Those among us who perceive how our contemporary creed of relativism has confused morality are sometimes bemused by the creed’s other casualties among cultural expressions. We are reduced often now to asking “definition” questions like: Well, what IS marriage anyway? What IS love? What do we mean when we say “peace with justice” or “Just exactly what is ‘tolerance’, anyway?” Stuff like that. We hear it all the time. We are constantly asking ourselves and each other what we mean.

We believe now only in question-asking. We don’t believe anybody’s thesis statement. And that disbelief has led dissertation and thesis committees to reject outright any doctoral or master’s candidate who actually attempts to write a thesis. It’s a priori: One must adhere to the single most important commandment for a successful thesis: Thou shalt have none. It’s part of this weird non-reality we force our brutalized psyches into now: You may not have answers. Only questions are allowed here. Your efforts at thesis-writing are laudable to the extent that they question reality. Your thesis is weak if it accepts anything whatever on “faith.” Faith is forbidden now. Nothing is authoritative. Not even direct quotes from irrefutable sources—because they’re open to “interpretation”. That applies even to Holy Scripture. “What Christ really meant was….” Or “You can’t accept what appears to be a condemnation of [whatever] just on the basis of what is written here. You must consider the cultural context of the times….” Etc.

In forming judgments of any sort whatever, we are reminded repeatedly that there is no black or white, only gray. The word “nuance” is tossed around a lot. (We wore out “relative” and we’re constantly consulting a thesaurus for replacements.)

The creed has invaded and, to a large extent, destroyed art. So many of us now avoid all “contemporary” art without knowing why we do. We just assume our lack of “appreciation” is further evidence of our deficiency of understanding. (We don’t understanding anything—how can we “understand” art?)

I just read a short piece of beautifully written fiction that had no point whatsoever. I know that if I protested, the response would be: The point is that there is no point. There are no answers, only questions. There is no destination, only the journey. That, we’re told, is art. Only technique counts if there is no substance, and so this writer’s craftsmanship is somehow convoluted into substance—because, after all, there is no substance. There is no what; there is only how. Ergo, reasons the responder, this is art.

But I remember art. You come away from it, regardless of the medium, with the knowledge that you’re different now. You’re broader, deeper, your vision is expanded, your awareness is heightened. That’s what happens when you’re exposed to real art. There is a mysterious cognition and it changes you, matures you, makes you wiser (if not necessarily happier). This is the experiential consequence of exposure to truth. Even if that truth is not “new,” or “different.” It may, in fact, be a reminder of itself. It may be something you’d always known, but somehow forgotten that you knew. Regardless of its nature, you come away feeling gratitude, though you might not know exactly why. One might even say that you feel somehow closer to God. That’s art. And it’s anything but relative. It’s how you felt when you finished Lord of the Rings, Wise Blood, or Crime and Punishment.

But no Tolkien, O’Conner, or Dostoevsky could exist today. Because they didn’t run away and euphemistically call cowardly flight a “journey.” Here is the difference: What we call art today denies truth. It questions—what is truth?—and forbids any answers. It’s a sound and light show, giving you the illusion of experience, when all you’ve actually experienced is an assault on the senses, and retrospectively, an assault on the psyche. But art does not deny truth; on the contrary, it seeks it. It does not obscure it—it reveals it. It does not confuse you—it teaches you. You don’t come away brutalized, you come away – better. And you know it.

We live in a toxic fog now, our dependence on touch, sight, taste, smell, and sight becoming increasingly desperate. It’s all we have to remember reality by. We are terrified of silence, of the dark, and of solitude. That’s the way it is in a world without faith, where nothing is real, nothing is true, nothing is good or bad, and the only color is gray. Existential freefall into the abyss. A world without meaning, without faith, without art.

“But I don’t get it. What’s the point of the story?”

“That’s the point—there is no point.”