For every one of us that sends withering looks in the direction of one-trick radio suck-ups like Daughtry, John Mayer and Jack Johnson, there are fifty individuals who like them enough to shell out fifteen bucks for their like, actual CDs (which perhaps explains why Daughtry hovers on the best-seller lists years after his album hit). A critical milestone in the music critic’s education is reaching the point where we admit that, sure it’s bland and monochromatic, but hey, maybe it’s not bad music. Who can sing like Chris Daughtry? Who can compose those winning guitar jangles like Jack Johnson?It is into this sector of musical society, and the opening left by the aging of adult-contemporary staples like Steven Curtis Chapman and Michael W. Smith, that 28-year-old Warren Barfield touches down. From day one, he’s pandered to the adult radio market, not bothering with such worries as edginess, contemporary relevance, or artistic variety. But as we’ve just admitted, that’s not inherently sinful.

Barfield’s strength is his voice, the husky mean between Mac Powell and Bebo Norman, smoother, richer, and more nuanced than Steven Curtis Chapman. It’s most thrilling when it dips into his brassy lower register, but is equally polished when exhibiting its command of soaring melisma. He also hold his own as a composer with catchy pop melodies like “The One Thing” and “This Road.” Every track blends understated electric guitar with straightforward drumming and an occasional dose of pre-fab orchestration, a recipe that yields both sing-along singles and artless bores. Barfield manages to pull off the dramatic, weepy conviction piece far more convincingly than Casting Crowns—“Love Is Not a Fight” wrestles with divorce without resorting to the Crowns’ didactic finger-pointing and artless platitudes. It’s not quite moving, but it gets closer than is typical for a Christian radio artist.

Worth Fighting For’s inoffensiveness is its blessing and its curse—it’s generally pleasant, but, after twelve virtually indistinguishable tracks, is monotonous and tiresome. For every delicately worded track there’s a clichéd, uninspired match (see “God Believes in You”). But by treading his themes lightly and avoiding the most well-worn of commercial Christian ideas, Barfield has a record that’s at very least better than the worst.

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Like many a misplaced, artsy Southern boy, the members of Colour Revolt apparently find faux Britishism cathartic (linguistic affectations like spelling and punctuation, for example). Or it might just be a shout-out to their hometown, Oxford, Mississippi. Either way, they’re not exactly what one would expect from a rural locale in the American south. Guitars are responsible for every noise in Colour Revolt’s mix—not a single note of piano, waft of synthesizer, or evidence of electronic tampering are to be found. Their default is somewhere between a hushed sing-song and a full-throated caterwaul, though they try their luck on both ends of the decibel spectrum.

Although their band sounds less imitative than any other newcomer in recent memory, Colour Revolt have a well-chosen menagerie of influences, culled both from other small-town indie bands who have recently made left-of-center experimentation sound good (Spoon, Menomena), and from the greats that every indie band more or less wants to be (Radiohead, The Pixies). After a buzz-worthy self-titled EP, Colour Revolt returns with a frenzied, God-obsessed affair that boasts just enough moments of perfection to cast a harsh light on its shortcomings. One thing Plunder, Beg, and Curse does not lack is effort—every track practically bursts with it, and sometimes that’s the problem.

There’s nothing quite like the rush of excitement brought on by new artists opening their record with a brash, near-perfect song. Filling Plunder, Beg, and Curse’s opening slot is the spring-loaded “Naked & Red,” a rocker that expertly navigates the cynical waters of suspense and anticipation, introducing itself with a stick count, a room-shaking bass riff, and an evocative, provocative opening lyric: “God is swinging from the liquor tree/Licking everything he finds/God knows all about you and me/Lucky I’ve got something to hide.” The first verse is followed not by a chorus but by a seamless breakdown, in which the rhythm slows dramatically and dueling lead guitars have an unruly disagreement. The song stumbles in its final minute, when its thrashing descent into a formless squall dials it down from “incredible” to just “loud.” Not to say it isn’t exhilarating, even while prefacing the failure of the other high-decibel tracks (“A Siren” and “Swamp,” particularly) to go anywhere worth mentioning.

Those two tracks are the record’s greatest disappointment, as the instrumental side of Colour Revolt sounds pretty incredible when they’re blowing out the roof. The to-heck-with-it rebelliousness of “Swamp” is almost worth its uncalled-for screeching—the song is Wolfmother-esque in its indulgence on circular riffs, pure adrenaline, and unbridled loudness. But just like Julian Casablancas’ hoarse, flat vocal reaching on that latest Strokes record, Jesse Coppenbarger’s out-of-range screaming theatrically misses the mark.

Turning down the volume doesn’t necessarily help matters: several of the slower tracks veer from Colour Revolt’s initial sense of showmanship, adding up to experimentation without payoff. The thumping bass and sudden rushes of energy on the listless “Elegant View” stomp their way to nowhere, and the forgettable, monotonous strumming of “Innocent and All” gives it a certain quality akin to a Band of Horses b-side.

Much more confidence is found on “Moses of the South,” which allows Coppenbarger room to actually sing, and the band slides in and out seamlessly for an understated swaying effect. Even if the lyrics aren’t really intelligible, the Biblical imagery is back—we hear something about the “Moses of the South” inspiring “devil worship now,” and wonder if that’s how some residents of Oxford, Mississippi describe Colour Revolt’s music. (Further evidence: “Your wisdom is very thoughtless, but your window is worth looking out from.”) The swagger of “Naked & Red” finally resurfaces on “Shovel to Ground,” where the guitar antics merge around one of the better melodies on the record and the rhythm change-ups are so well executed that they’re easy to miss.

Colour Revolt is a good band with good ideas. So much so that this debut record is worth listening to if only to fervently wish it was a bit better. If on the next release they find a way to harness their swagger and instincts without seeming overeager and obnoxious, they’ll have taken a stomp in the right direction. Until then, I’ll be rooting for them.

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If you’re graduating from college or high school this month, maybe someone will give you Charles Sykes’s 50 Rules Kids Won’t Learn in Schools (St. Martin’s Press, 2008). It’s not bad, starting with its short and appropriately sour rule #1: “Life is not fair. Get used to it.”

Many of the rules emphasize the need to work hard in a competitive environment: “The real world won’t care as much as your school does about your self-esteem…. No matter what your daddy says, you are not a princess….Life is more like dodgeball than your gym teacher thinks…. Flipping burgers is not beneath your dignity. Your grandparents had a different word for burger flipping. They called it opportunity.”

Other rules advise patience: “You are not the first and you are not the only one who has gone through what you are going through…. Grown-ups forget how scary it is to be your age. Just remember: this too will pass.” Sykes asserts the importance of both objective reality (“Pi does not care what you think”) and personal relationships (“Don’t forget to say thank you”).

Two rules in particular, if followed, would forestall lots of sadness: “Your sexual organs were not meant to engage in higher-order thinking or decision making,” and “You are not immortal.”

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While the debate rages over whose shoulders will next be draped in the cloak of Bruce Springsteen (will it be Win Butler? Or OMG, maybe Jeff Tweedy?), another band has been quietly peddling a pop-ified brand of rootsy American pop-rock to the folks who will probably do the deciding.

Before we pick the next great American band, let us not forget that Arcade Fire and Wilco remain unknown to a whole lot of people who are about to start hearing Augustana everywhere. If some small sector of the masses somehow managed to escape “Boston,” then it will probably be Can’t Love, Can’t Hurt that ropes them into this indulgent but irresistible orbit.

On its marginally successful debut, All the Stars and Boulevards, Augustana was a one-trick pony—that is, if you don’t mind counting the equal parts of slow piano ballad and up-tempo guitar rock as one well-trodden, bankable formula. Easy to swallow and easy to forget, Boulevards seemed fueled by the raw desire to be someday heard on television behind sweeping images of Chevrolet trucks—with that very American sounding distortion and Dan Layus’ reedy, occasionally raspy vocals. Every song was a similar exercise—a hooky melody, multiple well-blended guitars, and Americana clichés (references to innumerable states, streets, afternoons, lovers, etc)—and none were quite mature or distinctive enough to garner airplay outside the college market and those who turn to Grey’s Anatomy for their weekly musical selections.

This time, Augustana has adopted the philosophy that propelled the Goo Goo Dolls to national stardom—only do one thing, but do it in such an addictive fashion that, while everyone will deny liking it, no one will be able to resist. They’re only capable of writing catchy, summer-soundtrack pop songs, though Layus slides into twangy singing with greater frequency and bluesy rock makes more consistent, substantive appearances. Ironically for an album that makes Augustana even more attractive to mainstream outlets, the band is more at home here in this less-gritty environment—less intense, more melodic, and roundly more engaging.

Lead single “Sweet and Low” is a tepid indicator, but works as an easy litmus test: If you liked it, you’ll like the rest even better. Augustana’s melodies have progressed from catchy to hyper-catchy, with tight harmony stacked on top of most of the vocal lines, bookended by delicious, radio-friendly riffs. “Meet You There,” a driving anthem destined for summer playlists everywhere, and “Either Way I’ll Break Your Heart,” are endowed with incessant replay value—the kind of light-and-fluffy songs you can listen to twenty times in a row and still not get enough. “I Still Ain’t Over You” opens in fine Southern-rock style with sliding distortion, muted strumming, and gratuitous but grammatically correct use of the contraction “ain’t.”

In its rare darker moments, Can’t Love is muscular and sinister. “Dust,” for example, matter-of-factly feels the absence of God (“I used to believe in the Lord, but he don’t show up anymore”) and weighs righteous idealism against the inevitability of human degeneracy (“If you can’t love sin, who can you love?”). All delivered, appropriately, over the hardest distortion on the record and a bone-crunching underscore of a bass line.

Of course, an Augustana album wouldn’t be complete without some string-bathed power ballads, and “Twenty Years” and “Fire” are here to fill the prescription. The former is wispy, mournful, and generic, dropping huge gobs of orchestration onto a slab of piano; the latter, an ode to burnin’ love, sounds like a voice-lesson exercise with a textbook piano accompaniment to match. Layus completely sells every line of sentiment, and fans of unbridled earnestness are certain to swoon.

Augustana is hardly less skin deep than the other big-label-backed young men their age in bands like OneRepublic or Cartel or Boys Like Girls. But in the days of the overcrowded pop-punk market and large-scale abandonment of rock by the folk-inclined Americana artist, Augustana are the lone voice delivering the classic American radio song. Not to mention increasingly adept crafters of pop melody. For now, that gives us something of a reason to listen—that and the albums full of summertime cotton candy.

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The Weepies have the perfect backstory to validate their insistently emotional music: Steven Tannen and Deb Talan met in a bar after one of her performances, hit it off, and later that night were writing their first songs. The love-at-first-listen relationship gave birth to their debut half-album Happiness, their wildly popular Say I Am You, and finally, marriage and a baby.

While resting and recovering from the “emptiness” of their success, Tannen and Talan cranked out the fourteen songs that would become Hideaway. They say it’s darker and more varied. That’s not exactly the case, but it’s just as effortlessly enchanting as everything they have ever done. Like many popular minimalists, there has never been a truly inventive or impressive bar of music in a Weepies song. But some have the magic and some don’t, and these lovebirds somehow got blessed with both their shares and probably a few others’, too.

It’s a bit of a stretch to call the Weepies “folk,” the term that has come to describe every Paste-recommended crooner with an acoustic guitar. They do play by those rules—simplicity is priority numero uno, and natural-sounding instruments form an understated backdrop to the singing. But up top with the vow of minimalism is a passion for pretty—there has never been a Weepies track without charming lullaby of a melody, and usually some tight harmony for added emotional pull. But the strength of the shtick is that it isn’t a shtick—no sign of effort or calculation are to be found. Every heartbreaking line, every tearful melodic passage is confident and natural. I’m sure that’s how the Weepies feel about the snowball of events that catapulted them to unlikely stardom. That doesn’t mean this music is a work of genius, but it is most certainly an exhibition of genuine talent.

The main problem with Hideaway is its length, not its homogeneity. Ten hushed lullabies are just enough to satiate most listeners’ taste for them, but fourteen—even though most of the songs work well as individual units—pushes the boundaries of a respectable attention span. And one can’t help being a tiny bit disappointed that Tannen and Talan didn’t try even the smallest bit of experimentation—no percussion change-ups, no electronic embellishment, no a capella singing. These songs are generally more “constructed” and textured than their past work, with a heavier dose of electric guitar, but somehow still don’t seem to expand the soundscape much.

Thankfully, sticking to form is less of a problem for the Weepies than it would be for virtually any other band in the world, and at least eleven of the fourteen tracks are unquestionable keepers. The front of the album is the strongest—the wispy, brief opener “Can’t Go Back Now,” the sighing duet “Orbiting,” and the lilting, chromatic rocker “Wish I Could Forget.” The latter most resembles Tannen’s solo work, with his forward-moving guitar (a la “World Spins Madly On”) and some of the sharpest couplets on the record: “Standing in the sun, smoking quiet cigarettes/Just before I let you down/Funny how a heart shatters all at once/Seems like it should make a sound”). The up-tempo title track, perhaps Hideaway’s catchiest number, is solid proof that the Weepies’ pitch-perfect dueling-vocal approach is still effective at a higher volume. (The same is true of the fun, catchy closer, the oh-wait-we-need-a-happy-song “All This Beauty.”)

“How You Survived the War” mimics the form of the duo’s better soft songs, which usually employ three-part harmony (Deb singing two and Steve singing one). It’s the closest match to Say I Am You’s unforgettable moments—the wrenching emotion of “Gotta Have You” or the fragile, divine harmony of “City Wide Rodeo.” Which of the two work better as a lead vocalist is an entirely irresolvable dilemma—they each sing their share of the better songs, but the generally-unremarkable songs on which Steve sings lead (“Not Dead Yet”) always outdo Deb’s filler moments (“All Good Things”). And their vocal blend is so complete, so unique—one distinct voice composed of her gentle, childish one and his warm, reedy one—that no one will ever be able to separate them enough to decide.

The Weepies use a formula that’s tried so often and so rarely produces distinguishable, memorable music. But somehow these two are different—maybe it’s the pointed, plaintive lyrics, or the once-in-a-lifetime vocal match. And overlong and repetitive as this album may be, it’s beautiful from start to finish. Who can resist that?

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What is it with cult bands changing their names after four albums, as if the shortening were some sort of commercial necessity, the only thing standing between a great-but-obscure artist and exploding success?

Whatever led Eric Elbogen to drop “to Your Mom” from his moniker, it was unnecessary. That’s the thing about cult fan bases. If they love you, they probably love your pretentious, semi-cute, five-word name as well. On the bright side, all that’s happening is a loss of a few words, rather than some sort of grandstanding, respawn-as-a-special-character Prince chicanery.

Say Hi may be taking a step forward as a musical figure, but he’s taking a step backward as a musician—back to the simple, irresistible pop of the album that put him on my map, 2004’s Numbers and Mumbles. I missed the last two beyond a cursory listen, but word on the street is they’re not all that fabulous, generally presenting “quirkiness for originality and sincerity for significance.”

Even Mumbles was all over the pitch map, and impeccably blahful to a first-time listener. But buried in the lo-fi, faux-homemade-ness is a perfect ear for melody and an ability to write inexplicably addictive songs like the fabulous “A Hit In Sweden,” which played on my iPod no less than 76 times a day last summer.

The beginning of this record is sunk by the same old tricks that got Say Hi criticism on the last two—a boneheaded adherence to rigid formula, however quirky the embellishments might be. Elbogen loves to pick a single string of his bass or electric and then have it dance around lock-step with his drums for a few bars—usually through the first verse or longer. “Northwestern Girls” has the string-tuning warmup feel, but is too much of a non-starter to be an actual song. And dear “Shakes Her Shoulders,” I like your percussion, but you’re a pop song, and as such, you might try sounding like … a song.

Slice away that opening fat and you find the perfect launching point and a much-needed break from bass-driven formula. “Back Before We Were Brittle” begins with triumphant, wobbling reverb and chord progression banged out on the piano. The schizophrenic drums and bass are still there, but now they’re decorated with enough melody to be fun listening.

Elbogen softens his voice and (mostly) stays on pitch for the duration of “Oboes Bleat and Triangles Tink,” a cutesy explanation of why “we can’t stop this thing from what it’s gonna be.” The weird, juvenile lyrics to “Spiders” could easily be read as studied and pretentious, but this is where Say Hi’s charm intervenes—it’s obvious that he means every word of it even though he knows it’s a bit silly, and is having a goshdarn good time singing it. The swaying, sing-songy melody is one of his better ones, and proof that sincerity may not equal significance, but it sure goes a long way.

Say Hi is definitely not going anywhere beyond his current cult status—to do so would be to virtually sell out the whole concept. It’s cute, sometimes-melodic pop music for those who generally find cheeky pretention endearing, and like eating the sugar even if there isn’t any medicine to go down.

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Maybe it’s only because we’re talking about Christian rock and Christian rock reviewers, but U2 comparisons have followed Sanctus Real into whatever nook and cranny of pop-rock it has chosen to traipse.

It’s usually the “anthemic” tendencies and Matt Hammitt’s raspy, powerhouse singing that inspires the musical connect-the-dots. And perhaps the “classic” aura is reinforced by the band’s very un-U2-like flare-ups of affinity for classic rock, manifested over the years in wailing solos and riffs.

The people who choose those allusions might also argue that Sanctus Real deserves better than to be dismissed with the rest of the world’s disposable Christian rock. Yes, we should be thankful they’re not barraging us with the vaguely spiritual, clonetastic alternative rock gushing from the Tooth & Nail direction. But while talented they may well be, industry mavericks or classically literate rockers Sanctus Real are not.

Perhaps the most striking observation to emerge from endless listens to We Need Each Other: how much more this band is like the Goo Goo Dolls than any rock band or any iconic, classic band. It sounds like rock, but its priorities are clearly the singing, the melodies, and the emotional platitudes.

While the occasional Sanctus Real classic could easily pass for a Dolls hit (see Fight the Tide’s “Everything About You”), the parallel has deepened as Sanctus’ aggressive, youthful energy wanes. Especially on this record and its predecessor, the modus operandi has devolved into the broad, thematic agendas—say, suffering on the former or unity on the latter—that often qualifies in Christian music as a “concept album.” And by the end of We Need Each Other, one can’t help feeling that Sanctus Real has done little more than remake the same album for the fourth time, just with a different theme.

That’s not to say Hammitt’s incapable of writing a respectable song. This one has a couple — like every record thus far — and the tamer, less punkish rock tracks on We Need Each Other are perhaps a bit easier to like than early Sanctus fare. “Turning on the Lights,” with its thundering duel-guitar action and centerpiece solo, sounds excellent if it’s heard at the appropriate volume. “Black Coal” channels the Rzeznik Three with its hard-edged, grungy-pop-song aesthetic. The closer, “Legacy,” has Hammit singing down ripping, staccato riffs, and is easily the melodic highlight.

Unfortunately that’s less than half of the album, and a greater percentage finds Sanctus Real in their much less effective incarnation—as worshipful balladeers. It’s hard to overstate the badness of “Whatever You’re Doing (Something Heavenly),” which is one whisper-to-shout, arena-sized cliché, mimicking the simplest of vapid worship choruses in style and substance. “Sing” isn’t as entirely mockable, but is nothing more than another bead on Martin Smith’s string of anthemic requests for “one Church.” Also, “pride has no purpose in God’s kingdom” is a theological statement, not a lyric. Maybe Sanctus Real does mega-sized corporate worship as well as anyone else, but is anyone besides me completely funned out?

A bit more on that, if I may. One of the regrettable effects of the “modern worship” movement has been to distill theology into a watery cliché soup, and to demystify Scripture’s poetic imagery into well-worn, artless metaphors. While Sanctus Real has a couple of moments of that, too, the surface treatment of a familiar but crucial topic like unity seems ultimately too cheap and effortless. It also feels a little past-done, as if constructed from the leftover inspiration of the 90’s crescendo toward evangelical cultural and political prominence.

Truth is, we do need each other at a time when the entrenched evangelical subculture is finally experiencing fracture and transformation, and the outlook for a unified, grounded faith is rather unsure. But that desperate craving for community will never be satisfied by the “Kum Bah Yah” mentality of the late Christian music culture. And despite being generally inoffensive and entirely forgettable, records like this serve little purpose beyond igniting a craving that some inspired music-maker would dare to start discussions that need to happen.

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The great problem of putting deep emotion to music is the risk one runs of appearing either psychologically disturbed or awash in puerile self-pity. Perhaps because of this risk, even the best pop songwriters to wade in the murky waters of heartache have usually painted with broad, glossy strokes, reaching for the largest, flattest, most universal surfaces of the human experience. Often it takes a newcomer with nothing to lose—or even better, everything to lose—to prove all over again that pained, heart-on-sleeve pop music has a future beyond derisive reviews.

You could say Brennan Strawn, a young musician with a soaring voice and an ear for the epic, has nothing to lose. It’s not as if he were successful by any worldly measure: Five years after the release of his debut, The Grandeur That Was Rome, he remains virtually unknown to those who don’t follow the “similar artists” recommendations iTunes tacks onto obscure, arty Christian acts. Whether or not he will have a professional career is a question yet to be decided.

But personally, Strawn has a good deal to lose by releasing Lowly, essentially a ten-page diary excerpt detailing a depressed madness brought on by suffocating isolation in New York. Especially when he explains the stories behind the lyrics, Strawn displays an eye-opening boldness and a penchant for public confession. But if his plan works—exorcising a period of personal darkness by sharing it with the world—he wins whether or not Monarch does.

Not to worry. While the wave of piano-based, weepy pop that surged from the U.K. and crashed on the shores of the American top 40 has nearly dissipated as a cultural and critical movement, we may now officially have hope. It has certainly been a bleak landscape: Coldplay’s big, stock-market-commanding X&Y was met with sniffing indifference. Hyped global releases from Keane, Snow Patrol, and Travis—some of whom are Monarch influences—were the half-baked pastries served over the course of 2006 and 2007. The Fray and OneRepublic were so dull and derivative that they each fell to mainstream branding and ruinous overplay. But despite these major hits to our yet-to-be-satisfactorily-named genre of Brit-inspired, emotional pop music, Monarch’s entrancing melodies and smooth, effortless singing are a potential new pillar for the crumbling temple.

Lowly is a cohesive work in two respects; in theme (discussed above), and in atmosphere. Both contribute to its success and its detriment. By the record’s conclusion, one can’t help feeling that we’ve cycled through the melody reel more than once and that the lyrics are repeating themselves.

But despite eventually wearing thin (and even when it does), the surface is so lush and the underneath so intricate that the repetitive moments are quickly forgiven and forgotten. I’m willing to concede that my love of this record might be a flash in the pan, but the strong evidences of promising pop craftsmanship are likely to prevail on future projects even if my appreciation for this one wanes.

“Perform,” which likely refers to Jesus’ healing of lepers, is the perfect, triumphant opener, wisely remaining above the story about to unfold. It’s Strawn’s most polished, complete melody, backed by even, muscular strumming and leaping into his feathery falsetto at precisely the right moments. “If You Dance” continues Monarch’s reputation, established firmly on Grandeur, for abundant use of stratospheric keyboard strings. Recalling huge, fairy-tale pop anthems like Keane’s “The Frog Prince,” the song’s stunning, astral beauty belies its subject matter—the sexual tensions of a deceitful relationship. Paradox abounds, but addiction shortly follows.

While always easy listening, most of the tracks demand patience and repeat listens. Monarch wouldn’t seem to be headphone music, but only careful listening extracts the complexity of texture in songs like “Closer Arrows,” Strawn’s ultimate confession and his unchallenged best.

A percussion preset likely stolen from an aged keyboard (it was definitely on the first little Yamaha I owned at age six) opens the track and loops for the next four minutes, while restless synth arpeggios, frantic drumming, swelling guitar riffs, and chaotic vocal layers are piled on top. (The song was also used for Monarch’s only video, directed by Strawn’s brother and drummer, Aaron). The hushed “Find Others” steals the eerie choral backdrop from Radiohead’s “Exit Music (For a Film),” and constructs a simple accompaniment of piano and acoustic guitar for Strawn’s lofty singing.

Like James Blunt’s tear-stained 2005 debut, Lowly musically captures an artist at a moment of conviction and vulnerability, and is an experiment best not tried again. This record cements Monarch’s place as a composer and emotion-wringer, but any attempt to re-create its successes (which are in some ways a re-creation of Grandeur’s successes) would almost certainly fall flat. Until we see what sort of experimentation takes the emancipated Monarch’s fancy next, Lowly is a capable soundtrack for dark days and bright moments alike.

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David Miller’s God at Work thoughtfully examines the Christian presence in business over the past century. He notes that pastors pray for teenagers as they leave for short-term mission trips and Sunday school teachers as they begin a new semester, but not for certified public accountants around April 15, or salespeople and those working on commission at the end of the month or year, when quotas are due.

The basic problem is that many see church or missionary work as “fulltime Christian service” but business offices largely as places to earn money that can support the real Christian workers (with maybe some workplace evangelism on the side). Seldom is heard the encouraging word that business activities can be worthy ends in themselves – for isn’t God, who created us in His image, glorified when we show creativity through the products we make and the services we render?

Miller also points to an anti-capitalist ethos at many seminaries and among many pastors: “Many of today’s leading senior theologians, ethicists, and clergy are deeply influenced by Christian Socialism, branches of Barthianism…, liberation theology (emphasizing state-controlled economic structures, rejecting free markets, and viewing capitalist businesses as oppressors), and even some Franciscan and monastic strands that glorify poverty and simplicity.” He writes of ministers who court financial pledges from businessmen and then, from the pulpit, bite the hand that feeds them.

The deeper week-by-week problem is not ingratitude or hypocrisy but irrelevance, Miller points out: “Frustrated by the apparent lack of interest or uneducated response to the challenges they face in the marketplace, many workers and professionals simply give up on the church and turn instead to secular therapists, consultants, and self-help guides for ethical guidance and spiritual nurturing.”

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Thomas C. Oden, a leading expert on Christian writings from 100 to 500 A.D., is the author of many theological works and the general editor of the Ancient Christian Commentary on Scripture. His new book, How Africa Shaped the Christian Mind, may upset what he calls “the common misconception that the flow of intellectual leadership in early Christianity moved from Europe to Africa, not vice versa.”

Oden told WOW that a “liberal bias wrongly assumed that Africa was inexperienced in understanding cultural conflict resolution and only needed larger doses of European enlightenment to solve its maladjustments. Many thus missed entirely the literary richness of the distinctive African Christian imprint on proto-Europe and the formation of the Christian mind. These misjudgments were passed on through graduate study programs.”

Oden contends that in Christian history “the flow of intellectual leadership demonstrably moved largely from Africa to Europe – south to north,” with Christian thought “cradled and nurtured” in Africa…. Africans were informing and instructing and educating the very best of Syriac, Cappadocian, and Greco-Roman teachers…. Inattention to this south-to-north movement has been unhelpful (even hurtful) to the African sense of intellectual self-worth. It has seemed to leave Africa without a sense of distinguished literary and intellectual history.”

Augustine, for example, was African, and his family wasn’t just hugging the Mediterranean coast: He “was born and raised far from the sea in a remote inland Numidian town (Thagaste) with mixed racial stock…. Among Augustine’s known family and friends were people who had Berber, Punic, Numidian, Roman, and even Libyan names.”

Tertullian, Cyprian, and Athanasius also were African, but African intellectuals ostensibly trying to overthrow European influence pay more attention to Europeans. Oden says that’s because “Many African academics are trained in European or American universities dominated by the failed assumptions of modernity.” He notes that a review of references in books by African intellectuals will typically show many more citations of Nietzsche, Marx, Freud, Marcuse than Tertullian, Cyprian, Athanasius, and Augustine.

Oden hopes that young scholars and pace-setting universities will take on the task of righting the historical record.

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