I was looking forward to reading this book and expected it to resonate with me. And it did, in many ways. Nadya Williams clearly loves (and knows well) Greco-Roman literature, and she wants Christians not to fear it or dismiss it. So far, so good; in that regard, she succeeds. The book is an enjoyable read and introduces a wide range of classical authors in an engaging way. If you have always suspected that “the classics” are important but never known quite why or what to do with them, Williams provides a genial introduction.
And the book does work best as just that: an introduction. Her summaries are of course high-level, but they are engaging. Her thematic organization of the various works makes patterns across centuries clearer, and she invites Christian readers to read sympathetically as well as critically. Each chapter closes with explicit Christian evaluation, modeling discernment. That alone makes the book valuable.
BUT, I finished the book uneasy. It took me a while to figure out the cause of that unease.
I want to be clear; it does not come from what Williams includes or excludes. She had to make choices, and I respect hers. It does not come from her contention that pagan writers fall short of biblical truth. She is clear (and correct) about that. My unease came from a question the book never quite answers (at least not to my satisfaction): if these authors only grasp truth partially and imperfectly, why should Christians keep returning to them? How could they possibly be useful for our spiritual formation?
Williams encourages RE-reading the classics, ending with a reflection on “the virtues of rereading.” Rereading Scripture makes sense because Scripture is revelatory and inexhaustible. The classics are merely human literature. Once their worldview limitations are exposed and critiqued, it is not obvious why they deserve repeated formative attention rather than (respectful) closure.
At times, the book seems to justify classical literature (through its format and program of critique) primarily as an exercise in Christian discernment. That is of great value. But while learning to critique pagan ideas from a biblical worldview is valuable, it does not by itself explain why those ideas should continue to shape a Christian. We can practice such discernment using any world literature from any era. So, why concentrate on classical literature as the corpus on which continually hone our discernment skills?
My concern becomes sharper when Williams suggests that Greco-Roman authors sometimes glimpse truths Christians later recognize more fully in Scripture. Of course, in one sense, that isn’t controversial: general revelation is real, as is the human longing for truth. But there is a difference between recognizing that longing and treating pagan insight as a kind of proto-theology rather than as a groping. The danger is category confusion, where pagan moral or philosophical frameworks begin to feel like legitimate partners in Christian theological reflection rather than objects of judgment by it. If that line blurs, admiration can unconsciously become trust.
Williams’s chapter on Boethius brought this tension into focus for me, raising my level of unease. The Consolation of Philosophy is an impressive work, undeniably moving and historically influential. Williams handles it sympathetically and well. Still, the fact that Boethius finds consolation in philosophy without explicit reference to Christ should trouble Christian readers more than it often does. In Inventing the Renaissance, Ada Palmer shows how easily Christian thinkers historically adopted Platonic and Aristotelian categories not merely as tools but as intellectual scaffolding, quietly allowing pagan philosophy to shape the grammar of Christian thought, becoming the default framework for explaining Christian truth, rather than tools subordinated to it. The result was often an intellectually refined but theologically thin Christianity. Boethius may be an extreme case, but he should serve as a warning. If philosophy can console without Christ, if reason can suffice where revelation is silent, then the hierarchy has inverted. Williams, in her restraint toward that danger, may underestimate the formative power of the texts she commends.
I am NOT saying we should abandon the classics. Williams is right that Christians should not fear them. Greco-Roman literature exposes the depth of human longing for truth and the seriousness with which these cultures pursued virtue, but it also exposes the ultimate insufficiency of unaided reason to achieve those ends. Read well, classical literature can and should drive us back to Scripture with greater gratitude.
But there is also a real danger. Repeated immersion in pagan moral and philosophical frameworks can normalize assumptions we ought to question. Over time, texts we should be critiquing can begin to critique us.
Christians Reading Classics is an excellent and helpful overview of classical literature from a Christian perspective. I encourage you to read it. But read it with the same discernment with which it teaches you to read classical literature. When you do, ask yourself whether you need them once Scripture has authoritatively spoken.