Charles Hawkins

There is a certain historical symmetry in watching a pope named Leo issue a major social encyclical about artificial intelligence. In 1891, Pope Leo XIII confronted the moral dislocations of the industrial revolution in Rerum Novarum . Factories had transformed labor. Capital had become concentrated. Human beings were increasingly treated as interchangeable units within economic systems optimized for efficiency and profit. Leo’s intervention was not a rejection of modernity, but a moral insistence that economic life must remain accountable to human dignity. Now, more than a century later, Pope Leo XIV has issued Magnifica Humanitas , applying the Church’s social teaching to a different technological revolution. The machinery is no longer steam-powered. The assembly line has become algorithmic. Yet the underlying question remains remarkably familiar: What becomes of the human person when increasingly powerful systems reorganize work, power, and even decision-making itself? That is not...

A  recent article in Dazed on Jewel Yang’s photobook Genesis Vanishing describes a project that is at once contemporary and strangely ancient. Yang paints sacred imagery directly onto human skin—angels, seraphim, fish, wounds, wings—and in doing so turns the body into a temporary icon. The medium is make-up, that most fleeting of arts. The subject is the divine. The modern world often treats beauty in one of two ways. It is either trivialized as mere surface or recruited into the service of commerce, branding, and self-display. What makes Yang’s work interesting is that it seems to resist both habits. Her use of make-up is not simply decorative. It is symbolic. It is tactile, embodied, and transient. It suggests that beauty may still function as a threshold to meanings deeper than fashion alone can bear. Religious symbols are never merely visual. They come freighted with memory, devotion, taboo, longing, and argument. A fish, an angel, the wounds of a martyr—these are not neutr...

Every now and then, history does us the kindness of putting our complaints in perspective. That is not to say our complaints are unreal. A ruined morning can still be a ruined morning. The car will not start. The email you meant to send was not sent. The meeting went badly. The rain began just as you stepped outside. One should not despise the small aggravations of ordinary life. They are part of being human. Still, history has a way of clearing its throat. David Carpenter, the great historian of medieval England, reminds us that to live now—at least for many of us—is to live with protections our ancestors could scarcely imagine. We take for granted a political order in which conflict, however bitter, is ordinarily contained by law, election, debate, and institution. Thirteenth-century England knew no such settled blessing. Civil war meant burned property, slaughtered enemies, massacred Jews, hungry peasants, and towns pulled into the machinery of violence. And then there was hunge...

​ Borrowing the Table Christian imagery has a curious afterlife in secular culture. Even in settings far removed from ecclesial life, the symbols remain available—recognizable enough to carry emotional weight, detached enough to be repurposed at will. Megan Garber’s recent reflection on The Devil Wears Prada 2 in The Atlantic notices one such appropriation: Leonardo da Vinci’s The Last Supper appearing as the backdrop for a climactic dinner scene among the self-appointed elites of fashion, media, and wealth. Garber’s central question is sharp: What happens when a culture that no longer inhabits Christian belief still reaches for Christian symbols to dramatize its anxieties? The answer may be more revealing than the filmmakers intended. The Last Supper is not merely a familiar image. It depicts a particular kind of gathering: a meal overshadowed by betrayal, suffused with sacrifice, and transformed by Jesus’ strange self-giving. “This is my body, given for you” is not simply aes...

The Pope’s recent warning about the simulation of reality becomes more complicated the moment one asks what, exactly, is meant by “reality.” If reality is imagined as some pristine, unmediated presence standing transparently behind language, images, and symbols, then one is right to hesitate. Derrida has taught us to be suspicious of that kind of nostalgia. There never was a simple world of pure presence, untouched by mediation, waiting to be handed over intact. Human beings have always lived through words, signs, stories, rituals, and acts of interpretation. Indeed, the life of faith itself is irreducibly mediated. We know God not by escaping mediation, but through Scripture, sacrament, proclamation, memory, and flesh. The problem, then, is not mediation as such. That is where Lacan may be helpful.  For Lacan, “the real” is not just the ordinary world of objects lying about in front of us. It is, rather, what resists symbolization, what cannot be fully mastered by our systems of ...

There is something almost comic in the discovery that ministry does not pay well. Not comic in the sense of trivial. The finances of ministry are often painful. Pastors serve small congregations that can barely afford them. Seminarians graduate with debt into jobs that cannot reasonably repay it. Churches lament clergy shortages while offering compensation packages that require either heroic sacrifice, a working spouse, inherited wealth, or a second job. The comedy is darker than laughter. It is the comedy of belated recognition: a society built around earnings suddenly looks at ministry and announces, with bureaucratic seriousness, that the numbers do not work. The surprise is not that there is no money in ministry. The surprise is that anyone is surprised. A recent  Christianity Today  article by Emily Belz reports on a proposed federal regulation that would judge college and graduate programs by whether their graduates out-earn peers without the same degree. If programs fai...