The Unknowing Ahead

A Reflection on Holy Mystery in the Age to Come

Recently, I had the opportunity to sit and chat informally with a Welsh theologian and New Testament scholar about the future of theological education and discourse—in essence, where are we going theologically in the age of digital disruption? With the rapid advance of technology and the rise of artificial intelligence, it is no small question.

What made the conversation especially compelling was this: she is a member of Gen Z, having just completed her PhD in New Testament studies at one of Europe’s most elite institutions. Yet, despite being recruited to several prestigious faculties, she has chosen to forgo a traditional academic career. Instead, she has embraced life as a “public theologian,” making her living through publishing, speaking, and engaging theology, culture, and Scripture in the public square—through platforms like Substack and a demanding conference speaking schedule that feels, at times, more like that of a touring musician than a cloistered academic.

Naturally, I was fascinated—not only by the creativity of her vocational path, but by her perspective on how theology itself is shifting in real time. When I asked her what she is seeing and hearing in her work, her answer was striking: the landscape of Christian theology, as we know it, is about to take a rapid U-turn. We are, she believes, returning to a place of what she calls “unknowing.”

Now, “unknowing” as she used the term is not ignorance or apathy, as it might first sound. It is something closer to humility—perhaps even wisdom. The pace of digital transformation and the development of tools that can synthesize vast amounts of information almost instantaneously present a theological problem of a different kind. Certainly, there are ethical and moral implications for these new technologies. Christians should use their voices boldly to protect the innocent and help shape the moral and ethical guardrails of these technologies. But her primary concern lies elsewhere: in how we relate to knowledge itself, especially knowledge of the divine.

She offered a helpful analogy. Think of the breathtaking panoramic images of the universe produced by the James Webb Space Telescope—vast, intricate, and endlessly explorable. They are rich with detail, yet so immense that they can never be fully mastered. Our knowledge, she suggests, is increasingly like that. We can explore it, attend to parts of it, even understand it with clarity—but we cannot contain it.

As human beings, as Christians, we are entering a moment in which we must accept that we will never master the full body of knowledge before us. Technology is rapidly approaching—and perhaps already surpassing—our own cognitive capacities. We are, in many ways, on the cusp of a new kind of enlightenment. And yet, unlike previous eras, this one may not lead us toward mastery, but toward surrender.

Unknowing, then, is what lies beyond knowing. It is what happens when we attend so deeply to something that we come to realize that while we may know it truly, we cannot know it completely. It is marked by curiosity, reverence, and a kind of grounded humility.

And here is the hope.

She believes—and I am inclined to agree—that the Church already possesses the tools needed to engage this new landscape. More specifically, she suggested that Anglicanism may be particularly well-suited for the theological work ahead.

Why?

Because Anglicanism is rooted in mystery.

At nearly every turn—our liturgy, our theology, our approach to Scripture and tradition—we begin with the assumption that God is, and will remain, a mystery. Not distant or unknowable, but never fully grasped. God is present and available, yet always beyond our complete comprehension.

Take the Eucharist, for example—our central act of worship. The Book of Common Prayer calls it “the principal act of Christian worship on the Lord’s Day and other major Feasts.” Week after week, we gather at the altar. We proclaim that the bread and wine become for us the Body and Blood of Christ—the Real Presence.

And yet, we resist the urge to define precisely how—because it is a mystery.

Unlike the detailed metaphysical frameworks of transubstantiation (Roman Catholic) or consubstantiation (Lutheran), Anglican theology allows space for holy mystery. We affirm that Christ is truly present. We trust that he gives himself to us in the sacrament. But we do not insist on explaining the mechanism. We hold that this transformation unfolds within the prayer of Great Thanksgiving, culminating in the Great AMEN at the end of each form of the prayer—but even then, we leave room for God to be God.

It is, fundamentally, an act of faith.

Or consider the sacrament of unction—prayers for healing. Here again, we encounter mystery. We affirm that God heals. And yet, that healing takes different forms. For some, it is immediate and physical. For others, it is the grace to endure, to find peace and strength in the midst of suffering. And for still others, it is the ultimate healing of being received into eternal life.

In each case, we proclaim God’s presence and power—but we do not pretend to control or fully explain it.

This, I think, is the posture the future requires.

In an age that increasingly equates information with wisdom, and mastery with understanding, the Church offers something different. We offer a way of knowing that includes unknowing. A way of faith that is not threatened by mystery, but deepened by it.

The future of theology may not be found in keeping pace with machines, but in cultivating depth, attentiveness, and wonder. It may not be about having all the answers, but about asking better questions—and trusting that God meets us there.

To live faithfully in this age of unknowing is to name what we can know, to testify to what we believe, and to confess with humility what remains a mystery on this side of eternity.

And this, dear friends, is work for which we are well prepared.

So we pray for the grace to release the burden of needing to know everything. We pray for curiosity that leads us deeper into God’s truth. And we pray for faith—faith enough to trust that even when we cannot see the whole panoramic view, we are still held within it.

Pax et Bonum!

Fr. Ben