When the matter to be conserved is questionable

Recently, voices in the Netherlands have suggested that it is time to start a Christian conservative movement.

Starting a Christian conservative movement — is that really wise?

It depends on what is meant by Christian conservative.

If it refers to what has been blowing over from America and has already taken firm root in our own country—offensive, (far-)right-wing politics, profit for the sake of profit, unrestrained economic growth, blindness to history (let alone any desire to learn from it), and “our own people first”—then I would not want to be associated with it in the slightest. It stands miles apart from what it means to be a follower of Jesus, or at least to stand for the values, norms, and behaviours that Jesus of Nazareth embodied and inspired his followers to imitate. That is a different kind of Christian conservatism, one that emerged soon after the birth of the church and grew over the centuries into a stain of considerable size, standing in stark contrast to the Light of Christ.

Activism or?

The growth of the church in the first 350 years was not the result of activism, political influence, or a strategic plan.

Alan Kreider (The Patient Ferment of the Early Church) investigated why Christianity grew so rapidly in its first four centuries, despite persecution, marginality, and the absence of missionary strategies. His conclusion is surprising: patience was the core of the early church’s appeal and strength. No plan, no movement, no agenda other than a habitus: a way of life that was visible, attractive, and radically different from Roman culture.

Even if Christian conservatism were to be associated with this habitus, there would still be no need to establish a movement. In fact, doing so would contradict the very idea of habitus! The habitus itself is the movement, quietly doing its patient work in every imaginable social, societal, and political sphere.

The illusion of a pure desire

Human beings are creatures of desire. I, too, am no exception.

Yet I often wonder: are these longings truly the offspring of autonomous thought, born free of the shaping hand of our surroundings? I would dearly like to claim that mine are pure, authentic, untouched by external influence—but honesty compels me to admit otherwise.

I feel light-years removed from the best version of myself. That imagined self does not arise in a vacuum; it is a construct, a vision borrowed and pieced together, one I spend considerable energy attempting to imitate. In my mind’s eye, this ideal self is more handsome, more athletic, forever youthful. But beyond appearance, it is the qualities—the wisdom, patience, love, cheerfulness, and unwavering hope—that I aspire to and strive to embody. And it is precisely here that frustration takes root: I am not the man of my imagination, radiant with virtues that seem forever just beyond reach.

Thus, I live within a tension: between the raw, often harsh reality of the present moment and the shimmering image of what might be. Yet I am not alone in this struggle. Others, too, chase after their imagined better selves, and their pursuit spurs me onward, urging me to take one more step each day.

The apostle Paul, in his writings, speaks of the “fruit of the Spirit”: love, joy, peace, patience, long-suffering, goodness, kindness, gentleness, faithfulness, modesty, self-control, and chastity. Each believer envisions how such fruit might ideally ripen in their own life. Some are encouraged to pursue it earnestly; others, sadly, fall into self-deception, claiming it already theirs by virtue of faith, needing only to be “activated.” Were that truly the case, how radiant the world and the church would be.

But why, in truth, should I desire change? Not chiefly for myself—for I have resigned myself to being, in many ways, a pauper—but for those closest to me: my wife, my children and grandchildren, my friends. I may yap away about how vital following Jesus is to me, for He embodies the ideal—an ideal irresistibly compelling and worthy of every effort. Yet if my annoying yapping does not grow a big, loving heart, then silence would serve me better. My longing to be a better husband, father, grandfather, friend, neighbor, and fellow traveller is nourished by external forces: the life of Christ, the examples of men and women around me who seem to carry certain virtues with ease, and the subtle but real pressures and expectations of the communities to which I belong.

And yet, I know how to frame and relativise my ample shortcomings as I do recognise that the image of the “better self” is precisely that—an image, largely an illusion. What remains for me is the present: imperfect, unfinished, yet not without hope.