A New Romanticism

Are We in the Middle of a Romantic Revival?

Recently, I’ve been reflecting on what some have called a “New Romantic Movement,” a cultural shift that seems to have emerged from the cracks in our hyper-modern, disenchanted world. These essays I’ve come across have beautifully captured the longings at the heart of this moment: a return to the natural, a rediscovery of the heroic individual, and a deep hunger for beauty and transcendence. Reading their words, I realized how much of my own writing has been part of this same conversation. The New Romanticism, I believe, is not a rejection of modernity for its own sake but a rediscovery of truths long preserved in the liturgical and sacramental traditions of historic Christianity.

The original Romantic movement of the 19th century arose as a response to the cold rationalism of the Enlightenment and the dehumanizing effects of industrialization. The Romantics stood on the hills above the black smokestacks of industry and turned their gaze to the forests, mountains, and ruins. They sought a world alive with meaning, where mystery and beauty had not yet been stamped out by the machines of progress. Today, the smokestacks have been replaced by servers and screens, and the same hunger stirs in many of us. We stand on our own hills, looking down at faceless skyscrapers, glowing advertisements, and endless data streams, and we, too, are turning back—to nature, to the tangible, to the sacred.

I often refer to this as “the dark enchantment” or “that old Morgul magic,” because the story many of us inherited—secular materialism—is so powerful it functions like a spell, blinding us to the sacred world right in front of us. This story, taught to us from a young age, has transformed how we perceive reality. Where our ancestors saw Rulers and Angels in the sun, moon, and stars, we see only space rocks and gas; where they felt God’s Spirit in the wind, we feel only air. By reducing everything to its mere material cause, this story has stripped the world of meaning so effectively that we don’t even realize it’s happening.

Yet even in this disenchanted world, there is something that calls to us, something that breaks through the spell of secular materialism. That something is beauty—the kind of beauty that the Romantics celebrated and that Christians have long understood as rooted in the very nature of God. Beauty has the power to reawaken us to the sacred, to remind us that the world is more than mere matter.

Ryan B. Anderson

of

Echoes from an Old Hollow Tree

captures this beautifully when he writes of stepping into the forest, away from the glaring neon city lights, and finding a world alive with quiet, ephemeral light. That image is striking. The forest, both frightening and alluring, reminds us of something we’ve forgotten. For Christians, the forest is a reminder of Eden, the place where heaven and earth once met in harmony. It is not an escape from the world but an invitation to remember who we are and what we were made for. This Romantic longing is not a rejection of the world but a desire to see it restored to its proper place—a reflection of the divine.

This is why I find the New Romanticism so compelling. Its emphasis on the natural, the beautiful, and the tangible aligns so deeply with the Christian imagination. J.R.R. Tolkien understood this well. In The Lord of the Rings, the natural world is not just a backdrop but a participant in the great drama of redemption. The forests of Middle-earth, whether it’s the golden wood of Lothlórien or the ancient Fangorn, remind us of what was lost and what might yet be restored. Tolkien’s concept of “sub-creation”—the idea that human creativity reflects God’s creative power—offers a vision of Romanticism that is profoundly hopeful. It shows us that our longing for beauty and meaning is not in vain but is part of the greater story of God’s redemption.

Building on Tolkien’s legacy, contemporary Anglican poet-priest

Malcolm Guite

brings this same sacramental imagination into the present. His work reminds us that beauty is not only to be admired but experienced as a means of encountering the divine. His work, steeped in both Romanticism and sacramental theology, reminds us that the world is charged with the grandeur of God. In one of his sonnets, he writes of the Eucharist as “a star of heaven in our ordinary bread.” Here is the ultimate Romantic act—the ordinary becomes extraordinary, the material becomes a means of grace. Guite’s poetry resonates with the New Romanticism’s longing for the tangible because it shows us that the physical world is not merely useful or decorative—it is sacred.

And this, I think, is where the New Romanticism finds its fullest expression: in the sacramental vision of reality.

Megha Lillywhite

of

Classical Ideals

writes, much like Alexander Schmemann, about the profound significance of "sanctifying the material,” using the example of a photograph or handmade scarf from a loved one. These objects are not worshiped but cherished because they carry meaning. Similarly, the Church has always taught that the material world is a sacramental gift, a means through which we encounter God. The bread and wine of the Eucharist, the waters of baptism, the oil of anointing—all these remind us that the physical is not to be discarded or idolized but redeemed and elevated, becoming sacramental.

The New Romanticism, then, is not so much a rejection of modernity as it is a reclamation of what has been lost. It is a reminder that human beings are not meant to live as cogs in a machine or as data points in an algorithm. We are meant to live in communion—with God, with creation, and with one another. Anderson’s imagery of the heroic individual standing against faceless systems resonates deeply here. This is not about escapism but about reclaiming agency, dignity, and wonder in a world that often seems intent on stripping them away.

What I find particularly exciting about the New Romanticism is its emphasis on the tangible over the abstract. Anderson points to the resurgence of craft, the local food movement, and the rising interest in physical vitality as signs of this shift. The “revenge of analog” reflects a longing to live more fully in the real world, to work with our hands, and to participate in the beauty of creation. This is a deeply Christian impulse. The Incarnation itself—the Word made flesh—teaches us that the material world matters, that it is worth redeeming, and that our ordinary lives are filled with extraordinary meaning.

Far from being a critique of the New Romanticism, I see it as a kindred spirit to historic Christianity. Both share a desire to re-enchant the world, to recover the beauty and mystery that modernity has stripped away. Where the Romanticism gazed into the forest, Christianity invites us deeper still, to see the light shining through the trees as a reflection of the Light that no darkness can overcome. Together, they remind us that the world is more than data points and algorithms—it is a sacred place, alive with the presence of God.

I have been calling what I’ve been doing Ancient-Future Christianity, but perhaps New Romanticism is a more fitting title. Regardless, it seems we are, I believe, standing at the threshold of something beautiful. The New Romanticism and all of these conversations happening on re-enchantment calls us to step into the forest, to seek beauty, and to listen to the whisper of the eternal. But as Christians, we know that this longing is not in vain. It is a trail of breadcrumbs leading us home, a signpost pointing to the one who is Beauty itself. It is in Christ that our longings find their fulfillment, and the forest becomes not merely a place of respite but a sacred doorway—a thin space where heaven touches earth, and the glory and beauty of creation are restored.