Niall Ferguson recently discussed his conversion to Christianity. He expressed hope for a Christian revival, which he framed as the best antidote to the Great Awokening that has done so much damage to our societies. He also speculated that Christianity offers meaning to those who feel adrift in our secular age. People would be happier if they went to church. Ferguson’s wife, Ayaan Hirsi Ali, has also converted. In a widely read column at Unherd, she underscored the civilizational importance of upholding “the legacy of the Judeo-Christian tradition.”
It’s tempting to fix on these remarks and dismiss them as instrumental uses of Christianity rather than expressions of full and genuine faith. As I’ve noted in previous columns, Paul Kingsnorth made this very point in his recent Erasmus Lecture, arguing firmly against allying with Christianity for the sake of defending Western civilization (“Against Christian Civilization,” January 2025). Kingsnorth is not alone. I’ve heard many friends concede that, yes, churchgoing can alleviate loneliness and allay the dispiriting sense of meaninglessness in one’s life. But they point out that these are therapeutic reasons, not theological ones.
Although our tradition endorses fear of hell as a salutary spur to repentance, some worry that too much preaching about damnation can induce a utilitarian response rather than true faith: I’ll believe as an insurance policy against the possibility of damnation. That line of reasoning was expressed by Scott Adams, creator of the comic strip Dilbert, in a social media post just days before his death from prostate cancer. Adams cited “the risk-reward calculation” that strongly favors faith in Jesus Christ, and he wrote out his statement of faith in such perfunctory form that it remains unclear whether he was being sincere or was making a final comic stab before he died. (Perhaps it was both.) Wags on social media were quick to dub his statement “Dilbert’s Wager,” a moniker that both recognizes the echo of Pascal’s famous wager argument and acknowledges the irony and ambiguity.
Those wary of commending Christianity for its capacity to deliver rewards, benefits, and consolations have a point. Belief for the sake of avoiding hell, saving Western civilization, or just finding something to hold onto in a cold, meaningless world is not the same as the disposition of faith, properly understood, which is rooted in love of God, not fear of damnation, civilizational collapse, or soul-destroying nihilism. Nonetheless, count me among those who are not quick to dismiss appeals to the usefulness of Christianity. What is different is not necessarily contradictory. St. Catherine of Siena recognizes that a “mercenary love” of God is imperfect; nevertheless, it can spur us toward a pure and selfless love.
The most famous fragment in Pascal’s posthumous collection of his wide-ranging meditations, the Pensées, is the wager argument. It turns on an appeal to self-interest. Pascal argues that it is rational to sacrifice pleasures in this life in order to avoid eternal punishment and merit eternal reward in the next. In short, the most reasonable belief is that God exists, and I should honor and obey him.
The logical power of the wager argument turns on the possibility of infinite punishment or reward, which overwhelms and makes irrelevant all calculations of temporal utility. Our personal interests in the survival of Western civilization and deliverance from the unhappiness born of a sense of meaninglessness lack infinite value. They are finite, inner-worldly concerns. Nonetheless, they, too, function within a wager: Is it not reasonable to suffer the inconveniences of churchgoing and the intellectual difficulties of religion if they stem civilizational decline and fend off nihilism?
Pascal knew that arguments from utility, no matter how powerful, do not produce faith. But he also knew that men are captive to their pride and remain slaves of their desires. To overcome sinful self-bondage, we require sharp slaps and strong body blows. Wager arguments (both the formal one Pascal outlines and the informal ones suggested by appeals to Christianity as the foundation of Western civilization and a source of meaning and community) jar us out of our complacent secularism. These arguments stop us in our tracks. Wait a minute, I’m forced to say, forget about miracles, apparitions, and revelations; on the terms of my own purely secular values, I ought to embrace the truth of Christianity!
Textbooks lift Pascal’s wager out of the Pensées and present its logical form. But Pascal does not stop with the argument’s conclusion. The long fragment has the form of a dialogue. After the argument ends, Pascal’s interlocutor (like Scott Adams) concedes that he cannot resist the conclusion. A reasonable calculation of self-interest leads to belief in and obedience to God. Yet he tells Pascal that he still does not believe (as Scott Adams suggests).
Concession of logical force combined with continued unbelief is a common outcome, not just to arguments concerning God, but in many matters. As St. John Henry Newman often observed, formal arguments, however sound, regularly fail to change minds. We can concede that we find no flaws in someone’s reasoning yet shake our heads and reject the conclusion.
Pascal’s response to his interlocutor’s persistent unbelief is telling. He says, in effect: Go to church, imitate the saints, and you’ll learn to believe. The advice is sound. It’s not unusual for people to stumble into church for worldly reasons. They seek community. They are attracted to the beautiful music. They’re looking for a spouse. The motives are countless. After noticing how common this path to faith is, Pascal frames an exhortation: “Follow the way by which they began. They behaved just as if they did believe, taking holy water, having Masses said, and so on. That will make you believe quite naturally, and will make you more docile.”
I hold to a firm principle when it comes to Pascal: Never assume that he makes mistakes in logic or theology. We should be slow to criticize Ferguson, Adams, and others who cite the usefulness of Christianity as a mark in favor of belief. Did not Jesus draw people to himself by feeding the multitudes, healing their sicknesses, and casting out their demons? Our Lord himself is not averse to appealing to the human impulse to seek greater utility in order to set us down the path toward discipleship.
Image by ActuaLitté, licensed via Creative Commons. Image cropped.
