I have a confession to make.

For years I wondered why the French seem to talk in circles. I would feel this way in conversations as well as when reading French authors. 

I would pick up a book by Jacques Ellul, René Girard, or Gabriel Vahanian and find myself thinking, Didn’t he already say this? Just when I thought we were moving on to a new topic, the author would circle back to an earlier theme, approaching it from another angle, adding another layer, making another connection. As an American reader shaped by a culture that prizes efficiency, outlines, bullet points, and direct conclusions, I found the experience frustrating.

Why not just get to the point?

It turns out they do it on purpose!

I did not realize this until after I had spent a great deal of time reading French authors. What felt repetitive gradually revealed itself to be something else entirely. These writers were not merely repeating themselves. They were revisiting realities too large, too complex, and too deeply embedded in human life to be captured from a single perspective. Rather than advancing in a straight line, they moved like explorers circling a mountain, viewing the same landscape from different angles until its full shape became visible.

No three writers taught me this lesson more than Jacques Ellul, René Girard, and Gabriel Vahanian.

The twentieth century produced many influential Christian thinkers, but few have proven as enduringly challenging—and rewarding—as Ellul, Girard, and Vahanian. Though they worked in different disciplines, all three wrestled with the crisis of modernity, the seductions of power, and the place of Christian faith in a rapidly secularizing world. Together they offer some of the most penetrating critiques of contemporary culture available to Christian readers.

There is also a reason they are not as widely read in the United States as some of their contemporaries. Reading Ellul, Girard, and Vahanian often feels less like following a straight-line argument and more like entering a spiral. They return again and again to the same themes, revisiting them from different angles, adding nuance, expanding implications, and deepening insights. American readers, accustomed to linear arguments, practical applications, and books that promise “five steps to success,” can find their writing frustratingly recursive.

Ellul rarely presents an idea once and moves on. Whether discussing technique, propaganda, the state, money, or power, he circles repeatedly around the same central concerns. One encounters familiar arguments in book after book, yet each iteration reveals a different dimension of the problem. His work resembles a prophet walking around a city wall, pointing to cracks that others refuse to see. The repetition is intentional. Ellul understood that the forces shaping modern society are so pervasive that they cannot be grasped from a single perspective.

Girard employs a similar pattern. His great insight concerning mimetic desire—the idea that humans learn what to desire by imitating others—appears throughout his corpus. So do his analyses of rivalry, scapegoating, violence, and the biblical revelation that exposes these mechanisms. Readers sometimes wonder why he keeps returning to the same themes. The answer is that Girard believed these patterns lie beneath nearly every aspect of human culture. One cannot simply explain them once and move on. They must be examined through literature, mythology, history, psychology, politics, and theology until their implications become visible.

Vahanian, perhaps the least known of the three, displays the same tendency. His reflections on secularization, the death of cultural Christianity, and the captivity of the church to modern assumptions unfold through a series of recurring themes. He repeatedly challenges readers to distinguish between faith and religion, between the living God and the cultural systems that claim to represent God. His arguments often feel circular until one realizes he is not merely making a point; he is exposing an entire worldview.

For American readers, this recursive style can feel inefficient. We often want authors to get to the point. We prefer conclusions before contemplation, applications before reflection. But these French thinkers are attempting something different. They are not merely conveying information; they are trying to reshape perception. They want readers to see the world differently.

In this sense, reading Ellul, Girard, and Vahanian is less like attending a lecture and more like learning a new language. At first the repetition feels excessive. Over time one discovers that each return to a familiar theme reveals another layer of meaning. What initially appeared redundant becomes cumulative. The insights begin to interconnect. Patterns emerge. Blind spots become visible.

The effort is well worth it.

Ellul helps us understand why technological societies increasingly subordinate human beings to systems. Girard helps us recognize the rivalries and scapegoating mechanisms that continue to fuel conflict, politics, and even religion. Vahanian helps us see how easily Christianity can become domesticated by culture and lose its prophetic voice. Together they offer a profound diagnosis of many of the crises facing the contemporary church and society.

Their books demand patience. They require slow reading, rereading, note-taking, and reflection. Yet perhaps that difficulty is part of their gift. In an age dominated by speed, distraction, and superficial analysis, Ellul, Girard, and Vahanian teach us how to think deeply. They invite us not merely to consume ideas but to inhabit them long enough for them to transform the way we see.

The reader who perseveres will often discover that what first appeared repetitive was actually a form of intellectual and spiritual formation. Like the prophets they admired, these scholars return again and again to the same truths because the human tendency to forget them is just as persistent.

So here is my challenge for the summer.

Put down one of the endless leadership books. Skip one more volume promising success, influence, growth, or the latest technique for navigating a rapidly changing world. Instead, spend a few months in the company of three French thinkers who will almost certainly frustrate you before they enlighten you.

Pick up Jacques Ellul’s Propaganda. Read slowly. Resist the temptation to skim. Allow Ellul to help you see the invisible forces that shape opinions, loyalties, fears, and desires in modern society. You may never watch the news, scroll social media, or listen to political rhetoric in quite the same way again.

Or spend the summer with René Girard’s Violence and the Sacred. It is not an easy book, but few works offer a deeper exploration of rivalry, scapegoating, and the hidden mechanisms that drive human conflict. Girard has a remarkable ability to reveal things that, once seen, cannot be unseen.

Or perhaps take up Gabriel Vahanian’s The Death of God. Long before the phrase became a cultural slogan, Vahanian was wrestling with a profound question: What happens when Christianity becomes so domesticated by culture that it loses its capacity to speak prophetically? His questions are, if anything, even more relevant today than when he first posed them.

Do not expect quick answers. Do not expect a five-point action plan. These books are not designed to be consumed; they are meant to be inhabited. Read them with a pencil in hand. Underline. Argue. Take notes. Read sections twice. When you find yourself thinking, Didn’t he already say this?, keep going. The authors are probably circling back because there is still something important left to see.

The rewards are considerable. In an age of sound bites, outrage cycles, and intellectual shortcuts, these writers teach patience. They teach attentiveness. They teach us to look beneath the surface of things. Most importantly, they help us recognize forces at work in ourselves, our churches, and our societies that often remain hidden in plain sight.

You may not agree with everything Ellul, Girard, or Vahanian wrote. I certainly do not. But I am convinced that anyone who spends a summer wrestling with these three thinkers will emerge with a deeper understanding of the modern world, a sharper awareness of the temptations of power, and perhaps a renewed appreciation for the subversive wisdom of the gospel.

And who knows? By the end of the summer, you may even find yourself talking in circles a little more often—not because you have become French, but because you have learned that some truths are too important, too deep, and too easily forgotten to be stated only once.

So here is my challenge for the summer.

Put down one of the endless leadership books. Skip one more volume promising success, influence, growth, or the latest technique for navigating a rapidly changing world. Instead, spend a few months in the company of three French thinkers who will almost certainly frustrate you before they enlighten you.

Pick up Jacques Ellul’s Propaganda. Read slowly. Resist the temptation to skim. Allow Ellul to help you see the invisible forces that shape opinions, loyalties, fears, and desires in modern society. You may never watch the news, scroll social media, or listen to political rhetoric in quite the same way again.

Or spend the summer with René Girard’s Violence and the Sacred. It is not an easy book, but few works offer a deeper exploration of rivalry, scapegoating, and the hidden mechanisms that drive human conflict. Girard has a remarkable ability to reveal things that, once seen, cannot be unseen.

Or perhaps take up Gabriel Vahanian’s The Death of God. Long before the phrase became a cultural slogan, Vahanian was wrestling with a profound question: What happens when Christianity becomes so domesticated by culture that it loses its capacity to speak prophetically? His questions are, if anything, even more relevant today than when he first posed them.

Do not expect quick answers. Do not expect a five-point action plan. These books are not designed to be consumed; they are meant to be inhabited. Read them with a pencil in hand. Underline. Argue. Take notes. Read sections twice. When you find yourself thinking, Didn’t he already say this?, keep going. The authors are probably circling back because there is still something important left to see.

The rewards are considerable. In an age of sound bites, outrage cycles, and intellectual shortcuts, these writers teach patience. They teach attentiveness. They teach us to look beneath the surface of things. Most importantly, they help us recognize forces at work in ourselves, our churches, and our societies that often remain hidden in plain sight.

You may not agree with everything Ellul, Girard, or Vahanian wrote. I certainly do not. But I am convinced that anyone who spends a summer wrestling with these three thinkers will emerge with a deeper understanding of the modern world, a sharper awareness of the temptations of power, and perhaps a renewed appreciation for the subversive wisdom of the gospel.

And who knows? By the end of the summer, you may even find yourself talking in circles a little more often—not because you have become French, but because you have learned that some truths are too important, too deep, and too easily forgotten to be stated only once.

In Matthew 25:31–46, Jesus tells a sobering parable about the final judgment. The nations are gathered before the Son of Man, and they are separated as a shepherd separates sheep from goats. The criterion for judgment is not doctrinal accuracy or religious affiliation, but practical compassion: “I was hungry and you gave me no food, I was thirsty and you gave me nothing to drink… Truly I tell you, just as you did not do it to one of the least of these, you did not do it to me.”

This is not a peripheral teaching—it is the culminating vision of divine justice in Matthew’s Gospel. It places care for the vulnerable at the very heart of righteousness. And yet, in today’s world—particularly in affluent nations—this teaching is often ignored, spiritualized, or twisted to sanctify systems of neglect.

Over the last forty years, the middle class has seen its purchasing power stagnate, while the upper class has experienced an explosion of wealth. In the 1960s, the average CEO earned about 20 times the wage of a typical worker. Today, that ratio has grown to more than 320 times. This is not simply a sign of economic growth—it is evidence of systemic unrighteousness.

The structure of the current economy increasingly resembles a modern parable of injustice: the upper class profits, hoarding wealth and resources; the middle class is given just enough cake to be numb, distracted by consumer comforts and indebted into silence; and the poor are exploited, their labor undervalued, their dignity overlooked. This isn’t just unfortunate—it’s immoral and evil.

And the moral indictment runs deeper still. In Matthew 25, the condemnation comes not for active malice, but for passive neglect. The damned are stunned—not because they persecuted the poor, but because they simply didn’t see them. They stepped over Christ in the street and never noticed.

This blindness is not accidental. It is cultivated. Our economic systems are built on the myth of meritocracy, suggesting that the rich are deserving, the middle are secure, and the poor are responsible for their condition. This narrative serves to protect those at the top, pacify those in the middle, and shame those at the bottom. It flies in the face of every prophetic word from Scripture.

The Bible speaks of justice not as abstract fairness, but as concrete equity: a world where the hungry are fed, the workers paid, the land rested, the debts forgiven. In the words of the prophets, justice rolls down like waters. In the words of Jesus, the Kingdom of God belongs to the poor.

We do not need the world’s richest men to starve the world’s poorest children. We do not need those in power to exploit their privilege while warning us about the dangers of others. We do not need another sermon from the powerful justifying their own excesses—we need to return to the Gospel that names such excess as sin.

And this must become our ethical compass. Every act of legislation—every budget, tax policy, healthcare law, and immigration reform—must be judged by this same standard: What does it do to the least of these? If it harms the vulnerable, it cannot be righteous, no matter how eloquently the pundits spin it or how loudly the thought police insist that good is evil and evil is good.

A moral economy would not tolerate billionaires who accumulate fortunes on the backs of underpaid labor. It would not justify exploitation as innovation. It would not allow a society to sleep soundly while children go to bed hungry. It would ask, as Matthew 25 does: Do we see Christ in the poor, the sick, the immigrant, and the imprisoned? 

We are not waiting for judgment. We are living in its shadow. The only question is whether we will awaken to mercy in time.

We do not need a new Gospel. We need the courage to live the one we already have.

Throughout history, war has been cloaked in moral language—righteous causes, just retribution, national defense. Yet under the scrutiny of Christian ethics and historic theological reflection, most wars are exceedingly difficult to justify. They are tragic collisions of ambition, fear, and broken humanity. Despite the attempts to cast them as struggles between good and evil, most wars unfold in shades of gray, their moral lines smudged by propaganda, power, and sin. From Augustine to Karl Barth to the radical witness of pacifist traditions, the Church has consistently warned that violence is never righteous, even when necessary.

Augustine of Hippo, living amid the collapse of the Roman Empire, developed the earliest Christian articulation of just war theory. For Augustine, peace was always the ideal; war could only be justified if it met strict moral conditions—declared by legitimate authority, pursued for a just cause, and waged with right intention. Even then, it was always a tragic concession to a fallen world, and Christians were to love their enemies even on the battlefield. War was never to be celebrated, only endured with grief and restraint.

Centuries later, Karl Barth would echo Augustine’s caution with even greater skepticism. Writing in the wake of World War I and the rise of Hitler, Barth denounced the fusion of nationalism and theology that had led churches to bless the machinery of death. For Barth, the Church’s first loyalty must be to the crucified Christ, whose self-giving love unmasked all claims to moral purity in war. While Barth was not a pacifist in the strict sense, he warned that Christians must never speak of war with moral ease or patriotic pride. The cross exposes all violence as a sign of human sin, not divine favor.

And yet, there is a third voice—the radical witness of Christian pacifism—that insists the Church should never condone violence at all. Figures like Menno Simons and Stanley Hauerwas have argued that Jesus’ call to love enemies, turn the other cheek, and lay down one’s life must be taken not just spiritually, but politically and socially. From this perspective, the early Church’s refusal to participate in military service was not naiveté—it was a declaration that the reign of God had come, and it would not be defended with swords.

Taken together, these theological perspectives converge on one central point: war, at best, is a concession to the brokenness of the world; at worst, it is an outright betrayal of the gospel. Most wars, when viewed honestly, are morally ambiguous. They are driven by human pride, institutional fear, and nationalistic fervor. But there are rare, horrifying exceptions—moments in history when evil reveals itself with terrible clarity. Nazi Germany’s invasion of Europe. The genocide in Rwanda. The Ottoman extermination of the Armenians. And now, Russia’s war against Ukraine.

This is not merely a conflict over territory or political alliances. It is a genocidal campaign, marked by ethnic cleansing, the erasure of national identity, and crimes against humanity. Russian state propaganda openly denies Ukraine’s right to exist. It targets civilians, abducts children, bombs hospitals and power plants, and systematically terrorizes entire cities. The goal is not peace but subjugation; not unity but annihilation. This is not the fog of war. This is the fire of evil.

From a Christian ethical standpoint—Augustinian, Barthian, and pacifist alike—this war is morally indefensible. It violates every criterion of just war theory. It mocks the cruciform love of Christ. And it demands that the Church speak with prophetic clarity. Neutrality is not an option. Silence is complicity. The call of the gospel is to stand with the victims, not the victors; to bless the peacemakers, not the war-makers.

But even here—especially here—the gospel must have the final word. The Christian story does not end in war, but in resurrection. Russia’s war against Ukraine will end. Tyrants will fall. The machinery of death will rust. And when that day comes, the Church must be ready. Ready not only to rebuild what has been destroyed, but to proclaim what cannot be destroyed: that Christ is risen, that forgiveness is possible, and that even out of ashes, new life can emerge.

Already, amid the suffering, there are signs of openness to the gospel. In trauma, people ask eternal questions. In displacement, they cry out for a home not made with human hands. And in the face of evil, many are turning toward the only light that the darkness cannot overcome. Let the Church be prepared to meet them—not with slogans, but with presence; not with conquest, but with compassion.

The ethics of war must never be separated from the hope of redemption. And so we affirm: most wars are hard to justify. But some evils are unmistakable. And beyond even the clearest evil, the Church must hold fast to the clearest truth—Christ crucified and risen, the Prince of Peace who will one day end all war.

The gospel of Jesus Christ is inherently subversive, a transformative force that infiltrates and dismantles oppressive systems from within. Its power does not lie in direct confrontation or political revolution but in the radical redefinition of human identity, relationships, and value systems. The gospel subverts by challenging the foundational assumptions of structures built on domination, exploitation, and dehumanization, offering in their place a vision of God’s kingdom where every person is recognized as an image-bearer of God.

At its core, the gospel reshapes relationships, not through external force but by permeating the very heart of unjust systems with its truth. In Christ, traditional hierarchies of power and privilege are overturned. As Paul writes in Galatians 3:28, “There is no longer Jew or Greek, there is no longer slave or free, there is no longer male and female; for all of you are one in Christ Jesus.” This declaration does not erase social distinctions but reorients them—status, ethnicity, and class no longer determine a person’s worth. In this way, the gospel renders oppressive structures untenable, as they cannot coexist with the kingdom’s vision of equality and mutual love.

A prime example of this quiet yet profound subversion is found in Paul’s letter to Philemon. Although Paul does not explicitly call for the abolition of slavery, his treatment of Onesimus, a runaway slave, subtly redefines the moral and social framework that upheld the institution. His words plant the seeds of transformation, ultimately undermining the legitimacy of slavery itself.

Paul’s letter to Philemon is a masterclass in how the gospel operates within oppressive systems, dismantling them from the inside out. Addressing Philemon, a Christian slave owner, Paul intercedes on behalf of Onesimus, a runaway slave who, under Roman law, was Philemon’s property. Legally, Philemon had every right to punish Onesimus severely. Yet Paul’s approach in the letter subtly challenges the very foundation of that legal and social reality.

Rather than issuing a command, Paul frames his appeal in terms of Christian fellowship. He begins by affirming Philemon’s faith and love for fellow believers, shifting the conversation from one of legal obligation to one of spiritual accountability. Paul does not address Philemon as a master, nor Onesimus as a slave; instead, he reminds Philemon that the gospel has transformed their relationship.

At the heart of Paul’s argument is the humanization of Onesimus. He does not refer to him as a slave but as “my son” and “my very heart” (Philemon 10, 12). By using intimate, familial language, Paul challenges the dehumanizing logic of slavery, which reduced individuals to property. Further, he urges Philemon to receive Onesimus “no longer as a slave but more than a slave—a beloved brother” (Philemon 16). This redefinition shifts Onesimus’s status entirely, placing him on equal footing with Philemon within the household of faith.

Even more striking is Paul’s request that Philemon welcome Onesimus “as you would welcome me” (Philemon 17). In the social hierarchy of the ancient world, Paul was a respected apostle, while Onesimus, as a runaway slave, held no status. Yet Paul insists that Philemon extend to Onesimus the same honor and dignity he would offer Paul himself. This request alone radically undermines the master-slave dynamic, replacing it with a model of Christian brotherhood in which social hierarchies are dissolved.

The implications of Paul’s letter extend far beyond the case of Philemon and Onesimus. The gospel’s affirmation of the intrinsic worth and equality of all people exerts a corrosive effect on oppressive structures—not through violent revolution but through the transformation of hearts and relationships. Jesus likens this process to yeast working through dough (Matt 13:33); it is subtle yet unstoppable.

Over time, the seeds planted by Paul’s gospel-centered ethic bore fruit. Though slavery persisted for centuries, the early church’s radical practices—treating slaves and masters as equals in Christ, sharing meals together, and addressing one another as brothers and sisters—laid the groundwork for a new social order. As the gospel continued to permeate cultures, it exposed the contradictions between the ethics of the kingdom and the realities of oppression, compelling believers to challenge and ultimately dismantle systems that devalued human dignity.

Paul’s appeal to Philemon is not merely an isolated case of personal reconciliation; it is a glimpse into the subversive nature of the gospel itself. By transforming relationships, it disrupts structures of power and domination, replacing them with a new order rooted in love, mutuality, and the recognition of God’s image in all people. This is the true subversiveness of the gospel—not an external overthrow of power but an internal transformation that renders unjust systems obsolete.

In recent years, the United States has witnessed a significant decline in the cultural dominance of Christianity. As more Americans identify as religiously unaffiliated, and as Christian influence in the public sphere appears to wane, many within the church have responded with concern, anxiety, and efforts to reclaim lost ground. This reaction is especially evident in the growing entanglement between certain expressions of Christianity and political ideologies, where the faith is often invoked to preserve cultural traditions, national identity, and moral order. However, such responses reflect a misunderstanding of the gospel’s nature. Christianity was never meant to function as a tool of cultural dominance. Rather, the gospel is an apocalyptic and transformative event that calls individuals and communities into a radically new way of life, reconfiguring identity and allegiance under the lordship of Jesus Christ.

Gospel as Revelation, Not Ideology

The term “apocalyptic” often brings to mind ideas of catastrophe or the end of the world, but in its biblical usage, it refers to an unveiling—a divine revelation that discloses ultimate reality. In the New Testament, and especially in the writings of the Apostle Paul, the gospel is portrayed as precisely this kind of unveiling. It is the revelation of God’s righteousness, enacted through the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus Christ. This revelation is not simply a new doctrine or moral code; it is the inbreaking of God’s reign into human history, confronting and transforming everything it touches.

The gospel, then, is not merely a set of beliefs or a religious worldview. It is not a static message to be affirmed but a dynamic event that demands participation. It reshapes how we understand God, ourselves, and the world. As such, it does not exist to affirm the status quo but to disrupt it—especially when the prevailing cultural order stands in opposition to the values of the kingdom of God.

Reconfiguring Identity and Allegiance

One of the most significant ways the gospel functions apocalyptically is in the way it reconfigures human identity. In the Greco-Roman world, one’s value and status were largely determined by ethnicity, citizenship, gender, and class. Paul’s proclamation of the gospel confronted these hierarchies by declaring that in Christ “there is neither Jew nor Greek, slave nor free, male nor female” (Gal 3:28). Such statements were not merely theological abstractions; they were radical redefinitions of what it meant to be human.

In Paul’s theology, to believe in Christ is to undergo a fundamental change in identity. Believers are no longer defined by their previous allegiances or social categories. Instead, they become part of a new humanity, formed in and through the crucified and risen Christ. This identity transcends ethnic, cultural, and political boundaries. It demands loyalty to Jesus as Lord—a claim that stands in deliberate contrast to any allegiance to Caesar, nation, or ideology.

A Challenge to Christendom

Throughout much of Western history, Christianity became entangled with structures of cultural and political power—a phenomenon often referred to as “Christendom.” In Christendom, the church is not simply a community of faith; it is embedded within the state, shaping and enforcing public morality and identity. While this arrangement once gave Christianity significant influence, it also led to a distortion of the gospel. Rather than functioning as a countercultural witness, the church often became a tool of the empire, blessing wars, marginalizing outsiders, and preserving systems of oppression.

In contemporary America, echoes of Christendom remain. Appeals to a “Christian nation,” fears over religious decline, and efforts to preserve cultural dominance through political means all reflect this legacy. However, when the church aligns itself with power in order to protect its position, it risks losing its prophetic voice. The gospel no longer confronts injustice but becomes a justification for it.

The apocalyptic nature of the gospel calls the church to repent of such alliances. It invites believers to return to the disruptive message of Jesus, whose kingdom is not of this world (John 18:36). Rather than lamenting the loss of cultural dominance, the church is called to embrace its identity as a pilgrim people—rooted not in nation or empire, but in the crucified Messiah.

Toward a Transformative Witness

Understanding the gospel as apocalyptic and transformative offers a hopeful and constructive path forward. Rather than fighting to reclaim the center of culture, the church is freed to embody an alternative way of life. It can form communities of reconciliation across racial, social, and economic divides. It can resist systems of violence and exploitation, choosing instead to serve the poor, welcome the outsider, and seek justice for the oppressed.

This is not withdrawal from the world, but engagement on different terms—terms defined by the cross and resurrection rather than by fear or nostalgia. The church is at its best not when it wields power, but when it lives faithfully in the margins, bearing witness to a kingdom that is already breaking into the world.

Conclusion

In a time of cultural upheaval and religious decline, the church must recover the apocalyptic and transformative nature of the gospel. This gospel does not affirm existing power structures; it exposes them. It does not seek cultural preservation; it proclaims new creation. It does not demand political dominance; it calls for radical discipleship. As the American church grapples with its changing place in society, it faces a choice: to cling to the fading privileges of Christendom or to step boldly into the future as a people defined by the inbreaking kingdom of God. Only the latter will allow the church to remain faithful to its calling—and to the Lord it serves.