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I was watching the news the other day and I heard something that might startle you… Out of the mouth of a national leader I heard something I quickly perceived, based on a smattering of history, a little bit of science, and some common sense… I heard a bald-faced lie. A lie! Can you believe it?
Have any of you ever had an experience like that?
Stunning. Numbing. Lies. Our world, it seems, has become a place where feelings masquerade as facts in a weird brew of TikTok history, opinion-driven journalism, and made-up science… stuff that simply isn’t true.
This is what it means to live in a post-truth world. Facts have become opinions based on preferences, generally fueled for profits to enhance someone else’s power. It is in the water, or more to the point, the oxygen breathed by the algorithms of the internet.
But there’s a glimmer of hope. This post-truth paradigm of opinion, preference, profit, and power is something the church is well acquainted with. Here is my thesis: because this is the case, maybe the church has something to say about how to live well and thrive in a squishy post-truth world.
The Gospel today can give us some guidance. Philip leads us into this conversation. We find him with Jesus and the other disciples in the upper room having dinner. This is the section of John, as Kate taught last Sunday, known as the Farewell Discourse. Here, Jesus is laying out his vision for the disciples in a post-Resurrection world. Of course they are confused. Philip butts in and says: “Lord, show us the Father, and we will be satisfied.”
I empathize with Philip. He is a facts guy, simply seeking the hard evidence. But Jesus doesn’t give Philip what he’s looking for. He doesn’t unroll a scroll of divine evidence or deliver a PowerPoint presentation on Trinitarian certainty.
Instead, Jesus says: “Whoever has seen me has seen the Father.” And with those words there is a grinding shift of tectonic plates as Jesus redefines truth not as a proposition, not as a set of doctrines, not a list of verified claims… but as a person; as himself: “I am the way, and the truth, and the life.” (John 14:6) Truth is not an abstract concept, it is a relationship.
Philip wants theological certainty. Jesus invites him into relational intimacy. This isn’t a truth we prove. It is a truth we meet. This is not a truth we measure. It is one we abide in. And it doesn’t live in a book, or an argument, or even a creed. It lives in a relationship, with the Father, through the Son, by the Spirit.
But here’s the thing: somewhere along the way the Church forgot this.
Two hundred years ago the Enlightenment arrived. Science surged, and with it came a world that privileged what was tested, measured, and repeated. And that’s not a bad thing. Thank God for microscopes and antibiotics and airplanes. But it created a deep tension for the Church, because suddenly, spiritual truth thought it had to compete on scientific terms.
There’s a famous debate in 1860 at Oxford that captures the moment. Bishop Samuel Wilberforce, the son of the great abolitionist William Wilberforce, went head-to-head with Thomas Huxley, a biologist and passionate defender of Charles Darwin’s theory of evolution.
The tone was combative, the Church was defensive, and the whole exchange revealed how rattled the Church was over the “provability” of science. Wilberforce, instead of standing in the strength of spiritual discernment, chose to double down on the story of creation from the book of Genesis as if it were fact.
And ever since, one branch of the church has been seeking to test, measure, and repeat, like science, to defend the veracity of Christianity. Their efforts gave birth to what is now called dogmatics, where scripture is parsed like a laboratory specimen, every word analyzed, every passage dissected, trying to reconstruct the Bible like a forensic puzzle to “get to” the “truth.” This theological reductionism sought to replace spiritual wonder with agreed-to facts, hitting its lowest point (in my opinion) in the 1970s, with the Jesus Seminar.
This was a gathering of scholars who voted on whether Jesus really said the things the Gospels attributed to him. They used colored marbles: red meant “definitely Jesus,” pink meant “maybe,” gray meant “doubtful,” and black meant “no way.” Yes… marbles. Literal marbles. That might be the moment when the Church lost its marbles.
They were trying to prove something that was never meant to be proven; it was meant to be lived. Ironically, while the Church was flailing for footing, culture was moving in the opposite direction. By the mid-20th century, we had a strong collective trust in a shared truth. You could tune in to Walter Cronkite to get the facts.
But then came the splintering. Cable news. 24-hour cycles. The internet. Social media. A thousand voices all claiming authority, all crafting different “realities.” Ushering in a post-truth world where how we feel matters more than what’s true; where shouting louder is more persuasive than listening deeper; where curated identities and echo chambers replace human relationships. It’s no wonder we’re fragmented. It’s no wonder our cultural nervous system is shot.
And for Christians, like you and me, what exacerbates this crisis is that while one branch of Christianity sought to chase down science; another branch of Christianity kept saying what Wilberforce said in 1860.
We know them as fundamentalists, who enthusiastically double down on ideas like creationism.
Fundamentalists have adopted a piling-on strategy, increasing the volume of the same old argument, persistently and strategically seeking to add data points to the algorithms in a way that cloaks lies in a colorful cape of truthiness.
For 200 years Christianity has navigated a landscape where monks and mystics have lived with Jesus Seminar scholars, alongside scriptural fundamentalists, plus Quakers, plus Catholics, plus Presbyterians, and even Episcopalians, the list goes on… all staying in some semblance of relationship around the person of Jesus.
And, if you telescope down even further, you’ll see how, even at the parish level, here at Epiphany, our pews are filled with many truths, and still we gather together, growing, around the person of Jesus.
And so, the church may have some wisdom to contribute to the current cultural conversation about truth, because on our best days what we have learned is how to employ truth not as a weapon, but as witness. Not a mic drop, but an outstretched hand.
And this is why, perhaps unexpectedly, we’re seeing young people return to the Church — not in droves, but steadily, curiously. Because in this cultural moment of confusion, the Church has something they’re craving: a place where we don’t all have to agree, but we do have to stay in the relationship. Where we don’t shout each other down, but sit across tables… RELATA style. Where we confess mystery, instead of demanding certainty.
That’s what we celebrate today on the Feast of Pentecost: the Spirit of Truth, not descending with a lecture, but appearing as a companion; not as a solution, but as a presence. Jesus doesn’t promise answers. He promises an Advocate. The Spirit of Truth, an outstretched hand.
I’ll give you an example.
Over the years you’ve heard me tell stories about Mrs. Winkelman, who helped reprogram my dyslexic brain. For years I would wander through the woods up the hill to Mrs. Winkelman’s house and sit in her study doing flashcards and reading books.
Mrs. Winkelman was married to Dr. Winkelman, who was a giant of a man, a world-renowned dermatologist at the Mayo Clinic, and 6 ft. 8 in. tall. I’ll never forget one afternoon as I was leaving, I ran into Dr. Winkelman as he arrived home early from work. He towered over me, in a suit and tie, framing the garage door… he looked down, smiled, and put his huge hand on my shoulder and said: “Doyt, Mrs. Winkelman tells me that you are doing great work. I’m really proud of you. Keep it up.”
I’m not sure what facts Dr. Winkelman had to make this claim, but what he did know is that the truth — real truth, the Spirit of Truth — does not necessitate data for it to be revealed.
Here is what I know 50 years later: I can’t tell you one thing on any of those flashcards, but I’ll never forget Dr. Winkelman’s words. They were words with flesh upon them.
Christianity understands how to live in a post-truth world not by pretending facts don’t matter, but by remembering that relationship matters more. Yes, we believe in facts. Yes, we believe in science. But we also believe that what holds the world together is not data, but love. Not certainty, but communion.
Our God is the very definition of relationship: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Our lives are tangled up in this Trinitarian web, not as isolated atoms, but interconnected beings, made by love, to receive love, to share love, so as to reveal the Spirit of Truth.
That’s why we don’t need to be rattled by a post-truth world. We’ve read this book. We’ve been here before. We know how to live it: not by conquering, but by abiding; not by shouting, but by listening; not by being “right,” but by being merciful.
That’s the truth we carry, not a doctrine, but a person. Not a position, but a presence. The truth that looks us in the eye, breaks bread with us, and says, “Peace be with you. As the Father has sent me, so I send you.”