I came up with the term after reading the viral essay I've Been Orthodox for Over Five Years. How Am I Feeling Now?, in which the author, Edwin Robinson, shares some of the desolation following his conversion to Orthodoxy. Many of us have been tracking the broader discourse about young men gravitating toward Orthodoxy or Roman Catholicism. And for my own part, I've written about some of the toxicity displayed by many of these converts. A good deal of this—the conversions, the online vituperativeness, and the desolations described by Robinson—is due to tradition-maxxing: the neurotic search for the oldest, thickest, most authoritative, and most demanding Christian tradition available.
If you spend much time online, you've probably encountered the suffix “-maxxing.” “Maxxing” emerged from internet culture to describe the relentless optimization of some aspect of your life. There is gym-maxxing, looks-maxxing, productivity-maxxing, finance-maxxing—all expressing the conviction that with enough effort, discipline, and the right strategy, you can maximize your performance in a particular domain.
And when it comes to Christianity, tradition becomes another thing to maxx. There is always another Church Father to read, another saint to venerate, another fasting rule to adopt, or another vigil to observe. The theology can always be deepened, the ascetical practices made more rigorous and severe, and the apologetical posture sharpened and made more combative. And most importantly, there is a more “authentic” and authoritative tradition to convert to and join. Everything in the tradition—theology, authority, asceticism—can be maxxed.
And yet, as I read Robinson’s essay, and after years of witnessing tradition-maxxing, we are starting to see some of its fruits. To be clear, there are many Protestants who have converted to Orthodoxy and Catholicism who have been richly blessed and find themselves joyful and at rest. Such converts are not tradition-maxxers.
The tradition-maxxers are those for whom religious striving is neurotic and egoistic. The tradition-maxxer experiences the tradition as a mountain to climb. The tradition becomes an arena for distinction, similar in function to educational credentials, fitness, wealth, or cultural sophistication. The tradition becomes an accomplishment that differentiates me from the masses. The religious quest is no longer about formation but status: What does this say about me compared to others?
But such a pursuit will eventually bear its darker fruit. Egoistic superiority. Scornful apologetics. Out-group hostility. Burnout. Or, as Robinson describes, post-conversion desolation.
But let me also mention a more benign personality trait that can fuel tradition-maxxing, one less about pride than a certain kind of nerdiness or romanticism. This is where I, myself, can be prone to tradition-maxxing. It’s a tendency that explains why so many Tolkien nerds are tempted by tradition-maxxing.
Specifically, some people simply love disappearing into a world, delving into obscure subjects, collecting arcane knowledge, and inhabiting richly textured universes. There is a romantic longing that gets satisfied by esoteric passions. Orthodoxy and Catholicism appeal to this longing, given their rich symbolism, historical depth, intellectual sophistication, and high beauty. Here is a world of saints, councils, liturgies, icons, monastic rules, ancient languages, theological distinctions, feast days, and centuries of accumulated wisdom. It is a world that is endlessly fascinating.
And it's a fascination that powerfully appeals to romantic and fantasy-prone imaginations. Instead of simply going to church you imagine yourself praying the Hours in a monastery, reading the Fathers by candlelight, making pilgrimages, keeping rigorous fasts, and escaping the thinness and superficiality of modern life and low-brow evangelical culture. To be clear, there is nothing wrong with these longings. The desire for God is holy. But the danger with this sort of tradition-maxxing is that the fantasy, a sort of monastic cosplay, becomes more compelling than the reality. The imagined world becomes more captivating than the ordinary church filled with ordinary people.
After the initial excitement of a conversion fades, or when the fantasy meets reality, one discovers that the “long obedience in the same direction” is stubbornly mundane. No amount of tradition-maxxing can escape the boring and ordinary nature of Christian faithfulness, the quiet, undramatic work of becoming like Christ alongside a group of broken people. Day after day and year after year. And yet, it's precisely there, in the midst of the ordinary, if we have the eyes to see it, where God encounters us with gifts of peace and joy.
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