Yes, I Still Believe That
Confident faith in our metamodern culture of cynicism and sincerity
A quick note: This post is a little different. It’s the first of a few posts that will initially only be available to our paid subscribers. It also has a unique flavour. It is a little more academic in nature as we explore the intersection of faith and culture. While I dive into some philosophical concepts, I hope you’ll find these reflections helpful for navigating everyday conversations about faith in our current cultural mood. Reflecting on the bigger picture can sometimes help us be more faithful in the ordinary matters of life. I look forward to hearing your thoughts!
You can’t really believe that?
Once upon a time—that is to say, quite some time ago—I was drinking coffee and catching up with an old friend from my undergrad studies. Our conversation flowed easily from our shared love for tasteful design (i.e. Swiss minimalism) and even into the topic of faith. All was well until I admitted that I believe Jesus is the only way to God. Despite asking me about my perspective in the first place, he was noticeably uncomfortable. I could tell he hoped for a different answer. He was honest in his reply:
“You can't really believe that anymore, can you?”
My friend didn't just take issue with my belief. He was concerned I had missed the memo about the role of exclusive claims in our current—presumably more accepting and, thus, advanced—cultural moment that channels the spirit of Pontius Pilate:
“What is truth?”
In a nanosecond, my friend became a picturesque snapshot of postmodernism—with its incredulity toward truth claims. Basically, any universal truth is not possible because all knowledge is inescapably subjective and bound by relativity.
Ever since the motto of the modernism philosopher Karl Popper took root and bloomed in culture—tolerate everything but intolerance—there has been a gentle yet steady pressure to dismiss exclusive truth claims; or at least temper them to fit more comfortably into the supposedly contemporary world.1 Postmodernism only amplified this conviction.
But what happens when postmodernism’s own truth claims are exposed?
“There is no such thing as universal truth or exclusive truth claims” is a grand sweeping truth claim afterall. Postmodernism reveals some important things about the nature of knowledge but also has its own shortcomings. And inevitably, our cultural landscape shifted again. Because that’s what culture does. However, it’s not quite the same as a shift from one perspective to a new perspective. It’s more like a pendulum was dislodged from being stuck at one pole or extreme. It now swings freely, back and forth, unconstrained by one side or the other. The current cultural mood, like the resumed motion of a pendulum, has opened up space for exclusive truth to be a little less constrained.
Hello, Metamodernism!
I want to admit that I tend to resist diving too much into broad cultural analysis because, inconveniently, culture never remains static. By the time we take note of patterns our observations are already behind us. Nevertheless!—the changes aren’t so rapid as to be hopelessly irrelevant. Cultural theorists have been noting for over a decade now that there has been a move from the rigid certainties of modernism and the cynical deconstructions of postmodernism into what some have dubbed as metamodernism.
Meta-what-ta-ta-ism?
Yes, I'm channeling Derek Zoolander (with a healthy dose of metamodern enthusiastic irony).
Let me try provide a brief snapshot …
Modernism embraced reason, universal truth, and progress. Postmodernism was born within modernism loaded with skepticism toward these grand narratives. It embraced deconstruction, radical subjectivity, and relativism.
Metamodernism is not a rejection of these predecessors. Metamodernism is described as a pendulum swinging between “modern enthusiasm and postmodern irony, between hope and melancholy, between naïveté and knowingness.”2 It can swing between seemingly contradictory positions while seeking new constructive possibilities.
Take two minutes to watch Patrick Miller’s helpful illustration of metamodernism:
This shift in cultural mood (from muted tones to bright colours) is why contradictions are less unsettling than before—at least for some. We can now embrace individual expression and collective values, binge-watch ironic comedies and earnest documentaries in the same evening, and use social media for meaningful connection and performative posturing. Indeed, this is why we can choose praise and celebration over cynicism, despite knowing all the reasons for doubt. Perhaps it’s fair to say that metamodernism doesn’t resolve tensions—instead, it toasts them with a cocktail of irony and enthusiasm.
Faith in a Metamodern Key
The upswing is that metamodernism is better suited for the exclusive claims of our faith than either of its predecessors.
The modernist approach to truth stripped Christianity of her mystery and reduced her to propositions to be proven. Postmodernism went in the opposite direction, trying to limit Christianity to just one more culturally-bound perspective with no special access to reality.
But metamodernism shrugs indifferently and embraces aspects of each. It permits the confidence of saying “This is universally true” and the humility of acknowledging the personal and cultural dimensions of how we express that truth.
One feature of metamodernism that is particularly valuable for faith is what cultural theorists call “informed naivety.”
Unlike simple belief (what some might call ‘blind faith’) or the cynicism of unrelenting critique, informed naivety represents choosing to believe sincerely despite having awareness of reasons not to. It draws from modernism’s courage to assert “this is truth” while acknowledging the contextual nature of how we express that truth. The result isn’t relativism, but a tempered confidence—one that makes truth claims not from ignorance of critique but despite familiarity with it.
This isn’t dismissive of critical thinking either. It’s about traveling through it and emerging on the other side with a conscious choice to embrace belief. The metamodern believer doesn’t ignore the deconstructive insights of postmodernism but integrates them into a more resilient faith that maintains modernism’s commitment to universal truth. We make our exclusive truth claims not because we’ve avoided doubt or ignored critiques. Rather, we’ve accepted that the tension of doubt does not need to be resolved for faith to flourish, nor does every critique demand an answer. Faith can thrive alongside unresolved doubts and unanswered questions—not in spite of them, but because of our willingness to hold both confidence and uncertainty in the same hand.
This is why we can say that Jesus is the only way to salvation (a modernist-style truth claim) but accept this claim on the basis of faith and not irrefutable proof. We can also embrace cultural factors that shape how we understand and communicate this truth (a postmodern insight) as we turn postmodernism’s skepticism back on itself: its rejection of universal truth claims is no less culturally bound than the Christian claims it critiques.
Is your head spinning yet?
Good!
That’s the effect of the pendulum—the oscillation between seemingly contradictory positions that characterizes our metamodern moment.
Finding Second Naïveté
Let’s return to that coffee shop moment. When my friend asked with incredulity:
“You can't really believe that anymore, can you?”
He assumed that any thoughtful, educated person would have abandoned such exclusive truth claims by now. What he couldn't see was that my faith was not a relic of modernism buried by postmodernism. In this metamodern mood, faith is what the philosopher Paul Ricoeur might recognize as Second Naïveté.
I must admit I'm starting to dive beyond my depths here.
But let me try my best to explain:
Ricoeur suggested that after passing through critical thinking (even deconstruction), we can arrive at a post-critical faith—a Second Naïveté that reclaims belief with deeper albeit incomplete understanding. This is an informed choice to believe despite having seen behind the curtain—or in more colloquial terms: to eat the sausage even though you know how it is made. Egads!
I think of it this way: Second Naïveté is like returning home after years away. The house is the same—but you see it differently. You notice the craftsmanship in the doorframes you once took for granted. You appreciate the foundation that’s held steady through storms. Your childhood bedroom feels smaller, but somehow more precious. Yet you can also accept the limits and weaknesses of your home in light of what you now know about other places.
The informed naivety of metamodernism aligns with Second Naïveté—“believing again, but in a different way.” We swing between the modern obsession with proof and postmodernism’s deconstruction of that impulse. In these oscillations, space opens for a more mature faith that neither pretends hard questions don’t exist nor claims to have every answer.
I believe this explains why diverse Christian traditions continue to thrive in our metamodern moment. Consider two examples: unapologetically expressive Pentecostalism calls people to celebratory worship despite their circumstances, while historical liturgical churches invite participation in ancient practices despite their seeming obscurity and cultural inaccessibility. Both traditions embody metamodern faith in different ways—embracing conviction alongside complexity, choosing their expressions without explanation or surrendering to the embarrassment of cynicism.
The metamodern approach creates space for a faith that isn’t naively simplistic, nor cynically deconstructed—but reconstructed with awareness of both its historical context and its universal claims. It’s a path forward that neither modernism nor postmodernism could offer on their own.
This is faith in a metamodern key.
Ordinary Metamodernism Matters
So what does all this philosophical exploration mean for our everyday faith?
When I think back to that coffee shop conversation, I realize now what I couldn’t articulate then. My friend assumed that exclusive truth claims were relics of a bygone era, but the way we hold our convictions matters just as much as the convictions themselves.
Living faith in our metamodern moment doesn’t require a philosophy degree. Thanks be to God. It simply means we can confidently say, “Yes, I believe Jesus is the only way to God” while also acknowledging, “I don’t have all the answers, and that’s okay—I don’t need them.” It’s choosing to believe not because we’ve avoided difficult questions, but because we’ve wrestled with them and found our faith deepened in the process (and we also accept that we cannot engage every struggle let alone pin down every doubt or critique).
Let’s get practical.
This looks like listening genuinely when a coworker challenges your beliefs instead of becoming defensive.
It’s being honest with your small group or friends about your doubts without feeling they threaten your faith or that they must be resolved to follow Jesus.
It’s reading Scripture with both reverence for its truth and awareness of how our cultural lenses shape our understanding (my friend Brandon O’Brien is especially helpful on this point).
We can hold our truth claims with both conviction and humility. We can acknowledge the complexity of belief without being paralyzed by it.
After all, the Christian story has always thrived in paradox:
Strength in weakness.
Finding life by losing it.
God in flesh.
Our faith doesn’t require us to resolve every tension—it invites us to live faithfully within them. And as we swing in the tension-filled space of everyday life, we discover:
The ordinary metamodern matters.
I want to acknowledge that Karl Popper was concerned about the horrors of Nazism and saw the necessity for some intolerance while advocating for a more tolerant society. Surely we can work to agree that tolerance has limits and that it is impossible to tolerate all things.
Timotheus Vermeulen and Robin van den Akker, "Notes on Metamodernism," Journal of Aesthetics & Culture 2, no. 1 (2010): 1-14.Improve