant intellectual leap in centuries. Although these reforms remain contested, they marked a decisive shift from fear toward trust—the conviction that truth need not fear inquiry, and that divine mystery is deepened, not diminished, by engagement with the world.

Among Reformed and evangelical theologians, similar currents have emerged. Figures such as N.T. Wright, Alister McGrath, Karl Barth, Paul Tillich, Jurgen Moltmann, and Miroslav Volf have tempered earlier literalism with historical attentiveness and philosophical sophistication.

Evangelical scholarship increasingly embraces nuanced biblical criticism and ecological, social, and interfaith perspectives—recognizing that fidelity to Scripture demands contextual intelligence rather than rigid citation. Fundamentalism has by no means disappeared, but its absolutism is now challenged from within by more thoughtful voices who see reason, imagination, and faith not as competitors but collaborators.

Mainline Protestantism, conversely, has struggled to sustain coherence or vitality. Despite sincere theological creativity, many of its institutions have withered through cultural assimilation, losing both confidence and distinctiveness. What began as openness sometimes ended as dilution, leaving churches theologically shallow and sociologically fragile. The tragedy lies not in its openness but in its failure to anchor renewal in lived spiritual conviction.

Yet even with these advances, much of Christian theology remains centuries behind on epistemological, metaphysical, and methodological fronts. Too often, it still reasons with pre‑modern categories, converses in antique languages, and defends outdated models of knowledge.

The overall trajectory could be summarized as three steps forward, one step back—with several steps yet needed before theology comes alongside contemporary knowledge and learning.

Theology has begun to recover imagination and humility, but it still labors to reconcile revelation with the discoveries and moral insights of contemporary existence. The task ahead is not preservation, but transformation: to bring Christian insight and wisdom once again into living conversation with a world it helped to imagine but has too long failed to understand.

The damage to Christianity in the modern era is profound and, in large measure, self‑inflicted.

For centuries, the Church’s defensive posture toward science, cultural evolution, and intellectual pluralism has alienated generations who can no longer reconcile faith with what they know of the world.

Many now see Christianity as backward, controlling, even abusive—a religious system more devoted to its own preservation than to truth or compassion. Scandals of power and hypocrisy, from clerical abuse to political partisanship, have confirmed these suspicions. Theology once sought to illuminate conscience and liberate the mind; too often, it now functions as an instrument of denial and control.

The consequence is visible in every measure of cultural trust. Churches across denominations face steep decline not simply because society has grown secular, but because Christianity has forfeited moral and intellectual credibility.

In much of the West, nearly half the population now views it not as a source of healing or wisdom but as an obstacle to social progress. Its perceived hostility toward women’s equality, LGBTQ+ dignity, freedom of thought, and scientific reason has rendered it anachronistic—even dangerous in the eyes of many. When religion demands intellectual closure or moral subservience, it ceases to speak to the modern conscience.

This crisis is tragic, for Christianity contains within its deep tradition a treasury of insights into grace, justice, and the sacredness of personhood. The paradox is that the very gospel that once inspired compassion, education, and reform has been eclipsed by its institutional distortions.

What was meant to liberate has too often enslaved; what was meant to reconcile has divided. Yet the failure is not inevitable—it is historical and therefore redeemable. If Christianity can rediscover its prophetic core—its radical humility, its insistence on truth over fear, and its devotion to love as the measure of all doctrine—it might again offer wisdom capable of renewing culture rather than resisting it.

For now, however, the damage remains deep, and the wounds are largely of the Church’s own making.