There is a perennial temptation for conservatives in modernity to believe that theirs is an age which is bleaker and more depraved than in times past, and that the future will only be worse. If simple progressivism claims that history is making the world better and better, then the conservative temptation is to think things are getting worse and worse, regardless of how we live our lives. At best, those with this mentality hold, a given person can live a good life in isolation. Perhaps he can raise a good family and have a few friends who live in contradiction to the perversities of the world, the flesh, and the Devil, but there is ultimately nothing that can be done about the state of the world more broadly. While Christians know that the End Times will indeed be the bleakest of history, we are told neither the day nor the hour of Christ’s return. Before the apocalypse, history is far too complicated to paint any simple picture of either progress or decline.
This is a temptation I often gave into in the mid-2010s. Poll after poll revealed the waning of traditional religious belief and practice throughout the West. American politics were dominated by the cheery progressivism of President Obama, who at the time felt like the first in a dynasty of left-wing presidents who would dismantle my nation. Our Supreme Court decided that it had the authority to redefine marriage in contrast to the entire history of the world (not to mention human biology). Bruce Jenner announced that he was to be called “Caitlyn,” and much of the world responded with applause. Across the Atlantic, many European nations seemed to be living off the fumes of Christendom, with the EU looking to gobble up everything that was formerly beautiful and noble about the continent.
Thus, it came as a shock to me when, in June of 2016, the United Kingdom voted to leave the EU. I had come to think of world history as a basically forgone conclusion. I had thought, in effect, that progressivism would continue to destroy everything that had come before, and all that we could do is try to keep a hold on a few things close to us that mattered. But in a single day, with a single vote, Britons showed me the error of my ways. It was possible to resist the dictatorship of progressivism. Later failings in the implementation of Brexit aside, this vote reminded me that we can work to make the world a better place.
But to do this, I needed help to imagine what a better world might look like. History was, of course, informative, but our aim could not be simply to re-create, for instance, medieval England across the globe. Thus, I turned to fiction, including The Dawn of All by Robert Hugh Benson. This 1911 novel by the English Catholic convert shows readers a future—albeit a utopian one—in which the Western world has oriented itself, not around autonomy, financial gain, or any other idol, but around Christ.
Modernity or “rediscovery”
Robert Hugh Benson’s life may have seemed like it would follow a simple path. The son of the Anglican Archbishop of Canterbury and the latest in a long line of Anglican clergymen, Benson was born in 1871 and was ordained a priest of the Church of England at the age of 24. God’s path for him and his own plans would diverge just a year later when, in 1896, his father died. For his health, the young Benson was sent to the Middle East to recover, and here it began to become clear that his vision of Christianity was far too narrow.
His theology and religious practice began to develop, and he became attracted to religious orders, joining the Anglican Community of the Resurrection in 1901. He could not find peace there, however, sensing that the Church of England did not possess the fullness of Christian truth. At this time, he penned his first novel, The Light Invisible. Two years after joining the Community of the Resurrection, Benson was received into the Catholic Church, and he was soon ordained a Catholic priest. Both of these events sent shockwaves through England, and Benson received copious hate mail as a result. He served as a Catholic Chaplain at Cambridge and was even named a Monsignor.
Despite passing away in 1914 at the age of 42, Robert Hugh Benson is still remembered today as a prolific writer and defender of the Catholic faith. He published more than thirty-five books, many articles, and four plays. These included a spiritual autobiography, Confessions of a Convert; hagiography; poetry; apologetical works; and even three children’s books. Today, Benson is best known for Come Rack! Come Rope!, an historical novel set during the Elizabethan persecution of Catholics, and the dystopian novel Lord of the World.
This last work, published in 1907, has become ever more resonant since its composition. Indeed, Pope Francis has encouraged the faithful on multiple occasions to read the novel, and Pope Benedict made reference to it before his papacy. Lord of the World imagines a future in which secularism is in the process of obliterating orthodox Christianity. An American politician, Julian Felsenburgh, is traveling the world convincing all the nations that the only way to health, happiness, and prosperity is to jettison all trappings of faith. As Pope Francis put it earlier this year in Hungary:
“That book, written more than a century ago, was to some degree prophetic in its description of a future dominated by technology, where everything is made bland and uniform in the name of progress, and a new ‘humanitarianism’ is proclaimed, cancelling diversity, suppressing the distinctiveness of peoples and abolishing religion, abolishing all differences. Opposed ideologies merge and an ideological colonization prevails—which is a huge problem—as humanity, in a world run by machines, is gradually diminished and social bonds are weakened. In the technically advanced yet grim world described by Benson, with its increasingly listless and passive populace, it appears obvious that the sick should be ignored, euthanasia practised and languages and cultures abolished, in order to achieve a universal peace that is nothing else than an oppression based on the imposition of a consensus.”
It is not hard, I think, to see parallels with contemporary politics.
The work is not just a depiction of evil, as Fr. Percy Franklin, an English Catholic priest, stands as a symbol of hope opposing Felsenburgh’s agenda. However, it is certainly a ‘downer’ of a novel, and contemporary responses to the book reflected this. As Benson himself put it, after writing a novel that imagined what would happen if “modern thought” were drawn out to its natural conclusion, he “was informed repeatedly that the effect of the book was exceedingly depressing and discouraging to optimistic Christians.”
As a result, he decided to write a book that would stand in contrast to the other as a sort of twin. A book that would imagine what would happen if the opposite of Lord of the World were to take place, if “ancient thought … be prolonged instead.” Though Catholics are, he writes, always assured that Christ will ultimately be victorious, each person has been born at a particular time for a reason, and each person must take his responsibilities seriously. Benson writes:
“Every period is a critical period, since every period has within itself the conflict of two irreconcilable forces. It has been for the sake of tracing out the kind of effects that, it seemed to me, each side would experience in turn, should the other, at any rate for a while, become dominant, that I have written these two books.”
With that, let us turn to this second book.
Imagining a different future
In the novel’s prologue, we are introduced to a hospitalized man (whom we later learn is named Masterman). He is offered a priest to perform the last rites, and he attempts to refuse, thinking to himself of his younger days when he himself was a priest. Little information is given about the man, other than that he has lost his faith and that he seems to have quite a strong intellect. He seemingly loses consciousness and the prologue ends.
When the reader turns the page, Masterman wakes to find himself in London’s Hyde Park, surrounded by clerics, and seemingly wearing priestly attire himself. But not just priestly garb … he is dressed as a Monsignor! A friar is preaching to assembled crowds. But the protagonist is hardly even aware of anything going on around him, because he realizes that he does not know who he is. He catches the eye of a friendly priest, Father Jervis, and tells him he feels very ill.
The kind priest obtains a car to take the protagonist away and tries to ascertain what is the matter. Fr. Jervis concludes that his companion is suffering from memory loss, and he explains that his name is Monsignor Masterman and that he is secretary to the Cardinal. While Monsignor Masterman is, of course, glad to at least know his name, he is still confused by the world that surrounds him. England, which in his memory is a thoroughly Protestant nation, seems to have embraced Catholicism in public life. He learns that it is far from the only nation to have done so, as Europe, Russia, and North and South America all have politics, culture, and daily life infused with Catholicism. Only some Eastern nations remain largely pagan, most notably China, which is the greatest political and spiritual threat to this renewed Christendom. (The nations of Africa, oddly, seem to be glossed over, which is ironic given the great success the Gospel is finding today in many parts of the continent.)
While many nations are discussed, and several are even depicted, England is described most clearly. The nation has attempted to apply the tenets of the Catholic faith to every aspect of politics. It has made great strides to support the impoverished. The homeless are treated far better than in Benson’s own day. There is, generally speaking, a peaceful atmosphere surrounding public life. However, these are not aspects of politics that Monsignor Masterman has any problem with, so they do not occupy much of his attention.
While the plot involves the protagonist travelling this world of Christendom-renewed, the novel’s main conflict is internal; Monsignor Masterman is continually shocked—at times horrified—by ways that Catholicism has impacted politics. He is chiefly worried about the conflict between freedom and authority. How, he asks, can the government so patently affirm the truth of a singular religious claim? Doesn’t doing so contradict the fact that man’s love of God must be freely given?
I will avoid spoiling how the conflict is resolved, but I will mention that it is dealt with head-on in a subplot that involves a theologian who is on trial (by the government, not the Church) for heresy. Capital punishment is a possible punishment, and Monsignor Masterman and the theologian (whom he befriends) frankly discuss this and several other issues. The theologian’s arguments may strike some readers as overly didactic on Benson’s part, while for others they will constitute the most compelling aspect of the novel.
Setting aside whether or not every aspect of this imagined world is actually desirable, The Dawn of All challenges readers to widen their ideas about what the future could look like. The world Monsignor Masterman experiences is far, not just from secular progressivism, but also from the kind of libertine chauvinism represented by many on the political Right. Instead, it is a world that lives, not for itself, but for the hope of next life.
The Dawn of All is not a perfect novel, but I, for one, never encountered another book that imagines a future that stands in such powerful contrast to the one that lives in the nightmares of many conservatives. Benson’s work can help us to imagine a better future, which is a necessary precursor, God willing, to helping usher it into being. Arguments about the kind of future we hope to have are important, but we must be open to imagining a future quite different from the present. Though they would never be able to do so completely in this life, the Christian polities depicted in The Dawn of All attempt to incarnate Christ’s love for each human being, and that is a future well worth imagining.
