Moderate and Forgotten to History
Join us on Sunday to learn what Erasmus of Rotterdam, history’s unsung hero of moderation, can teach us today
Gracious reader,
I want to share with you a chapter from my children’s book project: Heroes and Villains. I very much welcome your feedback. If you’d like to read early chapters and share them with your little ones or in your classroom or homeschool setting, I would be grateful to hear your reflections and experiences as the book continues to take shape. Comment below or email me (ahudsonassist@gmail.com) in case you are interested!
In times of disagreement, it is easy to stop seeing one another. This is a story about Erasmus of Rotterdam, a thinker who lived in a divided age and chose to keep seeing humanity amid disagreement, choosing a path of learning and attention. His story is old, but it feels close to us now.
If you are interested in learning more about Erasmus, join me and Thomas Chatterton Williams on Sunday for an online salon. Prior to the salon, Civic Renaissance patrons are invited to an exclusive conversation 30 minutes before it starts. (Patrons, look out for a private Zoom link coming to your inbox soon.)
Warmly,
Lexi
The Story of Erasmus of Rotterdam
Once upon a time, in a world both strange and familiar, there lived a boy named Erasmus of Rotterdam. Erasmus was the kind of boy who liked thinking more than shouting, and questions more than answers. He loved books, noticed people’s faces, and believed conversations mattered.
His world had no cars or airplanes. At night, streets glowed with candles and lanterns. Books were precious, printed slowly, page by page. Most people never traveled far from home, and news moved at the speed of a horse or a ship crossing the sea.
And yet, Erasmus’s world was also very much like our own.
People argued about big questions. They disagreed about God, truth, power, and how to live together. A new invention, the printing press, suddenly allowed ideas to spread faster than anyone could control. Pamphlets flew across Europe the way messages race across screens today. Some words were used to teach and heal. Other words were used to frighten, divide, and inflame.
People chose sides. They picked teams. Once they chose, they defended their side fiercely and stopped listening to anyone who complicated the story.
Erasmus lived right in the middle of that storm.
From a young age, Erasmus loved learning. He was curious, gentle, and thoughtful. People loved learning with him. Kings and queens invited him to their castles. They asked him to stay, to dine with them, to teach them how to think well and live wisely.
But Erasmus never stayed long. He believed learning was not meant to make people feel important, but to help them live well. So he traveled from place to place, carrying books, questions, and a quiet hope that learning together could make people kinder and wiser, especially those with power.
Erasmus was a Christian. He believed God made the world and made people as the very best thing in it. He believed God loved people more than anything else He had made and that every person was created with dignity and worth.
But Erasmus also believed something hard and honest about people. Even though we are loved, we are broken. We do bad things. We hurt one another. We choose ourselves instead of God and instead of other people. And when people are given power before they learn how to guide their own hearts, that brokenness spreads quickly.
Because people could not fix this on their own, Erasmus believed God acted. God sent His Son, Jesus, to become human. Jesus lived among people. He showed them what love looks like. He told the truth about selfishness, and He never used his strength to take from others.
Then Jesus did the hardest thing. When harm and punishment had to fall somewhere, Jesus stepped forward and took it himself. He took the blame and the pain, even though he had done nothing wrong, so people could be forgiven, healed, and begin again.
Erasmus believed to be a Christian was to know two things at once: we are more selfish than we want to admit, and we are more loved than we ever imagined. And because of that love, those who lead others must learn first how to lead themselves.
In Erasmus’s time and place, almost everyone belonged to one main Church. The Church rang bells that marked the hours of the day. It kept the calendar of feasts and fasts. It ran schools, cared for the sick, fed the poor, and taught people the stories of Jesus. From kings and queens to farmers and children, the Church shaped daily life.
That is why Erasmus cared so deeply about it.
As he grew older, he began to notice things that troubled him.
He saw priests who promised to live simply but lived like rich lords instead. He saw leaders who were meant to care for souls act more like rulers giving orders. He saw people frightened instead of comforted, pushed instead of guided.
Most troubling of all, he saw poor families told they had to pay money to be forgiven.
Erasmus believed forgiveness was a gift, not a product. Not something you could buy like bread at a market.
Because he loved the Church, Erasmus spoke up. He wanted it to become more like Jesus again, gentle, truthful, and free. He believed real reform did not begin with shouting or force, but with teaching people, especially leaders, to love what is good and to restrain what is selfish.
But not everyone agreed on how to fix what was broken.
One of Erasmus’s friends was a monk named Martin Luther. Martin was bold and booming, a big-voiced monk who loved music, long arguments at the table, and saying exactly what he thought. He sang loudly, argued fiercely, and believed the truth should never be whispered. Martin also believed the Church needed change, but he chose a louder, faster way. Martin wrote long lists of complaints and made them public for everyone to see.
The world split down the middle.
Some people rushed to Luther’s side. Others clung tightly to the Church. Friends became enemies. Words became weapons. People shouted instead of listening.
It hurt Erasmus to see the world split in two.
He believed the Church needed reform. He also believed anger and cruelty would only teach people to misuse power again. He refused to pretend one side was completely right and the other completely wrong.
As the arguments grew louder, the pressure on Erasmus grew stronger.
People from both sides came to him again and again. They said, “You are too smart to stay in the middle. You must belong to us.” They told him that if he chose their side, they would protect him, publish his books, and keep him safe. They promised him friends, honor, and comfort.
But they also warned him. If he did not choose them, they said, he would be treated as an enemy. He would lose friends. He would lose supporters. He might even be in danger.
Everyone wanted Erasmus on their team.
Erasmus listened carefully. Then he said no.
He wrote letters explaining his choice. He said he would not trade truth for loyalty to a group. He said cruelty does not become good just because many people agree with it. He said that shouting and certainty were hurting people on both sides, and that he would not join in.
This choice cost him dearly.
Friends stopped writing back. Powerful supporters turned away. Doors that once opened easily were closed to him. Tables where he once sat filled without him.
Slowly, Erasmus became lonely.
While others argued in crowds, Erasmus walked alone, carrying his books and his questions.
But he did not stop believing that small, ordinary actions shape the world.
One day, Erasmus was walking through the town.
He looked left.
He looked right.
He slowed his steps.
And then he noticed something strange.
No one was looking back.
People hurried past him with eyes on the ground. Faces slid by like shadows. No one met his gaze. No one nodded. No one said hello. It was as if everyone had learned how to see only their own side of the street.
Erasmus felt a quiet sadness settle in his chest.
He began to think that people were so busy choosing sides and sharpening words that they had forgotten how to notice one another at all. They were looking past faces instead of into them. They were missing the people standing right in front of them.
So Erasmus went home and picked up his pen.
If grown-ups were too angry to learn, he thought, perhaps children were not.
He wrote a small book for a young pupil, a prince who would one day hold great power. In the book, Erasmus wrote about eyes and hands, words and tables, greeting and listening. He wrote about learning how to look at people, how to speak carefully, and how to live gently with others.
He hoped that if children learned how to see, know, and care for one another in small ways, the world might one day find its way back to wholeness, love, and joy again.
So he wrote a small book for children about manners. Not manners meant to control others, but habits meant to help people control themselves and get along with others. He believed that before anyone could rule a kingdom, they should learn how to rule their own words, tempers, and desires.
He wrote about how we look at one another, how we speak, how we sit at a table, and how we wash not only our hands, but our thoughts.
At the end of the book, Erasmus wrote these words:
Readily forgive the faults of others, and avoid falling short yourself.
He meant this: stop blaming. Stop keeping score. Learn to correct yourself before trying to correct the world.
The book was loved and read for hundreds of years.
Erasmus was forgotten for a long time. But he is a hero of civility because even when people were cruel to him, he refused to stop seeing them as human. He is a hero of moderation because while others rushed to angry extremes, he stayed steady in the middle.
When the world wanted him to choose a side, Erasmus chose people.
Epimythium: When disagreement pulls us toward extremes, it teaches us to stop seeing people. Civility means remembering that people are still people, even when you disagree with them.[1]
[1] Epimythium: When disagreement hardens into sides, humanity is the first thing lost. It is regained when we choose to see one another clearly and whole.
Invitation: The Forgotten Virtue of Moderation
A live dialogue with Alexandra Hudson and Thomas Chatterton Williams
In an age shaped by outrage, certainty, and faction, moderation has become suspect. Those who refuse to sort neatly into camps are often dismissed as weak, naïve, or uncommitted. And yet, across history, the thinkers who most enlarged human understanding were rarely loyal to a side. They were loyal to truth.
This evening is a live dialogue between Alexandra Hudson and Thomas Chatterton Williams on the recovery of moderation as a serious intellectual posture, and on the examined life as its necessary foundation.
Join me in Indianapolis!
In the new:
Year Ago on Civic Renaissance:
When does an intellectual failing become a moral one? Bonhoeffer’s theory of stupidity
Thank you for being part of our Civic Renaissance community!
Lexi, Thank you so much for writing this wonderful piece on Erasmus. You spoken to the core of what my wife and I are experiencing as people who believe in the importance of staying true moderation and civility in a time when divisiveness is being fostered by constant warnings of "existential threats" from the media, including social media. I particularly love your reference to the definition of Epimythium (Yes! I learned another a new word!). It's such an apt summary of our force behind our present day culture's move towards estrangement with each other.
We have subscribed to your Substack and have already purchased "The Soul of Civility," which we are reading now. We would like to learn more about what you are doing. If you have a schedule for your upcoming appearances (I read the list), I'd like to know the dates.
Blessings to you and yours, --JRG (Jim)
I really appreciate how you emphasize civility and the value of how we treat one another—especially in divisive times. That said, I’m struggling to see how civility alone addresses the systemic realities we face—like the housing crisis, racial inequity, or economic collapse. We all know what’s happening in Texas—how the legislature is pushing tax breaks to make private Christian colleges more affordable, while public education suffers. And we can’t ignore people with disabilities—they’re still struggling for real support and dignity. If your book engages these issues—how civility can lead to tangible policy change—I’d love to hear. But without addressing these real-world harms, it feels like the ideas stay too abstract to create real change.