We all know sane, rational people, living much the same as we do yet believing radically different things….But none of them goes to your church on Sunday. There are no more singular, monolithic, obvious takes on the world. Belief has become less of an on/off switch, and more of a series of dials you can set in various degrees (post-secular, humanist, Romantic, libertarian, eco-feminist, and on and on).

Most analysis of millennials likes to focus on what makes them distinct. But a key point to keep in mind is that, in many respects, they’re just like everyone else—but more so. In other words, they reject major trends of the last couple of generations, simply a bit farther down the line of historical and logical progression. Like everybody else, they live in the epistemological and moral atmosphere Charles Taylor dubs the “Nova Effect” (A Secular Age, 299–321).

As Taylor explains, 500 years ago belief in God was the default; fulfilled, humane atheism was akin to belief in unicorns today. With “modernity” and the Enlightenment came the rise of “exclusive humanism” (humanistic atheism) as a viable alternative to Christian faith. The ensuing explosion of polemics between skeptics, Deists, believers, and Romantics triggered a chain reaction resulting in a constantly multiplying diversity of spiritual options. The Nova Effect has become “a kind of galloping pluralism on the spiritual plane” (300).

What is the Nova Effect?

Practically, this Nova Effect means several things. First, we’re all cross-pressured by dozens of options, leaving everybody’s beliefs “fragilized” and destabilized. If you’re a theist, you still feel the draw of immanence—as you sit in your room, watching the latest Netfix documentary about the cosmos, belief in a godless universe is imaginable at an intellectual and existential level. But if you’re a skeptic, transcendence beckons. Every hike you take on the local trail, God keeps haunting you with blades of sunlight filtering through the trees.

Put another way, we all know sane, rational people, living much the same as we do yet believing radically different things. Your Sikh neighbors, your Buddhist gym buddy, and your atheist co-worker buy groceries at the same niche food shop, catch the Marvel franchise of superhero flicks, and love their families. But none of them goes to your church on Sunday. There are no more singular, monolithic, obvious takes on the world. Belief has become less of an on/off switch, and more of a series of dials you can set in various degrees (post-secular, humanist, Romantic, libertarian, eco-feminist, and on and on).

So how do we set the dials today? In the Age of Authenticity (think life post-1960s), the drive is to make sure—whatever else may affect our decision—that we are “true to ourselves.” This is how “expressive individualism” plays a role in belief formation.  Some of us may still choose traditional faiths like Roman Catholicism, evangelical Protestantism, or one of the other major world religions. But nobody simply inherits packages of beliefs anymore; we choose to believe (and even construct) the packages for ourselves, often as part of our self-actualization project.

The resulting blends vary. One has a little bit of Christianity here, some therapeutic psychology there, and a dash of social justice progressivism to top it off. Another may choose a Buddhist base, some Western rationalism, and a commitment to exercise. The root of this “heretical imperative” is a sense that spiritual beliefs aid the quest of finding our unique way of being human. We have become a nation of heretics,  or rather, syncretists.

Super-nova on Google

Turning to what distinguishes millennials, it is important 
to note they vary even from one another. Still, one of the most significant markers distinguishing millennials from other generations is having grown up in the Internet Age. “Googling” as a verb was recognized by Merriam-Webster’s Dictionary only 10 years ago, which means it has been in use even longer. For millennials that’s anywhere between a third to half of our lifetime.

If we already lived in a religious Super-nova, the internet has only metastasized the problem. Skimming your Facebook newsfeeds, you’re constantly bombarded by multiplying perspectives on politics, race, gender, and spirituality.  Never mind if you’re curious and actually looking for different options.

A few things follow from this effect. First, Christianity has lost (a significant amount of) its home-court advantage. It is now one of a wide array of competitors on the market, some of which have the benefit of being significantly more malleable to the sexual and economic ethics of the late-modern West. Though Christianity still claims the highest market share of American millennials, this generation identifies as religiously unaffiliated at higher rates than any other generation (34 percent religious unaffiliated, 46 percent Christian). That’s not to say they’re atheists, but they’re not as prone to claim a specific religious tradition.

Second, the nature of authority in religion has shifted. Modernity has always had an inherently anti-authoritarian, anti-institutional, anti-clerical ethos. But the internet enables an even more radically individualistic and practical epistemology. Communities struggle in their traditional role as protective, authoritative sources of religious truth.

For example, being a religious professional means a lot less than it used to. Millennials don’t feel the need to wait for a pastor to tell them the best reading of a verse. What does a seminary degree count for when you can just Google anything yourself? What’s more, if you don’t like what your pastor says, you can look up alternatives in the middle of the sermon on your phone—which you probably know how to use better than he does. Indeed, millennials’ greater aptitude for technology has also helped shift the locus of authority from age to youth—kids teach their grandparents to use gear they navigate as second-nature. The older need the younger more than the younger believe they need the older. And they don’t see any irony about publishing memoirs in their 20s.

Heroic Doubt and the Post-Evangelical Appeal

Not unlike previous generations, the millennial maturation story sets them against their elders. One of Taylor’s most important apologetic moves explains how conversion to atheism or exclusive humanism is motivated by a particular moral narrative. It isn’t simply a matter of being faced with “the science,” following a syllogism to its logical conclusion, and deciding God doesn’t add up. Instead, deconversion is more of a decision to follow a particular story about belief and doubt.

In this story, doubt is the movement of a heroic individual stepping into intellectual adulthood and maturity, no matter the cost. Moving to an exclusive humanism away from their earlier, childish faith requires virtues “such as disengaged reason, the courage to let go of comforting illusions, the reliance on one’s own reason against authority” (A Secular Age, 566). Though not easy, doubt is brave, strong, and daring.

Consider, then, the recent wave of post-evangelical memoirs centered on the spiritual journeys of young writers—and their appeal for millennials. While diverse, such memoirs tend to bear some commonalities. These first-person narratives of faith-discovery as self-discovery do not resemble the typical faith-hero stories of the past. Rather, they tend to valorize doubt and uncertainty. And this fits with the broader cultural scripts of broken faith on offer in present media culture.

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