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by Frank Bergman, Slay News: Canada’s federal government is quietly moving forward with a national digital ID system, slipping the plan into the depths of its 2025 budget where almost no one would notice. On page 490 of the massive document, the Liberal Party government proposes to “modernize legislative authorities to support information sharing and digital services” […]

Classic Rock writer, former Zigzag editor and Motörhead biographer Kris Needs was also Lemmy’s neighbour in London’s Notting Hill

Ploughing Up Postwar Britain JamesHoare Tue, 11/11/2025 - 07:59

Forget unbelief. The bigger challenge today is belief in everything. Your coworker might read the Bible and burn sage. Your neighbor might go to church and believe in karma. Your niece might believe in Jesus—and in astrology, crystals, and the Enneagram. Jesus the sage. Cross and karma. Scripture and star signs. Historical church and horoscopes. Welcome to the age of remixed spirituality. Today’s new religious outlook isn’t atheism or Islam or even historic Christianity. It’s a highly personalized blend of borrowed beliefs and intuitive practices—a spiritual playlist assembled from self-help, social justice, therapy speak, and sacred tradition. Some call it à la carte spirituality. Tara Isabella Burton calls it “intuitional religion.” If you’re a Christian trying to stay faithful to Jesus and share his gospel, these conversations are the new front lines. From Inherited to Assembled We used to inherit religion. Now we assemble it. For much of Western history, having a specific worldview passed down from one generation to another was a given. You received it from your family, your community, your nation. You were Catholic or Baptist or Jewish or nothing, and that affiliation shaped the contours of your life. But in the 21st century, spiritual identity has moved from the public to the personal, from the communal to the curated. We used to inherit religion. Now we assemble it. Burton calls this the age of the “Remixed,” where individuals construct bespoke spiritualities that borrow freely from multiple traditions. Charles Taylor, in A Secular Age, describes this shift as the triumph of expressive individualism and the emergence of the “nova effect”—a cultural explosion of spiritual options, where belief is no longer default but choice. And Carl Trueman reminds us that our era is defined by the inward turn, where the authentic self becomes the source of all meaning. Today’s spiritual seekers want transcendence, ritual, and community—but without authority, exclusivity, or submission. They want the vibe of the sacred without the call to take up a cross. Spiritually Open, Self-Curated What makes this cultural moment particularly complex is that most people aren’t hostile to faith. They’re spiritually open but self-curated. Many have no problem with Jesus as a teacher or therapist, as long as he doesn’t claim to be King. Burton notes that the Remixed aren’t rejecting religion but remixing it to suit their preferences. They want meaning, purpose, and belonging—but on their terms. Trevin Wax observes that this kind of intuitional faith reflects our cultural habit of self-definition: I am who I decide to be, and my spirituality will match. Alan Noble adds that in an age of constant digital mediation, we even experience God through the filters of our curated selves. The result? People blend Christian vocabulary with therapeutic slogans, new age practices, social activism, and personal vibes. You might hear someone say, “I’m spiritual but not religious,” or “I believe in God and good energy,” or “I follow Jesus but not the church.” The theological lines have blurred. God is often treated not as a Lord to submit to but as a cosmic life coach. Four Tips for Engaging Remixed Spirituality So how do we engage our friends, family, and neighbors who live in this spiritual remix? Here are four practical and pastoral moves. 1. Be curious before corrective. Jesus is the answer—but do you know what the question is? Too often, we rush in with preloaded responses, deaf to the cultural undercurrents shaping people’s longings and contradictions. When we skip listening, the gospel can come across as irrelevant or misdirected. Curiosity honors the complexity of belief today. Identity is now assembled like a playlist, not inherited. Asking good questions—Where did that belief come from? What does it give you? What story are you living by?—opens hearts in ways declarations may not. John Stott calls this “double listening”: attending to both Word and world. Jesus modeled this with piercing questions: “What are you seeking?” (John 1:38) “Do you want to be healed?” (John 5:6) “Who do you say I am?” (Matt. 6:15) Curiosity builds trust. 2. Name the longing. Beneath every remixed belief system lies a longing—for connection, peace, identity, transcendence. Even the strangest spiritual cocktail is an attempt to make sense of life. As C. S. Lewis writes, unmet desires suggest we were made for another world. Desire isn’t the problem. Wellness culture, fandoms, activism, and rituals all supply belonging and meaning—religious impulses that ultimately cannot give rest. Augustine was right: “Our heart is restless until it rests in [God].” This is our opportunity. The church must name these longings with compassion and point to Christ. He offers living water for thirst (John 4:14), bread for hunger (6:35), and rest for weary souls (Matt. 11:28–29). Only Jesus satisfies human longing. 3. Expose the shortage. Remixed spirituality is rich in aesthetics but poor in power. It curates beauty and affirmation but cannot deliver transformation. The self must endlessly perform, optimize, and signal worth. The hidden cost is burnout, comparison, and anxiety dressed up as empowerment. When you’re both the architect and the object of worship, rest is impossible. Remixed spirituality is rich in aesthetics but poor in power. It curates beauty and affirmation but cannot deliver transformation. False gospels are beautiful until they break. They dazzle with rituals and mantras but cannot cleanse a guilty conscience or heal the soul. They promise empowerment but deliver exhaustion. Tim Keller helps us identify the counterfeits: “Every false gospel under-promises and over-demands.” Our task isn’t to sneer but to show their shortage. Only Jesus can forgive sin, restore the heart, and raise the dead. The cross isn’t a vibe—it’s salvation. 4. Share the better story. Burton notes that remixed spirituality is more aesthetic than theological. The gospel, by contrast, isn’t a curated brand but a cruciform narrative that holds joy, justice, suffering, and salvation together. It isn’t self-optimization or identity decor. It’s cosmic news: “Christ died for our sins . . . was buried . . . [and] was raised on the third day” (1 Cor. 15:3–4). Jesus cannot be one option among many. As Lewis says, he is Lord, liar, or lunatic—not life coach or guru. We proclaim a risen King. Like Paul in Athens (Acts 17), we honor the search but announce the Savior. Evangelism must be tender yet clear: sin and grace, death and resurrection, judgment and mercy. The gospel doesn’t affirm our story—it invites us into his. What We Need Now Alex Fogleman’s Making Disciples reminds us that catechesis is the church’s past and future. If we want to survive the age of self-curation, we must recover our formative instincts or risk being discipled by everyone else’s liturgies. We’re living in a time that needs theologically rooted, emotionally wise, and relationally present Christians. Not reactionaries who rage against the culture, nor retreatists who hide from it, but witnesses who can live and speak the gospel with clarity and compassion. We need “ambidextrous apologists”—followers of Jesus who can speak to both heart and mind, who confront cultural lies with conviction while also naming and addressing the soul’s longings. In a world of curated feeds and cobbled-together creeds, the church mustn’t lose its song. The mash-ups may confuse, but the gospel’s melody is still strong. Let’s keep singing the classic in a remixed world.

Shelved at toddler-eye-level in my church’s nursery is a row of tiny books designed to fit in the palm of a toddler’s hand. Each one tells a Bible story in just a few cardboard pages—Noah and the ark, Jonah and his whale, baby Jesus and the astonished shepherds. Time and again, kids gravitate to these books. There’s something special, it seems, about holding a book that fits perfectly in your hand. It invites reading in a way that a giant, potentially toe-crushing tome never could. As people increasingly read the Bible on electronic devices—from cell phones to tablets to audiobooks—it’s appropriate to think about the medium on which we read books in general, and especially the book through which God has been speaking to us for millennia. In Miniature Codices in Early Christianity, Michael J. Kruger—professor of New Testament and early Christianity at Reformed Theological Seminary—contributes a fascinating glimpse into how some early Christians engaged with the Bible as a book. The delight of those who opted for the miniature codex (defined as a bound book with pages including text on both sides that fits in the palm of one’s hand) was, it seems, not too dissimilar from toddlers’ delight over miniature books today. Miniature Codices Kruger’s study catalogs and analyzes “sixty-two Greek Christian miniature codices (not including LXX texts)” (173). It prompts us to consider the significance not just of the Christian adoption of the codex more generally (as opposed to the earlier technology of books on scrolls) but also of the miniature codex for individual believers’ reading practices. As Kruger notes, The popularity of the miniature codex raises a number of intriguing questions for our understanding of early Christian literature. What are the characteristics that define this book format as opposed to, say, amulets? Why were books put in this format at all? What does this format say about the owner’s sociocultural context? . . . Why was this format preferred for some types of literature and not others? And what can this tell us about the reading habits of early Christians and the development of the NT canon? (3) The delight of those who opted for the miniature codex—defined as a book that fits in the palm of one’s hand—was, it seems, not too dissimilar from toddlers’ delight over miniature books today. It’s no surprise that those who opted for reading miniature codices often found this format practical—both because such books are easy to hold and because they’re easy to carry around on a daily basis and on longer trips. These practical functions would have been particularly significant for an age where most travel would have been on foot, and therefore, individuals couldn’t bring much luggage. Furthermore, the practicality of these miniature codices reveals a cultural shift that might pass us by, used as we are to books as the property of individuals who read them in private. The idea of reading books alone was unusual in antiquity, but the popularity of miniature codices shows the importance of individual and private Bible reading in the early church as a supplement to the communal reading of Scriptures in worship. These Books Are (Not Just) for Reading But these small books weren’t merely for reading, Kruger notes. In addition to their use in private reading, we find their three iconic functions: “(a) symbols of Christian identity, (b) representations of the presence of Christ, and (c) objects of power and healing” (77). One example of such use of the miniature codices is found in the apocryphal Acts of Andrew. A lapsed convert wearing a Gospel around his neck walks into a brothel. The sight of the book scares off a prostitute, who recognizes its sanctity, which ironically the wearer had temporarily forgotten. The incident calls the man back to God, as he recognizes that wearing the Gospel saved him from spiritual danger. Of course, it’s not just wearing the Gospels and other New Testament books that did it, but the knowledge of what these books contain. The Bible’s early readers had a high regard for its spiritual power. That awareness resulted in the desire for its physical presence in their lives and a comfort over having it in hand or around the neck: The miniature codex effectively democratizes God’s protection. It is now available to all people, even women and children. The miniature codex, therefore, is a fascinating example of how early Christians coped with the dangers, difficulties, and tragedies of life in the ancient world. (181) Sure, the ancient world was filled with magical amulets and protective devices, including written ones, but the miniature codices were clearly made for reading too. Even when devised to be worn, their contents remained a main attraction. Revolutionary Reading Technologies The codex, adopted early on by Christians, was a revolutionary technology that made it easier for readers to look up specific verses and passages. It was also more easily portable than the scrolls on which the vast majority of Greco-Roman literature had been written. It is no surprise that those who opted for reading miniature codices often found this format practical—both because such books are easy to hold, but also because they’re easy to carry around on a daily basis and on longer trips. But we’re living through another technological revolution—that of electronic devices, which allow readers to access any Bible passage at their convenience on a tiny glowing square that fits in the palm of their hand, just like the miniature codices of 1,800 years ago. Surely this is a good development? Not necessarily. It’s not just access to the Bible that matters but also the medium in which we read. In 1994, literary critic Sven Birkerts published The Gutenberg Elegies: The Fate of Reading in an Electronic Age. His argument? Reading on screens will only lead to the decline of reading in general and a devastating change in how people interact with books as human persons rather than machines. Three decades later, we see his predictions coming true. With access to more books than ever before, we read fewer books—and understand less of what we read. The early Christians’ fascination with miniature Bible books reminds us that reading the Bible was meant to be a delight. It should be that for us too. The good news is that printed Bibles of all sizes—and font sizes too—are available to us to carry along each day, wherever the day may take us.

Leadership, not radicalism