Review of Five Views on Christian Nationalism

Book Author: Douglas Wilson, Joe Rigney, Paul D. Miller, R. Albert Mohler Jr., & R. R. Reno

tags: Christian, leadership, philosophy, politics

The bogeyman in the modern political sphere is the man or woman who is caught in the open with his beliefs in plain sight, especially if those beliefs happen to be part of conservative Christianity. The words Christian nationalism are tossed about anytime someone appeals to biblical ethics, or addresses their faith in a public way, making demands of others based on it. It is also clear that the founders of America did not want a political realm where Christianity, or any other religion for that matter, was state-enforced. The wall of separation between church and state, overused and misunderstood, was nonetheless true Jeffersonian language, coming from the same man who had confessed “nature and nature’s God” in the Declaration of Independence.

Yet while progressive news agencies and liberal, or illiberal, politicians toss these terms around irresponsibly, there is a legitimate debate happening inside a certain circle of Christianity on whether to embrace the term once and for all and stand for it amid the negative onslaught. In Five Views on Christian Nationalism, five prominent Christian leaders lend their considerable talent and authority to investigating and debating the questions surrounding this debate: what is a nation? Can a nation survive without an ontological basis? Is America a creedal nation? Who are the enemies, and what is the problem that we face? What is the solution to that problem? Can Caesar be entrusted with the keys to the kingdom? Two Baptists, Al Mohler and Paul D. Miller, two Presbyterians, Joe Rigney and Douglas Wilson, and one Catholic, R. R. Reno, take on this issue in what may be the authoritative debate on the merits and demerits of Christian nationalism written this decade.

Instead of allowing the reader to hide behind vague terms, the authors clarify exactly what they mean by Christian nationalism and exactly what they do not mean. The catch? They don’t all agree. For starters, the authors disagree on what a nation even is. Is it a nation-state, as we have seen in the modern political world, especially since the rise of the so-called right to self-determination in the twentieth century? Or is it simply a diverse group, or group of groups of people, united under a common government? Paul Miller is the only one of the five to give an actual definition of Christian nationalism that would survive etymological scrutiny, though all define it throughout the process of writing their essays. “Christian nationalism” is, then, a collection of beliefs about nation and state: it is the belief that one’s nation and culture is definitionally “Christian” in some sense; that it should remain Christian; and that the government has a legitimate role keeping it that way.

But what is a nation? Joe Rigney defines nation as the following: “a people marked out by a combination of 1) shared ancestry, 2) shared history and experience, 3) a common language, literature, culture, customs, and religion, 4) a shared attachment to a particular land and place, and 5) a common law and ruler.” Further, as Rigney notes, the biblical terms used in this argument are the words goy (for nation) and am (for people). Rigney equates the two, as Mohler, Reno, and Wilson would agree, but Paul Miller offers a counterattack to such a view. Noting that Rigney infers their synonymity, rather than proving it, Miller argues that while the words goy and am are used together in the Bible, in Isaiah, for example, they are not collapsible into a singular word, serving rather as cumulative parallelism, that is, their use is to make a point, not to make an equation. That nations are present in a significant way in the biblical account is undisputable. It does not follow automatically, however, that the Bible provides us with a detailed definition of what constitutes a nation in the modern political sense. Scripture may affirm the reality and providential significance of peoples without giving Christians a single, comprehensive political definition of nationhood.

The problem with both Rigney and Miller’s argument is that they both assume more than the evidence gives. Rigney assumes that goy and am are synonyms, which lends credibility to his argument for Christian nationalism, while Miller assumes that they are not synonymous, thus boosting his interpretation against Christian nationalism. Either could be right, and the other wrong, but the evidence cited isn’t conclusive either way.

This leads to the next question. Is America a nation like any other? At the outset, it would seem that the Christian nationalists are committed to America’s exceptionality as a Christian nation, while Miller is arguing against it, but this again is a misconception. On the contrary, those arguing for Christian nationalism seem to base their argument on proving the definition of nation and therefore proving what America must be, dismissing out of hand the idea that America could be anything other than a mere nation. While Miller doesn’t defend American exceptionalism per se, he does defend American creedalism, that is, the idea that the United States gains its identity not in its ethnicity, geography, or culture, but in its propositional nature, something which is not true of most other nations, a fact which must be readily admitted with a simple glance at history. Miller’s argument rests on what he sees as both the basis and the solution for the American experiment, what he terms natural law republicanism. It is these ideas: that all men are created equal, endowed by their Creator, and so on and so forth, which give America its creedal nature and its unique opportunity for religious liberty, freedom, and unprecedented opportunity. Nor is this only Miller’s argument, for America has long been seen as different by a large portion of the world. British thinker and wit G. K. Chesterton wrote that “America is the only nation that is founded on a creed.”

This is where the Christian nationalist critique of creedalism has considerable force. It is one thing to say that America is founded upon propositions; it is another to assume that propositions can sustain themselves indefinitely once the worldview that gave them meaning has been discarded. “All men are created equal” is a proposition. But why are they equal? Why does every human being possess inherent dignity? Why are rights natural rather than merely granted by the state? Why should government be limited? Why should the majority be restrained from violating the rights of the minority? The Declaration provides answers, or at least clues toward answers, but those answers are not philosophically neutral. They rest upon a particular understanding of nature, morality, and God. This is the ontological basis for America, a basis which, argues R. Albert Mohler, is not religiously neutral, but is based on Christianity. Of course, Miller does not deny the Christian basis of the nation: the disagreement comes over whether America should confess its identity publicly or, as Mohler urges, enshrine Christianity, or an admission of its necessity, into the US Constitution. A counterargument to Mohler is that reading the founders as exclusively Christian ignores the effect of the Enlightenment, and of thinkers such as John Locke and Algernon Sidney on the Founding Fathers. Yet even Locke and Sidney were manifestly operating within a Christian worldview, as when Locke urges banning atheists from holding public office, pushing for a Christian understanding of man and his role in society.

Reno, Wilson, and Rigney, all in different ways, attack the idea of America as a creedal nation based on a simple argument. If America is based on a creed, and its creed gives it its identity, then those who attack its creed therefore forfeit their right to be called Americans. This is a logically sound and compelling argument, which, unfortunately, Miller doesn’t take the time to respond to, but it does have one weak spot. The argument would be true if it were just any ideal, or any proposition, yet as Miller notes, it’s a particular proposition, that of the dignity of every individual, that is the basis of the creedal nation theory. To put it succinctly, the right to attack the creed is the creed: freedoms of liberty, of expression, and of religion are a natural outflow of the imago Dei endowed on each man and woman.

Moving on, the main question in this book is what to do about the modern threat to American identity. Whether that identity is primarily Anglo-Protestant, merely Christian, or liberal, the authors disagree, but all agree that the identity must be defended. To a large extent, all five agree on what the threat is: the forces of secularism or of anti-Westernism, Islam, communism, the creed of the sexual revolution, each of which, in its own way, rejects some portion of the moral and philosophical inheritance of the West. The disagreement is less over whether America is facing a serious crisis than over how that crisis should be understood and what Christians ought to do about it.

For Rigney and Wilson, the Presbyterians, who by and large agree, the solution is Christian nationalism. Both are postmillennialists, holding that the task of the Christian is to further the gospel of Christ until every square inch of the world is under his physical dominion, whereupon the earth will be ready to receive its King. Although only a simplistic statement of postmillennial eschatology, this idea figures prominently in their defense of Christian nationalism. It’s based on a simple argument: that if Christ is truly in control of all, then that all must include the governments of the world, which are also subject to his rule. For Rigney and Wilson, the question is not whether Christians should attempt to make Christ Lord over the nations. Christ already is Lord over the nations. The question is whether Christians are obligated to recognize and advance that reality in the political order. Their answer is essentially yes.

This position has obvious internal coherence. If Christ is Lord of all, then there can be no genuinely autonomous sphere of life over which Christ has no claim. The Christian cannot say that Christ is Lord of his marriage but not his politics, Lord of his private morality but not his understanding of justice, Lord of his family but not his government. If the Christian faith makes comprehensive claims about reality, then political life cannot be carved out as a permanently Christian-free zone. This idea notwithstanding, a problem remains, for asserting that Christ is King of all doesn’t exactly tell us how his vassals, the Caesars whom he has left in charge, should rule best, or even if they should acknowledge him. Because Rigney and Wilson are Presbyterians and paedobaptists, however, they approach this question from a conception of the Christian community that differs in important respects from a credobaptist one. In Presbyterian covenant theology, the children of believers are included within the visible covenant community and receive baptism as members of that community. Christianity is therefore not conceived merely as a voluntary association of individuals who have each made an independent profession of faith. This makes it more natural for Presbyterians to speak of a Christian people or society rather than merely of individual Christians living within an otherwise religiously neutral political order. If the political community itself is understood as capable of being Christian, then there is far less conceptual difficulty in saying that Caesar, too, ought to recognize the authority of Christ. Reno, a Catholic, would likely agree in general with such a view.

Christian Nationalism is not, for any of these three men, about coercion. None is in favor of mandating Christianity for citizenship, for this will inevitably cheapen the redeeming message of Christianity, but they are in favor of changing society to reflect a Christian understanding, both of man, Anthropos, and of the goal of man, telos.

This distinction is important because it separates Christian nationalism as understood by Rigney and Wilson from the caricature of a theocratic state in which Christianity is imposed by force. Their argument is not that the state should manufacture Christians, but that Christians should seek to order the political community according to the truth claims of Christianity. In other words, the goal is not the conversion of Caesar by the sword, but the submission of Caesar to a reality that, in their view, is already objectively true: Christ is King. It is, in many ways, Christendom 2.0, as Wilson calls it. Not under a pope or a monarch, though it could certainly work in such a way as well, but with the church in the center, and the kingdom surrounding the church.

Here is where Miller’s arguments come back in force. If Caesar is to become the enforcer of Christianity in making its view of telos the standard for the state as well as the church, how confident can we be that Caesar will not misuse the keys? As a political scientist, demonstrating the historical and political realities of more abstract ideas is where Miller’s attack on Christian nationalism really starts to make some headway. By enshrining Christianity in the current Constitution, would that not give the Supreme Court the authority to decide who Christ was, or what Christianity was about? While all the advocates of this form of nationalism steer clear of the pitfall of allowing for an official state church, Caesar is still given an extraordinary amount of power, in Miller’s view, to define what constitutes blasphemy, which Mohler, Reno, Wilson, and Rigney all wish to criminalize, to determine the boundaries of acceptable religious discussion, and ultimately to decide which version of Christianity is sufficiently accurate to merit the approval and defense of the state. The problem is not that Caesar might become a Christian, the problem is that Caesar might wish to be the pope. By his very nature, argues Miller, Caesar, like Sauron, does not share power. History, too, gives little reason to assure us that even the most well-meaning Caesar could remain helpful to Christianity for long. Christian nationalism assumes and requires, he posits, a Caesar who is both sincerely Christian and willing to submit his own power to the power of a higher being. Such a man is not impossible to find, but he is extremely difficult to keep, especially across generations.

What is Miller’s alternative? The natural law republicanism of the founders. “Republicanism,” he writes, “is nature’s government.” Because the church should be preoccupied with the spiritual state of man, and the government with the outward state, or how he behaves himself, the moral order of general revelation proves sufficient for the ordering of human society. Appealing to Romans 1 and St. Paul’s defense of the law written on the hearts of the Gentiles, Miller’s point is that the founders knew exactly what they were doing in starting the nation: they didn’t make it secular in the modern sense, but they didn’t make it explicitly religious either, and this was not an error; not a bug, but a feature. It is natural law which can give us the basis for our laws, our constitutions, and which gives enough ontological grounding for all of this: it is an acknowledgement of the Creator, which does not specify what Creator, a defense of the imago Dei, without specifying what image and what God it is, but admitting that both are present. Miller gives another authoritative definition when he writes that natural law is “the moral order of creation, applicable across time and culture, for all peoples and all nations, available to the rightly trained human reason without special revelation.”

Wilson comes back swinging, asking how exactly the state, or Caesar, can understand the natural law, but not understand the clearly spelled-out commandments of the Old and New Testaments? If he cannot be relied upon to interpret Christianity well, how much less natural law? Miller responds by not responding: he says simply that the questions about how to ground natural law are exactly the questions that should be asked once we have agreed on the natural law framework. This is perhaps Miller’s weakest answer, but he goes on to say that natural law is not meant as a systematic course on theology. It isn’t an endless investigative process whereby more knowledge can be acquired and a better understanding gained. Rather, it must be the basis for all future conversations themselves. Miller does not seem to be arguing for the superiority of natural law over special revelation; rather, he seems to be taking a more prudential approach: natural law republicanism is superior to Christian nationalism not in that it sounds better, but in that it works.

Reno, the lone Catholic contributor to the book, makes some excellent points concerning nationhood. Ironically, though he argues against a creedal nation, several of his arguments could be used to defend precisely such a doctrine. A nation is, in his opinion, bound together by civic friendship, and he quotes Aristotle in asserting that the friendship is stronger the more friends agree on the highest good. Because of this, argues Reno, a nation bound together by a common religious faith is stronger than one lacking such a faith. He quotes G. W. F. Hegel, who wrote in his Philosophy of History that “Religion is the sphere in which a nation gives itself the definition of that which it regards as the True.” Reno proves helpful in showing the necessity of, as Mohler also points out, an ontological and religious grounding. What he does not say, and what he cannot prove based on the premises, is how such a religious faith should be presented, whether as the official stance of the state, or a bottom-up approach, by the virtue of the people.

Reno then commits the error common in post-liberal philosophy. Like Patrick Deneen, Reno is unsatisfied with liberalism. Like Deneen, Reno attempts to show that the classical liberal experiment of Locke, Sidney, and the founders led to the secularization and progressive radical individualism of the modern day. Of course, this is an interesting philosophical point, but it’s horrendously unhistorical: the fathers of progressivism, be it in education or in politics, denied the very principles of liberalism which Deneen and Reno point to as the basis of their philosophy. John Dewey and Woodrow Wilson, who began the progressive movement, rejected the natural rights liberalism of Locke and Sidney, so to equate the two is to engage in a false historical comparison. Now, admittedly, Reno doesn’t make this exact argument in the book, but his skepticism of the liberal experiment and his position that liberalism itself led to the modern crisis is easy to see and easier still to trace. Mohler, too, seems to be affected by Deneen’s theories, believing that liberalism is not sufficient, even with a Christian basis, as Locke gave it, for the preservation of society. Next, Reno proposes the solution by saying that “It is entirely proper for the magistrate to concern himself with the common good of the people and not only their individual rights.” Except that this gives the magistrate, or Caesar, the power to define what he ought not to define, namely, what is the common good, and who are the people?

While the arguments being aimed at both sides are strong and verge on impolite, none lack in their professionalism. Each side, each contributor, seems to know exactly what he is talking about and exactly what the other is talking about. Unlike many discussions on this topic, the authors don’t talk past each other, but to each other, giving a stronger flavor to an otherwise courteous debate. Mohler and Rigney clearly have their theological and historical strengths, in being able to explain historical Protestantism in the Reformed tradition and explaining the concepts of government of figures ranging from Augustine to Calvin to Kuyper. Miller excels in his political philosophy, connecting it to a particular vision of human anthropology and Noahic duty. Using the arguments of David VanDrunen, among others, Miller is by far the strongest in understanding the practical side of the argument. Wilson and Reno stand in the middle of the pack, which is uncommon for both. Provocative statements aside, Wilson’s arguments are complex and can occasionally become difficult to trace, but his conclusion is, as usual, well-thought out, if not necessarily politically correct. Reno, too, though the obvious weaknesses of post-liberalism are in full view of the reader, is good at understanding and explaining the importance of nationhood to the social imaginary of a people. The armor of all is well-positioned, but so are the arrows of their opponents, which makes for a memorable fight between allies in a common cause.

It would be unfair of those opposed to Christian nationalism to reject Wilson, Rigney, and Mohler’s arguments out of hand. The seriousness and well-rounded theological tradition which they use to back it up makes the argument unavoidable, and the reader will at times feel like the whole world is spinning with the implications of the argument. Likewise, for those of a Christian nationalist persuasion, to ignore the arguments of Paul Miller is to risk political suicide. In the end, the argument may still be unanswered in Christian circles, discussions will likely continue, but no one will be able to say that they don’t know what to think. This book helps make up your mind, one way or another, and it does it FAST!

Review Written by Caleb A. Gerber

August 25th, 2026

Review of The Way of the Shepherd

Book Author: Kevin Leman

tags: Christian, leadership 

The Way of the Shepherd is a short, modern fable that tells the story of fictitious business executive Theodore McBride, the retiring CEO of General Technologies (an obvious take on General Electric). A young reporter is selected to interview McBride, who shares his “seven secrets” for managing and leading people. The opening and concluding chapters feature the reporter’s first-person narration, but the middle sections shift to a young Theodore (Ted) narrating the events—the reader is taken back in time, as if Ted were experiencing the events for the first time. Ted is a young, ambitious MBA student in Texas who has just been hired to manage a team of nine people at General Technologies (the company we already know he will one day lead). His professor, Dr. Neumann, takes Ted under his wing by agreeing to teach him seven lessons about managing people. The lessons unfold in a surprising manner, centered around Dr. Neumann’s flock of sheep in the Texas hill country. As graduation approaches, Dr. Neumann shares a series of seven teachings that allude to (but never explicitly credit) scriptural principles and metaphors, such as Psalm 23 and John 10. The story is not overtly spiritual, but believers will be quick to identify the biblical overtones.

Readers accustomed to drama and climax will likely be disappointed. Much like a parable, the fable intends to impart wisdom rather than entertainment. The story, characters, and dialogue are somewhat predictable and one-dimensional. In many ways, it reads more like a self-help book than a true story. The lessons contained in its pages are not new or groundbreaking; rather, they are timeless and deeply rooted in godly wisdom. The story generally avoids addressing specific situations in the workplace, focusing instead on broadly applicable principles for effective management. Readers will likely not be surprised—but they will be challenged to adopt high standards of character and take on the real challenges of leadership. The text addresses many aspects of leadership, such as engaging, knowing, caring, correcting, guiding, and developing those who work for you. It elevates the role of leader from “decision maker” or “boss” to that of “shepherd”—one whose heart is fully set upon those he leads.

Leman & Pentak’s fable is a must-read for new, seasoned, and veteran managers alike who want to do more than simply “manage,” who desire to cultivate an environment where humans (like sheep) can thrive.

Review Written by Kyle Streitmatter

August 24th, 2026

Review of Blaise Pascal: The Man Who Made the Modern World

Book Author: Graham Tomlin

tags: history, biography, philosophy 

Few philosophers stand at the intellectual crossroads of humanity like Blaise Pascal. Few are so poignant, centuries after their death; few stir the heart as much, and few ask the questions that Pascal asks. Nearly a universally beloved figure, cited by Christian thinkers such as T. S. Eliot and by atheists such as Friedrich Nietzsche, in many ways, Pascal acts as the catalyst for the modern debates raging today and which have raged in the centuries following his brief but influential life. The Enlightenment vs. Romanticism; Christianity vs. rampant atheism; skepticism or rationalism; predestination or free will? In this newest biography of this prominent intellectual, author Graham Tomlin places Pascal within his intellectual and cultural time, yet posits that his ideas are as relevant in our age as they were to his. Mathematician, physicist, apologist, and Christian thinker, Pascal inhabited a world in which the old synthesis of faith, philosophy, and nature was beginning to fracture, even as the new scientific enterprise was taking shape.

Tomlin argues that it was part of the collapse between the scientific world and the metaphysical brought about by Descartes that led to the latter skepticism of figures like David Hume. The problem with this is that Descartes was a rationalist; that is, someone who believed not in the empirical or scientific world, but in the rational world. Whereas Hume certainly collapsed the two into one, Descartes did not. Tomlin actually points this out earlier in the book when he writes that “Descartes’ vision of human life was deeply intellectual, almost as if the body does not really matter.” This suggests that Pascal, in science if not in metaphysics, was far more of an empiricist than a rationalist, which helps to explain both Descartes’ disdain for Pascal and Pascal’s contempt for Descartes. Tomlin’s point on collapsing the empiric world with the metaphysical, or the scientific with the religious, is certainly worth taking into consideration. He argues that had this collapse not occurred and had Pascal’s separation of the two been considered, perhaps this would have prevented the rise of modern atheism.

The problem with Pascal’s division, however, is precisely the one that Thomas Aquinas had to dispute with five centuries earlier in Latin Averroism and which would again manifest itself post-Aquinas in nominalism. This is the division between science or philosophy and theology, which led to the creation of two completely separate worlds which had nothing to say about each other. Although Pascal certainly did not go as far as to say that the two did, or could, contradict each other, separation certainly leaves this possibility open to the point where reason loses all point. Tomlin also argues that when seeking evidence for God from a scientific standpoint, Pascal’s contemporaries could find nothing unambiguous, and so embraced atheism, yet this presupposes that those who searched for unambiguous evidence were coming from the empiricist viewpoint: seeing science, or that which could be proven by the senses, as the only things which could be considered “unambiguous.” This ignores the teleological, ontological, and other classical arguments for the existence of God which are by no means unambiguous, but which would, in turn, only work if one assumes the Thomistic understanding that, though it begins with the senses, reason can lead to metaphysical conclusions.

An important distinction which Tomlin makes is that Pascal did believe that there was room for reason and argumentation. “Similarly, he thinks there is a role for reason and evidence in confirming the truth of the Christian religion – he just doesn’t think it can get you there in the first place.” Pascal believed that Christianity was the religion which best fit the facts, though there is still a question about whether Pascal believes the facts fit Christianity. Pascal also argued that there were things that had to be accepted in what Kant would call a priori, that is, to reason at all, or to conduct experimentation, they must be assumed for anything else to be concluded. This is true. Aquinas would call these first principles or the principles of practical reasoning. Tomlin concludes that “The scientific enterprise is not wholly lacking in faith either.” If by faith he means that which cannot be proven, then he is, of course, correct, yet classically, faith has been seen as more than that. Writes Paul in Hebrews 11, “Faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.” Christ also commands us to have faith in him, yet also grants that not everyone does, which grants faith a certain level of freedom, one which would simply not apply to the first principles, which are not a matter of choice: you cannot reject them, for by rejecting them you at the same time affirm them.

On the other side of the dilemma, Tomlin writes that “Pascal stands as one of the key figures at the start of the modern project of experimental science, who sees no incompatibility at all between faith in the God of Jesus Christ and a total commitment to the scientific enterprise and wherever it takes you.” It is an interesting and helpful conclusion, yet one struggles to see how Pascal’s assertion that reason can confirm but never establish Christianity avoids reducing faith to a fundamentally non-rational attribute; if reason cannot furnish any positive grounds for belief prior to belief itself, there is little reason for supposing that any positive grounds will be submitted post-belief. One may argue that faith enables one to see in a new light that which was not seen before; it would hardly seem to fit the Pauline description of faith as “substance” and “evidence.”

The author also wades into the debate over Jansenism which preoccupied Pascal and many others of his time. This theological movement could be loosely associated with Calvinism in that it stressed the sovereignty of God over human fate, yet, as the Reverend makes clear, it was entirely distinct from Calvinism in its commitment to remaining within the confines of the Roman Catholic Church. The Catholic Church, on the other hand, was committed with equal rigor to distancing itself from the Jansenists. The Court of Louis was hostile to them; Catholic scholars committed still to the Jesuits would attack them in the news brutally, showing no mercy and no nuance to the valid points made by many of the Jansenist theologians. Without wading into the centuries-long debate over free will and predestination, Tomlin clearly and convincingly shows us how Jansenism saw the world and what they were ready to do about it, while also showing how Pascal played a vital role in the defense of this group, a group with which he would eventually break.

The book discusses also Pascal’s conception of a hidden God. This idea helps explain why he did not believe that reason, or human reason, could lead to a true knowledge of God. It doesn’t, for the record, prove that Pascal is right, but it shows a surprising internal consistency in that if God is hidden, then reason loses all effect in leading the repentant sinner to grace. His argument is that God hides himself from those who do not wish to accept him, thus making it impossible for them to find him, and making reason useless in the process. Reason, for Pascal, is helpful for the believer, yet ineffectual for the unbeliever for precisely this reason. For reasons outlined above and below, it seems that this answer is a bit too simplistic, yet his broader point stands. Indeed, it seems to affirm some sort of human freedom, despite his Calvin-like belief in the sovereignty of God over human fate, for he believes that for those who do not seek Him, they shall not be sought by Him.

Where Tomlin succeeds marvelously is in placing Pascal within his time. If we look at his ideas, or the ideas of any other philosopher for that matter, as simple ideas, and leave out the context, that makes the ideas no less true or false, but it certainly decreases our ability to properly understand why these ideas were held. Tomlin helps us understand, not only by explaining Pascal’s life - the fact that he was unhealthy for much of his life contributed significantly to his rejection of Descartes’ mind-body dualism - but also those of his contemporaries. One of the most fascinating of these is Michel de Montaigne. Perhaps Tomlin would dispute this, but Pascal and Montaigne seem similar in one significant way: like Pascal, Montaigne seems to be very focused not on the abstracts of Aristotelianism or Platonism, but on the experiential, particularly when it comes to the self. Like Pascal, he is less concerned with the objective reality and more concerned with how we relate to that reality. Indeed, at first glance, the two philosophers seem to be on the same path; certainly, they have started at the same point. These three men are the key to understanding the French philosophical world of the seventeenth century. Descartes believes that belief can be achieved: belief rooted not in itself, but in reason; this belief, posits Descartes, corresponds to reality. Pascal is far less certain. In a way which the author does not state but which could be easily concluded from reading the book, Pascal is the intermediary between the two extremes of Descartes and Montaigne. He too believes that certainty can be attained, but he seems far less preoccupied with the importance of certainty and more preoccupied with why the certainty is necessary in the first place. On the other hand, Montaigne does not believe that certainty is possible, and if it was, he doesn’t really care. It is more of a utilitarian, pragmatist approach, one which Pascal seems to echo in The Wager, in his own way. Writes Montaigne, “Our intellectual faculties and our senses have no foundation to stand on but only fly about in the wind.” Further, Montaigne claims that Christianity itself “did not come to us through reasoned arguments or from our own intelligence; it came to us from outside authority, by commandments.” This is indeed one of the many reasons why the Protestant Reformation was carried out. While Luther would likely have agreed far more with Pascal than with Aquinas on reason and faith - he famously called reason “Aristotle’s whore” - other Reformers would have been different. Calvin was friendly to reason; Melanchthon friendlier still. The Reformers understood that the lack of reasoned argumentation came from a lack of reading of Scripture itself. This is why there was such an emphasis on the printing of the Bible in the lingua franca: because argumentation ultimately could lead to the demonstration of truth claims, and because, as Paul himself instructs, we are to “test all spirits.” The author distinguishes Montaigne and Pascal in a significant area, and that is their treatment of life and the afterlife. Montaigne argued for methods of contemplation which would lead one to finally lose all angst and enable one to enjoy life to the fullest.

Pascal rejects this solution, in a way that more Christians today likely should as we face a Montaigne-like hedonism: for Pascal, angst comes not only from the temporal and should be relieved not because of the temporal, but because of the eternal. It is not a matter of living better in this life, for Pascal, but of being certain about the other. In this, both Thomistic Christians and Pascaline Christians can agree. We may differ on where such a certainty comes from, yet we must agree that the achievement of such certainty is of vital importance. The enduring debate between Descartes, Pascal, Aquinas, Montaigne - and to this we should likely add Augustine and Luther as well - will likely never be fully solved, but with Pascal, we can discover that it is impossible to be fully indifferent to the question of certainty.

Review Written by Caleb A. Gerber

August 10th, 2026

Review of American Patriarch

Book Author: H. W. Brands

tags: history, biography 

The Father of America is not a new topic to write or to read about. In two hundred and fifty years, biography after biography has been written, from Parson Weems' largely fictitious rendering of the General to Ron Chernow's monumental biography of Washington at the beginning of the twenty-first century. Now Pulitzer Prize finalist author and historian H. W. Brands brings his considerable talents to bear on the enigmatic yet consequential first President of the United States. The question most readers will confront as they read through the book is this: does Brands do anything new? Is his new biography not, rather, the oldest topic in the book of American history, apart from Lincoln?

The two hundred and fiftieth birthday of America is approaching. That is the occasion for which Brands has published his new 600-page biography of George Washington. Our age is torn apart by political battles that Washington tried to avoid throughout his presidency. The geopolitical landscape has changed drastically in two and a half centuries: regional alliances have shifted, and new men have come and gone from the echelons of power. Washington's legacy has been revisited. It would indeed be incredible if, after all this time, a new aspect were to come to light. Not surprisingly, it has not.

That is not to say that Brands' new book is bad. Certainly, the author has gone to considerable lengths in his research from primary sources to produce a lucid, engaging, and authoritative narrative. The prose is not dense, yet neither is it superficial. The man who is painted in this book is the Washington we know, not one we do not know.

The test of a modern Washington biography is therefore not whether it overturns established scholarship, but whether it presents the familiar story with fresh insight, sound judgment, and compelling prose. On that score, Brands largely succeeds.

The key strength of this book is one that may appear odd. Many biographies have been praised for their broad scope and all-encompassing nature. A biography of Lincoln has become notable because it portrays Lincoln in contrast to his advisers. Churchill's many biographies have succeeded largely insofar as they have presented those around him. Brands certainly does not ignore everyone else; yet, in his biography of Washington, he does not also provide biographies of Jefferson, Hamilton, Adams, or any of the other Founders. Washington is the topic, and the topic is the sole focus of this book. In other words, while Brands' cast of characters is broad, it is not long; the people in this book are mentioned only insofar as they help the reader better understand the man Washington was, and the man he was not.

Brands recognizes that there is little left to discover about Washington. Rather than chasing novelty through speculative interpretation or by making the biography about the Founding generation as a whole, he succeeds by keeping Washington himself at the center of every chapter. Discussions about the beginning of the Revolutionary War are largely avoided. While the Boston Tea Party, the Intolerable Acts, and the First Continental Congress are all mentioned, they are viewed through Washington's eyes and the eyes of the Virginian gentry to which he belonged.

Brands refuses to show us Washington in an iconoclastic way: as merely a military genius or a man of temperance and virtue, though he was, in varying degrees, all these things. He was a military genius at times, but also one who made numerous strategic blunders; trusting Benedict Arnold ranks as the most egregious, in Brands' reading. He was a man of temperance and virtue, yet one who, according to witnesses, was not entirely immune from bursts of passion, fits of anger, and a loose mouth. On the other hand, Brands does not reinterpret Washington; he is not a revisionist. He holds Washington's motives to be pure: slaveholder though he was, he was deeply opposed to the institution itself on moral grounds and freed all his slaves upon his death. Likewise, although not devout in the conventional sense, the Washington portrayed here frequently recognized the "dispensations of Providence," both in his personal life and in military and political affairs.

The parts of this book that will most genuinely interest the reader have mostly to do with Washington's early life. Although scant attention is paid to his childhood, Brands does not gloss over his prewar military experience, his complex relationship with the French and with the Native Americans, his military formation as a product of British war policy, and his role in the beginning of the French and Indian War. Specifically, Brands shows how Washington was not only a shrewd tactician but also a shrewd negotiator, skilled in matters of peace as well as those of war. Further, while almost no attention is given to matters affecting Washington only externally, such as the Paris negotiations between Adams and the court of Louis XVI, Brands has uncovered an aspect of the war not generally discussed in contemporary histories: the British perception of the war.

Brands is not pro-British by any measure of the word. Indeed, he is far too skeptical of the Hamiltonian faction of the Federalist Party during Washington's presidency; his allegiance lies squarely in the Jeffersonian camp. Yet his skepticism of the British and his patriotism do not extend so far as to ignore the British altogether. Diary entries from British officers, letters from Admiral Sir Richard Howe, and the story of John André show not Washington's perception of others, but others' perception of him.

This book, however, is not all roses and petals. By paying special attention to Washington's early career, Brands must leave out much of his later career lest the book become longer than would conceivably hold the attention of the average reader. Numerous chapters are spent on Fort Duquesne, his life as a farmer, colonial relations with the Indians, and the battles against the French. The Revolutionary War chapters contain as much detail as could be wished for, providing enough, but not so much, information as to inundate the pages with unnecessary detail. On the other hand, the postwar section consists of a single chapter, albeit an extraordinarily long one, discussing his entire two-term presidency. Events such as the Jay Treaty and the Whiskey Rebellion are mentioned, yet treated more as secondary incidents. The Farewell Address is hardly analyzed at all. The goal of the book is undoubtedly to make the reader acquainted with Washington the man, yet it must be said that very little is said about Washington the politician beyond the fact that he despised political factions.

Despite these apparent weaknesses, Brands succeeds in doing what he set out to do: make the reader more knowledgeable about Washington, if not about his times. It is both a conventional biography and an unconventional narrative, one that has few detours and arrives directly at its destination. Brands' conclusion is admirable in its simplicity and lack of grandiosity. Washington, he claims, was a man of his time. What his time was like, however, we gain only a limited understanding of from reading the book, though Brands likely expects the average reader to be familiar with the story of the Revolution. The General would not fit into today's world, he argues. He would be horrified by it. His strength lay not in predicting the future, but in laying the guardrails and the foundations upon which future generations could build.

Review Written by Caleb A. Gerber

June 29th, 2026

Review of Three Roads to Gettysburg

Book Author: Tim McGrath

tags: history, biography 

Someone once wisely said that no individual is created in isolation. Each of our lives is intertwined with that of countless others. The same applies to the lives of the all-time greats, or those who have left a mark on history. Because of this, in studying one man, we must inevitably study more than one man; we must study the men and women around him, some great, some not so great; some forgotten, some as well remembered as the principal.

Much as William C. Davis's masterpiece Three Roads to the Alamo, Tim McGrath's new release, Three Roads to Gettysburg, is not a story of the battle, though of course the latter does figure prominently, but the story of the battle-makers. One of them is universally admired, and for good reason: Abraham Lincoln's moral clarity, both before the presidency and during it, is one of the great strengths of our American republic. The Gettysburg Address is perhaps the most memorized, most repeated, and most memorable speech ever given on American soil. How many students have been required to memorize the speech in its two-minute entirety simply by virtue of the fact that it possesses some of the qualities we most admire, both in oratorical skill and in the embodiment of the moral citizen?

Robert E. Lee, on the other hand, is a more complex figure. Certainly, he has become, by some measure, the embodiment of the Lost Cause myth, which views the grievances of the South as legitimate and the encroachment of the North as a morally viable casus belli. On the other hand, Lee is despised by many revisionist historians who seek to demonize him as a racist who tried to keep human beings enslaved simply because of their skin color. Yet others see Lee as somewhere in between; as a man of personal conviction and upright character who was, sadly, by circumstance and familial allegiance, forced to take part in a war against the country which his father had helped to found.

The general who actually led the Union to victory at Gettysburg occupies a different place in American history altogether. George Gordon Meade is, unlike Lincoln, rarely, if ever, remembered as a hero of the Union cause. Ulysses S. Grant is remembered largely because it was under him that the war was ended. George McClellan is remembered mainly due to his young and dashing but ultimately unsatisfactory performance as commander of the Army of the Potomac. Also, unlike Lee, few outside military historians would place Meade in the midst of endless controversy. Yet, argues McGrath, this lack of attention makes him no less compelling.

Unlike many historians, McGrath is content to leave Lincoln atop his monument in D.C. He is content to leave Lee in the muck and mire of history, sinking in the swamp of infamy until a new biographical boat comes along to lift him out of it once more and into the sunshine of public acclamation. The one figure whose legacy he does contest is that of Meade. McGrath avoids any type of moral situating. He does not try to argue that Meade was the savior of the Union cause, nor that he was an entirely loyal Northerner who supported emancipation. Instead, he simply places Meade back in the historical imagination. In this he succeeds.

Beginning with the story of Meade's father, the influential though eventually bankrupt Richard Meade, and then describing Meade's, as well as Lee's, involvement in the Mexican-American War, one of the most interesting things that McGrath does is to show how these two men, who would eventually fight each other in a real war, were learning from two men who, though on the same side of a real war, were on different sides of a diplomatic one. George Meade served under General Zachary Taylor, the unflappable father-in-law of Jefferson Davis, who would also briefly serve as president. The calm Taylor at times resembles the calm Lee, respectful of authority, cool under fire, in short, "Old Rough and Ready." Yet Lee admired not Taylor but Scott. Meade, on the other hand, admired Taylor, yet in personality much resembles General Winfield Scott, with a flammable temper, colorful language, yet also brilliance on the field of battle.

It would be tempting to see Lee and Meade as simple protégés or continuations of these two generals, yet that is far from the truth. The story McGrath tells is not of how the younger generals became the next Scott or the next Taylor, but how they learned from them, and how the lessons they drew would serve them well, or let them down, at Gettysburg.

Indeed, a theme of this book is the fact that influence does not of necessity imply imitation. Lee inherited neither Scott's temperament nor Taylor's command style in full, and Meade certainly was not a full reflection of either man. The roads to Gettysburg, McGrath reminds us, were never straight.

The author also shows us how Gettysburg's lines of battle were drawn not only along the dimensions of North and South, but also between generals, soldiers, commanders, and others. No man can truly cease to be a man when he becomes a soldier, and that is true both in his humanity and in his human nature. Although many have noted how soldiers also feel repulsed at the sight of death, fewer have noted how commanders are repulsed by the sight of each other. From the battles between McClellan and Lincoln to those between Meade and Hooker and Meade and Dan Sickles, the legacy of battle, the story that will be told, may be influenced far less by what objectively happens on the field and more by who has the ear of the media, the ear of the politicians, the eye of the public and of the president, and finally, who lives longer and tells their side of the story to more people.

This does not mean that lessons cannot be drawn, that conclusions, moral ones even, cannot be reached. Indeed, to deny that history can teach moral lessons is to deny one of the chief reasons for studying it in the first place. Yet any conclusions must be reached only when events are first understood through the lens of the men and women who made them. To understand Lee properly is to understand, first of all, why he fought for the South. It is not to excuse him for doing it, explanation is not exoneration, but explanation will lead to either exoneration or condemnation. Neither of the latter can, of themselves, lead back to the explanation.

McGrath succeeds ultimately not in telling history better than other historians, or in explaining factors which would cast a new light on or enable us to reach a new verdict about this battle, nor yet in doing something new at all, but in doing something as old as the universe itself: saying that one did such and such a thing for a reason and then asking the reader, by judging the reason, to judge the man.

Review Written by Caleb A. Gerber

June 12th, 2026

Review of The Making of the American Mind

Book Author: Matthew Spalding

tags: history, philosophy, jurisprudence, Christian 

How did our national consciousness evolve? How did our perception of ourselves as Americans form, and from whence did it come? Argues historian Matthew Spalding, it came from the Declaration of Independence.

Before 1776, Americans did not think of themselves as Americans. They were British subjects who were members of their own colony: Virginians, New Yorkers, Pennsylvanians; each colony had its own leadership, its own predominant social class, be it the farmer of Massachusetts, the printer from Pennsylvania, or the Virginia aristocrat. They were brethren, yes, but they were not yet a people. When the immortal words “We hold these truths” were written from the Continental Congress, that all began to change: a new nation would form. By 1863, when President Abraham Lincoln delivered the Gettysburg Address, declaring that "four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent, a new nation, conceived in Liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal," the transformation was complete. For Lincoln, as for the founders, America was a nation, but not only a nation, not a mere nation; it was a nation founded upon an idea.

Spalding begins his work by discussing a term we have all heard mentioned: patriotism. Spalding writes that a true understanding of this term, which can mean so many things to so many people, “has always been the civic antidote to what C. S. Lewis called ‘the poison of subjectivism.’” Borrowing from Alexis de Tocqueville, the nineteenth-century French philosopher who toured America in its first couple of decades, Spalding posits that there are two types of patriotism: the first can breed the nationalism of Otto von Bismarck or the self-serving, self-interested geocentrism that has today gained a foothold in some of our governmental institutions. This is not a patriotism based on anything longstanding or permanent; it is mere loyalty, a sheer blind love based only on a sense of community and on nothing more. The second type of patriotism is the American brand: the type that allows soldiers to fight the Nazis on the beaches of Normandy and to plant the American flag on Iwo Jima. It is not because we hate what is in front of us, as Chesterton wrote, nor yet because we like what is behind us, or feel some sort of emotional attachment; it is because we understand that the principles for which we fight are longstanding, permanent, and true. It is because they are all these things that we can give our last full measure of devotion, as did the Union soldiers during the Civil War.

The clarification of terms, such as patriotism, that Spalding does in the early pages of this work makes it easy to follow, yet not easy to skim. It makes you think, as great books do, yet does not cloud your judgment through vague terminology.

Quoting Augustine, Spalding makes clear from the start what the purpose of this book is. Nothing, according to the great theologian of the early church, can be truly loved unless the object of love is known. For us today, that means that for true patriotism, selfless in its purpose, determined in its cause to exist, we must understand exactly why the Declaration of Independence was written, how it was written, and what that changed.

The story of the Continental Congress is not new. Many books have been written on this critical period. The chapters that Spalding spends discussing the history of the Congress, the roles of its players, the international response, and its broader geopolitical place are clear in purpose but vague in accomplishment. For those well versed in American history, nothing illuminating will be gained from these chapters. Similarly, Spalding focuses a large part of his time on the particulars: what the complaints laid out in the Declaration were. This is, of course, important for a political historian, much less so for a philosophical one or for the average reader. Certainly, the validity of the claims made by Jefferson and others played a central role in their day, yet it becomes difficult to see how they could make any difference to ours.

The real strength of this book is its philosophy. Why is it that there are certain “unalienable rights”? What makes these “self-evident”? Who determines that among these are “life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness”? The answer takes us back into intellectual history. From the Greeks' understanding of reason (logos), which was then transmitted down to the Christian church, for proof, simply read John 1:1, came the realization that as human beings endowed with the imago Dei, we have the capacity, through our reason, to reach truths about our life, about the human condition, about our telos. From a Christian perspective, which the author shares, it is this knowledge that enables us to know the moral law in the first place, and then realize that we have transgressed against it, which in turn forces us to recognize our depravity and need for redemption. In the political arena, this means that the law can be known without being spelled out. Critically, before the Bill of Rights, there was already a bill of rights written in the universe. Before the Constitution, there was a constitution written on the mind. For this reason, the founders did not appeal to English common law, as some would have wished them to do. Jefferson understood that even without English common law, even without the Magna Carta or the Glorious Revolution, their cause would still be just; the universe would still have the same moral structure and natural law because it would have the same architect and the same lawgiver.

This understanding carries profound implications for modern political thought, especially in jurisprudence. We have come to see law as simply that which guarantees the greatest good for the greatest number; this utilitarianism would have been alien to the founders. We have also come to see government as the institution that preserves our rights. This is, of course, exactly what the founders intended, yet today, some carry it a step further; they reason, wrongly, that if government preserved the rights, then government gave the rights in the first place. Yet if government gave, government could take away. However, if they originate in nature and nature’s God, then government is subject to a higher tribunal, and the Supreme Court is not really the Supreme Court.

Jefferson’s ideas did not simply come from looking up at the sky and racking his own brain, using his own reason to determine that certain rights existed and were being usurped by Parliament and the King. He had come from a rich philosophical and theological tradition that dated back from Augustine and Aquinas, down through Algernon Sidney and John Locke. This was the more political side of philosophy. With natural law come natural rights. Unlike contemporary monarchical systems, which saw the monarch as the divinely appointed leader, the founders saw such a concept as flawed. They saw government as a servant of the people, and the people as servants of God. “But where, says some, is the King of America?” wrote Thomas Paine. “I’ll tell you, Friend, he reigns above, and doth not make havoc of mankind like the Royal Brute of Britain.”

The author dives into the theological background of the Declaration. The fact that the first entity mentioned in the Declaration is not the King of Britain, but the King of Heaven, at least signifies that these were writers who believed in a divine Providence. “As in its opening, the Declaration here appeals to a standard above and beyond human events to vindicate its cause. And the appeal, as before, is not to some overarching sense of history or to ‘the opinions of mankind.’ But it is also not to ‘the Laws of Nature and of Nature’s God,’ which man knows through reason. This appeal of the Declaration is to an omniscient God who not only knows all men but also knows the intentions of each man’s heart. While they declared their cause to the opinions of mankind, in the end the Continental Congress seeks a ruling from a higher court.” Spalding goes further, arguing that they had a specifically Christian understanding both of the role of government and of the role of man in relation to government. Writes Spalding: “Only a truly benevolent King, one who is divine and not subject to the passions of man, could be an absolute sovereign. And since governments are instituted among men and not angels, and no individual on this earth has the divine wisdom and authority to rule absolutely, the powers of government must be limited, divided, and checked to ensure the rule of law rather than the arbitrary reign of worldly men.” The Declaration’s signers were not all orthodox Christians; certainly the author, Jefferson, had some unorthodox beliefs, but they were all, down to the last man, versed in the basic presuppositions of Christianity that were predominant in the late eighteenth century, and it was these presuppositions that were basic in the writing, drafting, and approval of this document.

Inextricably linked to a Christian understanding of God is a Christian understanding of man, which the signers also had. These were Protestants, with the exception of Charles Carroll, but they were Protestants familiar and comfortable with the natural law beliefs and writings of Richard Hooker. Man was a rational animal, capable of understanding right and wrong, if not of actually choosing right and eschewing wrong. “It is by his reason, not by allowing the passions to rule or blindly following conventional mores, that man distinguishes between reality and myth, good and evil, the just and the unjust. Nature, as a structure of reality that is unchanging and permanent, and that can be accessed by reason, is the standard of right in making these distinctions. And as man seeks relationships with others to fulfill that nature, man is a political animal, as Aristotle famously observes, men come to live in communities based on agreed purposes and a common understanding of justice.” The author then makes an even more stunning, but likely accurate, claim: “This argument is the basis of Western thought about man and politics.”

Of course, reason is not the only reason. There is a place for faith; in fact, faith is necessary in a Christian society, though not necessarily in the way modern secular critics often imagine. Spalding’s discussion of human nature is especially enlightening in this regard; society today seems to oscillate between two extremes: the utopianism of Marx, Rousseau, and the Romantics, which assumes that human beings are fundamentally good and that social problems can be solved through proper institutions, and, on the other hand, sheer cynicism, such as that found in Thomas Hobbes, which sees humans as utterly depraved, needing a government to compel them to some form of social stability. Instead, Spalding writes, the founders had a diametrically opposed conception of man: “This is not Thomas Hobbes’s brutish world of man against man, violently seeking to avoid death, or of petty man constantly dominated by narrow self-interests and lowly desires. This is a sacred conception of man, altogether human yet willing to sacrifice and suffer for the highest of ends.”

Spalding demonstrates that the Founders understood liberty not as the freedom to do whatever one wishes, but as the freedom to do what one ought. Rights existed alongside duties; freedom existed alongside virtue. The American experiment depended not merely upon constitutional structures, but upon the character of the citizenry itself. People incapable of self-government could not remain free for long. A people who do not know what they love will not love it for long. Failing to understand where we came from will result in a failure to go where we ought.

Review Written by Caleb A. Gerber

June 3rd, 2026

Review of Rasputin: The Downfall of the Romanovs

Book Author: Antony Beevor

tags: history, Russian 

Mystic guide or heretic? Unsung hero, or the villain who changed the history of the twentieth century? Many descriptions, conflicting ones at that, but all are focused on a single man.

Talented military historian Antony Beevor turns his attention to one of the most overlooked and mysterious players in Russian history and focuses not only on Grigory Rasputin, but on the world into which he was born, in which he lived, and in which he was killed: the world of Orthodox Russia before the Bolshevik coup and the abdication of Nicholas II, which marked the end of the Romanov dynasty. Rasputin was born into humble origins, but he would eventually rise to the top and be introduced into the most powerful and elite circle in czarist Russia. His supposed mystical powers would win him a reputation which, when it came to the ears of the Tsarina Alexandra, would mark the beginning of his rise to the top and the beginning of the Romanovs' fall to the bottom.

For a military historian, Beevor is certainly an interesting writer. Many historians specializing in the history of warfare tend to get bogged down in the details while missing the overall picture. Not so with Beevor, who, with a wealth of sources, manages to encapsulate both the particulars and the universals: both Rasputin the man and the men and women around that man.

Interestingly, this is one of Beevor's shorter works, coming in at around 350 pages of substantive writing, plus footnotes and bibliography. The fact that Rasputin, like all men, lived a full life, and further, the fact that his life was by no means dull, will of course mean that many details which may interest the reader will inevitably be left out. Certainly, this is one of the impressions that will be received when reading the book. Beevor's biography of Rasputin is not a typical biography. Only a couple of pages are given to the first decades of Rasputin's life, while a full three chapters are focused on his assassination. While many biographies will only briefly mention the players who figure prominently in the life of their protagonist, Beevor goes deeper. Not only does he introduce the characters in their relationship with the mystic, but he also presents them as dynamic characters themselves, showing the reader their world as well as Rasputin's, even when the two do not necessarily intersect. At times this makes the overall thrust of the work feel vague, but on the flip side, it adds much depth, both cultural and political, that is not normally found in a simple biography.

While this style may, to some, seem distracting, this unconventional structure ultimately works to the book's advantage. Instead of focusing on Rasputin's birth, early decades, and formation, which would in most cases be desirable, the author's emphasis on the world of late imperial Russia helps underscore the fact that although Rasputin may have been the catalyst for the downfall of the Romanovs, he was not the only, or even the principal, figure. Beevor does not make this explicit, though I wish he did, but this underlines an interesting historical point: everyone should ultimately bear responsibility for his or her own actions. Blame for the fate of a nation may hinge on a particular person, but that hinge should not be mistaken for the door. The author demonstrates that the collapse of the dynasty cannot and should not be attributed to Rasputin alone, despite the enduring popular myth that he single-handedly brought down the entire empire.

Although not in depth, several philosophical and theological questions are tossed around by the author through the people in this story. Rasputin's perverted behavior can be seen, in part, as the consequence of his belief that, to be forgiven much, it is necessary to sin much. Obviously, this is dangerously unorthodox, not in the denominational sense, teaching, as it places a strong emphasis on sinning instead of any attempt to avoid illicit behaviors and acts. The consequences of this mistaken belief may become obvious at once to those more versed in biblical theology and will add a layer of depth to this book which could very easily be missed by those who are not as well versed. Indeed, the opportunity to engage not only with the political philosophy of Nicholas and Alexandra, as well as that of the moderates and those on the right and left of the political spectrum, but also with the theological and philosophical questions which played such a role in the Russia of the early twentieth century, is one of the most enjoyable and commendable parts of this work.

Two areas of weakness in this book are of note. Firstly, with a subject as complex as Rasputin, and with contrasts so stark between the "man of God" that the Czar and the Czarina saw him to be and the "man of the world," the carnal Rasputin accused and likely guilty of rape, the facts alone cannot suffice. Most readers, upon concluding the read, will be left confused as to Rasputin's legacy. Certainly, history is full of shades of gray, but the shades of gray do not negate the black and the white which, when summed, the grays produce. Beevor's attempt at objectivity, while commendable and understandable, is unsatisfactory because it leaves the reader with little sense of historical judgment. Was he good or bad? Perhaps the author intends to leave this question unanswered; perhaps he believes the question is unanswerable; or perhaps he wishes to leave it up to the reader to decide, to weigh the evidence in the balance of history and make the decision for himself. Yet the brevity of the work, coupled with the conflicting facts, makes such a task nearly impossible. Beevor is a master at narrating facts; he is less successful at drawing conclusions from them. Consequently, the central question of who Rasputin truly was remains frustratingly unresolved.

The second area of criticism is less universal and will likely not be shared by all readers. Once more it centers on the author's attempt at objectivity. The way in which he deals with Rasputin, who was after all a primarily religious figure, is almost entirely secular. He narrates what those around him, in a highly superstitious culture fed by Eastern Orthodox mysticism, thought about Rasputin's actions and whether they came from a divine origin, but notably, Beevor never attempts either to debunk any claims of spiritualism or to confirm them. The conflict within the Russian Church is also of note here; not everyone inside the church hierarchy agreed on Rasputin and how the church should deal with him. Beevor also shows that the Tsar's attempts to interfere with ecclesial authority were not welcome, yet no contrast is shown between the orthodoxy of the Orthodox and the orthodoxy of Rasputin. To those readers unfamiliar with the teachings, practices, and liturgy of Orthodoxy, this may be a problem.

Despite these criticisms, Rasputin is a highly worthwhile work and a welcome contribution to the study of late imperial Russia. Readers will emerge with their interest in this period not satisfied, but decidedly piqued. It is a good starting point, a good beginning to a road that will lead deeper into the struggles of history and the struggles of the soul.

Review Written by Caleb A. Gerber

May 31st, 2026

Review of In the Garden of Beasts

Book Author: Erik Larson

tags: history 

It was the worst of times; it was the worst of times. It was the ascent of progress; it was the ascent of depravity. It was an age of love; it was an age of love. In short, it was, as the present age, an age when the good encountered evil… and who would prevail was a question of who had the will to do so and, to a degree, who had Providence on their side.

Much has been told, and many pages filled, with the rise of isolationism at home. Few pages have been devoted to the consequences of isolationism abroad; certainly, few books have been written which have focused on the immediate consequences of isolationism in the garden of the beasts, or, even more so, in the mouth of the dragon. This book is intriguing, therefore, for the reason that it covers not an unknown period of time, but an unknown place in that period. That is not to say that there have been few works on the rise of Hitler; there haven’t. But there has been remarkably little scholarly inquiry into what the American experience was in Hitler’s Berlin.

Erik Larson, with his typical dramatic flair for the good, the bad, and the ugly, traces the lives of two main people: the American ambassador to Germany, William Dodd, and his vivacious and promiscuous daughter, only in her second decade of life, yet already divorced, the flamboyant Martha. From love affair to love affair and diplomatic meetings to diplomatic meetings, Larson shows us, in an intimate way, I mean intimate quite literally, what life was like with Hitler’s rise, and what life was becoming.

The Germans we see in this picture are not the warlike and evil geniuses of World War II, though they were fast becoming that. Rather, Hitler and his government were at a desperate point, their government hanging by a lifeline. Largely, their survival was held in the balance by international perception, and since international perception was largely dictated by the letters of the American ambassador, William Dodd was bombarded with propaganda from the moment he landed on German soil. Instead of showing Hitler, Goring, and Goebbels as idiotic madmen intent on destroying the Jewish race, Larson gives a far more accurate, and far more disturbing, portrayal of the original Nazis. Despotic men, perhaps, but they were still men, and, like all men, had a distinctly personal side. Before they were masters of war, they were masters of diplomacy, yet never, and Larson makes this very clear, did Hitler or his inner circle ever consider stopping what they considered to be in the common good, the attaining of Lebensraum, the decimation of the Jewish population, or the persecution of Bolshevik sympathizers, for the sake of scoring foreign victories. Instead of compromising for the sake of gain, they gained exactly what they wanted without giving an inch, by lying. Larson shows us one lie after another put forth by Hitler, the head of the Gestapo, or Hermann Goring. In some cases, the lies were believed by the teller, but this did not make them any truer.

Secondly, this book shows the progressive distrust inside Hitler’s own coalition. This distrust would ultimately lead to a split, with courageous yet unsuccessful men such as Franz Papen taking a stand against Hitler, and other bloodthirsty opponents of Hitler, such as the head of the sexually perverse SA, Ernst Rohm, suffering the ultimate penalty for their ambition, with the culmination of the break coming on the Night of the Long Knives.

Larson’s chief strength is his ability to show not only the political or the military, but the personal. Certainly, I wish he would have spent less time discussing the ins and outs of Martha Dodd’s love life and more time focusing on the inner turmoil of the senior Dodd’s conscience as he came to realize that he was being used, but either way, this is historical narrative at its best. Perhaps it would not be the equivalent of an academic essay or a biography of William E. Dodd; it certainly does not compare to William Shirer’s Diary from Berlin during this period, but it doesn’t have to. The point is not to show what has already been shown, but to show something new and, with it, to give a new perspective.

Perhaps the most striking and fascinating part of this book is the fact that William Dodd left the United States as an avowed Wilsonian isolationist. He desired intensely to cooperate with Germany. Martha Dodd, too, initially mocked anti-Nazi protestors. Both were skeptical of Jewish persecution, with the ambassador urging President Roosevelt repeatedly to do nothing or to calm the outrage of prominent Jewish intellectuals in America over the rise of Hitler’s antisemitic efforts. Yet by the time of Dodd’s departure, a departure which occurred precisely because the ambassador no longer believed that permanent peace with Germany was possible, Dodd had come to realize the evil of the looming threat, and its intensity. He started the journey a skeptic; he returned a convert. This was not ideological fervor that pushed him to intense criticism of Hitler and Germany; if anything, Dodd was too hesitant to realize the threat. It is through the eyes of Dodd’s family that we can realize the incompleteness and dishonesty of revisionist histories which suggest that the war was by no means a foregone conclusion, that a negotiated peace could have been settled, and that antisemitism was perhaps a fluke and not a foundation. Such a narrative has no grounds in the truth, and Larson shows it masterfully.

In the end, Dodd realized what all men must at some point realize: that, as Bonhoeffer said, “Silence in the face of evil is evil itself,” or, better yet, Burke, who stated that “the only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.” Though this book is history, it is a history of a movement, a movement which could well replicate itself in our day and age, for there truly is nothing new under the sun. Perhaps Larson never intended it this way, but this book is, above all, a call to action. 

Review Written by C. A. Gerber

May 12th, 2026

Review of Alito

Book Author: Mollie Hemingway

tags: politics, jurisprudence

The Supreme Court is an institution filled with history—good, bad, and ugly. It is an institution which has, in its record, handed down decisions both accurate and misguided, well-reasoned and socially legislated. Its justices have at times been well-equipped to address the deepest questions of government’s role, and in other cases, they have been people whose names will forever linger as those who failed to exercise their gift of reason, or who reasoned from faulty premises. In Mollie Hemingway’s most recent book, she does not simply give a history of a justice or a biography of Samuel Alito, but a history of the institution and a biography of the Court itself.

Hemingway has a remarkable gift for making complex subjects simple without losing their complexity. She has gone to great lengths to personally interview those who knew Alito when he was serving on the Court of Appeals, as well as those who have come to know him intimately—not only as a judge, but as a husband, a citizen, and even as a baseball fan. Her facts are well documented, and the one area where there is room for critique is not that she has under-documented the portrait she attempts to paint, but that at times she has over-documented it. In her pursuit of exactitude, she occasionally includes quotes that border on the vulgar. Notwithstanding this, it is admirable that instead of simply presenting Alito the justice, she has also shown us Alito the man.

Certainly, while always remaining within the bounds of the facts—all the facts—Hemingway has arranged them in such a way as to make the reader sympathetic to Alito and his interpretation of the law. She offers many critiques of other justices, both liberal and conservative. Sonia Sotomayor bears a large share of the blame for some of the more controversial decisions made by the Court, as does Chief Justice John Roberts. Neil Gorsuch, Clarence Thomas, Elena Kagan, and Amy Coney Barrett are presented as figures who are at times in real opposition to what Alito considers the necessary course of action. Ketanji Brown Jackson, I must admit, is treated with considerable contempt, and in this I do not disagree. Even someone as widely respected as former Justice Antonin Scalia is, at times, criticized by Hemingway through Alito. Indeed, one of the most interesting aspects of this book is that it not only shows the Court as it is now, but also as it once was, with in-depth descriptions of justices such as Ruth Bader Ginsburg, Stephen Breyer, John Paul Stevens, Anthony Kennedy, and David Souter. This greatly enriches the narrative, as it shows Alito in relation to others who were at times more famous, who at times outshone him, but from whom he always earned respect and admiration.

The name of Justice Samuel Alito will likely be remembered for his opinion in the decision in Dobbs, which struck down a fifty-year precedent that protected what you describe as the right of some human beings to murder other human beings. In some ways, the history of every Court since Roe v. Wade, from Rehnquist down to Roberts, has been the history of a colossal failure to adequately respond to what you view as an egregious abuse of constitutional law and constitutional telos. Samuel Alito was a young man studying at Yale when Roe was handed down. Now in his seventies, he helped to strike it from the record.

The author also devotes a significant portion of the book, intermittently, to Alito’s judicial philosophy. I was quite surprised to learn that Alito is not, as I had imagined, a pure constitutional originalist in the same sense as Antonin Scalia or Clarence Thomas. What Hemingway calls Alito’s “all steak, no sizzle” approach to judicial review is, she argues, his defining characteristic as a Supreme Court justice. He is, in a way, a very original originalist. Unlike Scalia, he takes a more practical approach; he believes in the Constitution and in the values it embodies, but he also believes in common sense. It is not only by reading the Constitution of the United States that we can understand Alito’s philosophy; we must also read what might be called the constitution of nature.

This practicality, without descending into a legal positivism that sees man as nothing more than a subject of law, is what gives Alito’s jurisprudence its distinctive texture. He is not content with a cold recitation of clauses, nor does he wander into the fog of untethered moral invention. Instead, Hemingway presents him as a judge who reads the Constitution with one eye on its text and the other on the enduring realities of human nature. Law, in this view, is neither an abstract game nor a malleable instrument, but a framework built for real people within a real moral order.

This should be required reading in classes on jurisprudence and the American legal system. Hemingway, in a move that is rare among explicitly biased political reporters—even on the conservative spectrum—has managed, to a remarkable degree, to stay out of the political realm, for which she deserves admiration. Certainly, she does not hesitate to call things as she sees them, or as Alito sees them, but her goal is not primarily political, and in reading this book, ours should not be either.

Review written by C. A. Gerber

May 4th, 2026

Review of What Conservatives Believe

Book Author: Mike Pence

tags: politics, leadership 

Estranged from party leadership, abandoned by the populace, yet refusing to surrender, this is the final call—one which we have all heard before—from the honorable and sincere former Vice President Mike Pence. Shortly before his run for President in 1964, Arizona Senator Barry Goldwater published a book titled Conscience of a Conservative. Pence’s attempt is to create anew the fervor for the truth that conservatives have embodied before and can embody again. By once more returning to these principles, believes Vice President Pence, we can return to more firm a foundation.

The book is designed much as I believe Goldwater’s work is designed, and as one would expect a political manifesto to be designed: chapter by chapter, Pence illuminates the most critical elements of policy in our day, from immigration to tariffs to the right to life. Each chapter covers a different topic, yet each is also unified in that it presents a coherent and structured worldview, one that is, surprisingly, mostly untinged by political bias. Although complete objectivity is, of course, impossible—and Pence certainly remonstrates on the accomplishments of the Trump-Pence administration of the first term—the fact that he is willing both to praise and to criticize the new Trump administration, delivering praise where it is due and criticism where it is warranted, is a refreshing break from the far more politicized, highly personal politics to which we have now become accustomed. 

I began with some praise, and before moving on to the chief thesis of the book, I will offer a few short criticisms. Although much—indeed, most—of what is contained herein is true and needs to be repeated, it is exactly that: repeated. This is by no means a new message. Perhaps Pence would argue that the essence of conservatism is not that it is new, but that it is good despite, or even because of, its age. Yet that may obscure something different, namely that nearly everything Pence says has been said by him before. While reading his book, it at times reads more like an essay, or the transcription of a speech, than a new, logically structured argument. From cover to cover, I must acknowledge that this was not a read I wanted to continue, but one I felt I needed to continue because, despite its style, it was true—and because it was true, it deserves reading. I assure you that this will not become the new Pulitzer Prize–winning political treatise, regarded as groundbreaking research into the nature of politics. Likely, it will be forgotten in the recesses of a bookstore. Yet the fact remains that truth is often like that; concealed behind the guise of the ancient, or of that which is no longer popular, we seem to have embraced chronological snobbery even in our reading habits. Perhaps this book will cure us of it. 

Pence’s thesis is to recall conservatives to life. He urges us to reconsider the prevalent view that conservatives are winning in America. We are not, states Pence. Although the populist right is closer to conservatism than the progressive left, Pence argues that we are not even close to being the same, and our differences should not be forgotten, even if it may be politically convenient to do so. Chapter by chapter, Pence dismantles the problems with each of the two ditches on either side of the road called sanity into which we may be tempted to stray. On the right lies populism, which for decades was seen as antithetical to conservatism, but which has today gained a foothold. On the left lies the clear and present danger that we have long acknowledged, and which still beats at our door. One interesting thought I had during the reading process is that both of these enemies bear a remarkable resemblance. Although in the modern arena they have diverged—partly because the group on the left has become far more radicalized—if traced back in history, both progressivism and populism emerged from the same source: the Democratic Party of the 1890s, followed by the presidencies of Theodore Roosevelt and Woodrow Wilson, as well as the repeated presidential candidacy of William Jennings Bryan. An important distinction that Pence makes is that populists are not necessarily fighting for the wrong things, or even for different things than conservatives; they simply have a different way of fighting for them. While conservatives must be content to wait, to abide within the system and change it from within, populists, in their search for immediate and substantial victories, undermine the systems they strive to protect, achieving short-term success at the expense of long-term prosperity. It is not that the populist right lacks principles; the problem is that at times it fails to act consistently with those principles. 

This book contains a message that needs to be heard and considered. If, after reading it, you remain unconvinced, that is an acceptable outcome, but you will emerge substantially wiser and better equipped to engage in thoughtful conversation. This is not a light topic; in all seriousness, the future of our country is the subject of this work—something that should neither be gambled away nor protected so overzealously that, in defending it, we destroy that for which it stands. I believe that Vice President Pence has made his point, and made it well. After reading it, perhaps you will think otherwise; but, as I was, you will be compelled to admit that this book was written in all sincerity, with deep care and concern, and with clear-eyed vision. 

Review Written by C. A. Gerber

May 1st, 2026

Review of The Fate of the Generals

Book Author: Jonathan Horn

tags: history, biography, leadership 

In times of war, there are two types of people: the victors and the losers, but is it possible that both are fighting for the same thing and against the same enemy? Is it even possible that for victory to be achieved, losses must also be sustained, losses that involve a degree of self-sacrifice, an eschewing of self-aggrandizement, and an acceptance of fate incomparable under almost any other circumstances? If so, the battle for the Philippines, during the opening shots of World War II in the Pacific theatre, is exactly such a situation, and historian Jonathan Horn has invited us to step back into time and witness for ourselves the cost of victory: the fate not only of the generals, as the title suggests, but of the nation which the generals represented.

Nearly everyone who has even a rudimentary understanding of World War II, and of the American strategy during it, exemplified by a Europe-first approach embraced by Chief of Staff George C. Marshall, has also heard of the self-serving yet brilliant general who pushed for a front that prioritized what he saw as a more immediate threat: the rising sun of a Japanese empire. Such a man was Douglas MacArthur, and in the half century since his death, his actions during both the Second World War and the subsequent Korean War, in which he would serve admirably but would be discharged dishonorably, the man’s legacy has been fiercely disputed by historians, political strategists, and military commanders alike. Two rival visions of MacArthur’s personality have overwhelmed the imagination of our time. Jonathan Horn does not take either of the two most typical approaches as regards MacArthur, either presenting him in an entirely positive or negative light or, compromising between the two and showing an image that is neither positive nor negative, but neutral. Horn avoids neutrality like the plague, painting a portrait of MacArthur that is at once entirely positive and entirely negative. Strengths and flaws become inseparable, and for once, Douglas MacArthur has come to life.

Far less common in discussions of military commanders is the story of Jonathan Mayhew Wainwright, the commander left behind by MacArthur upon his retreat from the Philippines, who courageously but unsuccessfully tried to defend Bataan and Corregidor islands from an oncoming Japanese onslaught. Yet through these pages, he too comes to life, as a far less complex figure than MacArthur—perhaps it is this lack of complexity that made him vulnerable to caricature in the first place—but a figure nonetheless compelling. Loyal and true to his superiors, yet perpetually doubting his moves and struggling through the acceptance of reality and the desire to protect his troops, this is a man to admire, and Horn compels us to admire the alcoholic general who would nearly die in a Japanese POW camp.

Horn brings in the background story of both of these figures, though he spends considerably longer on MacArthur for the simple reason that he had a far longer story to tell. Using quotes from Wainwright’s diary during the war, as well as the correspondence of Douglas MacArthur, his aide Sutherland, the loyal Lew Beebe, George C. Marshall, and Franklin D. Roosevelt, this book is meticulously researched and wonderfully written. At times it is necessary to stop and contemplate the sheer beauty of the writing, despite the ugliness of the situation which it describes. Here is one example:

“They had feared the coming of the rainy season on Bataan, and now it found them midway up Luzon’s central plain, in the town of Tarlac. They had dreamed of taking showers on Corregidor, and now they struggled to keep their bunks dry. They had cursed the dust blinding their eyes, and now they saw mud and mildew everywhere. They had lain awake through bombardments, and now they tried to sleep through thunder…”

As I mentioned in the opening paragraph, Horn makes this story center on the sacrifice of Jonathan Wainwright. It may appear that Horn’s purpose is to put MacArthur down; certainly, that is how some have interpreted this work, but I do not think that this is the purpose of the work, or how it should be read. Rather, Horn does not make the reader admire Wainwright and despise MacArthur, but love MacArthur because of Wainwright. Without the latter’s sacrifice, the former’s triumph would have been impossible. Without the former’s triumph, the story of the latter would never have been told. In a strange way, Wainwright completes the picture of MacArthur that we have always wanted but never had. It is by showing MacArthur’s faults that Horn has shown his greatest strength. Through the sacrifice of one, the victory of the other, and the courage of both, the nation as a whole could emerge from what Winston Churchill called its darkest hour, not unscathed, but undefeated, not as angels, but as men whose actions showed the world clearly the better angels of our nature.

Review Written by C. A. Gerber

April 29th, 2026

Review of Hero of the Empire

Book Author: Candice Millard

tags: history

Every great man must have a formative experience that made him great. Nearly all great men are formed in some sort of conflict, a conflict that informs both their character, personality, and outlook on life. Abraham Lincoln would not today be remembered were it not for the Civil War; without the French Revolution, history would not have produced Napoleon Bonaparte; and without the Boer War, claims Candice Millard, Winston Churchill would never have become the guiding force and moral leader of Western civilization during the crucial years of World War II.

This conflict is not often remembered as a war that would make or break an empire. Certainly, although by the end of it the geographical redistribution and proportions of South Africa would have changed significantly, the geopolitical effects would be virtually null. For those outside of Great Britain and the Dutch-controlled African colonies, the Boer War, though perhaps a topic for conversation at the time, would quickly fade away and recede into distant memory, especially with the onset of World War I barely a decade after its conclusion. Yet for young Winston Churchill, the Boer War would prove to be the path to engraving his name on history. “History will remember me,” he wrote, “for I intend to write it.” During this war, he did write it, first as a reporter, then as a participant whose fate was anxiously watched by both the Boer settlers and the British aristocracy.

Candice Millard brings her characteristic clarity to the forefront of this narrative. Clearly, she has deeply researched both the South African landscape and the characters who make their appearances throughout this storyline, for both come alive in the pages of this book. Her key strength lies in her ability to make the story feel real; you, I, each one of us who reads this book becomes a player, a character whose fortune lies intertwined with that of Churchill. With hindsight in our possession, we can cringe each time that Churchill comes within inches of death; we can laugh every time he makes a prediction about the survival of the empire he so loved; we can cry as he cried for lost opportunities; and we can sweat under the South African sun, even as he sweated, all from the comfort of our living room couch.

Beginning with several previous occasions on which Churchill’s courage was tested, including at the Battle of Omdurman, when British forces under General Herbert Kitchener crushed the Mahdist forces, Millard introduces us to this young, dashing man of famous lineage, confident in his own ability to a degree that he constantly risked his life. Was the physical bravery he showed simply the product of courage, or was it a naïve belief in himself and a disregard for his own safety? Perhaps it was both. Whatever the case, Winston Churchill pressed his luck time and again, daring, as it were, destiny to do something about it. Each time he emerged the victor, and each time he showed the watching world that he was a Churchill, and that a Churchill had to be reckoned with.

There is, however, a tension in Millard’s narrative that invites critique. While her even-handed treatment lends credibility, it occasionally drifts into moral neutrality where moral clarity might have strengthened the work. Conflict, after all, is not merely a stage upon which character is displayed; it is also a test of principles. To portray both sides vividly is commendable, but to refrain from deeper judgment risks flattening the very stakes that give such conflicts their enduring significance. On the other hand, another of her strengths is her ability to bring the culture of the Boers to life. Instead of straw-manning the Boers, as Churchill and many others did at the beginning but later came to regret, Millard paints a convincing picture of independent, individualistic, yet deeply devoted Christians seeking to defend their homeland. Unlike a standing army, it was the duty of every man over the age of fifteen to participate actively in the conflict, to do his duty and protect his culture—and what a culture it was. We see Churchill through the eyes of the daring Boer leader Louis Botha, through those of the man who would eventually lead South Africa during World War II and become Churchill’s close friend, Jan Smuts, and through the eyes of the…

In the end, Churchill would escape, and his daring escape made him perhaps wiser, certainly more equipped to deal with the problems of the next half-century. When history called, as at last it would, Winston Churchill would not be standing idle; he would be walking, hand in hand with destiny.

Review Written by C. A. Gerber

April 28th, 2026