Is the Gospel Compatible with American Culture?

Do you assume that your Christian faith fits naturally within American life? We speak easily of “values,” “freedom,” “equality,” and “success,” yet rarely pause to ask a deeper question:

Does the Gospel truly align with the way American culture forms us as human beings?

Do you tend to see this only as a political or social issue? Does it not also concern what kind of persons we are becoming?

American culture largely shapes us around autonomy, comfort, productivity, technology, rationalism, consumption, and visible success.
The Gospel shapes us around love, humility, meekness, repentance, communion, self-offering, and eternal life.

These are not minor differences. They represent two fundamentally different visions of life.

American Cultural Values

Observers and scholars have long noted several defining traits of American society:

• Individualism and personal autonomy: my rights, my privacy, my beliefs, my identity, my choices—the self becomes the final authority.
• Freedom defined as doing whatever one desires: no restraint, no obligation, no authority; happiness and comfort are treated as rights rather than goals requiring discipline.
• Consumerism fueled by material accumulation: my wants, my lifestyle, my convenience, my image—we learn to express identity through what we buy and consume.
• Hedonism: the pursuit of pleasure, entertainment, and comfort, with suffering viewed as meaningless and something to be eliminated at all costs.
• Equality that flattens meaningful distinctions: no higher wisdom, no spiritual authority, no binding tradition—every opinion carries equal weight regardless of experience or holiness.
• Technological progress: faster, smarter, easier—efficiency replaces wisdom, convenience replaces patience, and control replaces humility.
• Success measured by productivity, status, and achievement: worth is determined by output, income, and recognition.
• Secularism: the quiet removal of God from public life and daily consciousness, reducing spirituality to a private preference rather than the foundation of reality.

These are not always explicitly chosen values. They shape our daily habits, expectations, and desires. They quietly teach us what to value, how to measure success, and what it means to be free. Most of us did not consciously choose them—we absorbed them simply by living in this culture.

 And yet, we still call ourselves Christians. 

So we must ask honestly: How does this way of life compare with the way of life revealed in the Gospel?

The Gospel Vision

The Gospel offers something radically different.

It does not aim to produce independent individuals pursuing private happiness.
It seeks to form persons in communion with God.

Where culture says, define yourself,
Christ says, deny yourself.

Where culture says, follow your desires,
Christ says, take up your cross.

Where culture says, succeed,
Christ says, become humble.

Scripture is clear:

• Humility: “Let nothing be done through selfish ambition… Let this mind be in you which was also in Christ Jesus.” (Philippians 2:3–5)
• Meekness: “Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth.” (Matthew 5:5)
• Purity of Heart: “Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.” (Matthew 5:8)
• Peacemaking: “Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called sons of God.” (Matthew 5:9)
• Love of God and Neighbor: “You shall love the Lord your God… and your neighbor as yourself.” (Matthew 22:37–39)
• Self-Denial: “If anyone desires to come after Me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross daily.” (Luke 9:23)
• Communion with God: “Abide in Me… without Me you can do nothing.” (John 15:4–5)
• Repentance and Transformation: “Repent, and believe in the gospel.” (Mark 1:15); “Be transformed by the renewing of your mind.” (Romans 12:2)
• Eternal Life as the Goal: “This is eternal life, that they may know You.” (John 17:3); “What will it profit a man if he gains the whole world and loses his soul?” (Matthew 16:26)

The Gospel consistently redirects desire away from autonomy, pleasure, and worldly success toward humility, repentance, communion, and eternal life.

I see two central beliefs driving modern American life: an exaggerated idea of equality that rejects authority, and a notion of freedom defined as doing whatever one wishes. Together they undermine obedience, truth, and spiritual authority. Truth becomes subjective, the self becomes the final authority. The result is extreme individualism, leaving little room for the Church—or even for God.

The Gospel presents a radically different vision. It proclaims universal Truth grounded in the reality that we are creatures lovingly created by God. Made in His image, we are called to love as He loves. This earthly life is temporary—a journey toward perfection in divine love. God sent His Son to overcome death and transform us, offering eternal life through His Kingdom. He gives us a way of life through Christ’s example, the sacraments of the Church, and the ongoing work of the Holy Spirit planted within us.

Without universal Truth, society has no stable foundation. We become subject either to political power or personal opinion. So we must ask ourselves: if we confess the Gospel, can we continue living by these cultural values? Are we guided by patriotism, comfort, pleasure, and success—or by Christ?

Two Definitions of Freedom

American culture defines freedom as limitless choice and pursues happiness through consumption and technology. But the Gospel defines freedom differently—as liberation from sin and the passions, a freedom that enables us to love God, follow His commandments, become like Christ, and be prepared to enter eternal life.

Modern society removes restraints in the name of self-expression, rejecting hierarchy and even the Church’s apostolic order. Christ, however, teaches restraint of the passions so that we may become truly free.

Consumer culture says, You are what you own.
Christ says, Life does not consist in possessions (Luke 12:15).

Technological progress promises mastery over the world and feeds utopian dreams of eliminating suffering and even death—now increasingly invested in AI.

The Gospel offers something different: the healing of the heart. When we are freed from passions, we encounter divine joy and glimpse a greater life beyond this world—eternal life without sickness or death.

The world measures worth by productivity. The Gospel teaches stillness, prayer, and inner transformation. Culture emphasizes doing; Christianity emphasizes being. American progress is external, while Christian progress is inward.

From Consumers to Sons and Daughters of God

Orthodox Christianity understands salvation not as self-improvement, personal success, or the preservation of individual freedom, but as participation in divine life. It stands completely apart from consumer culture’s pursuit of accumulation, comfort, and pleasure. 

As Alexander Schmemann writes in For the Life of the World, secular society reduces life to consumption, while the Church reveals humanity’s true vocation: to receive creation as gift and offer it back to God in thanksgiving.

American culture trains us to become independent consumers—cogs in an invisible system where work becomes burdensome and meaning feels distant. Even great wealth rarely brings peace. The Gospel calls us instead to become humble sons and daughters of God, participants in His grace.

Culture asks, What can you achieve?
The Gospel asks, Who are you becoming?

Conclusion

The question is no longer whether Christianity can survive in America.
The real question is whether we can survive spiritually while uncritically absorbing American values.

We cannot serve both the Gospel and autonomy.
We cannot pursue Christ while clinging to comfort and self-definition.
We cannot confess eternal life while organizing our lives around temporary worldly success.

Christ does not come to improve our lifestyle.
He comes to crucify the old self—and to raise up a new one.

The Gospel is incompatible with any culture that places the self at the center.
It calls every culture—including our own—to repentance.

So each of us must decide:

Will we live as consumers who occasionally pray—
Or disciples who are being transformed?

Will we follow the American dream—
Or will we follow Christ?

Neutrality is not an option.

Christ says:

“Come to Me, all you who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.
Take My yoke upon you and learn from Me… For My yoke is easy and My burden is light.” (Matthew 11:28–30)

Christ does not remove the yoke; He gives us His. And His yoke is light because it is carried in communion with Him

Living Between Two Worlds: Faith and Daily Life

As I watch my grandchildren grow into adulthood—intelligent, sincere, morally serious, and outwardly faithful—I find myself both grateful and troubled. Grateful because they identify as Orthodox Christians, value the Church, and do not reject God. I am troubled because I see a gap between the faith they profess and the life they actually live. They do not seem to have an awareness or an aim of their life that is consistent with their religion, a union with God for eternal life. What unsettles me most is recognizing the same pattern in myself, both now and especially earlier in my life.

This is not about rebellion or disbelief. It is a story of division—not always conscious, often unexamined, and deeply shaped by the world we inhabit.

My grandchildren live busy, responsible lives. They work hard, plan carefully, and pursue what is good. They speak respectfully about prayer, understand the sacramental life, and know—at least intellectually—that God should be central. Yet spiritual practices like prayer are often postponed, squeezed out by schedules, or quietly assumed to be optional. Decisions about work, time, travel, and goals are made thoughtfully, but almost entirely without reference to God and His purpose for us. Faith remains real, but it does not appear to guide. Life appears spiritually aimless.

I don’t see this as hypocrisy. It is something far more subtle and far more common: a life lived with two parallel worldviews, without a clear purpose. 

It is as if we were born into a life with a spiritual purpose, but dropped into a world with a different one. It's like we're in some kind of cocoon, needing to be transformed, but that need is hazy.

On the one hand, there is the sacramental worldview of their faith, which they claim and believe. God exists. The Church is true. The sacraments matter. Prayer is necessary. Orthodoxy is part of their identity. On the other hand, there is the worldview that actually governs daily life—a secular rhythm shaped by efficiency, personal fulfillment, experience, and self-direction. One that ignores any spiritual aim. God is not denied, but He is rarely consulted. Prayer is affirmed, but not relied upon. Faith is respected, but not operative.

In practical terms, it looks something like this:

• God is trusted with salvation, but not with daily direction.
• Prayer is seen as important, but not necessary.
• Life choices are made responsibly, but not prayerfully with a spiritual aim.
• The world is experienced as a field of options, not a place of offering or spiritual growth
• Life is about success in societal terms, not preparing for eternal life.

This produces what I can only describe as a divided attention—a soul pulled between two ways of understanding reality.

What makes this difficult to address is that nothing appears “wrong.” Life is successful. Relationships are stable. Plans are exciting. Travel is enriching. From the outside, everything looks good. And because nothing feels sinful or destructive, the deeper question is never asked: What is my life for before God?

I see this clearly when I watch how experiences are planned, like travel. Trips are designed to see, enjoy, and consume what has not yet been seen—beautiful cities, famous sites, memorable experiences. There is nothing inherently wrong with this. But rarely is the question asked whether such journeys are meant to shape the soul, deepen prayer, cultivate gratitude, or orient the heart more fully toward God. The journey has purpose, but not spiritual direction.

I recognize this because I have lived it myself.

There were many years when I believed deeply, attended church, and affirmed the faith—yet functioned as if my daily life were something I had to manage on my own. I made good decisions, careful decisions, even moral decisions. But I did not always make the offered decisions. I did not instinctively bring my plans, my time, or my desires before God. Prayer was real, but it was not the operating system of my life—it was a support system.

This is perhaps the heart of the problem. Many Christians today, myself included, have been formed to think of prayer as something that helps life, rather than something that runs it. We turn to God when things go wrong, when we are overwhelmed, or when we feel the need for comfort. But we do not naturally turn to Him when things are going well, when opportunities arise, or when choices seem harmless and exciting.

The deeper loss in all of this is the loss of vocation. When life is no longer experienced as a calling from God, it becomes a project of self-authorship. Work becomes career-building. Travel becomes experience-gathering. Time becomes something to manage. Even faith becomes something we fit in rather than something we live from.

I do not believe this condition is unique to young adults. I see it in myself, in peers, and in entire communities. It is the air we breathe. We have inherited a world that teaches us—quietly and constantly—that we are responsible for creating meaning, direction, and fulfillment on our own. God may exist, but life is ours to design.

And yet, the Orthodox vision of life says something radically different: that life itself is an offering, that the world is sacramental, and that nothing—work, rest, travel, success, or failure—is spiritually neutral. God created us with a purpose: to become like Him, so we can return to His kingdom with eternal life, and a new one begins.

What gives me hope is that this divided life is not necessarily a final state. Often it is a stage, one shaped by modern conditions rather than conscious rejection. Integration tends to come slowly, sometimes through suffering, sometimes through stillness, sometimes through the quiet realization that self-direction has limits. I know from my own life that I have lived through many stages.

As a grandfather and someone still learning, I have come to believe that my role is to live, as best I can, a more integrated life. A life where prayer is not forced but natural. Where my acts become more like Christ's. Where I am constantly aware of His presence in me. Where decisions are discerned, not merely optimized. Where God is not invoked only in crisis, but consulted in freedom.

If my grandchildren—or anyone—are ever to bridge the divide between the sacramental faith they profess and the secular rhythm they live, it will be through seeing that such integration is possible, life-giving, real, and necessary for eternal life.

And that work, I am still learning, begins with me.

Listlessness, Discouragement, and Depression — An Orthodox View

There is a state of the soul known to the early Church Fathers as listlessness (ἀκηδία (akēdia))

Evagrius (345–399 AD) sees this as the demon of listlessness: no longer love; God no longer cares for you; cuts off hope; shuts off the holy light from the soul; no longer dare to seek mercy of God with prayers; want to cry but terrible thought suppress tears; lasts for days on end; you want to scream about your discouragement and boredom; can make you sick; lose patience; feel crazy; then cry like a baby. In this condition, it can seem like there is no way out. This condition is experienced on the spiritual path for those who are advanced and strong spiritually but for those who are weak, it can lead to a desire for suicide after going through insanity.

The Fathers teach that listlessness often arises when a passion—an illusion of happiness or fulfillment—can no longer be satisfied. The soul, having expected life or meaning from something created, finds only frustration. When this frustration persists, it can lead to apathy, despair, and a sense that there is no way forward. The soul does not necessarily reject God; rather, it feels unable to reach Him.

For those who are spiritually strong, this state may become a battlefield where deeper humility and trust in God are forged. But for those who are weak, wounded, or already burdened, listlessness can become overwhelming and dangerous. The Fathers speak with great sobriety here: prolonged discouragement can distort perception, suppress tears, weaken the body, and in severe cases give rise to thoughts of escape from life itself. In such moments, the person is not guilty—they are suffering.

It is essential to say clearly: this condition is an illness of the soul, and often of the body as well. It may resemble what modern psychology calls depression, and the two can exist together. The Church does not oppose medical care in such cases. Medicine may help stabilize the body and mind so that the soul can breathe again. Seeking help is not a lack of faith; it is an act of humility and wisdom.

The Fathers do not burden the weak with heroic demands. They offer mercy.

When prayer feels impossible, they do not say, “Pray harder,” but rather, do not abandon prayer entirely. Even a single phrase—“Lord, have mercy,” or “Help me”—repeated without feeling, is enough. Prayer in this state is not about joy or clarity; it is about remaining turned toward God, even in darkness.

They also teach that the body must be cared for: regular meals, rest, simple activity, and structure are not distractions from spiritual life, but supports for it. Listlessness feeds on isolation and disorder. Therefore, one should not remain alone. Speaking with a priest, a trusted believer, or simply being in the presence of another person can quietly restore hope.

Most importantly, the Fathers remind us that hope does not have to come from within us. When the soul cannot hope, the Church hopes for it. When prayer feels empty, the prayers of others carry us. God’s mercy does not depend on our emotional strength. Christ remains faithful even when we feel abandoned or numb.

If you are experiencing this state, know this:
You are not broken.
You are not rejected by God.
You are not failing at the spiritual life.

You are wounded—and Christ came precisely for the wounded.

Remain where you are. Ask for help. Do not believe the thoughts that tell you there is no way out. This darkness does not define you, and it will not have the final word.

A Frightful Vision

The other day I had this frightful vision.

City of Data

The vision opened upon a city unlike any before it.

At its center did not stand a cathedral, a palace, or a marketplace—but immense data centers, towering and windowless, humming day and night. These were the most important buildings in the city and highly fortified. Everything was controlled by them. They were like the life source for human life.

They were the city’s source of truth, memory, prediction, and power.

What once came from wisdom, tradition, and lived experience was now drawn from massive data streams. Meaning itself had been reduced to what could be measured, processed, and optimized.

The populous  no longer asked, What is good?
They asked only, What works?

The Hidden Rulers

As the vision deepened, it became clear that the data centers were not autonomous. They were controlled by a very small number of unimaginably wealthy individuals—figures who rarely appeared, whose names were known but whose faces were distant.

They ruled without crowns.

They governed without laws.

They shaped reality through architecture, systems, and algorithms.

Like the pagan gods of old, they were unseen yet omnipresent, untouchable yet decisive. Their will flowed invisibly through terms of service, content moderation, educational standards, economic incentives, and behavioral predictions.

They did not demand worship—but they demanded dependence.

No one was allowed to disconnect from the Date Centers

Lives were ordered around what the gained for the Data Center: communication, education, energy, commerce, imagination

Human destiny no longer understood. No one even asked a questions. They starve to taste the games.

Churches Without Altars

The churches were still standing.

But they no longer stood at the center.

They had been converted into entertainment venues, carefully regulated and monitored by the systems Data Center. Worship was permitted so long as it remained loyal to the Data Center.

Icons were replaced with screens. Silence was replaced with sound. Repentance was replaced with reassurance.

Pastors no longer stood as shepherds before God. They functioned as toll takers, managing access, collecting attention, and keeping the experience smooth. Grace was no longer given—it was curated.

The Church no longer transformed the world. It mirrored it.

Schools Without Formation

Education, too, flowed from the data centers.

Learning was delivered almost entirely through AI-driven systems, perfectly personalized, endlessly adaptive, astonishingly efficient. Knowledge increased—but wisdom vanished.

Teachers were still present, but only as monitors. They supervised behavior but no longer shaped souls. They ensured compliance, not formation.

Children learned everything except:

why they exist

what suffering means

how to love

how to stand before God

Information was abundant. Meaning was absent.

Children Without Earth

The children did not play outside.

They sat indoors, faces lit by virtual reality headsets, inhabiting worlds more vivid and more exciting than the one beneath their feet. Their bodies were still; their souls were restless.

They no longer climbed trees, scraped knees, or learned the weight of silence. They did not encounter resistance, patience, or boredom—the very conditions where imagination and prayer are born.

Creation had become irrelevant.
Incarnation unnecessary.
Reality optional.

Power That Does Not Give Life

Each community was powered by its own nuclear reactor, feeding endless energy to the data centers. The power that feed the Data centers was immense, invisible, and dangerous—understood by few, controlled by fewer.

This was not light that warms or heals.
It was power that sustains machines.

The city glowed constantly, but it did not breathe.

Humanity Lost—not Destroyed, but Replaced

Humanity in this city was not exterminated.

It was quietly displaced.

People still worked, laughed, married, and aged—but they no longer lived from the heart. The sense that life is a gift received from God had been replaced by the belief that life is a system to be managed. Their best friends were chaps bots.

Suffering was anesthetized, not redeemed.

Hospitals were mechanized. Surgical procedures done by robots. Diagnosis done by AI at home. 

Doctors only supervised vast systems of data.
Death was postponed, not transfigured.
Freedom became a liability.
Dependence on God became unnecessary.

The image of God was not denied—it was simply forgotten.

A New Paganism

This was a return to paganism—but without myth, poetry, or ritual.

The old gods governed storms and harvests.
These new gods governed data, behavior, and desire.

They did not promise transcendence.
They promised control and fleeting pleasure.

And most terrifying of all, the people consented.

They felt safe.
They felt entertained.

They did not notice what they had lost.

The Final Stillness

The vision did not end in fire or chaos.

It ended in emptiness.

A city humming with power, glowing with light, yet starving for life.

And yet—beneath it all—the human heart remained restless.

For no data center can generate meaning.
No algorithm can produce love.
No machine can suffer—and therefore none can redeem.

Wherever even one soul still prays, still fasts, still loves, still repents—the city has not won.

“The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it.”