Richard John Neuhaus

oes the founder of First Things matter in 2024? It’s a question that Aaron Renn asks in his Substack newsletter. He was prompted by James Davison Hunter’s recent book, Democracy and Solidarity. Hunter pairs John Dewey and Reinhold Niebuhr as exemplary figures in mid-twentieth-century America. A prolific writer, Dewey was an influential voice for progressivism in politics and education. Arguably the most widely read American Protestant theologian of his generation, Reinhold Niebuhr helped many see the dangers of liberalism’s naive optimism.

Hunter also pairs Richard Rorty with Richard John Neuhaus. Both exercised significant influence in the later decades of the twentieth century and at the beginning of this one. Rorty, like Dewey, was a spokesman for pragmatism in philosophy and progressivism in politics. As readers of First Things know, Neuhaus endorsed orthodoxy in religion, truth in morality, and, like Niebuhr, a chastened liberalism in politics—the outlook that came to be known as neoconservatism.

Renn observes that in both instances the progressive paladin enjoys lasting notoriety, whereas the figure on the right has faded from public view. I think he is ­mistaken.

I don’t wish to dispute Dewey’s influence. More than any other figure, he steered American liberalism toward a cocksure progressivism that pretends to be nothing more than common sense applied to changing social circumstances. His theories of learning and pedagogy have helped produce today’s dysfunctional educational culture. All true, but my point is this: In the last fifty years, few have read John Dewey, except when assigned to do so in an advanced college seminar on the history of American philosophy or educational theory. There are good reasons why Dewey’s work is neglected. I recently read his 1919 book, Reconstruction in Philosophy. It’s a treasure trove of progressive rhetoric masquerading as argument, rhetoric still very much with us today. But my reading of the book was the exception. Few people interested in contemporary philosophy, politics, or religion would pick up that volume. I’m willing to bet that Reconstruction in Philosophy has not been read by anyone who earned a Ph.D. in philosophy in the last forty years, beyond a few specialists in the history of pragmatism (and eccentric pundits like me).

By contrast, Reinhold Niebuhr’s books are not preserved in the amber of college syllabi. As Renn notes, Obama called him his favorite theologian. Michael Mandelbaum cites Niebuhr at the outset of his 2016 book on the naive humanitarian interventionism that has shipwrecked American foreign policy. I’ve heard sermons that refer to Niebuhr’s insights. It’s not hard to imagine a young person who wants to gain a theological perspective on politics picking up Christianity and Power Politics or Christian Realism and Political Problems and reading them with a general rather than ­specialized interest.

What accounts for this difference? By its very nature, Dewey’s pragmatic philosophy ties him to his historical moment. Truth is whatever promotes progress, and progressive activists in 2024 have moved beyond Dewey’s concerns. His “truth” is no longer useful. Foucault and others long ago supplanted him as touchstones. Niebuhr’s work was ­also tied to the issues and concerns of his time. But the sinews of his thought are biblical, which means that a contemporary Christian—indeed, a secular person sensible of the biblical DNA of Western culture—can enter into his thought and draw insights.

As a professor, I often taught Introduction to ­Christianity. One assignment was Martin Luther’s The Freedom of a Christian. Like or dislike that short treatise, students had little difficulty reading the text and grasping its paradoxical argument. As a teacher, I reflected on this remarkable fact. How could a five-hundred-year-old book be so immediately accessible? The answer is simple: Luther uses idioms and concepts drawn from St. Paul’s letters, elements of the living language of the church. ­Reinhold Niebuhr was not a great theologian. But he, too, speaks the language of the church, which means that his books will be accessible and relevant for as long as the church continues to form the minds of believers.

The fates of Rorty and Neuhaus are different from those of Dewey and Niebuhr. Rorty made a big splash with his 1979 book, Philosophy and the Mirror of Nature. It was a convincing attack on the formalized rationalism that was the dominant mode of philosophy in American universities. In the 1980s, Rorty wrote widely read essays that sought to develop a pragmatic philosophy akin to Dewey’s, whose reputation he championed. Truth is what works, and Rorty defines “what works” as that which enlarges and advances the achievements of American liberalism.

My copies of Philosophy and the Mirror of Nature and Consequences of Pragmatism are heavily underlined. I have relished Rorty’s fine essay on George Orwell. But I doubt that Rorty’s work will find readers in the future. Like Dewey’s, his pragmatic philosophy assigns priority to whatever brings about a better future, and thus he theorized his own irrelevance as history moves forward. Moreover, unlike Dewey, Rorty was not an activist or institution builder. (Dewey was the most significant figure at Columbia Teachers College, the institution that did a great deal to transform public education in the twentieth century.) This difference means that ­historians won’t feature Rorty’s name prominently in histories of late-twentieth-century American progressive politics. In histories of philosophy, I doubt that he will be much mentioned, any more than is Josiah Royce, a once famous philosopher who flourished one hundred years before Richard Rorty attained his own fleeting fame.

Richard John Neuhaus filled countless pages with his prose. He commented on church politics and secular politics, theological controversies and moral debates, cultural trends and literary masterpieces. It’s fair to say that he invented blogging avant la lettre. He perfected the art of fluid commentary on the passing scene in “The Public Square” and “While We’re At It,” columns I perpetuate, albeit with far less brio and in briefer compass. His most widely known book, The Naked Public Square (1986), defended the then-influential Religious Right as a legitimate voice in the American tradition of democratic deliberation and debate. He authored many other books, and he had his finger in numerous projects and publications over the years.

Some of Neuhaus’s output falls into the genre of highbrow journalism. He also penned works of pastoral theology, aiming to help clergy understand their vocations. He reflected on his brush with death, and he wrote about the central truths of the Christian faith. His range was broad, but his idiom was consistently theological. He therefore shares with Reinhold Niebuhr a certain timelessness, born of participation in the ongoing life of the church. Neuhaus’s meditation on the last words of Jesus from the Cross, Death on a Friday ­Afternoon, is exemplary in this regard. It has been and will remain a popular book. I can easily imagine that this book, unlike anything written by Richard Rorty, will be selected fifty years from now by a Christian fellowship as a basis for spiritual reflection during Holy Week. Faithful exposition of the words of Scripture does not go out of style.

Like Dewey, Neuhaus was an activist and institution builder. Possessed of a gift for friendship, he was a leader who empowered others and won their loyalty. First Thingsendures because of Neuhaus. He put his stamp on our publication: orthodox in theology, unapologetic in witness, confident in assertion, wide-ranging in interest, stern in warning, and cheerful in celebration. More importantly, he assembled around himself a community of writers and readers who carried forward his projects, interests, and passions after his death.

Most authors are swallowed by time. Nearly all that is published is foredoomed to be unread and forgotten. Those who survive are most often more than writers. Some are devoted teachers. I have no doubt that Leo Strauss endures because he inspired a cohort of brilliant graduate students, who went on to assign and discuss his books with subsequent generations. Others are activists and builders of institutions. Public schools are named after John Dewey, not because he wrote timeless treatises, but because he led the progressive educational movement. The same will hold for Richard John ­Neuhaus. The lasting influence of First Things is rightly seen as his legacy. And that legacy includes more than this publication. Neuhaus theorized the role of religion in public life. He advocated for it tirelessly, and he organized to ensure its perdurance. The wide array of religious writers, policymakers, and politicians (some of whom hotly insist that theological principles, properly understood, militate against positions taken in First Things) testify to his influence.

Let’s imagine an American future. It will feature Christian and Jewish communities that, though not majorities, are nevertheless vigorous and substantial. In this future, secular progressives will be seen as representatives of a discredited past. The rainbow flag will have been retired. The country won’t be a biblical republic; theocrats won’t be in charge. But in this future, men and women of faith, educated in the best traditions of the West, possessed of a flexible, capacious outlook, and able to articulate moral principles that are not the exclusive province of the religious believer, will exercise outsized influence. If this future comes to pass—it is our ambition—there is no doubt that ­historians will highlight the role of Richard John Neuhaus.