A few years ago, the novelist and short-story writer Lauren Groff reflected on what had launched one of the more sparkling literary careers of recent years:

When C. Michael Curtis pulled my short story “L. DeBard and Aliette” from the slush pile in 2005, I was in my first semester in graduate school at Madison. In the years since I’d graduated from college, I’d been a bartender and administrative assistant and had worked my brain and fingers raw, trying and mostly failing to write well on my own. In that time, I finished three and a half apprentice novels and countless short stories, none of which was very good. Finally, with the story that The Atlantic took, I had at last written a story that was not only good enough but good enough for Curtis’s sharp eye and exacting standards.

Groff went on: “My entire life as a writer unfolded from that moment of acceptance from C. Michael Curtis and The Atlantic, and the sheer luck of that snip in time feels holy to me.”

Mike Curtis, who died last week at the age of 88, was a member of The Atlantic’s staff for 57 years. The American literary empyrean is thickly populated with writers Mike discovered or nurtured. For good reason: Over his long career as an Atlantic editor—and as a teacher of writing at Harvard, MIT, Cornell, Tufts, Boston University, Bennington College, and, most recently, Wofford College, in Spartanburg, South Carolina, where he co-occupied the John C. Cobb Chair in the Humanities with his wife, the novelist Betsy Cox—Mike was a tireless champion of short fiction who loved nothing more than discovering new talent. “The best part of my job,” he once said, “is turning over all those rocks and finding a silver dollar now and then.”

During his long tenure at The Atlantic, Mike turned over a lot of rocks, and found a lot of silver dollars. Among the writers whose work that Mike was the first, or among the first, to discover and publish in a national magazine were Charles Baxter, Ann Beattie, Ethan Canin, Louise Erdrich, Rebecca Lee, Bobbie Ann Mason, Jay McInerny, James Alan McPherson, Tim O’Brien, John Sayles, Akhil Sharma, Elizabeth Stuckey-French, and Tobias Wolff. Mike also worked with plenty of established masters: A. S. Byatt and Saul Bellow, Raymond Carver and Cynthia Ozick, Alice Munro and Richard Ford, John Updike and Philip Roth, Richard Yates and Paul Theroux and Walter Mosley, Barth and Barthelme and Borges, and many, many others.

In 2002, Nic Pizzolatto, then a student in the M.F.A. program at the University of Arkansas, submitted two stories to The Atlantic. He came home one day to find a message on his voicemail—it was Mike Curtis saying that he liked the stories and was accepting them for publication. “I think at first I thought it was one of my friends, being an asshole,” Pizzolatto recalled. But the magazine published “Ghost-Birds” in the October 2003 issue and “Between Here and the Yellow Sea” in November 2004, and Pizzolatto embarked on a successful career as a novelist and television writer, eventually creating and writing the acclaimed True Detective series for HBO.

Ann Beattie recently described the role Mike played in her career:

When I first started to write fiction in the early 70s, the name C. Michael Curtis was interchangeable with Shining Star. He was one: someone to look up to because of his ability to spot emerging talent; an esteemed editor among editors; a man who shaped taste and followed through with writers, encouraging them in significant (and also thoughtful) ways. He really loved short stories, and he was responsible for helping along—really, for determining—the early careers of many young writers, in a genre that, pre-mass-MFA, had been faltering. I knew him as a person determined to re-energize the contemporary American short story—a dedication that was indispensable to its resurgence. He was such an astute reader, and, in his interactions with writers, a listener. Watchful. Helpful and kind. He just assumed that reading and writing were important, essential pursuits, and that it was his role to encourage things along, spreading the good word. In many senses, he was a true believer.

One of the first people Mike brought into The Atlantic after arriving at the magazine was a writing student at Syracuse University who, in the early 1960s, was contributing violent, bloody, sex-and-booze-saturated stories to a variety of university-affiliated publications. Mike pictured the writer, who went by “J. C. Oates,” as “a scruffy garage mechanic with a sour view of humanity, someone I wouldn’t want to meet on a dark night.” But he admired the writing and accepted one of Oates’s submissions, contingent on the author allowing Mike to cut the story by one-third. “In the Region of Ice,” whose author had dropped the initials and was now going by Joyce Carol Oates, was published in The Atlantic in August 1966, and was deemed the best story of the year by the O’Henry Collection, then the most prestigious garland in short fiction. In the ensuing decades, Mike published many stories by Oates, now one of the most influential voices in American fiction and herself a dedicated teacher.

Across six decades, Mike and his team of interns and editorial assistants sifted through thousands of stories each month. His correspondence was immense and never-ending, scrawled in the white space of the letters he received in a tight, nearly indecipherable hand. As Jane Rosenzweig, now the director of the writing center at Harvard, remembered:

When I started working as Mike’s assistant, in 1994, his first compliment was about how fast I could type (on the electric typewriter in my office)—not because he didn’t value my reading and critiquing skills, but because my typing speed allowed me to keep up with the enormous number of letters he wrote to authors who submitted their short stories to the magazine. Mike read everything with the same attention and interest—stories submitted by literary agents, stories sent directly to him by authors, stories pulled from the “slush” pile by interns. His personal replies to authors were legendary; I still meet writers who can quote verbatim what he said to them 25 years ago, both the praise and the criticism. He may have thought the story was “too long for what it accomplishes,” or “small,” or “engaging, but not for us,” but he encouraged those writers to try again, and many did—for decades. The letters were usually brief—just a sentence or two—but enough to remind an aspiring writer that someone was out there, waiting for their next story.

Tobias Wolff recalled Mike’s shrewd relentlessness in a task that required both judgment and endurance:

How many manuscripts came pouring through Mike’s mail slot every day? In the course of a week? A month? Hundreds, for sure. Yet whenever I spoke to Mike about writing, almost always on the phone, during editing sessions (we met only twice, and briefly), he warmed to the subject with the freshness of youth. And he brought that same freshness to our editing sessions. In truth, I couldn’t wear the man down, hard as I often tried, in my defense of a word or phrase or passage that I thought indispensable to my story, and that Mike did not. He wasn’t always right, but he was right most of the time.

Mike’s path to becoming an influential figure in American fiction was far from foreordained. He was indeed hard to wear down. Born in 1934, he experienced a Dickensian early childhood—a tumultuous and disrupted family life; stints in foster homes; boarding school starting at age 4; and high-school classmates who beat him up, at an Arkansas school from which almost no one went on to college and where he played on a basketball team that never won. Ralph Lombreglia, one of the writers Mike worked with for decades, recalled getting a rare glimpse into Mike’s past:

I first met Mike in the mid-1970s when I wrote to ask his advice about becoming a fiction writer. He invited me to the Atlantic offices where I arrived in a suit, tie, and London Fog raincoat with epaulets on the shoulders. I’ll always be grateful to him for not remembering that meeting. Later, whenever he bought one of my short stories, we had lunch together on Newbury Street, concluding with his favorite dessert, chocolate-covered ice cream bonbons. One of those lunches was particularly memorable. The story he was publishing concerned a woman raised in an orphanage despite having had two living parents. “You know,” he said, “your story is remarkably similar to my own life,” and went on to tell me that he was the illegitimate son of the prominent architect Ely Kahn. Mike’s mother had had a passing affair with him in the 1930s, but she “didn’t want a son around,” as he put it, and so he was abandoned to various boarding schools and foster homes. For years he’d known his father’s identity but never revealed it, even when he first met members of the man’s family. I told Mike that my own mother’s life was the basis of that story, and that I intended to expand it into a novel someday. My last letter from Mike, in 2018, began, “Finished your novel, all 576 pages of it.” His unsurprising advice was to cut it by half and send it back to him. I’m still in the middle of that rewrite. I assumed that Mike would be around forever.

From his inauspicious Arkansas high school, Mike eventually escaped to Cornell’s School of Hotel Management, in 1952. Browsing in the university library, he discovered the works of Franz Kafka. No more hotel management—he wanted to transfer to the liberal-arts college and become a literature major. He had to apply several times before administrators realized he was serious enough to admit. Soon, he was editing the literary magazine and working for the newspaper and rooming with an engineering major and aspiring writer named Thomas Pynchon. His other roommate was the folk singer and novelist Richard Fariña, who would go on to write the 1966 cult classic Been Down So Long It Looks Up to Me. (Fariña would later marry Joan Baez’s sister Mimi; Pynchon served as best man.)

After graduation, in 1956, Mike briefly worked at the Ithaca Journal and at Newsweek before returning to Cornell for a doctorate in political science. He was unsure whether he should pursue a career at the CIA or as a journalist. But he kept his hand in literature, writing fiction for campus literary magazines and composing poems, one of which won an American Academy of Poets Prize. In 1961, when Peter Davison, The Atlantic’s longtime poetry editor, came to Cornell with Anne Sexton to do a reading, Mike pressed some poems into his hands. Davison ended up accepting three of them for publication. He also offered Mike a summer job reading the fiction slush pile. This led to a phone call in the spring of 1963 from the magazine’s top editor, Edward Weeks, asking if Mike would come to Boston and take a job as a junior editor. Mike was about to take his comprehensive exams en route to securing his Ph.D. But, as he recalled in a 1984 interview with The Missouri Review, “I had been in grad school for four years and my wife was about to have a baby and I’d been in Ithaca for twelve years and it was time to leave. So I said yes, took a leave of absence from grad school, and came to The Atlantic.” That leave of absence never ended. “In those days The Atlantic had no masthead and we really didn’t have titles in any formal way. I came as an assistant to the editor. I was there for five weeks before I ever saw Mr. Weeks. In fact, I feared he might not even know I was there.” An older editor, Charles Morton, took Mike under his wing, and he soon developed a portfolio editing both fiction and nonfiction, especially pieces on sports, religion, and the social sciences.

In 1966, Weeks was succeeded as editor in chief by Robert Manning. In his memoir, The Swamp Root Chronicle, Manning recorded that among the editors he inherited was “a young Cornellian named C. Michael Curtis [who] had a sharp ear and a clear eye for promising new short story writers as well as a good grip on the many social issues with which the magazine concerned itself. Mike was a shy and complicated fellow whom the vicissitudes of childhood had afflicted with a stutter that magically disappeared when he taught creative writing at nearby colleges … or when he held a good hand at the poker table.”

In time left over after editing, teaching, and family, Mike applied himself to pickup basketball. He played at YMCAs and writers’ conferences all over the country. He wasn’t tall, and after age 50 he wore rec specs and a bulky knee brace that he used as a weapon when posting up in the paint. But he was an ardent competitor—nickname: “Bear”—who could score layups over taller defenders using crafty spin and whose passing was crisp and creative; unalert teammates were liable to take a hard no-look pass to the nose or the back of the skull. He refused to let advancing infirmity keep him off the court, playing regularly deep into his 80s. The writer Ethan Canin remembered those games:

He pretty much gave me my start as a writer, picking me out of a slush pile that only a person like him would have bothered to read, let alone conscientiously. And then for the next thirty years fighting the good fight, always pushing literary fiction, always pushing young writers. But what I remember most about Mike was the way he played basketball. Rumor had it that in his prime he’d been a Golden Gloves boxer, and he certainly played that way. He showed up on the court with a piece of hardware around his knee that looked like the spurs from a Roman chariot. And it turns out he was in basketball as he was in life—always pushing, always pushing.

Mike possessed both stoicism and a sly wit. The wit emerged from what appeared, deceptively, to be a placid and dry demeanor, and it made itself known like an ambush in his letters and lectures. A mischievous tone sometimes took on an edge. For years, a letter Mike wrote in 1989 hung on the walls of The Atlantic’s offices. A frustrated aspiring contributor who had had his submissions rejected many times had written in to say that he’d heard rumors that the magazine used five different forms of rejection letter for different situations. Mike responded:

The persistent rumors are quite true, though modest in their assessment of our protocols. We have, in fact, many more than five different kinds of rejection slips. One slip, for example, is sent in response to all stories about household pets. Another is used to reject stories about troubled academic couples traveling in Europe (still further distinction is made between stories in which the warring couple is restored in their affection for each other by the spectacle of alien hearts at play and stories in which the more justifiably aggrieved of the pair comes at last to his/her senses and cuts short what promises to become a damaging drift into self-degradation).

Other slips are used for war stories, for stories about adolescents involving college (or high school) chums who finally realize the truth of their relationships, or any story in which one character is a fish. We have a special stock and ink for stories about children who have been abandoned or abused by one or both parents, and for whom the memory has become particularly acute as the child, now an adult, reflects upon the neediness of his/her own child/children. Still other rejection slips are earmarked for stories which make use of anthropomorphism, women who suddenly develop male sexual characteristics, or automobiles that talk back.

We have rejection slips for retired professionals, for children under the age of 14, for writers who hold political office, and for academics who have been told by friends they ought to submit manuscripts to The Atlantic.

We have rejection slips for stories sent simultaneously to more than one magazine, for writers who use only one name (usually a vegetable or mineral), for fiction manuscripts sent as proof that anyone can do better than the author of a recent Atlantic story, and for writers who say they will renew their subscriptions to this magazine only if we will publish their fiction.

We also have a special rejection letter for writers who are more wedded to the possibilities of language than to the niceties of convincing narrative. That is the letter you are reading at this moment.

When The Atlantic was based in Boston, Mike and his family would host lively annual softball games and picnics at their home in Concord and then in Littleton, Massachusetts, where children of staff would play alongside the sheep he kept in the summer, in lieu of having to mow the lawn. Inevitably a basketball game would also break out at the hoop on the garage or across the street. Those were family occasions, and children were never shy around Mike. Tobias Wolff remembers:

One day my wife heard my then-5-year-old son, Michael, talking to someone upstairs, yet she knew he was alone up there. She found him with the telephone in his hand, gabbing away. It was Mike on the other end. He’d called to discuss a story, but was happy to talk to my boy instead. He was laughing when I took possession of the phone. Well, why not? It was surely more fun than listening to me plant my flag on some needless adjective.

Decades of reading more than 10,000 short stories a year in search of the dozen or so that The Atlantic could actually publish that year infused Mike with a deep belief in the importance of fiction to culture, and a kind of impish wisdom about the writing life.

On handling disappointing news from editors: “Take your rejection slips and cover a wall with them. I did that when I was in college. I became fascinated by the different paper colors and typefaces and probably sent work to magazines I otherwise wouldn’t have, except that I wanted to get copies of their rejection slips.”

On what a short story can accomplish: “The value of short fiction lies, perhaps, in its capacity to ignite uncertainty and mindfulness into our lives, as well as to remind us of the perceptiveness and artfulness of the storytellers among us.”

Mike leaves behind six anthologies of short fiction, including Contemporary New England Stories (1992), Contemporary West Coast Stories (1993), God: Stories (1998), and Faith: Stories (2003); five Atlantic National Magazine Awards for fiction, along with many more finalist nominations; and the C. Michael Curtis Short Story Book Prize, which awards $5,000 and publication to a debut book of short fiction by writers living in the South.

He is survived by his wife, the novelist and poet Betsy Cox; his brothers, Ben Curtis and Andrew Curtis; his son Hans Curtis; his daughter, Hilary Curtis Osmer; his stepdaughter, Elizabeth Morrow; his stepson, Michael Cox; and five grandchildren—D. J. Osmer, Jack Morrow, Nate Morrow, Caroline Cox, and Andrew Cox. His oldest son, Christopher Curtis, died in 2013. He is also survived by hundreds of writers whose careers he launched or nurtured; by the thousands more whose work he gave the respect of serious attention; and by a republic of letters enriched by his having contributed to it with such dedication for so long.

Supreme Court justices often get cross with lawyers arguing cases before them. But six months after the Court overturned Roe v. Wade, the justices are betraying signs of impatience and frustration with one another—sometimes bordering on disrespect. The Court has seen acrimony in its history, such as the mutual hostility among four of Franklin D. Roosevelt’s appointees. More recently, there have been reports of justices’ annoyance with Neil Gorsuch, and Sonia Sotomayor took the unusual step of publicly tamping down speculation of a dustup over his decision not to wear a mask during the Omicron wave a year ago. For decades, though, peace has mostly prevailed.

Justices of sharply different legal views have been dinner-party friends, skeet-shooting pals, and opera companions. Ketanji Brown Jackson’s predecessor, Stephen Breyer, and Clarence Thomas—ideological opposites but quite friendly—would whisper and tell jokes during oral arguments. The one-liners and jibes of Antonin Scalia, the ornery conservative, drew laughs from his conservative and liberal colleagues alike. As Ruth Bader Ginsburg grew frail in her final year, Thomas would offer his arm to ease her descent from the bench. Rancor has always animated the justices’ opinions, but it was limited to pen and paper. On the bench, civility reigned.

Not anymore. I’ve been attending Supreme Court oral arguments since 2013. As The Economist’s SCOTUS correspondent, I’ve watched arguments in the most contentious cases of the past decade—a Church-state fight in 2013; the Affordable Care Act and same-sex marriage showdowns in 2015; clashes over affirmative action (2015), labor unions (2018), voting rights (2018), and abortion (2020); and dozens of others. Only the justices are privy to the mood in their private conference room where cases are discussed after the hearings. But what I have seen this term on open display inside the courtroom is an obvious departure from the collegiality of years past.

[Linda Greenhouse: What in the world happened to the Supreme Court?]

The breaking point was clearly Dobbs v. Jackson Women’s Health Organization, the ruling in June that overturned Roe. Several long-standing precedents have fallen in recent years at the hands of the Court’s conservative majority. But in overturning 50 years of abortion rights, the Court was split—and not amicably. The minority did not dissent “respectfully” in Dobbs. Instead the three justices dissented with “sorrow” for the women of America and “for this Court.”

Over the summer, discord stemming from the Dobbs decision was apparent in comments by Elena Kagan, Samuel Alito and the chief justice, John Roberts. Roberts responded to charges that the Court was risking its legitimacy by arguing that mere disagreement with a ruling “is not a basis for questioning the legitimacy of the Court.” Two weeks later, Kagan seemed to reply to her colleague, saying Americans are bound to lose confidence in a Court that looks “like an extension of the political process.” Then, days before the 2022–23 term, Alito said suggestions that SCOTUS is “becoming an illegitimate institution” amount to questioning the justices’ “integrity” and cross “an important line.”

Based on the Court’s two most heated days of oral argument this fall, these tensions have not passed. The mood on the bench during these hearings was unrecognizable. With the exception of Gorsuch and Amy Coney Barrett (who look quite happy sitting next to each other), the justices do not seem to be getting along. Questions are long and tempers short. The seating arrangement—by tradition, the newest justices sit on the wings—exacerbates the tension. The three liberal justices are either sandwiched between members of the conservative bloc (Sonia Sotomayor flanked by Thomas and Gorsuch, Kagan by Alito and Brett Kavanaugh) or, in Jackon’s case, stranded at the end of the bench with only Kavanaugh at her side.

At the oral arguments I attended for the affirmative-action cases on October 31, the most conservative member of the Court, Thomas, and his new neighbor, the most progressive member of the Court, Sotomayor, paid each other no attention. Gorsuch, on Sotomayor’s other flank, raised an eyebrow in apparent derision when she asserted that segregation continues to plague American society in 2022. Roberts, whose opposition to all governmental uses of race, such as for hiring and contracting, is among his most strongly held views, tried to appear, as he often does, affable and open-minded. But he ended up holding his face in his right hand, taking in lawyers’ defenses of racial preferences with waning patience.  

[Lee C. Bollinger and Geoffrey R. Stone: The end of affirmative action would be a disaster]

Justices were once at least somewhat circumspect during oral arguments. They would refrain from announcing their actual views, fostering a pretense of open-mindedness. But during the hearings for Students for Fair Admissions v. Harvard and Students for Fair Admissions v. University of North Carolina—both challenges to race-based preferences in higher-education admissions—the justices dropped the charade. In 2016, when this question was last brought before the justices, Thomas had said nothing during oral argument. But he was now contemptuous of the idea that diversity is valuable—or even a coherent concept. It seems to him, he said with a look of consternation, that diversity is just “about feeling good and all that sort of thing.” (Maybe I’m “tone deaf,” he added.) Kagan, meanwhile, was incredulous that the plaintiffs apparently believed that “it just doesn’t matter if our institutions look like America.” She opened her eyes wide and said, “I guess what I’m asking you is, Doesn’t it? … These are the pipelines to leadership in our society!”

Things were even more animated at the oral argument for 303 Creative LLC v. Elenis, on December 5. The justices were being asked to exempt, on First Amendment grounds, a Christian graphic designer from an anti-discrimination law requiring her to design wedding websites for gay customers if she planned to create them for straight couples. (For the graphic designer this was a hypothetical grievance; she had not been asked to design such a website.)

[Glenn Fine: The Supreme Court needs real oversight]

Alito, the author of Dobbs, has always been a formidable interrogator. But since the Court’s rightward turn, he has become imperious. He slapped the bench as he asked his questions, firing them relentlessly and—this is new—sometimes sloppily. During this argument, he made clear that his sympathies lay with the graphic designer, not her potential gay customers. At one point, as Kagan was trying to interject with questions of her own, Alito just barreled onward. He wound up comparing the requirement to design a website for gay customers to forcing a “Black Santa” to sit for photos with children clad as Klansmen. (He was attempting to invert Jackson’s question about a Santa who refused to be photographed with Black children.) At this point, Kagan had had enough, shoving aside the norm whereby justices take care not to challenge one another directly. After Eric Olson, Colorado’s solicitor general, replied that KKK costumes are not protected characteristics, Kagan calmly fleshed out the fallacy of Alito’s logic. Her pace slowed and her register dropped: It would be the same white robe and hood, Kagan said, “whether the child was Black or white.”

Kagan may have already been irritated. Moments earlier, in spinning out another hypothetical involving a discriminatory photographer, Alito had remarked that he assumed JDate was a Jewish dating service. Kagan, who is Jewish, jumped in to say that it was, prompting laughter. Alito then joked that Kagan might also be familiar with AshleyMadison.com, a dating site for married people seeking affairs. The cringeworthy attempt at a joke prompted uncomfortable laughter, which Alito appeared pleased with, though he quickly backtracked. Kagan (who is not married) laughed but rolled her eyes.

Kagan has long been one of the savviest justices, using oral argument to appeal to persuadable colleagues or to limit the damage in cases that her side was bound to lose. Anthony Kennedy, the moderate justice who swung left in some high-profile cases until his retirement in 2018, was the recipient of many of Kagan’s subtle entreaties. In the session on October 31, seeing that she was probably two votes shy of saving affirmative action, Kagan focused her attention on Kavanaugh, who replaced Kennedy four years ago. Gesturing in his direction with an open palm, Kagan asked a lawyer who was contending that racial preferences are unconstitutional whether it’s constitutional for judges to aim for a racially diverse team of judicial clerks.

The unexpected query was a tactical reference to Kavanaugh’s own boast, during his famously contentious confirmation hearings in 2018, that he prioritized diversity in his hiring of judicial clerks. (Of the 20 clerks he has hired as a justice, only three have been white men.) In response, Kavanaugh turned to his colleague, eyebrows slightly elevated and lips pursed. But he didn’t say anything.

The Supreme Court that Donald Trump reshaped isn’t simply more conservative; it’s also much more strained. The tension is not on display every day. Much of the time—including at the oral arguments the comparatively low-stakes cases on attorney-client privilege and sovereign immunity,which the Court heard last week—the justices keep civil and carry on. Occasionally they even seem to like one another. In November, Alito and Kagan laughed—with Alito joking that he had “forgotten what my next question is”—as they jostled during oral argument in a below-the-radar case on the Quiet Title Act. But when ideologically divisive issues appear on the docket, the agitation bubbles up. In any other workplace, a manager would be concerned about the impact of such fractured relationships on the ability of a nine-member team to work together productively. The worry is more urgent when the testy interpersonal dynamics are among members of the nation’s highest court.

Take a drive down Main Street of just about any major city in the country, and—with the housing market ground to a halt—you might pass more churches for sale than homes. This phenomenon isn’t likely to change anytime soon; according to the author of a 2021 report on the future of religion in America, 30 percent of congregations are not likely to survive the next 20 years. Add in declining attendance and dwindling affiliation rates, and you’d be forgiven for concluding that American religion is heading toward extinction.

But the old metrics of success—attendance and affiliation, or, more colloquially, “butts, budgets, and buildings”—may no longer capture the state of American religion. Although participation in traditional religious settings (churches, synagogues, mosques, schools, etc.) is in decline, signs of life are popping up elsewhere: in conversations with chaplains, in communities started online that end up forming in-person bonds as well, in social-justice groups rooted in shared faith.

For centuries, houses of worship have been the center of their communities, where people met their friends and partners, where they raised their kids, where they found solace, where they broke bread, where they organized around important issues.

[Shadi Hamid: America without God]

As Robert D. Putnam and David E. Campbell demonstrated in their 2010 book, American Grace: How Religion Divides and Unites Us, most Americans no longer orient their lives around houses of worship. And that loss is about more than just missing out on prayer services. It means that when people move to a new city, they have to work much harder to find new friends than previous generations did. When someone falls ill, they might not have a cadre of their fellow faithful to offer home-cooked meals and prayers for healing. This reorientation away from houses of worship is one of the factors that has led to the decline of a sense of community, the rise of social isolation, and the corresponding negative effects on public health, especially for older adults.  

Religion has historically done four main “jobs.” First, it provides a framework for meaning-making, whether helping our ancient ancestors explain why it rained when it rained, or helping us today make sense of why bad things happen to good people. Second, religion offers rituals that enable us to mark time, process loss, and celebrate joys—from births to coming of age to family formation to death. Third, it creates and supports communities, allowing each of us to find a place of belonging. And finally, fueled by each of the first three, religion inspires us to take prophetic action—to partake in building a world that is more just, more kind, and more loving. Through the pursuit of these four jobs, religious folks might also experience a sense of wonder, discover some new truth about themselves or the world, or even have an encounter with the divine.  

So rather than asking how many people went to church last Sunday morning, we should ask, “Where are Americans finding meaning in their lives? How are they marking the passing of sacred time? Where are they building pockets of vibrant communities? And what are they doing to answer the prophetic call, however it is that they hear it?”

There have never been more ways to answer these questions, even if fewer and fewer people are stepping into a sanctuary. People are meaning-making in one-on-one sessions with spiritual directors and chaplains. One in four Americans—across racial and religious (and nonreligious) backgrounds—has met with a chaplain in their lifetime, according to a recent survey that Gallup conducted for the Chaplaincy Innovation Lab, of which one of us, Wendy, is a founder. Most find their time with chaplains valuable.

People are preparing for the end of life with the Shomer Collective, a group that helps people as they prepare for and navigate the end of life, offering wisdom from the Jewish tradition. Death doulas now work with people from a variety of backgrounds, giving hand massages, preparing food, and doing much more for dying people and their loved ones.

These spiritual offerings are not just for individuals. People are gathering in communities in new ways to celebrate Shabbat rituals with OneTable, and mourning the loss of their loved ones with the Dinner Party. They’re joining small groups through the New Wine Collective, a movement helping people build spiritual communities, and the Nearness, a platform for nurturing your spiritual life while discovering community online. And they’re pursuing faith-driven justice work with organizations such as the Faith Matters Network and Living Redemption.

[From the April 2017 issue: Breaking faith]

Many theological schools aren’t yet training their students to reimagine how to serve people outside traditional religious contexts. Most are still preparing clergy to serve in congregations, a job with diminishing prospects these days. However, a growing number of groups, many of them led by seminary graduates, support spiritual leaders who are fostering new kinds of spirituality in their flocks.

The Glean Network, of which Elan is the founding director, has incubated more than 100 faith-rooted ventures over the past seven years through its partnership with Columbia Business School. Some of these programs focus on meaning-making, many on building communities, others on creative rituals, and still others on answering a prophetic call. The Chaplaincy Innovation Lab brings chaplains traditionally siloed in the settings where they work—health care, the military, higher education, prisons—into a broader learning community. More than 4,000 chaplains belong to the Lab’s private Facebook group—what we believe to be the largest virtual gathering of chaplains in the world—sharing advice, insights, and improvisational rituals from around the globe. These networks and a growing number of others equip spiritual leaders from a broad range of faith traditions to do their best work, and challenge theological schools to make their education more responsive, expansive, accessible, and practical.

This swell of spiritual creativity comes at a time when Americans seem to need it most. We are more lonely, more divided, less hopeful, and less trusting than in previous decades. And while there is much to celebrate as these new offerings take shape, their growth comes alongside an unprecedented decline in religious affiliation, which does entail losing some things that are unlikely to be replaced by these creative efforts.

We are witnessing a tectonic shift in the landscape of American religious life. Putnam was right when he declared a decade ago that religious disaffiliation has “the potential for completely transforming American society.” But he also predicted that it “has the potential for just eliminating religion,” and we beg to differ. Before we conclude that this transformation is solely about decline, let’s make sure we’re looking in all the right places.

Martin Luther King Jr. was a civil rights leader and an American hero. Almost every American adult (95% in CBS News polling) believes he was an important figure in US history.

Siamak Namazi was arrested in October 2015 and charged with trying to overthrow the state, which he denies.

An American wrongfully detained in Iran is calling on President Joe Biden to take notice of US detainees there, launching a hunger strike Monday to mark seven years since he was left behind in a prisoner swap that brought other Americans home.