Over the course of four novels, Marilynne Robinson has given the world the palimpsest of Gilead, Iowa, upon which we have seen the slow drama of the Ames and the Boughtons play out.
Zena Hitz’s book comes at a moment when two different trajectories are set to overwhelm any retrieval of the joys of an intellectual life.
Having been at the intersection of so many important moments of 20th century theological and social history, Day’s legacy has been appropriated as a pacifist, as an eco-feminist, as a traditionalist Catholic, and as a family woman.
There are possibly no worse times to read a theologian such as Ephraim Radner than during a pandemic. Radner’s prose is simultaneously penetrating and demanding, bordering on the opaque at times, and for a parent working from home with two children, Radner offers no respite.
Writing about the Midwest is, as many have observed, the trite cliché which became a reality, and then a marketable commodity. With the American South as the possible competitor here, no other region of the United States is subject to as much bemusement and demeaning observations than the Midwest.
It is no secret that in many places the areas of science and technology are in high demand (or at least perceived by administrations as being so) and become the priorities for Christian universities. But, in the struggle to keep afloat and to offer new programs befitting an increasingly technocratic world, is there a place—even at Christian universities—for theology to be a topic of study for everyone? The opposition to executing this notion well are legion.