Archive for November, 2009

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Book Recommendation: Reading Selections From The Examen Prayer – Fr. Timothy M. Gallagher

November 13, 2009

examen bookA review by Peter Fennessy on Amazon says: “In Jesuit spirituality enormous emphasis is placed on the form of prayer called the Examen. Ignatius Loyola would dispense his followers from virtually any religious observance but never from the Examen. When this exercise was understood as looking at the commandments and at personal violations of the commandments — an examination of conscience really, a preparation for confession — the prayer was negative in feel and its importance on a daily basis was difficult to fathom. But once the essence of the exercise was rediscovered as on-going discernment of God’s presence, activity, self-revelation and calling– an examination of consciousness — the emphasis was understandable. The foreword to the book incidentally is written by Fr. George Aschenbrenner, SJ, whose 1972 article was pivotal in the rediscovery of the examen. Not many books have been written since on the topic, and this is the best I have come across so far. Fr. Gallagher… explains not only the prayer itself, but the motives, settings, results, etc. He draws on a day in the life of Ignatius to illustrate the prayer and on dozens of examples (He has taught the prayer to a number of people in retreat settings) to illustrate the way people in all walks of life have prayed and adapted it.

The problem I have with prayer is falling in and out of it. It’s become almost like dieting. I spent long hours, years at a time, really, seeking to make prayer a regimen, a habit, I would not break, but it wasn’t like that in the end.

 I enjoy doing it when I do it, yet too often find days, weeks, months going by when all I can do when coming back home is having my head hit the pillow. It is certainly not what prayer should be – so I seem to do it now when I feel moved to. Exercise and diet are regimens; prayer should be different – it should come from a loving relationship with God – and I surprise myself when I realize I don’t have that. I had it before, why not now?

An Outline of the Examen
This outline is based on Ignatius’s presentation of the examen in the Spiritual Exercises (no. 43). I place it here as an introduction to all that follows; it may also serve, once the content of this book has been assimilated, as a practical tool in praying the examen.
Transition: I become aware of the love with which God looks upon me as I begin this examen.
Step One: Gratitude. I note the gifts that God’s love has given me this day, and I give thanks to God for them.
Step Two: Petition. I ask God for an insight and a strength that will make this examen a work of grace, fruitful beyond my human capacity alone.
Step Three: Review. With my God, I review the day. I look for the stirrings in my heart and the thoughts that God has given me this day. I look also for those that have not been of God. I review my choices in response to both, and throughout the day in general.
Step Four: Forgiveness. I ask for the healing touch of the forgiving God who, with love and respect for me, removes my heart’s burdens.
Step Five: Renewal. I look to the following day and, with God, plan concretely how to live it in accord with God’s loving desire for my life.
Transition: Aware of God’s presence with me, I prayerfully conclude the examen.

The Incomparable Value Of Gratitude
In one of his letters Ignatius explains more at length his thought regarding gratitude.  In speaking of what is for him the almost unendurable thought of ingratitude, Jgnatius energetically describes — both by negation and by affirmation — the unique power of gratitude in our relationship with God and with each other. He writes:

“May the highest grace and the everlasting love of Christ our Lord be our never-failing protection and help. It seems to me, in the light of the divine Goodness, though others may think differently, that ingratitude is one of the things most worthy of detestation before our Creator and Lord, and before all creatures capable of his divine and everlasting glory, out of all the evils and sins which can be imagined. For it is a failure to recognize the good things, the graces, and the gifts received. As such, it is the cause, beginning, and origin of all evils and sins. On the contrary, recognition and gratitude for the good things and gifts received is greatly loved and esteemed both in heaven and on earth.”

It would be difficult to express more strongly a sense of the incomparable value of gratitude. If you and I were asked to name the most unbearable of all evils and sins in this world, what might we choose? If you and I were asked to identify “the cause, beginning, and origin of all evils and sins” in our world, how might we reply? For Ignatius, who has become so conscious of God as constantly pouring out gifts of love upon our world and upon each one of us, the answer to both questions is utterly clear: it is the simple failure to recognize (des-conocimiento) “the good things, the graces, and the gifts received” from God, simply not to know that there is a God who loves us and who is unceasingly, even this very day, bestowing gifts of love upon us.

What will happen in our lives and in our world when the recognition (conocimiento) of these gifts begins to grow within us? When day after day we consciously choose to recognize these gifts and the Giver’s love for us that is revealed through them? Then, Ignatius says, something “greatly loved and esteemed both in heaven and on earth” will come into our hearts, bringing great blessings into our lives. The first step in the practice of Ignatian examen is exactly this: “to give thanks to God our Lord for the benefits received” (Spiritual Exercises, 43) in the course of the hours we are reviewing — to recognize these gifts and, through them, God’s personal love for us.

In its first step, then, the examen begins with what is most fundamental in our spiritual lives. When the Scriptures record the history of God’s saving work in the world, the primary reality is always what God does. The people’s response is vital to their relationship with God as salvation history unfolds, but it is never the first reality; that is always the work of God, who takes the initiative in leading the people toward salvation. And what God continually does, Ignatius says, is to pour out gifts upon this people, past and present. The first step in the examen consists of recognizing the primary reality that shapes our daily lives. Some examples will concretize what this might mean in practice.

It Is All About Something That God Does
On one occasion when I took part in a conversation regarding the examen, one person said: “When I make the examen in the evening, I ask the Lord: What do you want to show me about this day? What do you want me to see about this day?” “Because,” she said, “it is all about something that God does. It is all about grace.” In a few words she had touched the core of what makes the examen effective in our lives. It is all about something that God does; it is all about grace.

These are not just words. Human effort is indispensable in the practice of examen, but those who undertake it quickly realize that they cannot hope for a faithful and fruitful practice of the examen simply through their own efforts. Their experience teaches them clearly that the insight and transforming power that the examen offers are essentially the work of God’s grace within us (1 Corinthians. 15:10). In the examen, then, after recalling the gifts of God’s love (step one) and before reviewing the movements of our hearts and our response to them throughout the day (step three), Ignatius invites us to turn to God in humble prayer, asking for the grace that alone can make our examen fruitful (Spiritual Exercises, 43). This faith-inspired and hope-filled asking is the second step of the examen; in this step, desire, now warmed by gratitude, takes shape as a petition of the heart, asking that vivifying grace effect in us what God has inspired us to “wish and desire” (Spiritual Exercises, 48) as we make the examen each day.

The grace we humbly seek is twofold: the gift of understanding, which opens the way to new freedom.’ In this second step we pray for deeper insight into God’s concrete workings in our day and into any interior movements opposed to those workings, so that we may act more surely in overcoming all that hinders our freedom for growth in our relationship with God.

Spiritual Consolation And Desolation
Spiritual consolation and spiritual desolation — times of energizing joy in the Lord and times of interior heaviness in our life of faith — are the common experience of us all. How aware of these are we when our hearts experience them? And how do we respond to them? Thoughts arise in all of us, both God-inspired thoughts that offer clarity for spiritually fruitful action and confusing thoughts inspired by the enemy (from the tempter, from within the self, from our surroundings), which, if unreflectively followed, will lead to spiritual harm. Again, how aware of such thoughts are we? Can we discern which are of God and should be followed, and which are not and should be rejected?

Like Ignatius, we may have expectations of the way God will act in our lives, which may occasion interior struggles when events prove, in fact, different from our expectations. When such struggles occur, how conscious are we of their cause? How quickly are we aware of that cause? Are we able, like Ignatius, to strive to harmonize the desires of our hearts with the desires of God’s heart for us, and so progress toward the peace that flows from communion of heart with God?

Each of our days is filled with a richness of interior experience: love, hopes, anxieties, joys, fears, attractions, resistances, desires, disinclinations, all accompanied by an endless flux of varied thoughts. This interior experience occurs in the context of continual and constantly changing activity: interactions with others, conversations, meals, prayer, work, travel, projects, planning, and decision-making. In the prayer of examen we ask:

Where was God in all of this today? Toward what was the Lord calling me in the day? How did I respond to this call? Were there inclinations and thoughts this day that were not of God? If there were, was I able to discern and resist them? Was the use of my freedom in accord with God’s loving desire for me today?

Ignatius’s experience is his own, and it is furthermore the experience of one long accustomed to a discerning awareness of personal spiritual experience. Further examples will serve to expand our vision of how step three might appear in the concrete reality of daily spiritual living today. These examples will situate the examen in some of the widely diverse spiritual contexts of individual lives. God and empowers us to be agents of healing forgiveness in our communities, in our families, and in society as a whole.

At this point the wisdom of the order in the steps of the examen emerges. Within the examen much has preceded and prepared us for the fourth step; this context is key to praying the fourth step as Ignatius intends it. For Ignatius, God’s love is always the first consideration, and all else is viewed after and only in the light of this love.  The first step in the examen, and the basis for all that follows, is simply to notice the endless outpouring of God’s gifts of love to us in the day. When the human heart knows that another heart loves it deeply, faithfully, and unconditionally, it loses all fear. It may ask with trust for any forgiveness it seeks because it already knows that it is unshakably loved. The prayer of step one (gratitude) is uniquely powerful in preparing space in our hearts for the prayer of step four (forgiveness).

If indeed the prayer of examen is a matter not only of moral growth but also of discerning the spiritual stirrings of our hearts: then the value of such spiritual accompaniment is evident. In his Spiritual Exercises, Ignatius always presumes the assistance of a competent spiritual guide in the process of discernment, a need that remains even as we grow in a personal ability to discern:

He or she can, by listening well, help us to notice and say for ourselves what we might never clearly uncover for ourselves unless we were trying to tell some trusted and interested listener — a listener who has adequate learning and experience to be of help.

What form might this spiritual accompaniment take?

•       Spiritual direction, that is, regular meetings with a capable spiritual guide, is a solidly attested element of our spiritual tradition and can be of great assistance in praying the examen.
•    For some people, occasional meetings with an experienced spiritual companion may be the most realistic form of such spiritual accompaniment.
•    Participation in groups of spiritual formation with qualified leadership may be another avenue to obtain such spiritual support.
•    Conversation with spiritual friends who share the same journey can also be highly encouraging in the practice of examen.

Such forms of spiritual accompaniment are all the more important for persons living in a culture that itself provides less spiritual “accompaniment” than in the day of Ignatius.

Competent spiritual accompaniment provides the answer to many of the difficulties that dedicated persons may encounter in praying the examen (Spiritual Exercises, 326). At times — as is true of the spiritual life in general — notwithstanding our sincere willingness and diligent efforts, we may feel discouraged as we pray the examen. The examen may not seem fruitful in the way we had hoped, and we may even find it disheartening in some measure. We may consequently experience a certain diminishment of our energy to continue in its practice. As all that we have discussed earlier indicates, there may be many reasons for such difficulties. The surest way to navigate safely through them is conversation with a capable spiritual companion. Without such conversation, we may tend simply to relinquish the prayer of examen in these times of difficulty. Aided by such conversation, these very struggles become stepping-stones to new growth in the examen and through it to broader growth in our spiritual lives.

A Prayer That Itself Presupposes Another Level Of Prayer
A glance at Ignatius’s practice of examen on March 12, 1544, reveals that his prayerful review occurs within a day marked by various times of prayer. Ignatius prays upon rising, prays as he prepares for Mass, prays throughout the Mass itself, prays again after the Mass… a prayer in which Ignatius meets the God “who loves me more than I love myself.” From the richness of that communion with God in habitual times of prayer, the desire for ongoing communion with God throughout the day is born. It is this desire, as we have seen, that fuels the practice of examen. Our relationship with God in faithful daily prayer is the fertile soil in which a fruitful practice of the examen takes root and grows.

As Aschenbrenner so clearly notes, the examen is prayer but a prayer that itself presupposes another level of prayer in our lives. Every step, then, that we take to grow in relationship with God through faithful prayer prepares the ground for our practice of examen. Is it superfluous to suggest once more that this might be profitably discussed with a spiritual guide? Or with others who share the same longing?

As with the examen and spiritual direction, here too a principle of mutual benefit holds.  Loving communion with God in formal times of prayer (meditation on Scripture, Mass, the Liturgy of the Hours, lectio divina, and other forms of prayer) awakens the desire to find that God of love throughout the day as well, and so leads to the examen. The examen in turn expands that relationship of love beyond the formal times of prayer and into the concrete activity of the day. In this way the formal times of prayer are not only occasional welcome moments of communion with God, but also flow more easily from and into the day of which they are a part, much as we see in Ignatius’s March 12, 1544.

These are not just words. When our hearts rejoice to encounter God in habitual and faithfully observed times of prayer and, consequently, yearn to experience that communion more frequently and more deeply throughout the day as well, then we are ready for the practice of examen.

A Transition Into Prayer
Ignatius himself began his prayer with this living awareness of God’s loving presence to him. An eyewitness tells of how Ignatius used to pray on the open terrace of the community’s house in Rome:

He would stand there and take off his hat; without stirring he would fix his eyes on the heavens for a short while. Then, sinking to his knees, he would make a lowly gesture of reverence to God. After that he would sit on a bench, for his body’s weakness did not permit him to do otherwise. There he was, head uncovered, tears trickling drop by drop, in such sweetness and silence, that no sob, no sigh, no noise, no movement of the body was noticed.

Ignatius begins his prayer with a brief moment in which he simply absorbs the joyful reality of God’s presence to him. His awareness of God’s loving gaze upon him fills him with “sweetness and silence,” and moves him deeply and surely into the prayer to follow.

When in his Spiritual Exercises Ignatius counsels such a transition into prayer, he is evidently speaking from his own rich experience of prayer. Ignatius invites us, on the threshold of our formal time of prayer, to pause “for the time I would take to pray an Our Father” and “with my understanding raised on high” to consider “how God our Lord looks upon me” (SpirEx, 75). This transitional space need not, Ignatius tells us, be overly lengthy:

“the time I would take to pray an Our Father.” As Ignatius’s words further indicate, what we consider during this brief time is how God looks upon us. As so often in Ignatian prayer, the focus is not primarily on our own activity but above all on what God is doing: here on what God is doing now as I begin my time of prayer. This transition is profoundly relational; before all else we become aware simply of being with the God who is looking upon us.

The What Not The How Of Experience
As so often in his pedagogy of prayer, Ignatius simply indicates what experience, his own and others, has shown to be helpful without further specification of precisely how this indication is to be used in practice.

One woman prays a short formal prayer, an Our Father, the Soul of Christ, or a prayer of Thomas Merton, and finds that in this way she enters the living presence of the Spirit.
A man simply becomes aware of Father, Son, and Spirit, slowly pronouncing each divine name and so entering into communion with the living God.
Another person recalls the scriptural words that “Jesus, looking at him, loved him” (Matt. 10:21) and feels that gaze of love personally as he lifts his heart in prayer.

Counting The Footsteps Of Fidelity
Among “The Sayings of the Desert Fathers,” in which history and legend mingle in teaching profound spiritual truths, we read of a man who went out into the desert to dedicate his life to God. He lived there for years, devoting himself faithfully to God’s service through prayer and a life of great material simplicity. His dwelling was several miles from the nearest water, and daily he walked those miles to and from the source, carrying back the water he needed to live. Year followed upon year and he grew elderly in God’s service.

But as those years passed, his heart gradually wearied of his service: the physical privations, the labor, the endless routine of one day utterly like the next. The long daily trek for water became the symbol of his weariness, and it was in walking those miles each day that he first began to consider surrendering the service of God he had pursued for so many years. Finally one day as he plodded across the desert under the burning sun, his heart weakened. The account tells us:

Once when he was going to draw water, he flagged and said to himself, “What need is there for me to endure this toil? I shall come and live near the water.” And saying this, he turned about and saw one following him and counting his footprints: and he questioned him, saying, “Who are you?” And he said: “I am an angel of the Lord, and I am sent to count your footprints and give you your reward.” And when he heard him, the old man’s heart was stout, and himself more ready, and he set his cell still farther from the water.

Trial That Destroys Superficial Security
Jean Vanier, speaking of trials in relationships, writes: “The times of trial which destroy a superficial security often free new energies which had until then been hidden.” In the prayer of the examen as in all prayer — which is simply a relationship of love — there will very likely be times when we will be called to love with faithful courage, a courage that will “free new energies which had until then been hidden.”

Our awareness that the examen is God’s gift rather than our accomplishment gives’ us the confidence expressed by Paul: “I have the strength for everything through him who empowers me” (Philemon 4:13). And experience teaches, as Thérèse of Lisieux says, that “God never refuses that first grace that gives one the courage to act; afterwards, the heart is strengthened and one advances from victory to victory.”

In this part of our reflections, then, we will consider the times when the prayer of examen may call us to a love that is patient and faithful. Having reviewed them, we will be the better equipped to progress through such times unfalteringly and indeed with spiritual benefit. Our discussion here will presume all that we have said thus far about the examen: solid understanding of the five steps, of their flexible use, and of the various conditions that assist in praying the examen fruitfully.

Spiritual Consolation
The practice of the examen itself can be the instrument of liberation from spiritual desolation. A woman writes:

I feel now as if I was wandering through a jungle before I began the examen, and was wide open to every negative thought which could pretty freely take hold of me, since I wasn’t paying attention. It was only when those thoughts got dark enough and consuming enough that I noticed that something was very wrong. But even then, I felt helpless to stop what was happening since I wasn’t at all clear what it was….

My “after” experience, that is, of making the examen daily, has let me see the problem much more clearly for what it is. The simple question of asking if certain thoughts or patterns of acting are leading me toward God or away from him is like shining a light into a dark room — one sees all sorts of things for what they are. The other thing it has let me see is “early warning signals” — the blindness that got me into trouble in the first place. . . . I am very, very grateful that the Lord has been so patient, that he has given me such clear helps along the way, and that he has shown me so clearly what I need to do.

For this woman as for many of us, the prayer of examen — with the accompaniment at least occasionally of a spiritual guide — becomes an experience of spiritual freedom: “The simple question of asking if certain thoughts or patterns of acting are leading me toward God or away from him is like shining a light into a dark room – one sees all sorts of things for what they are.” As her spiritual understanding grows, her darkness dissipates and gratitude wells up in her heart.

Listening For The “Still Small Voice”
On March 12, 1544, Ignatius realizes at a certain point that his own desire contrasts with God’s desires for him. And he writes:

Once I recognized that I felt this inclination and that this was different from what God desired, I began to note this and to strive to move my heart toward what was pleasing to God. (382)

The love for the Lord that fills Ignatius’s heart leads him, he says, “to strive to move my heart toward what was pleasing to God.” When Ignatius perceives God’s desire, he begins — not without effort — “to strive to move” his own heart toward communion with the heart of God. And, as he tells us, “With this the darkness gradually began to lift and tears began to come.” His earlier spiritual desolation lifts and consolation returns, providing clarity for his process of decision.

To pray the examen daily is to listen constantly for the “still small voice” (1 Kings 19:12) of God speaking in our hearts. The examen expresses our daily readiness to hear God’s desires for our lives. Said in the words of Paul, to pray the examen is to confess that “Jesus is Lord” (Rom. 10:9) every day of our lives, eager to know his desires and to follow where he would lead us in the hours of our day. It is, like Ignatius, “to strive to move” our hearts toward the heart of the God whose love embraces us daily. To pray the examen is to surrender our lives increasingly to the Lord and to let ourselves be led because, like Ignatius, “we have come to know and to believe in the love God has for us” (1 John 4:16).

John Henry Newman
The prayer of the examen progressively leads to that transformation so tellingly depicted by John Henry Newman at a moment when he was himself facing a new surrender to God’s mysterious leading in his life:

I was not ever thus, nor prayed that Thou
                Shouldst lead me on.
I loved to choose and see my path; but now
                Lead Thou me on!

“I loved to choose and see my path”: this is the human tendency toward self-sufficiency, toward seeking personal control in the unfolding of our lives. A powerful transition, however, is occurring in the Newman who writes these lines: “but now / Lead Thou me on!” The prayer of examen arises in hearts that desire to say with Newman, “but now / Lead Thou me on,” and that desire this divine leading not only in the great decisions of their lives but also in the concrete, daily, and “small” activities that fill their days.

Joseph Cardinal Bernardin
In a meditation completed thirteen days before his death from pancreatic cancer, Joseph Cardinal Bernardin movingly describes what he calls “letting go.” He writes:

One theme that arises on the surface more than any other takes on new meaning for me now — the theme of letting go. By letting go, I mean the ability to release from our grasp those things that inhibit us from developing an intimate relationship with the Lord Jesus. Letting go is never easy. Indeed, it is a lifelong process. But letting go is possible if we understand the importance of opening our hearts and, above all else, developing a healthy prayer life.

This is the “lifelong process” of the prayer of examen. As we pray it daily, we may perceive more clearly the things “that inhibit us” from what our hearts most deeply desire: “developing an intima~e relationship with the Lord Jesus.” Increasingly we will seek “to release from our grasp” all that limits our spiritual freedom and so to grow in love of the Lord. Examen becomes indispensable in our lives when “we understand the importance of opening our hearts” to the God whose “still small voice” ceaselessly calls us to inexhaustible newness of life.

Bernardin’s words reflect what is probably our own experience as well:

Still, letting go is never easy. I have prayed and struggled constantly to be able to let go of things more willingly, to be free of everything that keeps the Lord from finding greater hospitality in my soul or interferes with my surrender to what God asks of me. . . . My daily prayer is that I can open wide the doors of my heart to Jesus and his expectations of me.  This is the heart itself of the examen: to seek unceasingly “to be free of everything that keeps the Lord from finding greater hospitality in my soul,” from everything that “interferes with my surrender to what God asks of me.” It is a “daily prayer” that “I can open wide the doors of my heart to Jesus.”

Finally, Bernardin speaks of the self-emptying (Philemon. 2:7) that frees our hearts to surrender to God:

God speaks very gently to us when he invites us to make more room for him in our lives. The tension that arises comes not from him but from me as I struggle to find out how to of. fer him fuller hospitality and then to do it wholeheartedly. The Lord is clear about what he wants, but it is really difficult to let go of myself and my work and trust him completely. The first step of letting go, of course, is linked with my emptying myself of everything — the plans I consider the largest as well as the distractions I judge the smallest—so that the Lord can really take over.

God does indeed speak “very gently” to us when “he invites us to make more room for him in our lives.” Our hearts need to be finely attuned and daily attentive to hear the voice of that loving invitation. That is why, as we have said from the beginning, the prayer of examen is at the heart of the spiritual life. So much depends on hearing the promptings of a God who speaks “very gently” in calling us forward on our spiritual journey.

As Bernardin notes, “the Lord is clear about what he wants.” Our struggle, like Bernardin’s, is “to find out how” to respond and then “to do it wholeheartedly.” To find out daily, and then to do: this is a powerful description of the prayer of examen.

Bernard of Clairvaux
In the end, it all comes down to footprints in the sand: day after day, year after year, in the times when our hearts are warm with God’s love and all that is spiritual delights us, and in the times when we must plod forward faithfully under the burning sun and across the miles that seem to stretch endlessly before us, knowing that God sees and loves each footprint of our fidelity.

And the energy that impels us forward on that journey is always the same: “We have come to know and to believe in the love God has for us” (1 John 4:16). What we seek, then, year after year in our examen is “to know the Lord interiorly. . so that I may love him more and follow him more closely” (Spiritual Exercises).

Bernard of Clairvaux, whose faithful love for the Lord transformed hearts and blessed nations, proclaims:

Love suffices unto itself, gives delight of itself and because of itself. Love is its own merit, its own reward. Love needs no cause outside itself, no fruit other than itself. Its fruit is its practice. I love because I love; I love that I may love. Love is a great thing, so long as it reverts to its source, returns to its origins and flows back to its fount, constantly drawing there the water that gives it new life.

There is finally no other reason why we pray the examen:

“Love needs no cause outside itself. . . I love because I love; I love that I may love.” That love remains young, fresh, and alive when, as Bernard says, it continually “flows back to its fount, constantly drawing there the water that gives it new life.” When that living water flows constantly in our hearts (John 7:38), then the Spirit guides our lives. In our faithful prayer of examen, we hear that Voice daily and with our lives we answer: “Lead Thou me on.”

Communion Of Will And Life With God
To love the One who loves us is to say like Jesus, “Behold, I come to do your will, 0 God” (Heb. 10:7). These words, which Jesus proclaims as he comes into the world (Hebrews 10:5), are the response of his heart and his life to the Father who says to him:

“You are my beloved Son” (Luke 3:22). When our hearts know that they are infinitely loved, that like Jesus and in Jesus they are beloved, then the thirst for communion of will and life with God is born. Then our hearts desire to “seek and find the divine will” every day of our lives. As we have observed, there is profound wisdom and spiritual truth in Ignatius’s choice to place awareness of God’s loving gifts at the beginning of his prayer of examen; the desire to say “yes” to love arises within us when we experience that love concretely.

Gradually Prayer Changes Us
She has always been reflective but has striven in a special way for the past thirty years to understand herself and God’s workings in her life. She lets nothing deter her from this search. Even the painful times, once the first emotions have subsided sufficiently, become valued times of a learning process that never ends. Daily, constantly, in all that happens around her and in her, she searches for God’s word to her, for God’s leading in her life. Each evening she reviews her life with God.

Gradually prayer has changed for her. She maintains her daily times of prayer as her health permits. But, she says, in recent years prayer has become a way of life. She lives with God, aware of God, sharing with God. The deep peace that characterizes her now even in the not infrequent struggles of life reveals that this is so.

She tells of a time not many years ago when she was sitting by the sea. Suddenly she found herself reviewing her entire life, remembering the painful and the happy times over the years and to the present. A great sense of gratitude welled up in her heart as she remembered; in that experience of grace, she could see the love of God in all of this. Joy and deep peace filled her heart in that moment. She grasped in a new way the meaning of her whole life. A daily effort of over thirty years to perceive God’s workings in her life bore fruit in a rich understanding of the pattern of her entire life. She says:

I feel as though I’ve turned a corner spiritually in recent months. All the stages of my life have come together. I can see the Lord’s love and invitation in each, constantly calling me forward. I’ve always wanted to be a transparent instrument for the Lord to work through me. It’s like he took a Brillo pad and scrubbed me — as I asked. This is truly “awesome.” It’s basically a sense of trust in God from looking back over it all. I think heaven is this — a constant journey, always discovering God more.

All that we have seen in this book is summarized here: “It’s basically a sense of trust in God from looking back over it all.”  This basic “sense of trust in God” that results from faithful review of our spiritual experience over many years is the fruit to which examen finally leads. This kind of trust becomes unshakeable.

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Saint Ignatius of Loyola

November 12, 2009

Rubens_St_Ignatius_ofLoyola_3538Iñigo of Loyola was born in 1491 in the Basque Country of northern Spain. As a boy, he served as a page in the court of a local nobleman, and later distinguished himself as a valiant soldier. He describes himself in his short autobiography as “a man given over to the vanities of the world,” particularly concerning his physical appearance. He seems also to have been a ladies’ man. At least that’s how he fancied himself. He was definitely a rake. It was rumored that he fathered an illegitimate child. (There is some evidence to support this, but it is inconclusive.) And he may be the only canonized saint with a notarized police record, for nighttime brawling with intent to inflict serious harm.

During Iñigo’s soldiering career, his leg was struck by a cannonball in a battle at Pamplona in 1521. This pivotal incident, which might have been merely tragic to another person, marked the beginning of a new life for Iñigo. It is also one of the scenes most often depicted in murals and mosaics of the saint’s life. At St. Ignacius Loyola Church in New York City, high over the main altar is a brightly colored mosaic of the battle at Pamplona. Atop the parapets of a medieval castle, the injured Iñigo, still clad in a suit of gray armor over a sky blue doublet, reclines in the arms of his fellow soldiers. As the battle rages about him and soldiers scale the castle walls on rickety wooden ladders, Iñigo gazes placidly heavenward, as if already anticipating something new from God.

After the battle, he was brought to his elder brother’s home, the family’s ancestral castle of Loyola, to recuperate. The bone in his leg was set poorly, and Iñigo, “given over to the vanities of the world,” wanted the leg to look smart in his courtier’s tights. He therefore submitted to a series of gruesome and painful operations. The leg never healed properly, and he was left with a lifelong limp.

Confined to his sickbed, Iñigo asked a relative for some books. All she could offer was pious reading, which he took grumpily and grudgingly. To his great surprise, the soldier found himself attracted to the lives of the saints and began thinking, If St. Francis or St. Dominic could do such-and-such, maybe I could do great things. He also noticed that after thinking about doing great deeds for God, he was left with a feeling of peace — what he termed “consolation.” On the other hand, after imagining success as a soldier or impressing a particular woman, though he was initially filled with great enthusiasm, he would later be left feeling “dry.” Slowly, he recognized that these feelings of dryness and consolation were God’s ways of leading him to follow a path of service. He perceived the peaceful feeling as God’s way of drawing him closer. This realization also marked the beginning of his understanding of “discernment” in the spiritual life, a way of striving to seek God’s will in one’s life, a key concept in Ignatian spirituality.

Iñigo decided after his recovery that he would become a pilgrim and tramp to the Holy Land to see what he might do there in God’s service. First he made a pilgrimage to a well-known monastery in Spain, in Montserrat, where he confessed his sins, laid aside his knightly armor, and put on the homespun garb of a pilgrim. From Montserrat, Iñigo journeyed to a nearby small town called Manresa, where he lived the life of a poor pilgrim: praying, fasting continually, and begging for alms.

During his time in Manresa, his prayer intensified and he experienced great emotional variances in his spiritual life, as he moved from a desolation that was nearly suicidal to a mystical sense of union with God. In the end, his prayer made him more certain that he was being called to follow God more closely. Iñigo spent several months in seclusion in Manresa, experiencing prayer that grew ever deeper, and then commenced his journey to Jerusalem.

After a series of mishaps in Jerusalem and elsewhere, he decided that to accomplish anything noteworthy in the church of his time, he would need more education and perhaps even to become a priest. So the former soldier vowed to recommence his education, an arduous process that took him to the university cities of Alcalá, Salamanca, and, finally, Paris. And since he had little knowledge of Latin, he had to sit in class — at age thirty — with small boys learning their Latin lessons. Even in my third or fourth reading of the saint’s story, I found this chapter of Ignatius’s life impressive and touching. It always called to mind the image of the middle-aged man seated at a too-small desk, hunched over his books. The proud courtier who had hoped to win the attraction of influential men and highborn women nonetheless found the humility necessary to admit that in many ways he was no more advanced than a schoolboy.

While studying in Paris, Iñigo attracted attention as a result of his ascetic penchant for dressing in the poorest clothes, begging for alms, helping the poor, and assisting other students in prayer. In Paris he also completed what later become known as The Spiritual Exercises, a handbook of practices on prayer, on the human condition, on God’s love, and on the life of Jesus, all designed to help people draw closer to God. Iñigo also led his new roommate, Francisco Javier, through these exercises. His friend would later become better known, of course, as St. Francis Xavier, one of the church’s great missionaries. Around this time in Paris, Iñigo, for reasons still unknown, changed his own name to the more familiar-sounding Ignatius.

Gradually, Ignatius gathered around him a tight-knit group of six men, who decided they would work together in the service of God.

But doing what? Initially, they decided to go to Jerusalem, as so many Christians before them had done. If that was not possible, they would present themselves directly to the pope, who, by virtue of his knowledge of the needs of the universal church, would be better able to discern a direction for the group. Eventually, the men decided to form the Company of Jesus, or Societas Jesu in Latin, for the purpose of “helping souls.”

At first, Ignatius had a tough time winning formal acceptance for his society. For one thing, some in the church hierarchy were disturbed that he was not founding a more traditional religious order, with an emphasis on common prayer and a stricter, even cloistered, community life. But Ignatius’s men (derisively called “Jesuits” by their critics) wanted to work in the world. Ignatius, ever resourceful, shrewdly enlisted the help of powerful churchmen to speak on the society’s behalf.

From these humble efforts began the Society of Jesus. After settling in Rome and receiving papal approval for his new order, Ignatius began the difficult task of writing the Jesuits’ constitutions and mapping out plans for the work of its members. In all of these efforts Ignatius proved both ambitious and persistent. At the same time, he was flexible and ready to do whatever might be God’s will. He fought for the Society whenever a church official raised another objection about his new order. Yet he used to say that if the pope ever ordered the Jesuits to disband, he would need only fifteen minutes in prayer to compose himself and be on his way.

In my novitiate, St. Ignatius was presented as the model Jesuit: intelligent, prayerful, and disponible – available, disposed to do God’s will. He was ambitious to do great things ad majorem Del gloriam— for the greater glory of God. Another way of expressing this is the Jesuit tradition of magis—the best, the highest, the most for God. It has often been noted how fortunate it was for the Catholic Church that Ignatius transformed his worldly ambitions into ambitions for the church. His courtier’s charm, his soldier’s tenacity, and his stalwart temperament combined to make him a formidable first superior of the Jesuits. (I remember thinking in the novitiate that Ignatius would not have done so poorly in the corporate world.)

Despite his remarkably compelling and undeniably inspiring life, St. Ignatius doesn’t elicit the kind of widespread affection afforded to saints such as Thérêse of Lisieux or Francis of Assisi. Descriptions of Ignatius often use such terms as intellectual, serious, austere, mystical — making the saint, while respected, a rather distant figure.

And while Jesuits revere their founder, more than a few hold “Fr. Ignatius” at arm’s length. An elderly Jesuit at Boston College once said to me, regarding the prospect of his judgment in heaven: “I have no problem with Jesus judging me. It’s St. Ignatius I’m worried about!”

It is true that, unlike Francis of Assisi, Ignatius is rarely characterized as endearingly silly (though he liked to perform impromptu Basque dances for melancholy Jesuits) or foolish (though early in his post conversion life he asked his mule to decide, by choosing which fork in the road to take, if he should pursue a man who had just insulted the Virgin Mary). And true, he was not a gifted writer with an instinct for the well-turned phrase, as was his compatriot St. Teresa of Avila or St. Benedict.

His Autobiography — which he dictated only after being asked, and then grudgingly — is occasionally moving in its frank descriptions of his mystical experiences but is sometimes awfully dry. Even Ignatius’s greatest contribution to Christian spirituality, The Spiritual Exercises, is not a compendium of warm reflections on the love of God. It is instead a series of clear, practical instructions, a how-to manual for retreat directors — that is appreciated more in the doing than the reading. The young Thomas Merton once “made” the Spiritual Exercises on his own, sitting cross-legged on the floor of his apartment in Greenwich Village in the late 1930s. It was a mixed experience for Merton, somewhat akin to attempting to psychoanalyze oneself.

But the two writings into which Ignatius poured his heart and soul—the Spiritual Exercises and the Constitutions of the Society of Jesus — do work, and have worked well for more than 450 years. For Ignatius of Loyola was nothing if not practical. After discerning God’s will for himself, he resolutely set out to do it. He amended his life. Left his military career. Returned to school. Gathered his friends together. Put himself at the disposal of God and the pope. He organized, led, and inspired what he called his “least” Society of Jesus. He wrote their constitutions, opened schools, and sent out missionaries.

Yet at the heart of what can seem like frenetic activity was an intimate relationship with God, which Ignatius often found difficult to put into words. His private journals show minuscule notations crowded beside his entries for daily Mass. As scholars have concluded, these indicate, among other things, those times when he wept during Mass, overwhelmed by love for God. Ignatius found God everywhere: in the poor, in prayer, in the Mass, in his fellow Jesuits, in his work, and, most touchingly~ on a balcony of the Jesuit house in Rome, where he loved to gaze up silently at the stars at night. During these times he would shed tears in wonder and adoration. His emotional responses to the presence of God in his life gives the lie to the stereotype of the cold saint.

Ignatius was a mystic who loved God with an intensity rare even for saints. He wasn’t a renowned scholar like Augustine or Aquinas, not a martyr like Peter or Paul, not a great writer like Teresa or Benedict, and perhaps not a beloved personality like Francis or Therese. But he loved God and loved the world, and those two things he did quite well.

The above was adapted from My Life With The Saints by James Martin, S.J. Tomorrow I will feature reading selections and a book recommendation for The Examen Prayer by Fr. Timothy M. Gallagher. I have not found a better book on prayer than this one and it lead me to wonder about Saint Ignatius and what kind of man could be so practical and yet so rooted in a life of faith. The two posts are actually one but it seemed a good idea to split it up.

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Notable Quotations From The Papal Encyclical Quadragesimo Anno (The Fortieth Year) Pope Pius XI, 1931

November 11, 2009

PiusXIQuadragesimo Anno is an encyclical by Pope Pius XI, issued 15 May 1931, 40 years after Rerum Novarum (thus the name, Latin for ‘in the fortieth year’). Unlike Leo, who addressed the condition of workers, Pius XI discusses the ethical implications of the social and economic order. Pius XI calls for the reconstruction of the social order based on the principle of solidarity and subsidiarity. He notes major dangers for human freedom and dignity, arising from unrestrained capitalism and totalitarian communism.

The function of the rulers of the State is to watch over the community and its parts; but in protecting private individuals in their rights, chief consideration ought to be given to the weak and the poor. (#25)

Every effort must therefore be made that fathers of families receive a wage large enough to meet ordinary family needs adequately. But if this cannot always be done under existing circumstances, social justice demands that changes be introduced as soon as possible whereby such a wage will be assured to every adult workingman.  (#71)

Twin rocks of shipwreck must be carefully avoided. For, as one is wrecked upon, or comes close to, what is known as “individualism” by denying or minimizing the social and public character of the right of property, so by rejecting or minimizing the private and individual character of this same right, one inevitably runs into “collectivism.” (#46)

Just as it is gravely wrong to take from individuals what they can accomplish by their own initiative and industry and give it to the community, so also it is an injustice and at the same time a grave evil and disturbance of right order to assign to a greater and higher association what lesser and subordinate organizations can do. For every social activity ought of its very nature to furnish help to the members of the body social, and never destroy and absorb them. (#79)

…the right ordering of economic life cannot be left to a free competition of forces. For from this source, as from a poisoned spring, have originated and spread all the errors of individualist economic teaching. … it held that economic life must be considered and treated as altogether free from and independent of public authority, because in the market, i.e., in the free struggle of competitors, it would have a principle of self direction which governs it much more perfectly than would the intervention of any created intellect. But free competition, while justified and certainly useful provided it is kept within certain limits, clearly cannot direct economic life…. (#88)

…the riches that economic-social developments constantly increase ought to be so distributed among individual persons and classes that … the common good of all society will be kept inviolate. (#57)

It follows from the twofold character of ownership, which we have termed individual and social, that men must take into account in this matter not only their own advantage but also the common good.  (#49)

This concentration of power and might, the characteristic mark of contemporary economic life, is the fruit that the unlimited freedom of struggle among competitors has of its own nature produced, and which lets only the strongest survive; and this is often the same as saying, those who fight the most violently, those who give least heed to their conscience.  (#107)

Unbridled ambition for power has succeeded greed for gain; all economic life has become tragically hard, inexorable, and cruel.  (#109)

How completely deceived, therefore, are those rash reformers who concern themselves with the enforcement of justice alone–and this, commutative justice–and in their pride reject the assistance of charity! Admittedly, no vicarious charity can substitute for justice which is due as an obligation and is wrongfully denied. (#137)

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Book Recommendation: Wisdom and Innocence by Joseph Pearse

November 10, 2009

wisdom and innocence“There is a bumper sticker that reads: God, please save me from your followers. Just as the disciples of the Deity often present the most considerable obstacle to knowing Him, a like argument can be made for the earnest devotees of Gilbert Keith Chesterton.  This is most unfortunate, since we merely aim to be grateful to one who has offered us spiritual strength, and may have even led us to God.”  Yet somewhere along the line we have been presented with a mere caricature of the man, a pompous old know-it-all who seems to have an epigram for every question posed and a grinding joviality and humour that totally obscures the man who suffered for every truth gained. I am far more in debt to Garry Wills’ fine work “Chesterton Man And Mask” than to anything EWTN has ever produced and if the latter is your main image generator for this giant of twentieth century literature, well you need help.

This excellent biography would be one place to start. The best place of course is with the source itself, the man’s own books, but then you lack his place in history and the milieu in which he operated. As you will see from the reading selections below “Pearce maintains a good balance between telling the tale of Chesterton and providing selections from his writings–poetry, essays, books, novels–which are integral to understanding the man, and which greatly increase one’s admiration of him. . Much is made, for instance, of his friendships with Hilaire Belloc and Fr. Ronald Knox, but also of those with George Bernard Shaw and H. G. Wells, with whom he frequently disagreed. We also learn about the ways in which C.S. Lewis, Evelyn Waugh, Dorothy Sayers, and George Orwell–among others–were influenced by him.”

As is my custom, reading selections that I found compelling here:

The Bible For Protestants and Catholics
Protestant Christianity believes that here is a Divine record in a book; that everyone ought to have free access to that book; that everyone who gets hold of it can save his soul by it, whether he finds it in a library or picks it off a dustcart. Catholic Christianity believes that there is a Divine army or league upon earth called the Church; that all men should be induced to join it; that any man who joins it can save his soul by it without ever opening any of the old books of he Church at all. The Bible is only one of the institutions of Catholicism, like its rites or priesthood; it thinks the Bible only efficient when taken as part of the Church.
Chesterton in the Daily News

Selfishness
Selfishness is not a disease, an abnormal accident…Selfishness is a permanent and natural danger which arises form the existence of a self…While you are turning over the musty folios of early Victorian materialism, newer things are happening: a fresh and fierce philosophy of oligarchy and the wise few is spreading from Germany all over the world. We have a logical answer to that philosophy. You have none. We have a basic defense of democracy. You have none. Our answer is: “There are no wise few; for in all men rages the folly of the Fall. Take your strongest, happiest, handsomest , best born , best bred, best instructed men on earth and give them special power for half an hour and because they are men they will begin to perform badly.
Chesterton in a private letter to Robert Blatchford, 1904

The Relevance of God
You cannot evade the issue of God: whether you talk about pigs or the binomial theory, you are still talking about Him…If Christianity should happen to be true…that is to say if god is the real God of the universe – then defending it may mean talking about anything and everything. Things can be irrelevant to the proposition that Christianity is false, but nothing can be irrelevant to the proposition that Christianity is true. Zulus, gardening, butchers’ shops, lunatic asylums, housemaids and the French Revolution – all these things not only may have something to do with the Christian God, but must have something to do with Him if He lives and reigns.
Chesterton in the Daily News

Poetry Deals With Origins
Poetry deals with primal and conventional things—the hunger for bread, the love of woman, the love of children, the desire for immortal life. If men really had new sentiments, poetry could not deal with them. If, let us say, a man did not feel a bitter craving to eat bread; but did, by way of substitute, feel a fresh, original craving to eat brass fenders or mahogany tables, poetry could not express him. If a man, instead of falling in love with a woman, fell in love with a fossil or a sea anemone, poetry could not express him. Poetry can only express what is original in one sense—the sense in which we speak of original sin. It is original, not in the paltry sense of being new, but in the deeper sense of being old; it is original in the sense that it deals with origins
Chesterton in Robert Browning, 1903

Poetry Is The Science of Motives
The practical value of poetry is that it is realistic upon a point upon which nothing else can be realistic, the point of the actual desires of man. Ethics is the science of actions, but poetry is the science of motives. Some actions are ugly, and therefore some parts of ethics are ugly. But all motives are beautiful, or present themselves for the moment as beautiful, and therefore all poetry is beautiful. If poetry deals with the basest matter, with the shedding of blood for gold, it ought to suggest the gold as well as the blood. Only poetry can realize motives, because motives are all pictures of happiness. And the supreme and most practical value of poetry is this, that in poetry, as in music, a note is struck which expresses beyond the power of rational statement a condition of mind, and all actions arise from a condition of mind.
Chesterton in Robert Browning, 1903

Ronald Knox on Chesterton’s The Napoleon of Notting Hill
The book concludes….by opening up a wider problem; which was right? Quinn, who invented Notting Hill for a joke, or Wayne, who did not see that it was a joke and turned it into a reality? Which is right – the cynic who sees everything as amusing, or the fanatic who has no sense of humor at all? The answer to that is, that the two men are in reality only two lobes of one brain; it is only when the world goes wrong that the pure precipitation of cynic or of fanatic is formed; the normal man, living in normal surroundings is a blend of both. Laughter and love are eveyewhere; in healty people there is no war beween them.

Facts
“Facts,” murmured Basil, like one mentioning some strange, far-off animals, “how facts obscure the truth. I may be silly—in fact, I’m off my head—but I never could believe in that man — what’s his name, in those capital stories? — Sherlock Holmes. Every detail points to something, certainly; but generally to the wrong thing. Facts point in all directions, it seems to me, like the thousands of twigs on a tree. It’s only the life of the tree that has unity and goes up — only the green blood that springs, like a fountain, at the stars.”
Chesterton in The Club of Queer Trades

Mental Growth and Dogmas
The vice of the modern notion of mental progress is that it is always something concerned with the breaking of bonds, the effacing of boundaries, the casting away of dogmas. But if there be such a thing as mental growth, it must mean the growth into more and more definite convictions, into more and more dogmas.  The human brain is a machine for coming to conclusions; if it cannot come to conclusions it is rusty. When we hear of a man too clever to believe, we are hearing of something having almost the character of a contradiction in terms. It is like hearing of a nail that was too good to hold down a carpet; or a bolt that was too strong to keep a door shut…. When he drops one doctrine after another in a refined skepticism, when he declines to tie himself to a system, when he says that he has outgrown definitions, when he says that he disbelieves in finality, when, in his own imagination, he sits as God, holding no form of creed but contemplating all, then he is by that very process sinking slowly backwards into the vagueness of the vagrant animals and the unconsciousness of the grass. Trees have no dogmas.  Turnips are singularly broad-minded. 
Chesterton in Heretics 1905

Dogmatism and Bigotry
A common hesitation in our day touching the use of extreme convictions is a sort of notion that extreme convictions, specially upon cosmic matters, have been responsible in the past for the thing which is called bigotry.  But a very small amount of direct experience will dissipate this view. In real life the people who are most bigoted are the people who have no convictions at all.  The economists of the Manchester school who disagree with Socialism take Socialism seriously. It is the young man in Bond Street, who does not know what socialism means, much less whether he agrees with it, who is quite certain that these socialist fellows are making a fuss about nothing. The man who understands the Calvinist philosophy enough to agree with it must understand the Catholic philosophy in order to disagree with it.  It is the vague modern who is not at all certain what is right who is most certain that Dante was wrong. The serious opponent of the Latin Church in history, even in the act of showing that it produced great infamies, must know that it produced great saints.  It is the hard-headed stockbroker, who knows no history and believes no religion, who is, nevertheless, perfectly convinced that all these priests are knaves.  The Salvationist at the Marble Arch may be bigoted, but he is not too bigoted to yearn from a common human kinship after the dandy on church parade.  But the dandy on church parade is so bigoted that he does not in the least yearn after the Salvationist at the Marble Arch.  Bigotry may be roughly defined as the anger of men who have no opinions. It is the resistance offered to definite ideas by that vague bulk of people whose ideas are indefinite to excess. Bigotry may be called the appalling frenzy of the indifferent.   
Chesterton in Heretics 1905

Dickens As Mythologist
Dickens was a mythologist rather than a novelist…He did not always manage to make his characters men, but he always managed at the least, to make them gods….it is not the aim of Dickens to show the effect of time and circumstance upon a character; it was not even his aim to show the effect of a character on time and circumstance…It was his aim to show character hung in a kind of happy void, in a world apart from time.
Chesterton in Charles Dickens, 1906

Dickens At One With The Common Mind
His power, then, lay in the fact that he expressed with an energy and brilliancy quite uncommon the things close to the common mind. But with this mere phrase, the common mind, we collide with a current error. Commonness and the common mind are now generally spoken of as meaning in some manner inferiority and the inferior mind; the mind of the mere mob. But the common mind means the mind of all the artists and heroes; or else it would not be common. Plato had the common mind; Dante had the common mind; or that mind was not common. Commonness means the quality common to the saint and the sinner, to the philosopher and the fool; and it was this that Dickens grasped and developed. In everybody there is a certain thing that loves babies, that fears death, that likes sunlight that thing enjoys Dickens. And everybody does not mean uneducated crowds; everybody means everybody: everybody means Mrs. Meynell. This lady, a cloistered and fastidious writer, has written one of the best eulogies of Dickens that exist, an essay in praise of his pungent perfection of epithet. And when I say that everybody understands Dickens I do not mean that he is suited to the untaught intelligence. I mean that he is so plain that even scholars can understand him.
Chesterton in Charles Dickens, 1906

Marriage
One of the mysteries of Marriage (which must be a sacrament and an extraordinary one, too) is that a man evidently useless like me can yet become at certain instants indispensable. And the further oddity (which I invite you to explain on mystical grounds) is that he never feels so small as when he knows that he is necessary.

Chesterton told her the story of Augustine strolling along the beach meditating on the mystery of the Holy Trinity. Suddenly the saint saw a small boy scooping water from the sea and putting it into a hole. Upon asking the child to explain what he was doing, St Augustine received the reply that he was putting the sea into the hole in the sand. The Saint smiled at the sight of the vast sea and the small hole and the child said to him: ‘As easy to put the sea into a hole as the mystery of the infinite God into a human mind.’
Chesterton in a letter to Father O’Connor, 1909

Dickens At One With The Common Mind
Shaw is wrong about nearly all the things one learns early in life and while one is still simple.  Most human beings start with certain facts of psychology to which the rest of life must be somewhat related. For instance, every man falls in love; and no man falls into free love. When he falls into that he calls it lust, and is always ashamed of it even when he boasts of it.  That there is some connection between a love and a vow nearly every human being knows before he is eighteen. That there is a solid and instinctive connection between the idea of sexual ecstasy and the idea of some sort of almost suicidal constancy, this I say is simply the first fact in one’s own psychology; boys and girls know it almost before they know their own language. How far it can be trusted, how it can best be dealt with, all that is another matter.  But lovers lust after constancy more than after happiness; if you are in any sense prepared to give them what they ask, then what they ask, beyond all question, is an oath of final fidelity.
Chesterton in George Bernard Shaw, 1910

Dogs (A Short Essay)
Cynics often speak of the disillusioning effects of experience, but I for one have found that nearly all things not evil are better in experience than in theory. Take, for example, the innovation which I have of late introduced into my domestic life; he is a four-legged innovation in the shape of an Aberdeen terrier. I have always imagined myself to be a lover of all animals, because I have never met any animal that I definitely disliked. Most people draw the line somewhere. Lord Roberts disliked cats; the best woman I know objects to spiders; a Theosophist I know protects, but detests, mice; and many leading humanitarians have an objection to human beings.

If the dog is loved he is loved as a dog; not as a fellow-citizen, or an idol, or a pet, or a product of evolution. The moment you are responsible for one respectable animal, that moment an abyss opens as wide as the world between cruelty and the necessary coercion of animals. There are some people who talk of what they call “Corporal Punishment”, and class under that head the hideous torture inflicted on unfortunate citizens in our prisons and workhouses, and also the smack one gives to a silly boy or the whipping of an intolerable terrier. You might as well invent a phrase called “Reciprocal Concussion” and leave it to be understood that you included under this head kissing, kicking, the collision of boats at sea, the embracing of young Germans, and the meeting of comets in mid-air.

That is the second moral value of the thing; the moment you have an animal in your charge you soon discover what is really cruelty to animals, and what is only kindness to them. For instance, some people have called it inconsistent in me to be an anti-vivisectionist and yet to be in favor of ordinary sports. I can only say that I can quite imagine myself shooting my dog, but cannot imagine myself vivisecting him.

But there is something deeper in the matter than all that, only the hour is late, and both the dog and I are too drowsy to interpret it. He lies in front of me curled up before the fire, as so many dogs must have lain before so many fires. I sit on one side of that hearth, as so many men must have sat by so many hearths. Somehow this creature has completed my manhood; somehow, I cannot explain why, a man ought to have a dog. A man ought to have six legs; those other four legs are part of him. Our alliance is older than any of the passing and priggish explanations that are offered of either of us; before evolution was, we were. You can find it written in a book that I am a mere survival of a squabble of anthropoid apes; and perhaps I am. I am sure I have no objection. But my dog knows I am a man, and you will not find the meaning of that word written in any book as clearly as it is written in his soul.

It may be written in a book that my dog is canine; and from this it may be deduced that he must hunt with a pack, since all canines hunt with a pack. Hence it may be argued (in the book) that if I have one Aberdeen terrier I ought to have twenty-five Aberdeen terriers. But my dog knows that I do not ask him to hunt with a pack; he knows that I do not care a curse whether he is canine or not so long as he is my dog. That is the real secret of the matter which the superficial evolutionists cannot be got to see. If traceable history be the test, civilization is much older than the savagery of evolution. The civilized dog is older than the wild dog of science. The civilized man is older than the primitive man of science. We feel it in our bones that we are the antiquities, and that the visions of biology are the fancies and the fads. The books do not matter; the night is closing in, and it is too dark to read books. Faintly against the fading firelight can be traced the prehistoric outlines of the man and the dog.
G.K. Chesterton in Lunacy and Letters

Thinking About Jesus
When we look, so to speak, through he four windows of the Evangelists, at this mysterious figure, we can see there a recognizable Jew of he first century, with the traceable limitations of such a man. Now this is exactly what we do not see. If we must put the thing profanely and without sympathy, what we see is this:   an extraordinary being who would certainly have seemed as mad in one century as another, who makes a vague and vast claim to divinity…For some of his utterances men might fairly call him a maniac; for others, men long centuries afterwards might justly call him a prophet. But what nobody can possibly call him is a Galilean of the time of Tiberius…That is not how he appeared to his own nation, who lynched him, still shuddering at his earth-shaking blasphemies…

If I take it for granted (as most modern people do) that Jesus of Nazareth was one of the ordinary teachers of men, then I find Him splendid and suggestive indeed, but full of riddles and outrageous demands, by no means so workable and everyday an adviser as many heathens and many Jesuits. But if I put myself hypothetically into the other attitude, the case becomes curiously arresting and even thrilling. If I say “Suppose the Divine did really walk and talk upon the earth, what should he be likely to think of it?”– then the foundations of my mind are moved. So far as I can form any conjecture, I think we should see in such a being exactly the perplexities that we see in the central figure of the Gospels…

I think he would seem to us to contradict himself; because, looking down on life like a map, he would see a connection between things which to us are disconnected. I think, however, that he would always ring true to our own sense of right, but ring (so to speak) too loud and too clear.  He would be too good but never too bad for us: “Be ye perfect,” I think there would be, in the nature of things, some tragic collision between him and the humanity he had created, culminating in something would be at once a crime and an expiation…

I think, in short, that  he would give us a sensation that he was turning all our standards upside down, and yet also a sensation that he had undeniably put them the right way.
Chesterton in The Hibbert Journal, 1909

Cardinal Luciani, Bishop of Venice, Addresses Chesterton in 1971
The monk’s conclusion, which is yours, dear Chesterton, is quite right. Take God away and what is left, what do men become? What sort of a world are we reduced to living in? ‘Why, the world of progress!’ I hear someone say, ‘The world of affluence.’ Yes, but this famous progress isn’t all that it was once cracked up to be. It contains other things in itself: missiles, bacteriological and atomic weapons, the present process of pollution – all things that, unless they are dealt with in time, threaten to plunge the whole human race into catastrophe.  Progress that involves men who don’t recognize a single Father in God becomes a constant danger;: without a parallel moral progress, which is continuous and internal, it develops what is lowest and cruelest in man making him a machine possessed by machines, a number manipulated by numbers…

Dear Chesterton, you and I go down on our knees before a God who is more present than ever. Only he can give a satisfactory answer to the questions which, for everyone, ar the most important of all;  Who am I? Where did I come from? Where am I going?
Cardinal Luciani in Illustrissimi, 1978

Cynicism
Through the medium of Father Brown, he [Chesterton] illustrated how cynicism pollutes and destroys wisdom as much as it pollutes and destroys innocence. Once cannot see objectively through innocent eyes because the vision is obscured by dark, skeptical clouds. Consequently only the eyes of innocence see clearly.

On The English And The French
It is no idle Hibernianism to say that towards the end of the eighteenth century the most important event in English history happened in France. It would seem still more perverse, yet it would be still more precise, to say that the most important event in English history was the event that never happened at all–the English Revolution on the lines of the French Revolution.  Its failure was not due to any lack of fervour or even ferocity in those who would have brought it about: from the time when the first shout went up for Wilkes to the time when the last Luddite fires were quenched in a cold rain of rationalism, the spirit of Cobbett, of rural republicanism, of English and patriotic democracy, burned like a beacon. The revolution failed because it was foiled by another revolution; an aristocratic revolution, a victory of the rich over the poor. It was about this time that the common lands were finally enclosed; that the more cruel game laws were first established; that England became finally a land of landlords instead of common land-owners. I will not call it a Tory reaction; for much of the worst of it (especially of the land-grabbing) was done by Whigs; but we may certainly call it Anti-Jacobin. Now this fact, though political, is not only relevant but essential to everything that concerned literature. The upshot was that though England was full of the revolutionary ideas, nevertheless there was no revolution.  And the effect of this in turn was that from the middle of the eighteenth century to the middle of the nineteenth the spirit of revolt in England took a wholly literary form.  In France it was what people did that was wild and elemental; in England it was what people wrote. It is a quaint comment on the notion that the English are practical and the French merely visionary, that we were rebels in arts while they were rebels in arms. 

Father Brown Quote
What we dread most is a maze with no centre. That is why atheism is only a nightmare.

C.S Lewis On Reading Chesterton
It was here that I first read a volume of Chesterton’s essays. I had never heard of him and had no idea of what he stood for; nor can I quite understand why he made such an immediate conquest of me. It might have been expected that my pessimism, my atheism, and my hatred of sentiment would have made him to me the least congenial of all authors. It would almost seem that Providence, or some ‘second cause’ of a very obscure kind, quite over-rules our previous tastes when it decides to bring two minds together. Liking an author may be as involuntary and improbable as falling in love. I was by now a sufficiently experienced reader to distinguish liking from agreement. I did not need to accept what Chesterton said in order to enjoy it. His humor was the kind which I like best – not jokes imbedded in the page like currants in a cake, still less (what I cannot endure), a general tone of flippancy and jocularity, but the humor which is not in any way separable from the argument but is rather (as Aristotle would say) the ‘bloom’ on dialectic itself. The sword glitters not because the swordsman set out to make it glitter but because he is fighting for his life and therefore moving it very quickly. For the critics who think Chesterton frivolous or ‘paradoxical’ I have to work hard to feel even pity; sympathy is out of the question…In reading Chesterton as in reading MacDonald, I did not know what I was letting myself in for. A young man who wishes to remain a sound Atheist cannot be too careful of his reading. There are traps everywhere – Bibles laid open, millions of surprises’, as Herbert says, ‘fine nets and stratagems’. God is, if I may say it, very unscrupulous.
From Surprised by Joy

Chesterton Contrasting Protestants and Catholics
In so far as the Ulster Protestant really has a faith, he is really a fine fellow; though perhaps not quite as so fine a fellow as he thinks himself. And that is a chasm; and can be most shortly stated as I have often stated in such debates: by saying that the Protestant generally says, ‘I am a good Protestant.’  while the Catholic says, ‘I am a bad Catholic.’

Chesterton On Israel
There as a movement in my own mind that was attuned to these things…for the sense of crisis is not only in the intensity of the ideals, but in the very conditions of the reality…And the burden of it is the burden of Palestine…A voice not of reason, but rather sounding heavily in my heart, seemed to be repeating sentences like pessimistic proverbs. There is no place for the Temple of Solomon but on the ruins of the Mosque of Omar. There is no place for the nation of the Jews but in the country of the Arabs. And these whispers came to me first not as intellectual conclusions upon the conditions of the case…but rather as hints of something immediate and menacing and yet mysterious. I felt almost a momentary impulse to flee from the place, like one who ahs received an omen. For two voices had met in my ears; and within the same narrow space and in the same dark hour, electric and yet eclipsed with cloud, I had heard Islam crying from the turret and Israel wailing at the wall.

Chesterton On The Pessimism Of Modern Poetry
I will not write any more about these poets, because I do not pretend to be impartial, or even to be good tempered on the subject. To my thinking, the oppression of the people is a terrible sin; but the depression of the people is a far worse one.

Hilaire Belloc Writing To Chesterton Concerning Faith
The thing I have to say is this (I could not have said it before your step; I can say so now. Before it would have been like a selected pleading). The Catholic Church is the exponent of Reality. It is true. Its doctrines in matters large and small are statement of what is.  This it is which the ultimate act of the intelligence accepts. This it is which the will deliberately confirms. And that is why Faith through an act of Will is Moral. If the Ordnance Map tells us that it is 11 miles to Wookey Hole then, my mood of lassitude as I walk through the rain at night making it feel like 30, I use the Will and say ‘No. My intelligence has been convinced and I compel myself to use it against my mood, It is 11 and though I feel in the depths of my being to have gone 20 miles and more, I know it is not yet 11 I have gone.’

I am by all my nature of mind skeptical, by all my nature of body exceedingly sensual. So sensual that the virtues restrictive of sense are but phrases to me. But I accept these phrases as true and act upon them as well as a struggling man can. And as to the doubt of the soul I discover it to be false: a mood not a conclusion. My conclusion – and that of all men who have ever once seenit – is the faith. Corporate, organized, a personality, teaching.. A thing, not a theory. It.

To you, who have the blessing of profound religious emotion, this statement may seem too desiccate. It is indeed not enthusiastic. It lacks meat. It is my misfortune. In youth I had it: even till lately. Grief has drawn the juices. I am alone and unfed. The more do I affirm the Sanctity, the Unity, the Infallibility of he Catholic Church. By my very isolation do I the more affirm it as a man in a desert knows htat wate is right fo a man; or a wounded dog not able to walk yet knows the way home…

But beyond this there will come in time, if I save my soul, the flesh of these bones – which bones alone I can describe and teach. I know –without feeling (an odd thing in such as connection) the reality of Beatitude: which is the goal of Catholic Living.

In hac urbe lux solennis
Ver aeternum pax perennis
Et aetern gaudia

Chesterton On His Conversion
Before arriving at Catholicism I passed through different stages and was a long tine struggling. The various stages are hard to explain in detail. After much study and reflection, I came to the conclusion that the ills from which England is suffering: Capitalism, crude Imperialism, Industrialism, Wrongful Rich, Wreckage of the family, are the result of England not being Catholic. The Anglo-Catholic position takes for granted that England remained Catholic in spite of the Reformation or even because of it. After my conclusions, it seemed unreasonable to affirm that England is Catholic. So I had to turn to the sole Catholicism, the Roman. Before my conversion I had a lot of Catholic ideas, and my point of view in fact had but little altered. Catholicism gives us a doctrine, puts logic into our life. It is not merely a Church Authority; it is a base which steadies the judgment…to be a Catholic is to be all at rest! To own an irrefragable metaphysic on which to base all one’s judgments, to be the touchstone of our ideas and our life, to which one can bring everything home.

Chesterton On The Test Of The Church
The Church cannot move with the times; simply because the times are not moving. The Church can only stick in the mud with the times, and rot and stink with the times. In the economic and social world, as such, there is no activity except that sort of automatic activity that is called decay; the withering of the high flowers of freedom and their decomposition in o the aboriginal soil of slavery. In that way the world stands much at the same stage as it did at the beginning of the Dark Ages…We do not want, as the newspapers say, a Church that will move with the world. We want a Church that will move the world. We want one that will move it away from many of the things words which it is now moving; for instance, the Servile State. It is by that test that history will really judge, of any Church, whether it is the real Church or no.

Chesterton On The Psychology of St. Francis
Many signs and symbols might yet be used to give a hint of what really happened in the mind of the young poet of Assisi.  Indeed they are at once too numerous for selection and yet too slight for satisfaction. But one of them may be adumbrated in this small and apparently accidental fact; that when he and his secular companions carried their pageant of poetry through the town, they called themselves Troubadours. But when he and his spiritual companions came out to do their spiritual work in the world, they were called by their leader the Jongleurs de Dieu…. St. Francis was talking the true language of a troubadour when he said that he also had a most glorious and gracious lady and that her name was poverty. But the particular point to be noted here is not concerned so much with the word Troubadour as with the word Jongleur. It is especially concerned with the transition from one to the other; and for this it is necessary to grasp another detail about the poets of the Gay Science.  A jongleur was not the same thing as a troubadour, even if the same man were both a troubadour and a jongleur. More often, I believe, they were separate men as well as separate trades. In many cases, apparently the two men would walk the world together like companions in arms, or rather companions in arts. The jongleur was properly a joculator or jester; sometimes he was what we should call a juggler.

Chesterton On The Secret of St. Francis’ Success
It is commonly in a somewhat cynical sense that men have said, “Blessed is he that expecteth nothing, for he shall not be disappointed.” It was in a wholly happy and enthusiastic sense that St. Francis said, “Blessed is he who expecteth nothing, for he shall enjoy everything.” It was by this deliberate idea of starting from zero, from the dark nothingness of his own deserts, that he did come to enjoy even earthly things as few people have enjoyed them; and they are in themselves the best working example of the idea. For there is no way in which a man can earn a star or deserve a sunset. 

Alan Watts, 1960’s Counter Culture Guru on Chesterton
It is in fact the sense of wonder which transforms every littlest thing in the universe into a divine mystery…The sense of wonder expresses itself in gratitude, and I know of no finer exposition of the mysticism of gratitude than the concluding pages of Chesterton’s Autobiography: “The aim of life is appreciation; there is no sense in not appreciating things and there is no sense in having more of them if you have less appreciation of them”.

The Origin of Distributism in Rerum Novarum (1891)
The law, therefore, should favor ownership, and its policy should be to induce as many as possible of the people to become owners. Many excellent results will follow from this; and, first of all, property will certainly become more equitably divided…. If working people can be encouraged to look forward to obtaining a share in the land, the consequence will be that the gulf between vast wealth and sheer poverty will be bridged over, and the respective classes will be brought nearer to one another.

Chesterton On One Of The Chief Duties of the Catholic Church
Nine out of ten of what we call new ideas are simply old mistakes. The Catholic Church has for one of her chief duties that of preventing people from making those old mistakes; from making them over and over again for ever, as people do if they are left to themselves…The Catholic Church carries a sort of map of the mind which looks like the map of a maze, but which is in fact a guide to the maze. It has been compiled from knowledge which, even considered as human knowledge, is quite without any human parallel. There is no other case of one continuous intelligent institution that as been thinking about thinking for two thousand years. It’s experience naturally coves nearly all experiences, and especially nearly all errors. The result is a map in which all the blind alleys and bad roads are clearly marked, all the ways that have been shown to be worthless by the best of all evidence; the evidence of those who have gone down them…By this means , it does prevent men from wasting their time or losing their lives upon paths that have been found futile or disastrous again and again in the past, but which might otherwise entrap travelers again and again in the future. The Church does make herself responsible for wanting her people against these…She does dogmatically defend humanity from its worst foes, those hoary and horrible and devouring monsters of the old mistakes

Chesterton On Birth Control
Everybody believes in birth control, and nearly everybody has exercised some control over the conditions of birth. People do not get married as somnambulists or have children in their sleep.  But throughout numberless ages and nations, the normal and real birth control is called self control. In so far as there is a local evil of excess, it comes with all other evils from the squalor and despair of our decaying industrialism. But the thing the capitalist newspapers call birth control is not control at all.  It is the idea that people should be, in one respect, completely and utterly uncontrolled, so long as they can evade everything in the function that is positive and creative, and intelligent and worthy of a free man. … The nearest and most respectable parallel would be that of the Roman epicure, who took emetics at intervals all day so that he might eat five or six luxurious dinners daily.  Now any man’s common sense, unclouded by newspaper science and long words, will tell him at once that an operation like that of the epicures is likely in the long run even to be bad for his digestion and pretty certain to be bad for his character.  Men left to themselves gave sense enough to know when a habit obviously savours of perversion and peril. And if it were the fashion in fashionable circles to call the Roman expedient by the name of “Diet Control,” and to talk about it in a lofty fashion as merely “the improvement of life and the service of life” (as if it meant no more than the mastery of man over his meals), we should take the liberty of calling it cant and saying that it had no relation to the reality in debate.

Chesterton on Vulgarity and the War Against Culture
…the evil I am trying to warn you of is not excessive democracy, it is not excessive ugliness, it is not excessive anarchy. It might be stated thus: It is standardization by a low standard…the chief danger confronting us on the artistic and cultural side and generally on the intellectual side at this moment…If I were to mention my own social remedies I would be talking politics and if I were to mention my own deeper remedies, I should be talking theology…(I wish to bear testimony) to the act that there never was a time in the whole history of the human race when it was more necessary to defend the intellectual independence of man than this hour in which we live.

Pain: A Cure For Delusional Man
In one of the stories (in The Poet and the Lunatics) a character named Saunders is cured of his belief that he is God when Gale drags him to a tree and pins him there with a pitchfork. Helplessly humiliated in this position, and in considerable discomfort, Saunders becomes aware of his own limitations and ultimate mortality. It is then that Chesterton…delivers the profundity of his message. His violence was the only remedy for Saunders who needed the ’acute, practical, and painful discovery that he could not control matter or the elements’. Appeasement would have served only to reinforce his delusions: ‘there is no cure for that nightmare of omnipotence except pain; because it is the only thing man knows he would not tolerate if he could really control it.’

Chesterton on Philanthropists And Christians
Philanthropists would give money the deserving poor; Christians would give it to the undeserving poor. For the first thought for the Christians, if they were really Christians, would be that they themselves were examples of the undeserving rich.

Chesterton on Thanksgiving Day
The Chestertons spent Thanksgiving Day in New York and it is here that Gilbert made the remark that the English should institute their own special Thanksgiving Day to celebrate that the Pilgrim Fathers had left.

Chesterton On How Christ Would Solve Modern Problems
If I were to answer the question ‘How would Christ solve modern problems if He were on earth today?’ I must answer it plainly; and for those of my faith there is only one answer. Christ is on earth today; alive on thousands of altars; and He does solve people’s problems exactly as He did when He was on earth in the more ordinary sense. That is, He solves the problems of the limited number of people who choose of their own free will to listen to Him…

Chesterton On Conversion: The Morning Of The World
A man who finds his way to Catholicism, out of the tangle of modern culture and complexity, must think harder than he has ever thought in his life. He must often deal as grimly with dry abstractions as if he were reading mathematics…He must face the dull and repulsive aspects of duty, as if he were facing the dreariest drudgery in the world….He must feel all the counter-attractions of Paganism at least to enough to know how attractive are those attractions. But, above all, he must think; above all he must preserve his intellectual independence; above all, he must use his reason…I say when you are convinced, when you are rationally convinced, when you have come to the end of the long road of reason,  when you have seen through the tangled arguments of the time, when you have found the answer to them – then you will find yourself suddenly in the morning of the world. Then you will find yourself among facts and not arguments.

Chesterton Contrasting St. Francis and St. Thomas
St. Francis was a lean and lively little man; thin as a thread and vibrant as a bowstring; and in his motions like an arrow from the bow.  All his life was a series of plunges and scampers: darting after the beggar, dashing naked into the woods, tossing himself into the strange ship, hurling himself into the Sultan tent and offering to hurl himself into the fire. In appearance he must have been like a thin brown skeleton autumn leaf dancing eternally before the wind; but in truth it was he that was the wind….St. Thomas was a huge heavy bull of a man, fat and slow and quiet; very mild and magnanimous but not very sociable; shy, even apart from the humility of holiness; and abstracted, even apart from his occasional and carefully concealed experiences of trance or ecstasy. St. Francis was so fiery and even fidgety that the ecclesiastics, before whom he appeared quite suddenly, thought he was a madman. St. Thomas was so stolid that the scholars, in the schools which he attended regularly, thought he was a dunce.  Indeed, he was the sort of schoolboy, not unknown, who would much rather be thought a dunce than have his own dreams invaded, by more active or animated dunces.  
St. Thomas Aquinas (1933)

The Dumb Ox: St. Thomas Aquinas
Among the students thronging into the lecture-rooms there was one student, conspicuous by his tall and bulky figure, and completely failing or refusing to be conspicuous for anything else. He was so dumb in the debates that his fellows began to assume an American significance in the word dumbness; for in that land it is a synonym for dullness.  It is clear that, before long, even his imposing stature began to have only the ignominious immensity of the big boy left behind in the lowest form.  He was called the Dumb Ox. He was the object, not merely of mockery, but of pity. One good-natured student pitied him so much as to try to help him with his lessons, going over the elements of logic like an alphabet in a horn-book. The dunce thanked him with pathetic politeness; and the philanthropist went on swimmingly, till he came to a passage about which he was himself a little doubtful; about which, in point of fact, he was wrong.  Whereupon the dunce, with every appearance of embarrassment and disturbance, pointed out a possible solution which happened to be right.  The benevolent student was left staring, as at a monster, at this mysterious lump of ignorance and intelligence; and strange whispers began to run round the schools.  
St. Thomas Aquinas (1933)

Aquinas’ Belief In Life
He did, with a most solid and colossal conviction, believe in Life: and in something like what Stevenson called the great theorem of the livableness of life.  It breathes somehow in his very first phrases about the reality of Being.  If the morbid Renaissance intellectual is supposed to say, “To be or not to be–that is the question,” then the massive medieval doctor does most certainly reply in a voice of thunder, “To be–that is the answer.”  The point is important; many not unnaturally talk of the Renaissance as the time when certain men began to believe in Life.  The truth is that it was the time when a few men, for the first time, began to disbelieve in Life. The medievals had put many restrictions, and some excessive restrictions, upon the universal human hunger and even fury for Life. Those restrictions had often been expressed in fanatical and rabid terms; the terms of those resisting a great natural force; the force of men who desired to live.  Never until modern thought began, did they really have to fight with men who desired to die.
St. Thomas Aquinas (1933)

Chesterton On The Ramifications Of The Incarnation
There really was a new reason for regarding the senses, and the sensations of the body, and the experiences of the common man, with a reverence at which great Aristotle would have stared, and no man in the ancient world could have begun to understand.  The Body was no longer what it was when Plato and Porphyry and the old mystics had left it for dead. It had hung upon a gibbet.  It had risen from a tomb. It was no longer possible for the soul to despise the senses, which had been the organs of something that was more than man. Plato might despise the flesh; but God had not despised it. The senses had truly become sanctified; as they are blessed one by one at a Catholic baptism.  “Seeing is believing” was no longer the platitude of a mere idiot, or common individual, as in Plato’s world; it was mixed up with real conditions of real belief. Those revolving mirrors that send messages to the brain of man, that light that breaks upon the brain, these had truly revealed to God himself the path to Bethany or the light on the high rock of Jerusalem. These ears that resound with common noises had reported also to the secret knowledge of God the noise of the crowd that strewed palms and the crowd that cried for Crucifixion.  After the Incarnation had become the idea that is central in our civilization, it was inevitable that there should be a return to materialism, in the sense of the serious value of matter and the making of the body. When once Christ had risen, it was inevitable that Aristotle should rise again.
St. Thomas Aquinas (1933)

Chesterton On The Difference Between Form And Matter In Thomism
That strangeness of things, which is the light in all poetry, and indeed in all art, is really connected with their otherness; or what is called their objectivity. What is subjective must be stale; it is exactly what is objective that is in this imaginative manner strange. In this the great contemplative is the complete contrary of that false contemplative, the mystic who looks only into his own soul, the selfish artist who shrinks from the world and lives only in his own mind. According to St. Thomas, the mind acts freely of itself, but its freedom exactly consists in finding a way out to liberty and the light of day; to reality and the land of the living. In the subjectivist, the pressure of the world forces the imagination inwards. In the Thomist, the energy of the mind forces the imagination outwards, but because the images it seeks are real things. All their romance and glamour, so to speak, lies in the fact that they are real things; things not to be found by staring inwards at the mind. The flower is a vision because it is not only a vision. Or, if you will, it is a vision because it is not a dream. This is for the poet the strangeness of stones and trees and solid things; they are strange because they are solid. I am putting it first in the poetical manner, and indeed it needs much more technical subtlety to put it in the philosophical manner. According to Aquinas, the object becomes a part of the mind; nay, according to Aquinas, the mind actually becomes the object. But, as one commentator acutely puts it, it only becomes the object and does not create the object. In other words, the object is an object; it can and does exist outside the mind, or in the absence of the mind. And therefore it enlarges the mind of which it becomes a part. The mind conquers a new province like an emperor; but only because the mind has answered the bell like a servant. The mind has opened the doors and windows, because it is the natural activity of what is inside the house to find out what is outside the house. If the mind is sufficient to itself, it is insufficient for itself. For this feeding upon fact is itself; as an organ it has an object which is objective; this eating of the strange strong meat of reality.
St. Thomas Aquinas (1933)

Chesterton On The Mind In Thomism
The mind is not merely receptive, in the sense that it absorbs sensations like so much blotting-paper; on that sort of softness has been based all that cowardly materialism, which conceives man as wholly servile to his environment. On the other hand, the mind is not purely creative, in the sense that it paints pictures on the windows and then mistakes them for a landscape outside. But the mind is active, and its activity consists in following, so far as the will chooses to follow, the light outside that does really shine upon real landscapes. That is what gives the indefinably virile and even adventurous quality to this view of life; as compared with that which holds that material inferences pour in upon an utterly helpless mind, or that which holds that psychological influences pour out and create an entirely baseless phantasmagoria. In other words, the essence of the Thomist common sense is that two agencies are at work; reality and the recognition of reality; and their meeting is a sort of marriage. Indeed it is very truly a marriage, because it is fruitful; the only philosophy now in the world that really is fruitful. It produces practical results, precisely because it is the combination of an adventurous mind and a strange fact. … M. Maritain has used an admirable metaphor, in his book Theonas, when he says that the external fact fertilises the internal intelligence, as the bee fertilises the flower. Anyhow, upon that marriage, or whatever it may be called, the whole system of St. Thomas is founded; God made Man so that he was capable of coming in contact with reality; and those whom God hath joined, let no man put asunder.
St. Thomas Aquinas (1933)

Chesterton On Thomist Practicality
Long before he knows that grass is grass, or self is self, he knows that something is something. Perhaps it would be best to say very emphatically (with a blow on the table), “There is an Is.” That is as much monkish credulity as St. Thomas asks of us at the start. Very few unbelievers start by asking us to believe so little. And yet, upon this sharp pin-point of reality, he rears by long logical processes that have never really been successfully overthrown, the whole cosmic system of Christendom.
St. Thomas Aquinas (1933)

Chesterton On the Joys Of Everyday Life
Unless we can bring men back to enjoying the daily life which moderns call a dull life,, our whole civilization will be in ruins in about fifteen years. Whenever anybody proposes anything really practical, to solve the economic evil today, he answer always is that the solutions would not work, because the modern town populations would think life dull. That is because they are entirely unacquainted with life. They know nothing but distractions from life; dreams which may be found in the cinema; that is, brief oblivions of life…Unless we can make daybreak and daily bread and the creative secrets of labor interesting in themselves, there will fall on all our civilization a fatigue which is the one disease from which civilizations do not recover. So died the Pagan civilization; of bread and circuses and forgetfulness of the household gods.
Radio Address 1934

Chesterton On Past, Present, And Future
We talk of people living in the past; and it is commonly applied to old people or old-fashioned people. But, in fact, we all live in the past, because there is nothing else to live in. To live in the present is like proposing to sit on a pin. It is too minute, it is too slight a support, it is too uncomfortable a posture, and it is of necessity followed immediately by totally different experiences, analogous to jumping up with a yell. To live in the future is a contradiction in terms. The future is dead; in the perfectly definite sense that it is not alive. It has no nature, no form, no feature, no vaguest character of any kind except what we choose to project upon it from the past. People talk about the dead past; but the past is not in the least dead, in the sense that he future is dead. The past can move and excite us, the past can be loved and hated, the past consists largely of lives that can be considered in their completion; that is literally in the fullness of life. But nobody knows anything about any living thing in the future, except what he chooses to make up, by his own imagination, out of what he regrets in the past or what he desires in the present.
From The Essay, On Facing Facts (1934)

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Book Recommendation: The Seven Storey Mountain — Thomas Merton

November 9, 2009

mertonA review from the paperback edition says: “Thomas Merton’s early years gave no clue as to the vast richness of spirit and intellect he would develop through out his life and share through his writings. He was the son of an itinerant painter, had an upbringing with little or no religious character, was a nondescript student, a rabble rouser.. not even a Catholic.. who at a point in his early manhood left the fast life of New York and knocked on the doors of a Kentucky monastary, to give over his life to austere celibacy and contemplation.. and profound internal enrichment. Seven Story Mountain has been compared to the Confessions of Augustine, but these books are of different timber. Merton’s is a story told at a personal level, of a spiritual journey in a modern context. It does not try to compete with Augustine’s intense intellectual and theological reasoning, preferring to dwell on the peace and joy of religious life, and more generally the meaning and responsibilities of all lives. You can’t read this book without being charmed and blessed by the proximity to this rare bit of humanity and devotion in our very secular and material age.” I have used “On Becoming A Saint” and “The Death Of His Father: Suffering” in other posts. The former is one that Fr. Barron devotes a great deal of time to in “The Strangest Way”; the latter spoke to me profoundly on the value of faith and I have marshaled it as an argument in posts such as The False Gods of Expedient Mercy. Reading selections follow:

On Becoming A Saint
Therefore, another one of those times that turned out to be historical, as far as my own soul is concerned, was when Lax and I were walking down Sixth Avenue, one night in the spring. The Street was all torn up and trenched and banked high with dirt and marked out. with red lanterns where they were digging the subway, and we picked our way along the fronts of the dark little stores, going downtown to Greenwich Village. I forget what we were arguing about, but in the end Lax suddenly turned around and asked me the question:
“What do you want to be, anyway?”
I could not say, “I want to be Thomas Merton the well-known writer of all those book reviews in the back pages of the Times Book Review,” or “Thomas Merton the assistant instructor of Freshman English at the New Life Social Institute for Progress and Culture,” so I put the thing on the spiritual plane, where I knew it belonged and said:
“I don’t know; I guess what I want is to be a good Catholic.”
“What do you mean, you want to be a good Catholic?”
The explanation I gave was lame enough, and ex pressed my confusion, and betrayed how little I had really thought about it at all.
Lax did not accept it.
“What you should say”– he told me — ”what you should say is that you want to be a saint.”
A saint! The thought struck me as a little weird. I said:
“How do you expect me to become a saint?”
“By wanting to,” said Lax, simply.
“I can’t be a saint,” I said, “I can’t be a saint.” And my mind darkened with a confusion of realities and unrealities: the knowledge of my own sins, and the false humility which makes men say that they cannot do the things that they must do, cannot reach the level that they must reach: the cowardice that says: “I am satisfied to save my soul, to keep out of mortal sin,” but which means, by those words: “I do not want to give up my sins and my attachments.”

The World Is A Moral Universe
More than that: since no man ever can, or could, live by himself and for himself alone, the destinies of thousands of other people were bound to affected, some remotely, but some very directly and near-at-hand, by my own choices and decisions and desires, as my own life would also be formed and modified according to theirs. I was entering into a moral universe in which I would be related to every other rational being, and in which whole masses of us, as thick as swarming bees, would drag one another along towards some common end of good or evil, peace or war.

A Law Of Nature
It is a law of man’s nature, written into his very essence, and just a much a part of him as the desire to build houses and cultivate the land and marry and have children and read books and sing songs, that he should want to stand together with other men in order to acknowledge their common dependence on God, their father and Creator. In fact, this desire is much more fundamental than any purely physical necessity.

Saints We Grow Up With
It is a great pleasure for me to remember such good and kind people and to talk about them, although I no longer possess any details about them. I just remember their kindness and goodness to me, and their peacefulness and their utter simplicity They inspired real reverence, and I think, in a way, they were certainly saints, And they were saints in that most effective and telling way: sanctified by leading ordinary lives in a completely supernatural manner, sanctified by obscurity, by usual skills, by common tasks, by routine, but skills, tasks, routine which received a supernatural form from grace within, and from habitual union of their souls with God in deep faith and charity.

Arguing Faith
So I began to justify Protestantism, as best I could …I gave them the argument that every religion was good: they all led to God, only in different ways, and every man should go according to his own conscience, and settle things according to his own private way of looking at things.

They did not answer me with any argument…Monsieur Privat said quietly and sadly, “Mais c’est impossible.”

It was a terrible, a frightening, a very humiliating thing to see their silence and peacefulness and strength turned against me, accusing me of being estranged from them, isolated from their security, cut off from their protections and from the strength of their inner life by my own fault, by my own willfulness, by my own ignorance, and my uninstructed Protestant pride.

One of the humiliating things about it was that I wanted them to argue, and they despised argument, it was as if they realized, as I did not, that my attitude and my desire of argument and religious discussion implied a fundamental and utter lack of faith, and a dependence on my own lights, and attachment to my own opinion.

What is more, they seemed to realize that I did not believe in anything and that anything I might say I believed would be only empty talk…

Descartes Proof Of His Own And God’s Existence
He told us that as far as he was concerned that [Descartes proof of his own and God’s existence] was the foundation of what religion meant to him….any proof of what is self-evident must necessarily be illusory. It there are no self-evident first principles, as a foundation for reasoning to conclusions that are not immediately apparent, how can you construct any kind of a philosophy? If you have to prove even the basic axioms of your metaphysics, you will never have a metaphysics, because you will never have any strict proof of anything, for your first proof will involve you in an infinite regress, proving that you are proving  what you are proving and so on, into the exterior darkness where there is wailing and gnashing of teeth. If Descartes thought it was necessary to prove his own existence , by the fact that he was thinking, and that his thought therefore existed in some subject, how did he prove that he was thinking in the first place? But as to the second step, that God must exist because Descartes had a clear idea of him – that never convinced me, the or at any other time, or now either. There are much better proofs for the existence of God than that one.

The Death Of His Father: Suffering
We went into the ward. Father was in his bed, to the left, just as you went in the door.

And when I saw him, I knew at once there was no hope of him living much longer His face was swollen. His eyes were not clear but, above all, the tumor had raised a tremendous swelling on his forehead.

I said: “How are you, Father?”

He looked at me and put forth his hand, in a confused and unhappy way, and I realized that he could no longer even speak. But at the same time, you could see that he knew us, and knew what was going on, and that his mind was clear, and that he understood everything.

But the sorrow of his great helplessness suddenly fell upon me like a mountain. I was crushed by it. The tears sprang to my eyes., Nobody said anything more.

I hid my face in the blanket and cried. And poor father wept, too. The others stood by. It was excruciatingly sad. We were completely helpless. There was nothing anyone could do…

What could I make of so much suffering? There was no way for me, or for anyone in the family, to get anything out of it. It was a raw wound for which there was no adequate relief. You had to take it, like an animal. We were in the condition of most of the world, the condition of men without faith in the presence of war, disease, pain, starvation, suffering, plague, bombardment, death. You just had to take it, like a dumb animal. Try to avoid it if you could. But you must eventually each the point where you can’t avoid it any more. Take it. Try to stupefy yourself, if you like, so that it won’t hurt so much. But you will always have to take some of it. And it will all devour you in the end.

Indeed the truth that many people never understand, until it is too late, is that the more you try to avoid suffering, the more you suffer, because smaller insignificant things begin to torture you, in proportion to your fear of being hurt. The one who does most to avoid suffering is, in the end, the one who suffers most: and his suffering comes to him from things so little and so trivial that one can say that it is no longer objective at all. It is his own existence, his own being that is at once the source of his pain, and his very existence and consciousness is his greatest torture. This is another of the great perversions by which the devil uses our philosophies to turn our whole nature inside out, and eviscerate all our capacities for good, turning them against ourselves.

The State Of A Soul Without Grace
Religious people, those who have faith and love God and realized what life is and what death means, and know what it is to have an immortal soul, do not understand how it is with the ones who have no faith, and who have already thrown away the soul. They find it hard to conceive that anyone cold enter into the presence of death without some kind of compunction. But they should realize that millions of men die the way I was then prepared to die, the way I then might have died…”Surely you thought of God and wanted to pray to Him for mercy?”

No. As far as I remember, the thought of God, the thought of prayer did not even enter my mind, ether that day, or all the rest of the time that I was ill, or that whole year, for that matter….

I wish I could give those who believe in God some kind of an idea of the state of a soul like mine was in then. But it is impossible to do it in sober, straight, measured, prose terms. And in a sense, image and analogy would be even more misleading, the very fact that they would have life in them, and convey the notion of some real entity; some kind of energy, some kind of activity. But my soul was simply dead. It was blank, a nothingness. It was empty, it was a kind of a spiritual vacuum, as far as the supernatural order was concerned. Even its natural faculties were shriveled husks of what they ought to have been.

A soul is an immaterial thing. It is a principle of activity, it is an “act”, a “form”, an energizing principle. It is the life of the body, and it must also have a life of its own. But the life of the soul does not inhere to any physical, material subject. So to compare a soul without grace to a corpse without life is only a metaphor. But it is very true.

The First Time He Prays
I was in my room. It was night. The light was on. Suddenly it seemed to me that Father, who had now been dead more than a year, was there with me. The sense of his presence was as vivid and as real and as startling as if he had touched my arm or spoken to me. The whole thing passed in a flash, but in that flash, instantly,  I was overwhelmed with a sudden and profound insight into the misery and corruption of my own soul, and I was pierced deeply with a light that made me realize something of the condition I was in, and I was filled with horror at what I saw, and my whole being rose up in revolt against what was within me, and my soul desired escape and liberation and freedom from all this with an intensity and an urgency unlike anything I had ever known before. And now I think for the first time in my whole life I really began to pray — praying not with my lips and with my intellect and imagination, but praying out of the roots of my life and of my being, and praying to the God I had never known, to reach down towards me out of His darkness and help me to get free of the thousand terrible things that held my will in their slavery.

The Self-Consciousness of Converts
Another thing Catholics do not realize about converts is the tremendous, agonizing embarrassment and self-consciousness which they feel about praying publicly in a Catholic Church. The effort it takes to overcome all the strange imaginary fears that everyone is looking at you, and that they all think you are crazy or ridiculous, is something that costs a tremendous effort. And that day in Santa Sabina , although the Church was almost empty, I walked across the stone floor mortally afraid that a poor devout old Italian woman was following me with suspicious eyes. As I knelt to pray, I wondered if she would run out and accuse me at once to the priests, with scandalous horror, for coming and praying in their church – as if Catholics were perfectly content to have a lot of heretic tourists walking about their churches with complete indifference and irreverence, and would get angry if one of them so far acknowledged God’s presence there as to go on his knees for a few seconds and say a prayer!

God Sheds Enough Light Into The Soul
For in my greatest misery, He would shed enough light into my soul to see how miserable I was, and to admit that it was my own fault and my own work. And always I was to be punished for my sins and by my sins themselves s and to realize, at least obscurely, that I as being so punished and burn in the flames of my own hell, and rot in the hell of my own corrupt will until I was forced at last, by my own intense misery, to give up my own will.

Sanctifying Grace
There is a paradox that lies at the very heart of human existence. It must be apprehended before any lasting happiness is possible in the soul of a man. The paradox is this: a man’s nature, by itself, can do little or nothing to settle his most important problems. If we follow nothing but our natures, our own philosophies, our own level of ethics, we will end up in hell.

This would be a depressing thought, if it were not purely abstract, because in the concrete order of things God gave man a nature that was ordered to a supernatural life. He created man with a soul that was made not to bring itself into perfection in its own order, but to be perfected by Him in an order infinitely beyond the reach of human powers. We were never destined to lead purely natural lives, and therefore we were never destined in God’s plan for a purely natural beatitude. Our nature, which is a free gift of God, was given to us to be perfected and enhanced by another free gift that it is not due it.

This free gift is “sanctifying grace.” It perfects our nature with the gift of a life, an intellection, a love, a mode of existence infinitely about its own level. If a man were to arrive even at the abstract pinnacle of natural perfection, God’s work would not even be half done: it would be only about to begin, for the real work is the work of grace and the infused virtues and the gifts of the Holy Ghost….

When a ray of light strikes a crystal, it gives a new quality to the crystal. And when God’s infinitely disinterested love plays upon a human soul, the same kind of a thing takes place. And that is the life of sanctifying grace.

The Church: Men Leading Other Men
Christ established His Church, among other reasons, in order that men might lead one another to Him and in the process sanctify themselves and one another. For in this work it is Christ Who draws us to Himself through the action of our fellow men

Aseitas
Aseitas – the English equivalent is a transliteration: aseity — simply means the power for a being to exist absolutely in virtue of itself, not as caused by itself, but as requiring no cause, no other justification for its existence except that its very nature is to exist. There can be only one such Being: that is God. And to say that God exists a se, of and by and by reason of Himself, is merely to say that God is Being Itself. Ego sum qui sum. And this means that God must enjoy ‘complete independence not only as regards everything outside but also as regards everything within Himself’”
Merton Quotes Etienne Gilson

St. Bonaventure’s Ininerarium
Beyond all sensible images, and all conceptual determinations, God affirms Himself as the absolute act of being in its actuality. Our concept of God is a feeble analogue of a reality which overflows it in every direction, can be made explicit only in the judgment: Being is Being, and absolute positing of that which, lying beyond every object, contains in itself the sufficient reason of objects. And that is why we can rightly say that the very excess of positivity which hides that divine being from our eyes in nevertheless the light which lights up all the rest: ipsa caligo summa est nostrae mentis illuminatio
Merton Quotes St. Bonaventure’s Ininerarium

This Very Darkness Is The Supreme Illumination Of Our Mind
But just as the eye, intent on the various differences of color, does not see the light through which it sees other things, or if it does see, does not notice it, so our mind’s eye, intent on particular and universal beings, does not notice that being which is beyond all categories, even though it comes first to the mind, and through it, all other things. Wherefore it appears most true that as the eye of the bat is disposed towards the light, so the eye of our mind is disposed towards the most evident things of nature. Thus our mind, accustomed as it is to the opaqueness in beings and the phantasms of visible things, appears to be seeing nothing when it gazes upon the light of the highest being. It does not understand that this very darkness is the supreme illumination of our mind, just as when the eye sees pure light, it seems to be seeing nothing. 

Catholic Philosophy vs. The Dead Letter of Scripture
The truth is that the concept of God which I had always entertained, and which I had accused Christians of teaching to the world, was the concept of a being who was simply impossible. He was infinite and yet finite; perfect and imperfect; eternal and yet changing – subject to all the variations of emotion, love, sorrow, hate, revenge, that men are prey to. How could this fatuous, emotional thing be without beginning and without end, the creator of all? I had taken the dead letter of Scripture at its deadest, and it had killed me according to the saying of St. Paul “The letter killeth but the spirit giveth life.”….What a relief it was for me, now, to discover not only that no idea of ours, let alone any image, could adequately represent God, but also that we should no allow ourselves to be satisfied with any such knowledge of Him. The result was that I acquired an immense respect for Catholic philosophy and for the Catholic faith.

Vital Faith
As William Blake worked himself into my system, I became more and more conscious of the necessity of a vital faith, and the total unreality and insubstantiality of the dead, selfish rationalism which had been freezing my mind and will for the last seven years…I was to become conscious of the fact that the only way to live was to live in a world that was charged with the presence and reality of God…To say that is to say a great deal and I don’t want to say it in a way that conveys more than the truth…it was still more for me a statement of intellectual realization than anything else; and it had not struck down into the roots of my will. The life of the soul is not knowledge; it is love; since love is the act of the supreme faculty, the will, by which man is formally united to the final end of all his strivings – by which man becomes one with God.

Understanding The Virtues
Now at last I came around to a sane conception of virtue – without which there can be no happiness, because virtues are precisely the powers by which we can come to acquire happiness: without them, there can be no joy, because they are the habits which coordinate and canalize our natural energies and direct them to the harmony and perfection and balance, the unity of our nature with itself and with God, which must, in the end, constitute our everlasting peace.

Intellect
I think if there is one truth that people need to learn, in the world, especially today, it is this: the intellect is only theoretically independent of desire and appetite in ordinary, actual practice. It is constantly being blinded and perverted by the ends and aims of passion, and the evidence it presents to us with such a show of impartiality and objectivity is fraught with interest and propaganda. We have become marvelous at self-delusion; all the more so because we have gone to such trouble to convince ourselves of our own absolute infallibility.

Hell
Why should anyone be shattered by the thought of hell? It is not compulsory for anyone to go there. Those who do, do so by their own choice, and against the will of God, and they can only get into hell by defying and resisting all the work of Providence and grace. It is their own will that takes them there, not God’s. In damning them He is ony ratifying their own decision, a decision which He has left entirely to their own choice. Nor will He ever hold our weakness alone responsible for our damnation. Our weakness should not terrify us : it is the source of our strength. Power is made perfect by infirmity, and our very helplessness is all the more potent a claim on that Divine Mercy Who Calls to Himself the poor, the little ones, the heavily burdened.

The Precarious Nature Of Intellectual Conversion
The conversion of the intellect is not enough. And as long as the will, the domina voluntas did not belong completely to God, even the intellectual conversion was bound to remain precarious and indefinite. For although the will cannot force the intellect to see an object other than it is, it can turn it away from the object altogether and prevent it from considering that thing at all…”Where your treasure is , there will your heart be also.” [Matthew 6:21 and Luke 12:34]

Thomas Merton’s Advice To You
Whoever you are, the land God has brought you is not like the land of Egypt from which you came out. Your can no longer live here as you lived there. Your old life and your former ways are crucified now, and you must not seek to live anymore for your own gratification, but give up your own judgment into the hands of a wise director, and sacrifice your pleasures and comforts for the love of God and give the money you no longer spend on those things to the poor…Above all eat your Daily Bread without which you cannot live, and come to know Christ whose Life feeds you in the Host, and He will give you a taste of joys and delights that transcend anything you have ever experienced before and which will make the transition easy.

The Requirement of  Sainthood
All that is necessary to be a saint is to want to be one. Don’t you believe that God will make you what He created you to be, if you will consent to let Him do it? All you have to do is desire it.

Translating Beliefs Into Actions
What was this curse that was upon me that I could not translate belief into action, and my knowledge of God into a concrete campaign for possessing Him, Whom I knew to be the only true good? No, I was content to speculate and argue and I think the reason is that may knowledge was too much a mere matter of natural and intellectual consideration. After all, Aristotle placed the highest natural felicity in the knowledge of God which was accessible to him, a pagan: and I think he was probably right. The heights that can be reached by metaphysical speculation introduce a man into a realm of pure and subtle pleasure that offers the most nearly permanent delights you can find in the natural order. When you go one step higher and base your speculations on premises that are revealed, the pleasure gets deeper and more perfect still. Yet even though the subject matter may be the mysteries of the Christian faith, the manner of contemplating them, speculative and impersonal, may still not transcend the natural plane, at least as far as practical consequences go. In such case you get, not a kind of intellectual and esthetic gluttony – a high and refined and even virtuous form of selfishness. And when it leads to no movement of the will towards God, no efficacious love of Him, it is sterile and dead, this mediation, and could even accidentally become, under certain circumstances, a kind of sin – at least an imperfection.

Daily Communion
It was in one of the confessionals, that a priest one day told me ,very insistently “Go to communion every day, every day.”  By that time I had already become a daily communicant, but his words comforted me and strengthened me, and his emphasis made me glad. And indeed I had reason to be, for it was those daily Communions that were transforming my life almost visibly, from day to day.

Saints
It is a wonderful experience to discover a new Saint. For God is greatly magnified and marvelous in each one of His saints: differently in each individual one. There are no two saints alike: but all of them are like God, like Him in a different and special way. In fact, if Adam had never fallen, the whole human race would have bee a series of magnificently different and splendid images of “God, each one of all the millions of men showing forth His glories and perfections in an astonishing new way, and each one shining with his own particular sanctity, a sanctity destined for him from all eternity as the most complete and unimaginable supernatural perfection of his human personality.

His Brother, John Paul
One thing I would say about my brother, John Paul: My most vivid memories of him, in our childhood, all fill me with poignant compunction at the thought of my own hard-heartedness, and his natural humility and love.

I suppose it’s usual for elder brothers, when they are still children, to feel themselves demeaned by the company of a brother, four or five years younger, whom they regard as a baby, and tend to patronize and look down upon.

So when Russ and Bill and I (older brothers all) made huts in the woods out of boards and tar paper . . . we severely prohibited John Paul, and Russ’ younger brother Tommy and their friends from coming anywhere near us. If they did try to come and get into our hut, or even to look at it, we would chase them away with stones.

“When I think now about that part of my childhood, the picture I get of my brother John Paul is this: standing in a field a hundred yards away from our hut, is this little perplexed five-year-old kid in short pants and a kind of leather jacket, standing quite still; his arms hanging down at his sides.

He is gazing in our direction, afraid to come any nearer on account of the stones, as insulted as he is saddened, and his eyes full of indignation and sorrow. And yet he does not go away. We shout at him to go away, beat it, go home, and wing a couple more rocks in that direction. We tell him to play some other place. He does not move.

And there he stands, not sobbing, not crying, but angry and unhappy and offended and tremendously sad. And yet he is fascinated by what we are doing, nailing shingles all over our new hut. And his tremendous desire to be with us and to do what we are doing will not permit him to go away.

The law written in his nature tells him he must be with his elder brother and do what he is doing, and he cannot understand why this law of love is being so wildly and unjustly violated in his case.

Many times are like that, and in a sense, this terrible situation is the pattern and prototype of all sin: the deliberate and formal will to reject disinterested love for us, for the purely arbitrary reason that we simply do not want it. We `will’ to separate ourselves from that love; we reject it entirely and absolutely, and will not acknowledge it, because it does not please us to be loved . . . “

[Thomas Merton immediately recalls an astounding event] When our `gang’ tried to antagonize the extremely tough Polish kids who had formed a gang in nearby Little Neck (approaching their headquarters) and “from a very safe distance we would challenge them to come out and fight” (but) “nobody came out – perhaps (that day) there was nobody home.”

But then came the day, Merton recalls, “one cold and rainy afternoon, when we observed that numbers of large and small figures, varying in age from 10 to 16, most of them very brawny” gathered outside the Merton home, “20 or 25 of them. There were four of us.”[hiding inside].

The climax of the situation came when Frieda, our German maid, told us that she was very busy with housecleaning and we must all get out of the house immediately. Without listening to our extremely nervous protests, she chased us out the back way . . . we made our way through back yards to the safety of Bill’s house” [a block away, with a clear view across a field, of the Merton home].

And then an extraordinary thing happened. The front door of our house opened. My little brother John Paul came walking down the steps with a certain amount of dignity and calm. He crossed the street (and) walked toward the Little Neck gang. They all turned towards him. He kept on walking and walked right into the middle of them.

One or two of them took their hands out of their pockets. John Paul just looked at them, turning his head to one side and then the other. And he walked through the middle of them and no one ever touched him.

And so he came to the house where we were. We did not chase him away.

The book closes with a poem written by Thomas Merton upon learning of his brother’s death in the North Sea:

I learned that John Paul was severely injured in the crash but managed to keep himself afloat, even tried to support the pilot who was already dead.

He was very badly hurt; maybe his neck was broken. He lay in the bottom of the dinghy in delirium. He was terribly thirsty. He kept asking for water. But they didn’t have any. It didn’t last too long. He had three hours of it and then he died. His companions had more to suffer, and were finally picked up and taken to safety five days later. On the fourth day they had buried John Paul at sea.

The chapter concludes with Thomas Merton’s poetic requiem for his “dear brother” asking their Maker to,

“Take my breath . . .
and buy yourself a better death . . .
And buy you back to your own land
The silence of Whose tears shall fall
Like bells upon your alien tomb.
Hear them and come,
They call you home.”

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Thèrése Of Lisieux: An Example Of Elevated Prudence

November 6, 2009
Thèrése Of Lisieux

Thèrése Of Lisieux

In The Priority of Christ Fr. Robert Barron gives us vignettes of various Saints and the theological virtues, showing us how the infusion of divine grace while exercising these virtues leads to a supernaturally elevated life. To be perfectly honest, I never liked Thèrése Of Lisieux and always found her life somewhere between gruesome and cloyingly sentimental.

The last time I encountered such a combination was the 2004 Boston Red Sox: coming back from a three games to none deficit to defeat my beloved Yankees amidst signs in the stands of “You Gotta Believe,” etc.  But I digress…

Fr. Barron takes Thèrése’s sappy tale and transforms it into something I can relate to, a story that illustrates divine grace in action. Reading Selections follow:

The Queen Of The Virtues
In the classical philosophical tradition, prudence is the regina virtutum (the queen of the virtues), that quality around which the other moral virtues cluster and find their order. This is because prudence is the power according to which the ethical life as such unfolds. Thomas Aquinas tells us that prudentia is a sort of vision, a governing insight in regard to those things that should be done and sought: recta ratio agibilium. As such it is distinguishable from artistic knowledge, which is right reason in regard to things to be made, and speculative reason, which is contemplative insight into truth for its own sake.

One of the marks of prudence is its orientation to particulars, to what Aquinas calls singularia, all of the elements, features, and contingencies that constitute a given moral situation. To be sure, a dimension of prudence is a firm grasp of the generalities by which the ethical life is governed, but its real distinguishing characteristic is a feel for the hic et nunc (here and now) of the moral playing field. This is not unlike the sense that an experienced quarterback has for the flow of the football game, the shifting configuration of the defense that opposes him, the opportunities that can suddenly present themselves in the middle of a play.

In the breakthrough of grace, this natural virtue is transformed, elevated into supernatural prudence, which is to say, a moral sensibility radically in service of the love of God. The ratio of the supernaturally prudent person is rectified, ordered, by the radical desire to be like God, to will the good of the other as other. This is why Augustine can define elevated prudence as amor bene discernens ea quibus adiuventur ad tendendum in Deum ab his quibus impediri potest (the love that well discriminates between those things which foster the tending toward God and those which can impede it). A feel for the expression of divine love in concrete situations is infused or supernaturalized prudence.

Thèrése’s Seemingly Imprudent Way Of Love
I will take St. Thèrése  of Lisieux as a model of this form of the moral life. What will become eminently clear in the sketch of her life that I offer is that many of her decisions and acts were anything but prudent in the accepted sense of the term. Thèrése ’s extravagant way of love will seem imprudent to the ordinary observer attuned to the finalities of the natural order. But hers is the virtue not of the “gentlewoman” but of the saint, and the very exaggerated quality of her ethical moves will help us to discern that difference.

Evaluating The Story of a Soul
Practically every commentator on Thèrése of Lisieux confesses to an initially negative reaction to The Story of a Soul, the saint’s wildly popular spiritual autobiography. Ida Friederike Gorres’s account of her first assessment of Thèrése ’s book is typical: “How small everything is. How painfully little. It is as though we must stoop to enter into a world where everything is made to a bird-like measure, where everything is sweet, pale and fragile, like the lace in which the saint’s mother dealt. What a shut-in faintly perfumed air seems to rise from it.”I must confess that when I first encountered The Story of a Soul in the context of a seminary course, I too found it off-putting, and my post-Freudian mind was only too eager to see in it ample evidence of neuroses and repressions.

But two phenomena tend to produce in even the most skeptical reader a desire to go back, to reconsider. First, some extremely sophisticated intellectuals have found Thèrése  compelling: Popes Pius X, Pius XI, Pius XII, and John Paul II, Thomas Merton, Hans Urs von Balthasar, Dorothy Day, and Edith Stein, to name but a few. My thesis director in Paris, Michel Corbin, commented one day on the French custom of referring to Teresa of Avila as la grande Thérèse and Thèrése  of Lisieux as la petite Thérèse, and he mused, “Mais je crois bien que c’est Thèrése  de Lisieux qui est vraiment la grande Thèrése .

Second, there is the practically unprecedented phenomenon of Thèrése’s postmortem popularity. Within a few years of her death, reports of favors and miracles granted through her intercession began to flood into the convent at Lisieux from all over the world. In The Story of a Soul, Therése had written that after her death she would send a pluie de roses (a shower of roses) on the earth, and this promise, it seemed was being fulfilled.

In 1925, just twenty-eight years after her death, a volume of three thousand closely printed pages reproducing excerpts from those letters was published, and that same year, supported by enormous popular acclaim, the nun who at her death was known to perhaps thirty people was canonized a saint and declared by the pope to be “the greatest saint of modern times.” There is clearly something here, something beyond bourgeois religious sentimentality and Freudian repressions..

The Noncompetitive Divine Reality Of Divine Love
Thèrése  tells us that she endeavored to write down her spiritual memoir at the prompting of her sister, who was also her religious superior to whom she was bound in obedience After praying that she say nothing displeasing to Christ, she took up the Gospel of Mark, and her eyes fell on these words “Jesus, having gone up the mountain, called to him those whom he chose, and they came to him “This verse, she says, is the interpretive key to her life, for it describes the way Christ has worked in her soul “he does not call those who are worthy, but those whom he pleases “

Hers will be a story of a divine love, graciously willing the good of the other that awakens an imitative reaction in the one who is loved. It is not a narrative of economic exchange — rewards for worthiness — but of the loop of grace, unmerited love engendering disinterested love, the divine life propagating itself in what is other

But there is more to it. She says that for a long time this purely gracious quality of the divine love bothered her, for it smacked of injustice how could we explain how God gives more to some and less to others, if all reference to merit is removed’ ‘What solved the problem for her was a comparison with the variety of flowers “I understood that if all the flowers wanted to be roses, nature would lose her springtime beauty, and the fields would no longer be decked with little wild flowers.” Aquinas said that God is an artist and his canvas the whole of creation and that the variety of created goods contributes to the beauty and complexity of the design that God is crafting. Thèrése will tell how, then, God the artist of creation worked in her case, cultivating one of his smaller flowers.

Then Thèrése uses a magnificent metaphor that shows that she grasped something about the divine-nondivine relationship that was also central to Aquinas “Just as the sun shines simultaneously on the tall cedars and on each little flower as though it were alone on the earth, so Our Lord is occupied particularly with each soul as though there were no others like it.”The noncompetitive divine reality, which does not become ingredient in the created world, is not “closer” to the greatest of his creatures than to the least and cannot be preoccupied with one at the expense of the other. Thus, Thèrése can honestly speak of herself, one of God’s smallest flowers, as though she were the privileged object of God’s affection and interest.

A Keen Sense Of Order
One notices in the pages of The Story of a Soul, amidst all of the girlish enthusiasms, a keen sense of order. Thèrése  tells us that her life can be neatly divided into three periods: from her birth until the age of four, when her mother passed away; from the age of four until the age of thirteen, when she had a powerful “conversion” experience; and from the age of thirteen until the present, her time in the Carmelite convent of Lisieux. It will be useful for us to follow this same division. Thèrése  was born on January 2, 1873, the youngest child of Louis Martin and Zelie Guérin, extremely pious and industrious members of the solid French middle class.

Her mother was quite a successful purveyor of the delicate laces for which her native region of Alencon was internationally known, and her father was a watchmaker and jeweler. Both had, in their youth, sought the religious life — he among the Augustinians and she with the Sisters of Charity — but both had finally opted for secular careers. They married in 1858, when Louis was thirty-five and Zelie twenty-seven, and for the first ten months of their marriage they lived as brother and sister, until, at the prompting of a spiritual director and at Zelie’s insistence, they commenced a sexual relationship. They eventually produced nine children, five of whom, all daughters, survived into adulthood. Though both parents were professionally tied to the world of fine things, they cultivated a home life that had an intensely religious, almost monastic flavor. Prayers, devotions, Mass, fasting, and abstinence according to the liturgical season were the structuring elements of their daily life.

By her own admission, Thèrése ’s childhood was idyllic. She was surrounded by an adoring family, all of whom doted on her. The youngest Martin’s cherubic looks and pleasant, pious disposition only intensified the affection of her parents and sisters. With her father — whom she referred to as le petit roi and to whom she was la petite reine –Thèrése  developed an especially intense rapport. Since he was nearly fifty when she was born, from Thérèse’s perspective Louis was always a venerable and rather delicate old man, and there is no question that her strong sense of the fatherly love of God — evident throughout The Story of a Soul — was mediated to her by the unconditional affection of her petit roi. Very early in her life, she had the intuition that she would become a religious. When someone told her that her sister Pauline was going to become a Carmelite, Thèrése  thought, “I too will become a religious.” This, she comments, “is one of my first memories and I haven’t changed my resolution since then.” It is certainly a mark of her elevated prudence that in regard to the religious life Thèrése  would remain adamant, steadfast, clear, unambiguously committed to her last day. That she was called by God to serve him radically was the principal light by which she steered.

A Moral Know-How Informed By Divine Love
Supernatural prudence is a moral know-how informed by divine love, and divine love is, by nature, inexhaustible, all-embracing, and relentless. We discern a sign that Thèrése  was in its grip in an anecdote from the opening section of her autobiography. “One day Léonie [one of her sisters] . . . came to us with a basket filled with dresses and pretty pieces for making others; her doll was resting on top. ‘Here my little sister, choose; I’m giving you all this.’ Céline stretched out her had and took a little ball of wool, which pleased her. After a moment’s reflection, I stretched out mine saying: ‘I choose all!”

She comments that, surprisingly enough, no one in her family saw anything wrong with this. She herself sees it as a summation of her entire life: “Later on, when perfection was set before me, I understood that to become a saint one had to suffer much, seek out always the perfect thing to do and forget self . . . Then as in the days of my childhood, I cried out: ‘My God, I choose all! I don’t want to be a saint by halves.”To govern one’s life in accordance with the divine love is to be not moderate but necessarily excessive. Indeed, in the Christian moral tradition, charity is seen as the one virtue whose practice cannot be exaggerated, for it partakes most directly of the infinity of God’s to-be. In The Everlasting Man, G. K. Chesterton notices that the great Christian saints are marked always by a quality of excess: “Francis of Assisi was a more shouting optimist than Walt Whitman…and St. Jerome, in denouncing all evil, could paint the world blacker than Schopenhauer.”Whatever form the saintly life takes, it can never be a halfway proposition, and it belongs to the heart of supernatural prudence to grasp this.

The End Of Childhood
The idyll of her childhood came to an end with the death of her mother in 1877, when Thèrése  was only four. One of the soberest passages in The Stoiy of a Soul is Thèrése’s account of her mother’s reception of extreme unction. What she finds most remarkable was how unmoved she herself was, how emotionally distant from the scene, though her mother was everything to her. This repression signaled the commencement of what she terms “the most painful” of the three stages of her life. In the months following her mother’s passing, Therése became “retiring and sensitive to an excessive degree,” scrupulous and self-regarding. She also began to develop a keen sense of the ephemerality of this world and a consequent longing for the permanence of heaven. While listening to sermons on Sunday mornings, Therése would gaze at her father’s “handsome face” and take in his otherworldly air: “he seemed no longer held by earth, so much did his soul love to lose itself in the eternal truths.”Her spiritual feelings — both melancholy and blissful — came to full expression on Sunday, the beautiful sabbath day that seemed to pass far too quickly: “I longed for the everlasting repose of heaven, that never-ending Sunday of the Fatherland.”° This deepening of perception and sentiment, occasioned by the loss of her mother, would in time become essential to Thèrése ’s mature religious prudence, but more immediately it would trigger terrible storms in her emotional life.

During this period, she experienced the terrifying vision that would haunt her and her family and that would later beguile innumerable biographers and commentators. While her father was away on a business trip, Thèrése  was looking out her bedroom window on a particularly lovely day. To her surprise, she saw a man dressed like her father and of about his physical proportions, though far more stooped than M. Martin. She then noticed that his face was covered with something like an apron. Convinced that her father was home early from his trip and endeavoring to play a trick on her, she cried out to him, but the figure ignored her and continued to walk around the garden at a steady pace. He went toward a grove of trees, and Thèrése eagerly waited for him to emerge on the other side, but he had disappeared: “the prophetic vision had vanished.”

Only many years later did the meaning of the scene became clear to Therése. In his old age, after four of his five daughters had entered religious life, M. Martin became psychologically imbalanced. He would sometimes speak incoherently and, to the horror of his children, would occasionally wander off to distant towns, leaving no indication as to his whereabouts. During these last sad years of his life, M. Martin would also, curiously, be known to cover his face with a cloth. His youngest daughter thus interpreted the vision as a sort of proleptic sign of her father’s future suffering, and she furthermore linked it to the passion of Jesus: “just as the adorable Face of Jesus was veiled during his passion, so the face of His faithful servant had to be veiled in the days of his sufferings in order that it might shine in the heavenly Fatherland.”Now was all of this in fact a prophetic perception or simply a hallucination born of a young girl’s anxiety and sense of loss? Perhaps it was both, for nothing prevents God from Using a psychological disturbance to communicate some spiritual truth, but what matters is that Thèrése  perceived the tight connection between the painfully self-emptying love of her father and the paradigmatically self-emptying love of Christ and that she used that link to bolster her sense of God’s intimate providence in her life.

The Saddest Years Of Her Life
Her unsettled psyche would become even more shaken during what she termed “the saddest years” of her life, the five years spent at the Abbey school in Lisieux, the village to which the Martins had moved after Zélie’s death. Academically gifted but socially inept, Thèrése  had to endure the taunts and practical jokes of her relatively crude classmates. The incessant persecution she underwent helps to explain the insensitivity, even arrogance, of this remark: “It seemed hard to see myself among flowers of all kinds with roots frequently indelicate; and I had to find in the common soil the food necessary for sustenance.” She hated the rough games that the other children played, but she found one friend with a quiet soul like her own, and with her she engaged in the unlikely “game” of hermit, in which each child would pretend to be a desert monk and outdo the other in silence and self-denial! One does not have to be an expert in child psychology to know that such behavior was bound to make her unpopular with her peers, and Thèrése  internalized their critique, seeing herself for the first time in her life as something of a failure, “counted, weighed and found wanting.”

The full effects of her mother’s death would appear when her eldest sister, Pauline — whom Thérese had claimed as a substitute mother — decided to enter the Carmelite convent. This second maternal loss proved to be too much, and not long after Pauline enter the Carmel, Thèrése  fell victim to a frightening and mysterious malady, which she describes vividly in her autobiography. Toward the close of 1882, she began to experience severe headaches, but not so debilitating as to keep her from school. Around Easter of 1883, M. Martin went on a business trip with his older daughters, and Thèrése  stayed at home with her late mother’s brother.

While they were talking about her mother, Thèrése  began to cry so violently that her uncle became alarmed. Surprised that the emotional wound was still so tender, the uncle tried to divert her by talking about plans for an upcoming holiday, but it was too late. The fit of crying was succeeded by another round of severe headaches and then an attack of shivering, like fever chills. This physical assault went on the entire night. When her father returned, he found Thèrése  surexcité, overstimulated, but he was convinced that she would soon enough be back to normal. In March, she felt well enough to attend the veil-taking of her sister Pauline, but the next morning, she fell again into a state so alarming that her family seriously feared that she had lost her reason. Here is Gorres’s description: “The child screamed and shrieked in extreme fear, contorted her face, rolled her eyes, saw monsters and nightmarish figures everywhere, sometimes failed to recognize members of the family, was shaken by convulsions, twisted her limbs, tried to throw herself out of bed and had to be forcibly restrained.”

In a passage not included in the original published version of Story of a Soul, Thèrése  remarked of her state of mind during this illness: “I was absolutely terrified by everything: my bed seemed to be surrounded by frightful precipices; some nails in the wall of the room took on the appearance of big charred fingers, making me cry out in fear. One day, while Papa was looking at me in silence, the hat in his hand was suddenly transformed into some indescribably dreadful shape, and I showed such great fear that poor Papa left the room, sobbing.”

Given these symptoms, it is not surprising that Thèrése  herself would conclude, “I can’t describe this strange sickness, but I’m now convinced it was the work of the devil.”Once again, it is easy enough to speculate that this was a psychotic episode prompted by a personal loss to a pampered and narcissistic child, but what matters is not so much the etiology of the struggle as Thèrése ’s reaction to and assessment of it. God operates through secondary causes, and these can include emotional and psychological disturbances. She came in time to appreciate her illness (see Learning To Dwell In This Desert)  as “a real martyrdom” for her soul, a testing, a trial, a cleansing, a putting to death. What was being purged in her? Perhaps it was precisely the narcissism, fussy self-absorption, and spiritual athleticism that had been inculcated in her by her family. Perhaps it was the childish overreliance on the approval of her peers and the need to be the center of attention.

Unmerited Love, A Manifestation Of Grace
In any case, what saved her was a manifestation of grace, of unmerited love. On Pentecost Sunday, May 13, 1883, Thèrése  was, as usual, in bed, unable to function. ‘While she muttered to herself her sister Marie knelt by her bed and prayed to a statue of the Blessed Mother that stood on the table nearby. Thèrése  joined her in prayer, and “all of a sudden, the Blessed Virgin appeared beautiful to me, so beautiful that never had I seen anything so attractive; her face was suffused with an ineffable benevolence and tenderness, but what penetrated to the very depths of my soul was the ravishing smile of the Virgin.”At that moment, she tells us, all of her pain — physical and emotional –disappeared, and two tears of “unmixed joy” rolled down her face.

Was this a miracle or a hallucination, a supernatural phenomenon or a wish-fulfilling fantasy? Again, though we could debate those questions endlessly, they are perhaps not the central questions. What matters is that Thèrése  took it to be a grace, a sign that she was loved by God despite her debility, and this realization rescued her from her fears. A person cannot live the divine life until he drops all her strategies of self-justification and allows himself to be drawn into the loop of grace. Supernatural prudence — concrete know-how in the arena of love — is impossible without this breakthrough. And this is why the smile of the Virgin is such a key moment in the spiritual development of St. Thèrése .

This sense of immersion in grace was intensified at Thèrése ’s First Communion the following spring. Introducing one of the most rapturous passages in The Story of a Soul, she tell us that “the smallest details of that heavenly day have left unspeakable memories in my soul.”At the heart of the experience was the feeling of being unconditionally loved by the divine reality. Regarding reception of the body of Christ for the first time, Thèrése exclaims, “Ah! How sweet was that first kiss of Jesus! It was a kiss of love; I felt that I was loved, and I said: ‘I love you and I give myself to you forever!” Then the nature of that love is made plain: “There were no demands made, no struggles, no sacrifices; for a long time now Jesus and poor little Thèrése  looked at and understood each other. That day, it was no longer simply a look, it was a fusion; they were no longer two, Thèrése  had vanished as a drop of water is lost in the immensity of the ocean.

The Dynamics Of The Divine Life
When one enters into the dynamics of the divine life, all games of calculation, payment and return of payment, and economic considerations are necessarily set aside. The love that one receives awakens an answering love, but it is not a matter of strict justice, as though something were owed; it is rather a joyful participation, a desire to imitate what one loves. This is why the nonviolent language of “looking at” — found, by the way, in the Curé of Ars, Jacques Maritain, and a number of other spiritual writers — is so important. What this mutual regard effects is the coinherence that I have spoken of throughout the book, the radical one-in-the-otherness that Thèrése  so evocatively refers to as “fusion.”

Suffering
Then comes the typically Christian consequence, the embrace of the cross: “The day after my Communion…I felt born within my heart a great desire to suffer and at the same time the interior assurance that Jesus reserved a great number of crosses for me… Suffering became my attraction.”This has nothing to do with masochism and everything to do with coinherence. When we are connected to the divine life made available in Jesus, we become enamored of the cross, the instrument by which he effected a coinherence with the sinful human race, bearing and carrying away its sinfulness. We want to suffer, not because suffering is desirable in itself but because it is what he chose to endure out of love. Now we can understand that when Thèrése spoke earlier of the encounter with God in love that involved no “sacrifice,” she did not mean that friendship with God is painless, cheap grace. Rather, it is a love — free of the complications and distortions of economic exchange — that makes one want to suffer on behalf of the other that makes suffering, in this sense, attractive.

Thèrése concludes her reflection on First Communion thus: “Up until this time, I had suffered without loving suffering, but since this day I felt a real love for it.”As a child, she had “offered things up” to God and had endured trials and accepted mortifications, but these were all part of a game of the ego, a calculated attempt to win the approval of her family and of God. They were the strategies of the prodigal son’s elder brother. But the “fusion” that took place at her First Communion burned those childish attitudes away.

Thèrése’s Conversion: The Infusion of Charity
But there was yet another decisive step in what Thèrése calls her “conversion.” Like almost all the other events of her life, it was small, private, nothing to which a biographer would ordinarily call attention. But with her exquisite sensitivity to the subtle ways that grace insinuates itself into nature, she read it, quite properly, as spiritually momentous. It took place, appropriately enough, on Christmas Day, the memorial of the time when nature and grace met most definitively and dramatically.

Thèrése tells us that prior to this event, she found herself in an ambiguous spiritual condition. On the one hand, the grace of her First Communion — the desire to suffer in love only because she was loved by God — was clearly operative; but on the other hand, she still felt the tug of her childish preoccupation with being praised and petted. She would typically perform simple acts of kindness for the benefit of her sister, but “if Celine was unfortunate enough not to seem happy or surprised because of these little services, I became unhappy and proved it by my tears.” What would enable her to love purely and simply, with the charity characteristic of the Trinity? “God would have to work a little miracle to make me grow up in an instant, and this miracle he performed on that unforgettable Christmas day.”As we’ve seen, the theological virtues — which elevate all of the natural virtues — cannot be merited or attained through repetition or habituation; instead they must, as Thèrése  rightly perceives, be received as gifts, “little miracles.”

The Martins had returned from Midnight Mass, and Thèrése , as was her wont, hurried to look at her shoes, which, in accord with a family Christmas tradition, would be filled with little presents. She tells us that. her father used to take particular delight in hearing his youngest daughter’s I cries of happiness as she “drew each surprise from the magic shoes.” But this time her father seemed annoyed at the ritual, and while Thèrése  was making her way upstairs and presumably out of earshot, he muttered to no one in particular, “Well, fortunately this will be the last year!”

Both Thèrése  and Celine heard the remark, and Céline, exquisitely sensitive to her sister’s feelings, said, “Oh, don’t go downstairs; it would cause you too much grief to look at your slippers right now!”

It was one of those quiet but decisive moments in a young person’s psychological development, when an illusion is shattered and a veil is pulled back, when reality breaks through a carapace of self-protection and self-delusion. The petit roi was not a flawless saint, and the petite reine was not the center of the universe. One would suspect that this cross remark of her father might have precipitated in Thérese another breakdown, comparable to the one that followed Pauline’s entry into Carmel, or at the very least a flood of self-pitying tears:

 “But Thèrése was no longer the same; Jesus had changed her heart!” Suppressing her tears, she went rapidly back down the stairs, placed the shoes directly in front of her father, and with unfeigned enthusiasm took each item out and rejoiced over it. So contagious was her happiness that M. Martin regained his customary good cheer and commenced laughing along with his daughter.

When faced with the temptation to self-regard, she resolved to love, to will not her own good but the good of her father. And this reversal came not through habituation or moral achievement but as a sheer grace. Like the apostles in the Gospel story, she had fished all night and caught nothing but then Jesus took the net himself and cast it into the sea. “I felt charity enter into my soul, and the need to forget myself and to please others; since then I’ve been happy!” I cannot think of a more succinct summary of the Christian way: the divine life, which can come only as a gift, changes us in such a way that we want to live for the other, and this conversion produces joy. Everything else in Christian ethics and dogmatics is commentary.

Prudence Transformed
With the infusion of charity comes, as we have seen, the transformation of the natural virtues. In Thèrése’s case, prudence was especially transfigured and rendered prominent, so that she became adept at discerning the demand of love in the particular situation. We see this discernment immediately operative in Thèrése’s desire to save sinners, to thirst for them with the intensity of Jesus himself “I wanted to give my Beloved to drink and I felt myself consumed with a thirst for souls… I burned with a desire to snatch them from the eternal flames.”Not long after her Christmas conversion, she heard of the notorious case of Henri Pranzini, a man convicted of multiple grisly murders and awaiting his execution in what appeared to be an attitude of complete impenitence. She made his conversion her special project; he became “her sinner.”

After offering innumerable prayers, arranging for Masses, and drawing others into her circle of concern, she asked God for some sign that Pranzini had been brought to penitence. The morning after the execution, a copy of the newspaper La Croix came into her hands, and she read with astonishment that just before putting his head in the guillotine, Pranzini had “taken hold of the crucifix the priest was holding out to him and kissed the sacred wounds three times.” The ruthless killer had become Thèrése’s “first child” in the: order of grace. Her elevated prudence had told her what to do, even in what appeared to be a hopeless situation.

She also, very quickly, knew precisely what to do with the rest of her life. The desire for Carmel, which had been present to some degree ever since she was a small child, now became a burning conviction, a “divine call so strong that had I been forced to pass through flames, I would have done it out of love for Jesus.” She felt, she tells us, the support of her mother from heaven, and Celine was, as usual, her great advocate, but she was afraid to tell her father of her vocation. She was, after all, barely fifteen. She broke the news to him on Pentecost Sunday 1887; after some hesitation, he became convinced that her desire was from God, and he accordingly gave his permission.

In the months that followed, Thèrése  met obstacle after obstacle as key figures, both in her own family and in the church, expressed deep concern about the advisability of allowing a girl so young to make such a weighty decision. The section of The Story of a Soul in which this period of her life is narrated is actually quite funny, for we hear how this pampered and inexperienced teenager met with high ecclesiastics and bishops and, through a combination of intelligence, charm, stubbornness, and sheer moxie managed to outstare them and wear them down. When the bishop of Bayeux refused to circumvent the usual procedures and allow her to enter Carmel early, Thèrése  resolved to bring her case to the highest court, to the pope himself.

With her father and sister she joined a group of ultramontane French pilgrims on an Italian journey that was far more sightseeing expedition than pilgrimage. Thèrése  was both fascinated and disgusted by the worldly ways of these purportedly religious people, and she, with her exaggerated pieties, was undoubtedly a source of amusement to them. They arrived, finally, in Rome, and on November 20, 1887, after donning the traditional garb, Thèrése  had her papal audience. All of the pilgrims had been carefully instructed not to address the pope, but Thèrése  ignored this instruction. Kneeling before Leo XIII, she blurted out, “Most Holy Father, I have a great favor to ask you. Holy Father, in honor of your jubilee, permit me to enter Carmel at the age of fifteen!”

When apprised of her situation, the pope responded, “Well, my child, do what the Superiors tell you.”

But Thèrése  persisted: “Oh! Holy Father, if you say yes, everybody will agree”

Looking at her intently, he said, “Go…go . You will enter if God wills it.” At that point, still begging and weeping, she was carried off bodily by two papal guards.

It probably would have appeared to any neutral observer that with this bizarre performance Thèrése had spoiled any chance she might have had to enter Carmel early. Nevertheless, just a month later, the bishop of Bayeux granted permission for her to enter the cloister after Lent. We will never be able to say with certainty precisely what it was that convinced the various ecclesiastics to give in, but the sheer persistence and singleness of purpose so plainly evident in Thèrése must have been decisive factors.

So amidst much rejoicing and in the presence of the bishop, who kept calling her “his little girl,” Thèrése was formally received at the Lisieux Carmel on April 9, 1888. For the remaining nine years of her short life, she would remain cloistered within the walls of this small Carmelite world and in the company of twenty or so sisters. But in this very restricted environment she would develop the distinctive spiritual path for which she became famous, the “little way,” which I will read as the fruit of elevated prudence.

Thèrése’s Spiritual Doctrine
The best introduction to Thèrése ’s spiritual doctrine is a text that she wrote at the behest of Sr. Marie of the Sacred Heart, a sort of memoir of the retreat that she made in September 11896, just a year before her death. What she offers is a “science of love,” a way of knowing and acting that is utterly conditioned by the love that Jesus has placed in her heart “Jesus deigned to show me the road that leads to this Divine Furnace, and this road is the surrender of the little child who sleeps without fear in its Father’s arms.”

Two Old Testament sources are particularly important for her: Proverbs 9, which includes “Whoever is a little one, let him come to me” (see v. 4); and Isaiah 40, where we find “[God] will feed his flock like a shepherd; he will gather the lambs in his arms, and carry them in his bosom” (v. 11). God, Thèrése concluded, is pleased to work with those who have become utterly docile to his direction, who have acknowledged their total dependence upon him, their readiness to receive gifts. As we have seen already in her account of her First Communion, any sense that God’s love must be earned or that a relationship with him is a product of economic calculation is repugnant to a healthy spirituality: “Jesus does not demand great actions from us but simply surrender and gratitude.” Hans Urs von Balthasar comments that “her battle is to wipe out the hardcore of Pharisaism that persists in the midst of Christianity; that human will-to-power. . . that drives one to assert one’s own greatness instead of acknowledging that God alone is great.”

When this attitude is in place, anything and everything is possible: Gloria Dei homo vivens. Thèrése writes that she had always longed to be a spouse of Christ, a good Carmelite, and a mother of souls, but that during her retreat she had begun to cultivate a desire for more: “And yet I feel within me other vocations. I feel the vocation of the warrior, the priest, the apostle, the doctor, the martyr. Finally, I feel the need and the desire of carrying out the most heroic deeds for You, O Jesus.” We notice that these mighty deeds and heroic vocations follow from the divine love and are not the condition for it. Filled with Jesus’ love, Thèrése would know what to do in these various roles. If she were a priest, “With what love, O Jesus, I would carry you in my hands when, at my voice, you would come down from heaven”; if she were a martyr, “I would be scourged and crucified. I would die flayed like St. Bartholomew. I would be plunged into boiling oil like St. John; I would undergo all the tortures inflicted on the martyrs.”

Her Insight Into Love
But she is acutely aware, at the same time, that she is a very “little soul,” confined to the narrow space of the Lisieux Carmel, and thus can never realize such lofty ambitions. The tension between the intensity of her desires and the truth of her situation becomes terrible: “Is there a soul more little, more powerless than mine? Nevertheless even because of my weakness, it has pleased you, O Lord, to grant my little childish desires and you desire, today, to grant other desires that are greater than the universe”Like the prodigal son kneeling humbly at his father’s feet, Thèrése  intuits that her smallness is the condition for the possibility of her being filled, but it is not at all clear to her how this will happen.

During her retreat, she turned to the epistles of Paul to find a resolution of the tension. In 1 Corinthians, she read that not all can be apostles,, prophets, doctors, and so on, but this did not satisfy her, for the desire that she felt was precisely to be all these things and more But then she read to the end of the twelfth chapter of 1 Corinthians and found this passage “Yet strive after the better gifts and I will show you a still more excellent way” What follows in chapter 13, of course, is Paul’s hymn to, love, wherein it becomes clear that love is the form of every other virtue and accomplishment within the life of grace “If I have faith to move the mountains, but have not love, I am nothing. If I give away everything I own but have not love, I gain nothing “Thèrése  intuited that love is the energy that makes possible the preaching of the apostles, the endurance of the martyrs, the teaching of the doctors, the spiritual ascent of the mystic, and thus that it is love that she is secretly seeking when she, desires to fulfill all of those roles “Then, in the excess of my delirious joy, I cried out O Jesus, my Love, my vocation at last I have found it my vocation is loveShe concluded that in the heart of the church she would be love — and the heart of the church could be as small as the Carmel at Lisieux.

Now she was in possession of a sure guide, a principle of spiritual measurement “It (the insight into love) was rather the calm and serene peace of the navigator perceiving the beacon which must lead him to the port: O luminous Beacon of love, I know how to reach you, I have found the secret of possessing your flame”She had become a person of supernatural prudence, for she knew how to order all the moves of her life in the light of the highest possible good, the inner dynamics of the divine life The breakthroughs that had occurred at her First Communion and on Christmas Day 1886 had now been fully appropriated “the smallest act of pure love is of more value than all other works together.”This means that she can be pleasing to God and valuable to the church in the humblest places and through the simplest acts.

Acting On A Supernatural Prudence
This supernatural prudence — acquired through grace — gave Thèrése supreme confidence. Even when dealing with priests, the dignity of whose office she clearly recognized, Thèrése easily and naturally assumed the role of spiritual director. When others spoke of their spiritual guides, she could unabashedly say, “My spiritual director, Jesus, teaches…“ And supernatural prudence enabled her to live, even in narrow Carmelite confines, a life of heroic sanctity. All she had to do was to discern the path of love in whatever situation she found herself — and follow it.

A number of vividly related narratives in Story of a Soul exemplify this little path. Again, we will miss the point of these stories if we concentrate on the externals — which seem so homey and unimportant — and miss the quality of love that informs them. Thèrése tells us that there was a nun in the convent with whom she had what we would call a serious personality conflict; in her own words, “someone who managed to irritate me in everything she did.” Knowing that love is not a matter of feeling but of works born of the will, she resolved to do for that sister what she would do for the person she loved the most. Thus, “each time I met her I prayed to God for her … and I took care to render her all the services possible, and when I was tempted to answer her back in a disagreeable manner, I was content with giving her my most friendly smile.”

So convincing was her manner that one day, during recreation, the troublesome nun asked her, “Would you tell me, Sister Thèrése of the Child Jesus, what attracts you so much towards me; everytime you look at me, I see you smile?” Thèrése’s public response to the other nun was “I am happy to see you,” but her private response, shared with her readers, was “Ah! ‘What attracted me was Jesus hidden in the depths of her soul.”As we have seen many times throughout this book, rootedness in the divine love connects us to everything else and everyone else in creation; to realize one’s deepest ontological ground is to realize simultaneously a coinherence with even the most difficult or repugnant fellow creature. To act out of this awareness is to follow the little way.

During her novitiate, Thèrése  was given the assignment of taking care of Sr. St. Pierre, a fussy and demanding elderly woman, “not easy to please.” The younger sister’s task was to escort the infirm sister from her stall at evening prayer to the refectory and then to help her prepare to eat. Here is Thèrése ’s humorous and psychologically penetrating account of her dealings with this difficult colleague: “I had to remove and carry her little bench in a certain way, above all I was not to hurry…It was a question of following the poor invalid by holding her cincture; I did this with as much gentleness as possible. But if…she took a false step, immediately it appeared to her that I was holding her incorrectly.” Then the old nun would protest: “Ah! My God! You are going too fast; I’m going to break something.” When Therese would slow down, Sr. St. Pierre would say “Well, come on, I don’t feel your hand; I’m going to fall” Adding insult to injury, she would then mutter “Ah! I was right when I said you were too young to help me.

When they would arrive at the refectory, further difficulties arose. Therese had to get Sr. St. Pierre seated, but this had to be done skillfully “in order not to hurt her”; then she had to turn back the elderly nun’s sleeves, again just so, lest the old lady be upset.

Night after night this ritual was repeated, and each time Therese resolved to conquer her feelings of annoyance and act in accord with the dictates of love. One winter night, in the midst of her routine, she indulged in a bit of fantasy: “I pictured a well-lighted drawing room, brilliantly gilded, filled with elegantly dressed young ladies conversing together and conferring upon each other all sorts of compliments and other worldly remarks.” Then she surveyed her own surroundings, and all she took in were the drab colors of the cloistei the complaints of Sr. St. Pierre, the dimness and cold of the refectory. Her conclusion: “I would not have exchanged the ten minutes employed in carrying out my humble office of charity to enjoy a thousand years of worldly feasts.”The faculty that enabled Therese to make that extraordinary and counterintuitive assessment is supernatural prudence, a feel for the path of love.

A Dark Passage
I mentioned at the outset of this sketch that many readers of Story of a Soul are initially put off by Therese’s cloying and sentimental style. However even the most skeptical of her readers are usually converted by the account of her terrible struggle, at the end of her life, with unbelief. There is nothing childish or naive about this part of her story. Practically contemporaneous with the onset of the tuberculosis that would eventually kill her was the arrival in Therese’s mind of the worst sort of doubts concerning the existence of heaven. She who had, throughout her life, enjoyed the easiest confidence in the spiritual realm now wondered, Hamlet-like, whether there was anything that followed the sleep of death. And this was no passing bout of intellectual scrupulosity; rather it lasted up until the moment of her death. In The Story of a Soul, she states the facts with a bluntness bordering on desperation: “This trial was to last not a few days or a few weeks, it was not be extinguished until the hour set by God Himself and the hour has not yet come.” What is most important to note is the highly paradoxical way in which Therese interprets this struggle. She reads it as participation, granted to her by God, in the pain experienced by her contemporaries who do not believe in God: “During those very joyful days of the Easter season, Jesus made me feel that there were really souls who have no faith and who, through the abuse of grace, lost this precious treasure, the source of the only real and pure joys. He permitted my soul to be invaded by the thickest darkness.”

On the cross, Jesus cried out, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” Chesterton interpreted this as “the moment when God became an atheist,” that is to say, when God entered so fully into the state of those abandoned by God that he felt their agony. There is something very similar in Therese’s spiritual hermeneutic. Her wrestling with the possibility of atheism or agnosticism was not dumb suffering; rather, it was a gift given to her by God in order to facilitate her entry in love into the state of sinners. It was darkness to be sure, but a darkness that made possible a fuller coinherence. Strangely enough, even when she was “underground” in the murkiness of disbelief her elevated prudence remained a sure guide. This is why Balthasar has it quite right when he maintains that her doubts — though real and painful — were not so much agnosticism as a participation mystique in the psychological and spiritual state of the modern unbeliever. It was her supernatural prudence that allowed her to turn even this dark passage in her life into a way of coinherence.

A Last Step On The Little Way Of Elevated Prudence
On April 3, Good Friday morning, 1896, Therèse coughed up blood, the harbinger of tuberculosis. Though she appeared to be in fairly good health that summer and fall, the disease was progressing. By the spring of 1897, she was gravely ill and had to be relocated to the infirmary of the Carmel. Doctors who came to see her determined that the tuberculosis was widespread and that her illness was terminal.

During these last months of her life, Thérèse engaged in a series of extraordinary conversations with her sisters, wherein she continued to explicate her spiritual doctrine, in the midst of enormous struggles both physical and psychological. Sometimes she became exasperated with their fussing over her but generally she remained kind and responsive during this terrible time. She was convinced that her final illness was a gift from Jesus, a final opportunity to love, the last step on the little way of elevated prudence.

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Book Recommendation: A Secular Age by Charles Taylor

November 5, 2009

Taylor_Secular_compThese are my reading notes and selections from the opening chapters of A Secular Age which lay out the framework for the rest of the book. It’s 872 pages and although I found it readable and will return to it, I’ve decided to take the advice of another reader to read the shorter A Catholic Modernity? (Oxford University Press, 1999) The latter is a published version of the Marianist Lecture that Dr. Taylor gave in Dayton where he casts the issue of how the Catholic Church should relate to the modern world. In the meantime these reading selections give a good overview of A Secular Age and function as a companion post to the interview and selections from the 2007 Templeton Prize speech I featured yesterday.

I think A Secular Age is one of the most important books for those of us who think about the religious landscape in America because it has wonderful concepts like “the buffered self” and “subtraction stories” that go a long way to explain the secular society Catholics live in. Elsewhere on this blog you will find many references to Michael Novak’s No One Sees God,  another book that helps Catholics understand the phenomena of atheism in relationship to their faith.

Belief And Unbelief: Living Lives That Have A Certain Moral/Spiritual Shape
I want to talk about belief and unbelief, not as rival theories, that is, ways that people account for existence, or morality, whether by God or by something in nature, or whatever. Rather what I want to do is focus attention on the different kinds of lived experience involved in understanding your life in one way or the other, on what it’s like to live as a believer or an unbeliever….

We all see our lives and/or the space wherein we live our lives as having a certain moral/spiritual shape. Somewhere, in some activity, or condition, lies a fullness, a richness: that is, in that place (activity or condition), life is fuller, richer, deeper, more worth while, or admirable, more what it should be. This is perhaps a place of power: we often experience this as deeply moving, as inspiring. Perhaps this sense of fullness is something we just catch glimpses of from afar off; we have the powerful intuition of what fullness would be, were we to be in that condition, e.g., of peace or wholeness: or able to act on that level of integrity or generosity or abandonment or self-forgetfulness. But sometimes there will moments of experienced fullness, of joy and fulfillment, where we feel ourselves there. Let one example, drawn from the autobiography of Bede Griffiths, stand for many:

“One day during my last term at school I walked out alone in the evening and heard the birds singing in that full chorus of song, which can only heard at that time of the year at dawn or at sunset. I remember the shock of surprise with which the sound broke on my ears. It seemed to me that I had never heard the birds singing before and I wondered whether they sang like this all year round and I had never noticed it. As I walked I came upon some hawthorn trees in full bloom and again I though that I had never seen such a sight or experienced such sweetness before, If I had been brought suddenly among the trees of the Garden of Paradise and heard a choir of angels singing I could not have been more surprised. I came then to where the sun was setting over the playing fields. A lark rose suddenly from the ground beside the tree where I was standing and poured out its song over my head, and then sank still singing to rest. Everything grew still as the sunset faded and the veil of dusk began to cover the earth, I remember now the feeling of awe which came over me. I felt inclined to kneel on the ground, as though I had been standing in the presence of an angel; and I hardly dared to look on the face of the sky, because it seemed as though it was but a veil before the face of God.”

Modern Unbelievers: The Power Within
For modern unbelievers…the power to reach fullness is within. There are different variations of this. One is that which centers on our nature as rational beings. The Kantian variation is the most upfront form of this. We have the power as a rational agency to make the laws by which we live. This is something so greatly superior to the force of mere nature in us, in the form of desire, that when we contemplate it without distortion, we cannot but feel reverence (Achtung) for this power.

The place of fullness is where we manage finally to give this power full reign, and so to live by it. We have a feeling of receptivity, when with our full sense of our own fragility and pathos as desiring beings, we look up to the power of law-giving with admiration and awe. But this doesn’t in the end mean that there is any reception from outside; the power is within; and the more we realize this power, the more we become aware that it is within, that morality must be autonomous (functioning independently without control by others) and not heteronomous (subject to another’s laws or rule).

Later a Feuerbachian theory of alienation can be added to this: we project God because of our early sense of this awesome power which we mistakenly place outside us; we need to appropriate it for human beings. But Kant didn’t take this step. …There may be a more rigorous naturalism…but within this kind of naturalism, we often find an admiration for the power of cool, disengaged reason, capable of contemplating the world and human life without illusion and of acting lucidly for the best in the interest of human flourishing.

A certain awe still surrounds reason as a critical power, capable of liberating us from illusion and blind forces of instinct, as well as the phantasies bred of our fear and narrowness and pusillanimity (timidity, cowardliness, irresolute; faintheartedness). The nearest thing to fullness lies in this power of reason, and it is entirely ours, developed if it is through our own, often heroic action. (And here the giants of modern “scientific” reason are often named: Copernicus, Darwin, Freud. ….

The sources of power are not transcendent (existing apart from the material universe: said of God). They are to be found in Nature, or in our own inner depths, or in both. We can recognize theories of immanence (present throughout the universe: said of God) …most notably certain ecological ethics of our day, particularly deep ecology (ecology = relations between living organisms and their environment; deep ecology= http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Deep_ecology) …(These) views have certain analogies to the religious reaction to the unbelieving Enlightenment, in that they stress reception over against self-sufficiency; but they are views which intend to remain immanent, and are often as hostile, if not more so, to religion than the disengaged ones.

The Presumption Of Unbelief
We have changed from a condition in which belief was the default option, not just fit for the naive but also for those who knew, considered, talked abut atheism; to a condition in which for more and more people unbelieving construals seem at first blush the only plausible ones. They can only approach, without ever gaining the condition of “naïve” atheists, in the way that their ancestors were naive, semi-pagan  believers; but this seems to them the overwhelming plausible construal, and it is difficult to understand people adopting another. So much so that they easily reach for rather gross error theories to explain religious belief: people are afraid of uncertainty, the unknown; they’re weak in the head, crippled by guilt, etc.

That is not to say that everyone is in this condition. Our modern civilization is made up of a host of societies, sub-societies and milieu, all rather different from each other. But the presumption of unbelief has become dominant in more and more other milieu; and has achieved hegemony in certain crucial ones, in the academic and intellectual life, for instance; whence it can more easily extend itself to others….To put the point in different terms, belief in God isn’t quite the same thing in 1500 and 2000.

The Shift In Background: Understanding The Differences In Terms Of Experience And Sensibility
It is this shift in background, in the whole context in which we experience and search for fullness that I am calling the coming of a secular age….How did we move from a condition where, in Christendom, people lived naively within a theistic construal, to one in which we all shunt between two stances, in which everyone’s construal shows up as such; and in which, moreover, unbelief has become for many the major default option?…

We have to understand the differences between these two options not just in terms of creeds, but also in terms of differences of experience and sensibility. And on this latter level, we have to take account of two important differences: first, there is the massive change in the whole background of belief or unbelief, that is the passing to the earlier “naïve framework, and the rise of the “reflective” one. And secondly we have to be aware of how believers and unbelievers can experience their world very differently….

We have moved from a world in which the place of fullness was understood as unproblematically outside of “beyond” human life, to a conflicted age in which this construal is challenged by others which place it (in a wide range of different ways) “within” human life.

An Immanent Order In Nature: The Great Invention Of The West
The great invention of the West was that of an immanent order in Nature, whose working could be systematically understood and explained on its own terms, leaving open the question whether this whole order had a deeper significance, and whether, if it did, we should infer a transcendent Creator beyond it.

This notion of the “immanent” involved denying – or at least isolating and problematizing – any form of interpenetration between the things of Nature on one hand and the “supernatural” on the other, this understood in terms of the one transcendent God,  or of Gods, or magic forces, or whatever.

The Resources That Society Offers
Every person, and every society, lives with or by some conception(s) of what human flourishing is: What constitutes a fulfilled life? What makes life really worth living? What would we most admire people for? We can’t help asking these and related questions in our lives. And our struggles to answer them define the view or views that we try to live by, or between which we hover.

At another level these views are codified, sometimes in philosophical theories, sometimes in moral codes, sometimes in religious practices and devotion. Those and the various ill-formulated practices which people around us engage constitute the resources that our society offers each one of us as we try to lead our lives….

Buddhism and Christianity
In both Buddhism and Christianity, there is something similar to spite of the great difference in doctrine, This is that the believer or devout person is called on to make a profound inner break with the goals of flourishing in their own case; they are called on, that is, to detach themselves from their own flourishing, to the point of the extinction of self in one case, or to that of renunciation of human fulfillment to serve God. The respective patterns are clearly visible in the exemplary figures. The Buddha achieves Enlightenment; Christ consents to a degrading death to follow his Father’s will….

In the Christian case, the very point of renunciation requires that the ordinary flourishing forgone be confirmed as valid. Unless living the full span were a good, Christ’s giving of himself to death couldn’t have the meaning it does. In this it is utterly different from Socrates’ death, which the latter portrays as leaving this condition for a better one.

Here we see the unbridgeable gulf between Christianity and Greek philosophy. God wills ordinary human flourishing, and a great part of what is reported in the Gospels consists in Christ making this possible for the people whose afflictions he heals. The call to renounce doesn’t negate the value of flourishing; it is rather a call to center everything on God, even if it be at the cost of forgoing this un-substitutable good; and the fruit of this forgoing is that it become on one level the source of flourishing to others, and on another level, a collaboration with the restoration of a fuller flourishing by God. It is a mode of healing wounds and “repairing the world” (Here I am borrowing the Hebrew phrase tikkun olam).

This means that flourishing and renunciation cannot simply be collapsed into each other to make a single goal, by as it were, pitching the renounced goods overboard as unnecessary ballast on the journey of life, in the manner of Stoicism. There remains a fundamental tension in Christianity. Flourishing is good, nevertheless seeking it is not our ultimate goal. But even where we renounce it, we re-affirm it, because we follow God’s will in being a channel for it to others, and ultimately to all….

Buddhism also has this notion that the renouncer is source of compassion for those who suffer. There is an analogy between karuna and agape. And over the centuries in Buddhist civilization there developed parallel with Christendom, a distinction of vocation between radical renouncers, and those who go on living within the forms of life aiming at ordinary flourishing, while trying to accumulate merit or a future life.

Self-Sufficient Humanism And The Secular Age
Now the point in bringing out this distinction between human flourishing and the goals which go beyond it is this. I would like to claim that the coming of modern secularity in my sense has been coterminous with the rise of society in which for the first time in history a purely self-sufficient humanism came to be a widely available option. I mean by this a humanism accepting no final goals beyond human flourishing, nor any allegiance to anything else beyond this flourishing. Of no previous society was this true. …

A secular age is one in which the eclipse of all goals beyond human flourishing become conceivable; or better, it falls within the range of an imaginable life for masses of people. This is the crucial link between secularity and self-sufficing humanism.

A Polemic Against “Subtraction Stories”
I will be making a continuing polemic against what I call “subtraction stories”. Concisely put, I mean by this stories of modernity in general, and secularity in particular, which explain them by human beings having lost, or sloughed off, or liberated themselves from certain earlier confining horizons , or illusions, or limitations of knowledge.

What emerges from this process –modernity or secularity – is to be understood in terms of underlying features of human nature which were there all along, but had been impeded by what is now set aside. Against this kind of story, I will steadily be arguing that Western modernity, including its secularity, is the fruit of new inventions, newly constructed self-understandings and related practices, and can’t be explained in terms of perennial features of human life.

Three Modes Of God’s Felt Presence That Disappeared
One important part of the picture (why it was virtually impossible not to believe in God in 1500 while in 2000 many find this not only easy but inescapable.

(1)  The natural world they lived in, which had its place in the cosmos they imagined, testified to divine purpose and action; and not just in the obvious way which we can still understand and (at least many of us) appreciate today, that its order and design bespeaks creation, but also because the great events in this natural order, storms, droughts, floods, plagues, as well as years of exceptional fertility and flourishing were seen as acts of God, as the now dead metaphor of our legal language still bears witness.

(2)  God was also implicated in the very existence of society (but not descried as such — this is a modern term – rather as polis, kingdom, church or whatever). A kingdom could only be conceived as grounded in something higher than mere human action in secular time. And beyond that, the life of the various associations which made up society, parishes, boroughs, guilds, and so on, were interwoven with ritual and worship…. Once could not but encounter God everywhere.

(3)  People lived in an “enchanted” world. This is perhaps not the best expression; it seems to evoke light and fairies, But I am invoking here its negation, Weber’s expression “disenchantment” as a  description of our modern condition. …The enchanted world in this sense is the world of spirits, demons, and moral forces which our ancestors lived in.

…Now the disappearance of these three modes of God’s felt presence in our world, while it certainly facilitates this change, couldn’t by itself bring it about. Because we can certainly go on experiencing fullness as gift from God, even in a disenchanted world, a secular society, and a post-cosmic universe. In order to be able not to, we needed an alternative.

And so the story …will relate not only how God’s presence receded in these three dimensions; it also has to tell how something other than God could become the necessary objective pole of moral or spiritual aspiration of “fullness.” …What I’ll be concerned with is the Entstehungsgeschichte (developing history) of exclusive humanism.

Modern (Exclusive )Humanism Produced A Substitute For Agapē: The Buffered Self
In this respect, of course, science is helping to disenchant the universe, contributed to opening the way for exclusive humanism. A crucial condition for this was new sense of the self and its place in the cosmos: not open and porous and vulnerable to a world of spirits and powers, but what I want to call “buffered.” But it took more than disenchantment to produce the buffered self; it was also necessary to have confidence in our own powers of moral ordering…

It had to include the active capacity to shape and fashion our world, natural and social; and it had to be actuated by some drive to human beneficence. To put this second requirement in a way which refers back to the religious tradition, modern humanism, in addition to being activist and interventionist (like Epicureanism, that taught ataraxia — ataraxia was synonymous with the only true happiness possible for a person. It signifies the detached and balanced state of mind that shows that a person has transcended the material world and is now harvesting all the comforts of philosophy had to produce some substitute for agapē. …This couldn’t be done overnight.

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Dr. Charles Taylor

November 4, 2009

taylor2007 Templeton Prize and 2008 Kyoto Prize winner Charles Margrave Taylor is reputed to be a genial man with a disposition to laughter, often at himself. Perhaps more importantly, for a thinker who coined the term “malaise of modernity” he is also an optimist. That he, is considered a philosopher’s philosopher by his peers, exhibiting a rare mastery across an impressive spectrum of ideas only increases admiration. The author of more than a dozen books, including the widely praised “Sources of the Self” and the masterful “A Secular Age,” (reading selections in another post) Taylor’s work explores a dizzying array of disciplines — philosophy, religion, political theory, moral theory, and ethics, among others. Lindsay Waters, executive editor at Harvard University Press, has said, “Charles Taylor’s passionate philosophy allows him to zero in on the most distinctively human issues of our time, and not be afraid.”

A Bibliography of Charles Taylor (His comments on each follow the titles)

The Explanation of Behavior. (Routledge and Paul Kegan, 1964) This was my doctoral dissertation. It was an all-out attack on psychological behaviorism, which tried to show that only muddled philosophical thinking could hide from its practitioners that their research program was reaching a dead-end.

Hegel. (Cambridge University Press, 1975; various languages) This was an attempt to write an introduction to Hegel’s philosophy which would make his work understandable to people trained in the analytical tradition. It was originally commissioned for the Penguin series on major philosophers, but it rapidly outgrew the permitted dimensions for this series and had to be published elsewhere. Why Hegel? Because I sensed then that I wanted to attempt the kind of philosophically informed reflection on history, and particularly the rise of modernity, that Hegel had pioneered. Whether one agrees or disagrees with his actual results (and I have big disagreements with it), you have to come to terms with Hegel’s work before you form your own view.

Hegel and Modern Society. (Cambridge University Press, 1979; various languages) This was basically a shortened version of Hegel, without some of the difficult parts (for instance, on the Logic), and with more emphasis on the relevance of Hegel today.

Philosophical Papers Vol. 1: Human Agency and Language.
Philosophical Papers Vol. 2: Philosophy and the Human Sciences. (Cambridge University Press, 1985) In these two collections, I brought together a number of papers written in the previous two decades. These were mostly critiques of mechanistic, and/or reductive, and/or atomistic approaches to human sciences. Following a similar line to The Explanation of Behavior, I tried to show that the popularity of these approaches, which modeled human on natural science, depended on faulty philosophical thinking and /or obviously over-simplified views of human life. One paper in particular in these collections brought together a number of these themes: “Interpretation and the Sciences of Man.”

Sources of the Self: The Making of the Modern Identity. (Harvard University Press, 1989; various languages) This was my first large-scale attempt to make a philosophically-informed reflection on history. The theme was the development of the modern understanding of the human agent, with its peculiar and often conflicting features: an individual, potentially disengaged from history, society and the body, and yet with inner depths, calling for further definition through expressive activity, with an identity which he or she can contribute to define. My thesis is that we are all caught in the tension between what we have drawn from the Cartesian-Lockean tradition and the Enlightenment on one hand, and what we have learned from the Romantic-expressive movement on the other.

The Malaise of Modernity. (Anansi, 1991; various languages). Published in the United States as The Ethics of Authenticity (Harvard University Press, 1992). This text was the basis for my Massey Lectures, a series of talks given each year on the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation. It tried to explore our conflictual relation to modernity, in particular to modern individualism, the stress on instrumental reason; and it looked at the problems these pose for democracy, largely in a Tocquevillean spirit. I attempted to describe the ethic of authenticity, which emerges from the Romantic-expressive tradition I had articulated in Sources, and to discuss the ways in which this can be led astray and trivialized in contemporary society.

Multiculturalism and “The Politics of Recognition”. (with Amy Gutman and others) (Princeton University Press, 1992; various languages) Modernity has produced a new concept of identity, a definition of self which we partly take over from our world and our history, and partly redefine ourselves. This has had a profound impact on our political life. Issues which might have been fought out in terms of equality versus privilege, or the fight against exploitation, in the past, are now frequently framed in terms of personal and collective identities and their alleged non- or mis-recognition. I was trying in this essay to analyze this new phenomenon, drawing heavily on conflicts with which I am (all too) familiar, those surrounding Quebec nationalism, language rights and the issue of independence.

Philosophical Arguments. (Harvard University Press, 1995; various languages) This is another collection similar to the two published in 1985, and it reflects further developments of the same themes, with a greater emphasis on epistemological issues.

A Catholic Modernity? (Oxford University Press, 1999) This is a published version of the Marianist Lecture that I gave in Dayton. I try to cast the issue of how the Catholic Church should relate to the modern world, in the context of an understanding of Catholic Christianity as capable of finding a place in, without ever identifying with, all human civilizations and cultures. I tried to look at modern Western civilization as another such culture, analogous to the unfamiliar cultures which missionaries may find themselves in. I think this kind of move dissolves the too close identification which Western Christians have with the Modern West, seen as a former Christendom partly in the process of apostasy, with all the multiple resentments and attempts to hold on to an idealized past which this entails.

Varieties of Religion Today: William James Revisited. (Harvard University Press, 2002; various languages) This is one of the (three) products of my Gifford Lectures in Edinburgh in 1999. The theme of those lectures, delivered at the Vienna Institute of the Human Sciences, was the rise of the contemporary secular age in the West (see below A Secular Age). This was an off-shoot, a look back at William James’ Gifford Lectures, also delivered in Edinburgh a century before (1902). I note the often uncanny parallels between what he said then, and what we see now.

Modern Social Imaginaries. (Duke University Press, 2004) This is the second product of the Gifford Lectures, an expanded version of one of the chapters in A Secular Age, where I try to define the shifts in our way of collectively imagining ourselves as a society which occurred in the development of Western modernity and helped to constitute it. I examine particularly the way we have come to understand ourselves as existing in an economy, participating in a public sphere, and being part of a citizen state.

A Secular Age. (Harvard University Press, to be published Fall 2007) This will be the third (and central) product of the Gifford Lectures. It is an attempt to follow the development of the modern Western secular age, which at the same time is an attempt to define what we mean by this term. It is a basic thesis of the book that these two questions: “What is secularity?” and “How did it develop?” can only be properly addressed together. In the course of it, I challenge what for a long time was the dominant “master narrative” of secularization, as the inevitable decline of religion with advancing modernity; and this, of course, involves a rather different understanding of the place of religion and spirituality today.

Reading Selections from  Charles Taylor’s Templeton Prize News Conference, March 14, 2007

About the Prize
I want to say first how deeply honoured I am to be chosen for the Templeton Prize. I believe that the goal Sir John Templeton has chosen is of the greatest contemporary importance and relevance: we have somehow to break down the barriers between our contemporary culture of science and disciplined academic study (what the Germans gather in the term “Wissenschaft”) on one hand, and the domain of spirit, on the other. This has been one of the driving goals of my own intellectual work, and to have it recognized as such fills me with an unstable mixture of joy and humility.

Sir John has seen, I believe, that the barriers between science and spirituality are not only ungrounded, but are also crippling. They impede crucial further insight. This case has been eloquently argued by the physicists, biologists and cosmologists who have been awarded the prize in recent years. But I feel that now a further step is being taken. The divorce of natural science and religion has been damaging to both; but it is equally true that the culture of the humanities and social sciences has often been surprisingly blind and deaf to the spiritual, and that in my case, the attempt to break down these barriers is being recognized and honoured.

A Deafness To The Spiritual Dimension
The deafness of many philosophers, social scientists and historians to the spiritual dimension can be remarkable. And this is the more damaging in that it affects the culture of the media and of educated public opinion in general. I take a striking case, a statement, not admittedly by a social scientist, but by a Nobel Laureate cosmologist, Steven Weinberg. I take it, because I find that it is often repeated in the media and in informal argument. Weinberg said (I quote from memory): “there are good people who do good things, and bad people who do bad things, but for good people to do bad things, it takes religion.”

On one level, it is astonishing that anyone who lived through a good part of the 20th Century could say something like this. What are we to make of those noble, well-intentioned Bolsheviks, Marxist materialist atheists to a man (and occasional woman), who ended up building one of the most oppressive and murderous brace of regimes in human history? When people quote this phrase to me, or some equivalent, and I enter this objection, they often reply, “but Communism was a religion,” a reply which shifts the goal-posts and upsets the argument.

When “Religion” Means The Murderously Irrational
But it’s worth pondering for a minute what lies behind this move. The “Weinberg principle,” if I might use this term, is being made tautologically true, because any set of beliefs which can induce decent people, who would never kill for personal gain, to murder for the cause, is being defined as “religion.” “Religion” is being defined as the murderously irrational.

Pretty sloppy thinking. But it is also crippling. What the speaker is really expressing is something like this: the terrible violence of the 20th Century has nothing to do with right-thinking, rational, enlightened people like me. The argument is then joined on the other side by certain believers who point out that Hitler, Stalin, Mao, Pol Pot, etc., were all enemies of religion, and feel that good Christians like me have no part in such horrors. This conveniently forgets the Crusades, the Inquisition, and much else.

Both sides need to be wrenched out of their complacent dream, and see that no-one, just in virtue of having the right beliefs, is immune from being recruited to group violence: from the temptation to target another group which is made responsible for all our ills, from the illusion of our own purity which comes from our readiness to combat this evil force with all our might. We urgently need to understand what makes whole groups of people ready to be swept up into this kind of project.

A Need For A New Insight Into The Human Propensity For Violence
But in fact, we have only a very imperfect grasp on this. Some of our most insightful scholars, like Ren Girard, or Sudhir Kakar, have studied it. Great writers, like Dostoevsky, have cast great light on it, but it remains still mysterious. What is equally imperfectly understood is the way in which charismatic spiritual leadership, of a Gandhi, a Mandela, a Tutu, can bring people back from the brink.

But without this kind of spiritual initiative, the best-intentioned efforts to put human history on a new, and more humane footing, have often turned this history into a slaughter bench, in Hegel’s memorable phrase. It is a sobering thought that Robespierre, in the first discussions on the new revolutionary constitution for France, voted against the death penalty. Yet the path to this peaceable republic, which would spare the lives of even its worst criminals, somehow led through the nightmare of the Terror.

We urgently need new insight into the human propensity for violence, and following the authors I mentioned above, this cannot be a reductive sociobiological one, but must take full account of the human striving for meaning and spiritual direction, of which the appeals to violence are a perversion. But we don’t even begin to see where we have to look as long as we accept the complacent myth that people like us (enlightened secularists, or believers) are not part of the problem. We will pay a high price if we allow this kind of muddled thinking to prevail.

The Secularization Thesis
The barriers between our social sciences and the spiritual dimension of life are crippling in a whole host of other ways as well. I have recently been working on the issue of what we mean in describing our present civilization in the West as “secular.” For a long time, in mainstream sociology this development was taken as unproblematic and inevitable. Certain of the features of modernity: economic development, urbanization, rising mobility, higher educational levels, were seen as inevitably bringing about a decline in religious belief and practice. This was the famous “secularization thesis.” For a long time, this view dominated thinking in social science and history. More recent events have shaken this conviction, even among mainstream scholars.

But well before this revision occurred, a minority of scholars were already turning the theory inside out. In particular, David Martin in his epochal, General Theory of Secularization. The main thrust of this work, and of others who have followed, is that secularization theory was not just factually wrong. It also misconceived the whole process.

New Forms Of Religious Life
It was indeed, true that the various facets of modernization destabilized older, traditional forms of religious life; but new forms were always being re-invented, and some of these took on tremendous importance. David Martin has traced the development of new congregational forms through Methodism, and various waves of revival in the United States, through the birth of Pentacostal forms about a century ago, which are now spreading with great speed in all parts of the globe. Equally far-reaching changes have occurred in Catholic Churches in many parts of the world.

Breaking out of the old intellectual mould opens up a whole new field of great importance: what are the new forms of religion which are developing in the West? And what relation do they have to those which are growing elsewhere, in Asia, Africa, Latin America? This is part of what I am trying to study in my work, drawing on the pioneering analyses of David Martin, on the writings of Robert Bellah, and on the recent work of younger sociologists, like Jos Casanova and Hans Joas.

Some of these forms, like those in which religion or confessionality becomes the basis of a quasi-nationalist political mobilization, have obviously assumed immense, even threatening proportions in our day. We urgently need to understand their dynamic, their benefits and dangers, an area that the old framework of secularization theory hid from sight.

John Templeton’s Insight
In this domain too, John Templeton’s insight turns out to be valid, a blindness to the spiritual dimension of human life makes us incapable of exploring issues which are vital to our lives. Or to turn it around and state the positive: bringing the spiritual back in opens domains in which important and even exciting discoveries become possible.

I am happy to be engaged in this work, among a number of others: the sociologists I mentioned above, and some philosophers, like Alasdair MacIntyre. I sense in this prize awarded to me a recognition not only of my work but of this collective effort. This awakens powerful, if somewhat confused emotions: joy, pride, and a sense of inadequacy mingle together. But above all I feel the great satisfaction of knowing that this whole area of work will acquire a higher saliency through the award of this Prize; and I feel the most heartfelt gratitude to Sir John and to the

Templeton Foundation Interview with Dr. Charles Taylor

In the following Q&A, Professor Taylor explains the importance of the concept of mystery to our understanding of the universe, why “God is not Dead,” and whether he is a fox or a hedgehog.

JTF: In your 2007 Templeton Prize statement you spoke of “the deafness of many philosophers, social scientists, and historians to the spiritual dimensions.” What do you think accounts for this deafness? Where is that deafness coming from?

CT: Well, we can go back and back and back … the immediate cause is that people bought into a very simple narrative of secularization. Modernity – however you want to define it, be it economic growth or urbanization or science and technology, or the whole package – makes religion shrink. But that’s not sufficient to explain it intellectually. For a long time people tried to explain the Reformation in economic terms, which is the same kind of deafness. So they buy very deeply into this narrative and I think we all live by narratives. And always have

JTF: The ancient Mayans said the universe is made out of stories.

CT: That’s right and they’re absolutely right. The thing is these people believe in science and they don’t think they are living by narrative. They think they are just picking up the facts.

JTF: Science is just a magnet that picks up facts?

CT: Yes … there is this idea of science, and “God is Dead” as part of the background to this narrative, that tells you that you don’t need to worry about religion.

JTF: Isn’t “God is Dead” getting old as a concept?

CT: You’re right. But there’s a lag. People – and I’ve lived a long time – people in the last few decades are more embarrassed about just saying “God is Dead,” or religion doesn’t count … But these disciplines are like a large tanker. They are not easy to turn. You can’t turn academic disciplines around in six months. They are trained, and they have entire dissertations, and a lot invested (laughter).

JTF: In a certain sense we’re talking about “God is Dead” as an intellectual exercise, but if you take that idea out of the academy and apply it on a global scale, it doesn’t track. Religious activity is very high world-wide and over 90% of Americans say they in fact believe in god. Doesn’t this create a tension for the “God is Dead” narrative?

CT: Well, not necessarily because the people who are really sure of this picture, of this narrative, they have all sorts of ways of accounting for this. They will always account for it by some other factor, be it economic or social factors, etc.

JTF: Is religious belief too big a phenomenon to be explained by one or two reductionistic theories?

CT: Yes, but it’s more than that. This is something that you cannot ultimately prove except by impressing people with the fact that you have a more intelligent interpretation all the time. But it is just evident that human beings are religious animals. There’s something that intrinsically strikes people about spirituality and that’s part of the motivation. It’s part of the reason why it goes on. And it you try to circle around that, you go nowhere.

JTF: What do you make of the Richard Dawkins/Sam Harris argument that religious moderates of all faiths empower, and in some cases allow, religious extremists to exist by dint of their tolerance? In a sense the moderate broad-mindedness enables the extremist’s narrow-mindedness.

CT: This doesn’t make an awful lot of sense to me. I know my Muslim friends are not tolerating extremists. They say, “This is awful, a distortion, a travesty of what I consider my faith.” Now, if they aren’t saying that, then it is a political criticism to make to them very severely, “Why are you shutting up?” But what Dawkins means is that by propounding the core doctrines of Islam or Christianity we are somehow empowering Pat Robertson’s or what have you. That seems to me to be absurd. Particularly if you think these doctrines are correct, and that these doctrines are the only antidote to this kind of rage. I would also throw back to Dawkins, ‘Are you empowering Stalin? Are you empowering Pol Pot?’ These people took their violence out in destroying religious institutions. So is Dawkins empowering them by saying that religion is a terrible curse, a virus that has to be stamped out? I’m sure he would say “no, Joseph Stalin, don’t shoot those priests. Be a nice guy!” But that’s exactly what we’re trying to say to religious extremists! So if we’re supposed to stop promoting these doctrines because people carry them to extremes, then he is surely guilty of doing the same thing.

JTF: Why are we encountering fundamentalism–in all stripes–atheists, Christians, Islam right now?

CT: We’re living in an age of anxiety where everybody is made insecure in their own deep sense of meaning by the fact that there are all these competing elements. One of the ways you can calm down that anxiety about your own sense of meaning is by diabolizing the others, making it absolutely clear and undeniable that they are wrong.

JTF: Some scientists criticize religion for not properly understanding science’s incredible ability to explain the natural world.

CT: The Christian tradition got totally pulled off-track in the 17th century where a very simple scientific influenced notion–through Newton–arrived at design; thinking of the universe like a clock.

JTF: They thought if we just start to peel off the hands and then we’ll get to the inner cogs and we have just start to really understand the universe as a mechanism.

CT: They saw it as this fantastic design. But they lost the sense of a really great mystery; the sense that there is maybe something here we can’t understand. And a great deal of Christian apologetic since then has been based on this incredible oversimplification of our universe. The result has been, in a certain sense, a kind of not very fruitful spirituality.

JTF: The battle over the mystery that you speak of is one that many scientists are keen to engage in. Will science come up against a fundamental limit?

CT: I don’t know. It’s something you’d have to guess at. We know that Newton had oversimplifying ideas. Although the mystery has been pushed further out, it’s not just the mystery of how it all began that is important here, but there’s also of course the absolutely untouched yet mystery of how we–intelligent beings–arose out of all of this. Today, the equivalent of the Newtonian mind are people in genetics. They say, ‘we’ve got the human genome.’ But it’s laughable, they are no closer to understanding how it really works. People talk about a gene for this, a gene for that. But then you’ve got to press them, how does it really work? They say, ‘something switches it off, and then something switches it on.’ What’s missing here is a holistic account of how it all works. My hunch is that it’s very, very unlikely that we will have a complete resolution on how this extraordinary rise of species came about in terms that are consonant with current molecular biology.

JTF: As a philosopher, what do you think about the role of neuroscience in pushing back this mystery?

CT: I’m not a great expert, but I am a great consumer of it. The people that are really cutting-edge are making a lot of sense, but they are more backing me up than anything else… what we really need is a kind of field theory and nobody really knows what that could be.

JTF: If you were hired to consult with all the great world religions, with the idea toward finding a pluralistic solution that guaranteed mutual respect, how would you get around the obvious problem that the closer the world religions come together, the more they must flatten their beliefs into a universal theme, denying their depth and differences?

CT: It’s a very, very deep question and when I’ve been in dialogues across these barriers, that haven’t been of that watering down kind, but where there’s something else, there’s a deep sense that there’s something very important and valid there even if you don’t end up believing it. That in this other spirituality there is something very deep. I’ve talked to Jews, Muslims, Buddhists and I’ve said ‘tell me what really makes you tick, and don’t water it down, and I’ll do the same for you.’ And this has been a remarkably spiritually rewarding experience for me. You don’t need to find some middle-point, some syntheses, that doesn’t make sense . . . The Dalai Lama, someone I admire very much and I’ve had some discussions with said about this issue, ‘you don’t put a yak’s head on a sheep’s body.’

JTF: Do you think the 21st century is going to be pulled towards religious pluralism? Or do you think the forces of fundamentalism are going to be a wedge into that concept?

CT: Well, the jury’s out. We have a battle on our hands whether we end up getting into a clash of civilizations mindset. At the moment in the West, we have a huge cultural fight within ourselves against Islamophobia. There’s a kind of mindless Islamophobia that says all 1.2 billion Muslims believe the same thing and that what they believe makes them do terrible things. I’ve seen this in Europe and in North America and we have to fight this kind of thinking very, very hard.

JTF: You say in your JTF essay that now more than ever we need “trail-blazers, who will open new or retrieve forgotten modes of prayer, meditation, friendship, solidarity and compassionate action.” Who are some figures that qualify in your mind as past trail-blazers?

CT: Well John Main, who created a Christian meditation practice, and Mother Theresa come to mind.

JTF: There is a long-standing debate about the relationship between science and religion. Some see modern science as a new kind of explanatory power, capable of pushing into territory once held exclusively by religion. Others see science and religion as “non-overlapping magisteria?” (To quote Stephen Jay Gould) Where do you fall in this dialogue?

CT: Science and religion are not quite totally non-overlapping magisteria, but he is right in the sense that if anybody said, ‘I’m going to solve all the problems of the meaning of life, by only looking at the evolutionary view,’ they would be mad, they do not understand the limitations. Or, on the other hand, reading the Bible to understand how human beings evolved, that’s equally unrealistic.

JTF: So it is perfectly reasonable to believe in both God and evolution…

CT: Yes, of course.

JTF: Aristotle talked about the good life and what it means to live a good life. What is the Taylor view of how to live the good life in the 21st century?

CT: You have to look at it like this: what do you want to give to your children and grandchildren? You want to give them some range of these very profound spiritual languages that have come down to us, with the understanding that they will always have to tweak them and change them, but you want to give them some starting insight. What is really disconcerting in a lot of the modern world is how many young people no longer have contact with Shakespeare, or what a biblical reference is, and they are really cut off.

JTF: You work has focused on some of the most horrifying realities of human existence: religion and violence, the malaise of modernity, and yet in so much of your writing contains real optimism. Where does that come from?

CT: Yes, it’s terrible. It’s just temperamental, I can’t stop myself! My friends keep saying I’m ridiculously optimistic.

JTF: Isn’t being optimistic a little bit at odds with philosophy?

CT: Definitively, it’s at odds with the zeitgeist. But I recognize that I must be as realistic as possible and that I must not get carried away. On the other hand, if you don’t have optimism you just give up in a way that I don’t want to do.

JTF: You studied under the famed political philosopher Sir Isaiah Berlin at Oxford, Are you a fox or hedgehog?

CT: (laughing) Oh very definitely a hedgehog.

JTF: You’re a hedgehog? He said you were a hedgehog, but I’m surprised to hear you say that.

CT: Everything connects.

JTF: Everything connects, but I see in your range of interests and your ability to go across multiple disciplines, a fox-like demeanor. Are you not a hedgehog disguised as a fox?

CT: Yes, ok, as a fox. (laughs). But don’t blow my cover!

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Fr. Michael Heller

November 3, 2009
Michael Heller

'Science gives us knowledge, but religion gives us meaning.' – Michael Heller, 2008 Templeton Prize winner

From the Christian Science Monitor: Author of 30 books in Polish and five in English, Fr. Heller, an ordained Roman Catholic priest and a professor of philosophy at the Pontifical Academy in Krakow, Poland, has made the fostering of dialogue between science and religion a priority.

“He’s one of the key contributors in the international scholarly community dedicated to the creative dialogue on science, theology, and philosophy,” says Robert John Russell, founder and director of the Center for Theology and the Natural Sciences in Berkeley, Calif. “He’s a great example of someone who bridges these fields.”

For Heller, these seemingly distinct realms of human understanding actually depend on one another for stability. “Science gives us knowledge, but religion gives us meaning,” he says. “Science without religion is not meaningless, but lame…. And religion without science [slides] into fundamentalism,” he says. Heller draws on deep understanding of cosmology, religion, and philosophy to tackle questions such as, “Does the universe need to have a cause?” and “Why is there something rather than nothing?”

Those familiar with Heller’s work laud his rigor of thought. “In an era when serious scientists and serious religionists declare themselves at war with each other and claims of connections are often by superficial thinkers, Michael Heller is the exception,” says Philip Clayton, professor of philosophy and religion at Claremont Graduate University in Claremont, Calif. “Rigorous thinkers seem to have fled the no man’s land between the two warring factions.”

Heller was born in 1936 in Tarnow, Poland, one of five children. His mother was a teacher, his father a mechanical and electrical engineer. When the Germans invaded in 1939, Heller’s father sabotaged the chemical factory where he worked to keep it out of Nazi hands. The family then fled east into what is now Ukraine.

In 1940, Joseph Stalin ordered 1 million Poles, including Heller’s family, to Siberia to log the forests. The hardships of exile made a lasting impression. “[Heller] knew that many people survived the extreme Siberian situation because they found in prayer both their spiritual force and their will to survive,” writes Joseph Zycinski, archbishop of Lublin, Poland, in the foreword to Heller’s 2003 book, “Creative Tension: Essays on Science and Religion.” “His main dream after coming back to Poland was to become a priest and to help people in finding solutions to the most basic problems of life.”

Heller has a different take. On his return to Poland, “I was too ambitious,” he says, smiling. “I wanted to do what was the most important thing to be done.” In his estimation, that was science and religion. In 1959, at a time when religion was officially discouraged under communism, Heller was ordained a priest. In 1966, he received his PhD in philosophy from the Catholic University of Lublin. And beginning in 1969, Karol Wojtyla, the archbishop of Krakow who later became Pope John Paul II, began inviting scientists, philosophers, and theologians – Heller included – to his residence to discuss how the disciplines interrelated. The group became known as the Center for Interdisciplinary Studies.

Heller also studied Marxist philosophy, primarily so he could rebut it. His time in Siberia had given him an all-too-close view of the reality behind the slogans. “Many young Poles were seduced by Marxism,” he says. “But from the very beginning, I had no illusions.” Navigating these worlds sharpened Heller, says Professor Clayton.

“Michael had to work with the complexities of two very difficult systems – the communist system and the complexities of Vatican politics,” he says. “Instead of being tempted to sell his soul, he used that complexity as a drive, as impetus to do more careful and more subtle work at the level of the science-religion dialogue where enduring connections could be discovered.”

The announcement on March 12 that Michael Heller had won the 2008 Templeton Prize drew wide international news coverage. Media outlets from the U.S. to the UK, from India to Heller’s native Poland, described his achievements and his unusual career as a theoretical physicist, philosopher, and Catholic priest. The story was interesting enough to readers of the New York Times that it climbed to #3 on the paper’s list of the most e-mailed articles. Heller explained to BBC World TV that the link between his scientific research and his work in philosophy and theology is the central role of rationality. As he put it, mathematics serves as a way of “contemplating the work of God.”

Such themes were eagerly taken up by the many bloggers and readers who commented on Heller’s ideas in various online forums. A news article about the Templeton Prize posted on the website of the Chronicle of Higher Education generated more than forty responses. Though several were little more than the familiar name-calling of the culture wars, other comments were much more thoughtful. As one reader remarked, the “richness” of Heller’s contribution lies in his understanding that “science and religion are not methods of either/or.” Another expressed his hope that religious people would not “close their ears to science” and that scientists would “not fall into scientism.”

Chris Herlinger, a reporter and blogger for the Religion News Service, was struck by Heller’s impatience with the advocates of “intelligent design.” Calling their views “a grave theological error” (a phrase taken from his formal Prize statement), Heller told Herlinger that the “mind of God” allows the “collaboration of chance and laws.” Taking out a pen during the interview, he held it up and let it drop to the table, saying that we know the pen will fall but cannot know precisely where. “Physics,” he explained, “leaves room for random events.” Heller’s critique of what he called “the intelligent design ideology” was also noted with approval by the National Center for Science Education.

Larry Arnhart, a professor of political theory at Northern Illinois University, praised Heller for setting out a position too often missing in the heated debate over Darwin. As he wrote on his own blog, “Whether God works through the ordinary laws of nature or through extraordinary miracles, it’s all an expression of His intelligent design. From the point of view of Christian theology, Darwinian evolution is intelligent design.”

Blogging for the New Scientist, Amanda Gefter admitted to being won over by Heller despite her own commitment “to the idea that science and religion don’t mix.” In a phone interview, Heller came across to her “as a contemplative, kind, and brilliant man with an impressive intellectual range, flitting easily between talk of complex philosophical ideas and sophisticated mathematical physics.” He is “the kind of physicist,” she noted, “who is so awestruck by the mathematical order of the universe that he sees God lurking in equations.”

The following are some comments Fr. Heller made in a speech at a news conference announcing his reception of the 2008 Templeton Prize:

“The seventeenth-century German mathematician and philosopher Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz is my philosophical hero. I am proud (but not quite happy) that I share with this great philosopher at least one feature. He was a master in spreading, not to say dissipating, his genius into too many fields of interest. If he had a greater ability to concentrate on fewer problems, he would have become not only a precursor but also a real creator of several momentous scientific achievements. But in such a case, the history of philosophy would be poorer by one of its greatest thinkers. This is not to say that in my case the history of philosophy would lose anything. This is only to stress the fact that I am interested in too many things.

Amongst my numerous fascinations, two have most imposed themselves and proven more time resistant than others: science and religion. I also am too ambitious. I always wanted to do the most important things, and what can be more important than science and religion? Science gives us Knowledge, and religion gives us Meaning. Both are prerequisites of a decent existence. The paradox is that these two great values seem often to be in conflict. I am frequently asked how I could reconcile them with each other. When such a question is posed by a scientist or a philosopher, I invariably wonder how educated people could be so blind as not to see that science does nothing else but explore God’s creation. To see what I mean, let us go to Leibniz.

In a copy of his Dialogus, in the margin we find a short sentence written in his own hand. It reads: “When God calculates and thinks things through, the world is made.” Everybody has some experience in dealing with numbers, and everybody, at least sometimes, experiences a feeling of necessity involved in the process of calculating. We can easily be led astray when thinking about everyday matters or pondering all pros and cons when facing an important decision, but when we have to add or multiply even big numbers everything goes almost mechanically. This is a routine task, and if we are cautious enough there is no doubt as far as the final result is concerned. However, the true mathematical thinking begins when one has to solve a real problem, that is to say, to identify a mathematical structure that would match the conditions of the problem, to understand principles of its functioning, to grasp connections with other mathematical structures, and to deduce the consequences implied by the logic of the problem. Such manipulations of structures are always immersed into various calculations, since calculations form a natural language of mathematical structures.

It is more or less such an image that we should associate with Leibniz’s metaphor of calculating God. Things thought through by God should be identified with mathematical structures interpreted as structures of the world. Since for God to plan is the same as to implement the plan, when “God calculates and thinks things through,” the world is created.

We have mastered a lot of calculation techniques. We are able to think things through in our human way. Can we imitate God in His creating activity?

In 1915, Albert Einstein wrote down his famous equations of the gravitational field. The road leading to them was painful and laborious a combination of deep thinking and the tedious work of doing calculations. From the beginning, Einstein saw an inadequacy of Newton’s time-honored theory of gravity: It did not fit into the spatio-temporal pattern of special relativity, which was a synthesis of classical mechanics and Maxwell’s electrodynamical theory. He was hunting for some empirical clues that would narrow the field of possibilities. He found some in the question, Why is inertial mass equal to gravitational mass in spite of the fact that, in Newton’s theory, they are completely independent concepts? He tried to implement his ideas into a mathematical model. Several attempts failed. At a certain stage, he understood that he could not go further without studying tensorial calculus and Riemannian geometry. It is the matter distribution that generates space-time geometry, and the space-time geometry that determines the motions of matter. How to express this illuminating idea in the form of mathematical equations? When finally, after many weeks of exhausting work, the equations emerged before his astonished eyes, a new world had been created.

In the beginning, only three, numerically small, empirical effects corroborated Einstein’s new theory. But the world newly created by Einstein soon became an independent reality. Yet, in his early work, the field equations suggested to Einstein the existence of solutions describing an expanding universe. He discarded them by modifying his original equations, but in less than two decades it turned out that the equations were wiser than Einstein himself: Measurements of galactic spectra revealed that, indeed, the universe is expanding. In the subsequent period, lasting until now, theoretical physicists and mathematicians have found a host of new solutions to Einstein’s equations and interpreted them as representing gravitational waves, cosmic strings, neutron stars, stationary and rotating black holes, gravitational lensing, dark matter and dark energy, late stages of life of massive stars, and various aspects of cosmic evolution. In Einstein’s time, nobody would have even suspected the existence of such objects and processes, but nearly all of them have been found by astronomers in the real universe.

Perhaps now we better understand Leibniz’s idea of God’s creating the universe by thinking mathematical structures through. We should only free the above sketched image of creating physical theories from all human constraints and limitations, and take into account a theological truth that for God to intend is to obtain the result, and to obtain the result is to instantiate it. Einstein was not far from Leibniz’s idea when he was saying that the only goal of science is to decode the Mind of God present in the structure of the universe.

And what about chancy or random events? Do they destroy mathematical harmony of the universe, and introduce into it elements of chaos and disorder? Is chance a rival force of God’s creative Mind, a sort of Manichean principle fighting against goals of creation? But what is chance? It is an event of low probability which happens in spite of the fact that it is of low probability. If one wants to determine whether an event is of low or high probability, one must use the calculus of probability, and the calculus of probability is a mathematical theory as good as any other mathematical theory. Chance and random processes are elements of the mathematical blueprint of the universe in the same way as other aspects of the world architecture.

Mathematical structures that are parts of the composition determining the functioning of the universe are called laws of physics. It is a very subtle composition indeed. Like in any masterly symphony, elements of chance and necessity are interwoven with each other and together span the structure of the whole. Elements of necessity determine the pattern of possibilities and dynamical paths of becoming, but they leave enough room for chancy events to make this becoming rich and individual.

Adherents of the so-called intelligent design ideology commit a grave theological error. They claim that scientific theories that ascribe a great role to chance and random events in the evolutionary processes should be replaced, or supplemented, by theories acknowledging the thread of intelligent design in the universe. Such views are theologically erroneous. They implicitly revive the old Manichean error postulating the existence of two forces acting against each other: God and an inert matter; in this case, chance and intelligent design. There is no opposition here. Within the all-comprising Mind of God, what we call chance and random events is well composed into the symphony of creation.

When contemplating the universe, the question imposes itself: Does the universe need to have a cause? It is clear that causal explanations are a vital part of the scientific method. Various processes in the universe can be displayed as a succession of states in such a way that the preceding state is a cause of the succeeding one. If we look deeper at such processes, we see that there is always a dynamical law prescribing how one state should generate another state. But dynamical laws are expressed in the form of mathematical equations, and if we ask about the cause of the universe we should ask about a cause of mathematical laws. By doing so we are back to the Great Blueprint of God’s thinking the universe. The question of ultimate causality is translated into another of Leibniz’s questions: “Why is there something rather than nothing?” (from his Principles of Nature and Grace). When asking this question, we are not asking about a cause like all other causes. We are asking about the root of all possible causes.

When thinking about science as deciphering the Mind of God, we should not forget that science is also a collective product of human brains, and the human brain is itself the most complex and sophisticated product of the universe. It is in the human brain that the world’s structure has reached its focal point the ability to reflect upon itself. Science is but a collective effort of the Human Mind to read the Mind of God from the question marks out of which we and the world around us seem to be made. To place ourselves in this double entanglement is to experience that we are a part of the Great Mystery. Another name for this Mystery is the Humble Approach to reality the motto of all John Templeton Foundation activities. True humility does not consist in pretending that we are feeble and insignificant, but in the audacious acknowledgement that we are an essential part of the Greatest Mystery of all of the entanglement of the Human Mind with the Mind of God.”

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Book Recommendation: Reading Selections From Memory And Identity – Pope John Paul II

November 2, 2009

 

pope-john-paul-ii praying

The Intensity of His Prayer

In 2005 Pope John Paul II surveyed his life and experiences and sat down to write a chapter in a slender volume he would title “Memory and Identity.” The book was an elaboration of the  main themes of some conversations that had taken place in 1993 in Castel Gandolfo. Two Polish philosophers, Jozef Tischner and Krzysztof Michaiski, founders of the Vienna-based Institute for Human Sciences (Institut für die Wissenschaften vom Menschen), had invited him to undertake a critical analysis, from a historical and philosophical point of view, of the two dictatorships that marked twentieth-century Polish history: Nazism and communism.

Those conversations had been  recorded and subsequently transcribed. In the year before his death the Holy Father sought to enlarge the perspective of the discussion. Beginning from these conversations, he set the reflections in a broader context. The result was“Memory and Identity.” One chapter especially concerned the mystery of evil or mysterium iniquitatis — the great eruption of evil that had held Europe by the throat for most of the twentieth century — first through the rise and fall of the fascist states and later with the occupation of Eastern Europe by the Soviet Union. The Pope didn’t end there however – no great triumph of the West in the Cold War or neocon hymns to Margaret Thatcher and Ronald Reagan for John Paul II.

Ironically enough what had happened in John Paul’s beloved homeland of Poland after the Marxists came to power had much the same effect as the philosophical developments that had occurred in Western Europe in the wake of the Enlightenment and had come to a slow fruition in the Western democracies in the latter half of the twentieth century. The old Pope had lived in one and observed the other. He could tell the difference and knew there wasn’t any.

While the fall of the regimes built on ideologies of evil put an end to the forms of extermination of fellow citizens in the concentration camps and gulags, new regimes of evil in the form of parliamentary democracies perverted the Jewish, classical, and Christian ideas of freedom to mean the pursuit of an irreducible nihilism – for “there must literally be nothing transcendent of the will that might command it towards ends it would not choose for itself, no value higher than those the will imposes upon its world, no nature but what the will elects for itself.”(David Bentley Hart)

The history of Western culture’s long, inglorious departure from these Jewish, classical, and Christian models of freedom came with an astonishing tsunami-like speed at the end of the century and the wave of diabolist “freedom” as measured by the flotsam and raw sewage of pornography and exploitation of women and children in the world-wide human sex trade; the legal extermination of human beings conceived but unborn, the so-called “unwanted” child, and  what has now emerged as the standard medical treatment for children prenatally diagnosed with Down syndrome and a host of other diseases under a system of eugenics the Nazis could have only dreamed of; the establishment of homosexual unions as an alternative type of family, with the “right,” no less, to adopt children, subverting the very idea of human sexuality and Christian marriage; the emergence of False Gods Of Expedient Mercy, the outrage, the scandal the sin of euthanasia – or what the diabolists among us call “assisted suicide” or do you prefer, ahem, “end of life choices?” So many horrors, so many choices — what’s a free man to do these days?

But I digress… 

All these things the aged Pope surveyed in a world where the true, the good, the beautiful and societies ordered towards a transcendental structure of being now seemed to be quaint ideals of a past either dead or dying. He searched for the words to teach his children one last time the lessons of the Gospel and found these profound and challenging observations. I was struck by the bluntness of some of his observations, particularly his readiness to identify the motivation for gay marriage and gay families as another “ideology of evil.”

As is my custom, reading selections I found compelling below.

Mysterium Iniquitatis: The Coexistence Of Good And Evil
The twentieth century was, so to speak, the “theater” in which particular historical and ideological processes were played out, leading toward that great “eruption” of evil, but it also provided the setting for their defeat. Is it fair, then, to consider Europe solely from the point of view of the evil which marked its recent history? Is this not a rather one-sided approach? The modern history of Europe, shaped — especially in the West — by the influence of the Enlightenment, has yielded many positive fruits. This is actually characteristic of evil, as understood by Saint Thomas, following in the tradition of Saint Augustine. Evil is always the absence of some good which ought to be present in a given being; it is a privation. It is never a total absence of good. The way in which evil grows from the pure soil of good is a mystery. Another mystery is the element of good which is never destroyed by evil and which keeps on growing despite it, sometimes even from the same soil. The Gospel parable of the good grain and the weeds comes to mind immediately (cf. Matthew 13:24-30). When the servants ask the householder: “Do you want us to go and gather them [the weeds]?” his reply is highly significant: “No, for in gathering the weeds you would uproot the wheat along with them. Let both of them grow together until the harvest; and at harvest time I will tell the reapers, ‘Collect the weeds first and bind them in bundles to be burned, but gather the wheat into my barn’ (Matthew 13: 29-30). In this case, the reference to the harvest points to the final phase of history, the eschaton.

This parable can serve as a key to the entire history of mankind. In different eras and in different ways, “wheat” grows alongside “weeds” and “weeds” alongside “wheat.” The history of mankind is the “theater” of the coexistence of good and evil. So even if evil exists alongside good, good perseveres beside evil and grows, so to speak, from the same soil, namely human nature. This has not been destroyed, and has not become totally corrupt, despite original sin. Nature has retained its capacity for good, as history confirms.

Evil And Original Sin
The encyclical on the Holy Spirit, Dominum et Vivificantem…developed during meditation on Saint John’s Gospel, on the words spoken by Jesus during the Last Supper. It was in those final hours of Christ’s earthly life that we were given perhaps the most complete revelation on the Holy Spirit. One passage from that farewell discourse is highly significant for the question we are considering. Jesus says that the Holy Spirit “will convince the world concerning sin” (John 16:8).

As I tried to penetrate these words, I was led back to the opening pages of the Book of Genesis, to the event known as “original sin.” Saint Augustine, with extraordinary perceptiveness, described the nature of this sin as follows: amor sui usque ad contemptum Dei – self-love to the point of contempt for God.’ It was amor sui which drove our first parents toward that initial rebellion and then gave rise to the spread of sin throughout human history. The Book of Genesis speaks of this: “you will be like God, knowing good and evil” (Genesis 3:5), in other words, you yourselves will decide what is good and what is evil.

Overcoming Original Sin
The only way to overcome this dimension of original sin is through a corresponding amor Dei usque ad contemptum sui–  love for God to the point of contempt of self. This brings us face to face with the mystery of man’s redemption, and here the Holy Spirit is our guide. It is he who allows us to penetrate deeply into the mysterium Crucis and at the same time to plumb the depths of the evil perpetrated by man and suffered by man from the very beginning of his history.

That is what the expression “convince the world about sin” means, and the purpose of this “convincing” is not to condemn the world. If the Church, through the power of the Holy Spirit, can call evil by its name, it does so only in order to demonstrate that evil can be overcome if we open ourselves to amor Dei usque ad contemptum sui. This is the fruit of Divine Mercy. In Jesus Christ, God bends down over man to hold out a hand to him, to raise him up, and to help him continue his journey with renewed strength.

The Sin Which “Will Not Be Forgiven”
Man cannot get back onto his feet unaided: he needs the help of the Holy Spirit. If he refuses this help, he commits what Christ called “the blasphemy against the Spirit,” the sin which “will not be forgiven” (Matthew 12:31). Why will it not be forgiven? Because it means there is no desire for pardon. Man refuses the love and the mercy of God, since he believes himself to be God. He believes himself to be capable of self-sufficiency.

Ideologies Of Evil: Aspects Of European History
In order to illustrate this phenomenon (Ideologies Of Evil )better, we have to go back to the period before the Enlightenment, especially to the revolution brought about by the philosophical thought of Descartes. The cogito, ergo sum (I think, therefore I am) radically changed the way of doing philosophy. In the pre-Cartesian period, philosophy, that is to say the cogito, or rather the cognosco, was subordinate to esse, which was considered prior. To Descartes, however, the esse seemed secondary, and he judged the cogito to be prior. This not only changed the direction of philosophizing, but it marked the decisive abandonment of what philosophy had been hitherto, particularly the philosophy of Saint Thomas Aquinas, and namely the philosophy of esse. Previously, everything was interpreted from the perspective of esse and an explanation for everything was sought from the same standpoint. God as fully Self-sufficient Being (Ens subsistens) was believed to be the necessary ground of every ens non subsistens, ens participatum, that is, of all created beings, including man. The cogito, ergo sum marked a departure from that line of thinking. Now the ens cogitans enjoyed priority. After Descartes, philosophy became a science of pure thought: all esse — both the created world and the Creator — remained within the ambit of the cogito as the content of human consciousness. Philosophy now concerned itself with beings qua content of consciousness and not qua existing independently of it.

The Abandonment Of Christianity As A Source For Philosophizing Under Communism and In The West
At this point it is worth pausing to examine the traditions of Polish philosophy, especially what happened after the Communist party came to power. In the universities, every form of philosophical thought that did not correspond to the Marxist model was subjected to severe restrictions, and this was done in the simplest and most radical way: by taking action against the people who represented other approaches to philosophy. Foremost among those who were removed from teaching posts were the representatives of realist philosophy, including exponents of realist phenomenology like Roman Ingarden and also Izydora Dąmbska of the Lviv-Warsaw school. It was more difficult to deal with the exponents of Thomism, since they were based at the Catholic University of Lublin and the Theology Faculties of Warsaw and Krakơw, as well as the major seminaries, but they too eventually fell victim to the merciless hand of the regime. Certain eminent thinkers who maintained a critical attitude toward dialectical materialism were also regarded with suspicion. Of these I particularly remember Tadeusz Kotarbiński, Maria Ossowska, and Tadeusz Czeżowski. Clearly it was not possible to remove from the university’s teaching program such courses as logic and the methodology of science; yet in different ways the “dissident” professors could be subjected to restrictions, thus limiting by every possible means their influence on students.

What happened in Poland after the Marxists came to power had much the same effect as the philosophical developments that occurred in Western Europe in the wake of the Enlightenment. People spoke, among other things, of the “decline of Thomistic realism” and this was understood to include the abandonment of Christianity as a source for philosophizing. Specifically, the very possibility of attaining to God was placed in question. According to the logic of cogito, ergo sum, God was reduced to an element within human consciousness; no longer could he be considered the ultimate explanation of the human sum. Nor could he remain as Ens subsistens, or “Self-sufficient Being:’ as the Creator, the one who gives existence, and least of all as the one who gives himself in the mystery of the Incarnation, the Redemption, and grace. The God of Revelation had ceased to exist as “God of the philosophers.” All that remained was the idea of God, a topic for free exploration by human thought.

In this way, the foundations of the “philosophy of evil” also collapsed. Evil, in a realist sense, can only exist in relation to good and, in particular, in relation to God, the supreme Good. This is the evil of which the Book of Genesis speaks. It is from this perspective that original sin can be understood, and likewise all personal sin. This evil was redeemed by Christ on the Cross. To be more precise, man was redeemed and came to share in the life of God through Christ’s saving work. All this, the entire drama of salvation history, had disappeared as far as the Enlightenment was concerned. Man remained alone: alone as creator of his own history and his own civilization; alone as one who decides what is good and what is bad, as one who would exist and operate etsi Deus non daretur, even if there were no God.

If man can decide by himself, without God, what is good and what is bad, he can also determine that a group of people is to be annihilated. Decisions of this kind were taken, for example, by those who came to power in the Third Reich by democratic means, only to misuse their power in order to implement the wicked programs of National Socialist ideology based on racist principles. Similar decisions were also taken by the Communist party in the Soviet Union and in other countries subject to Marxist ideology. This was the context for the extermination of the Jews, and also of other groups; like the Romany peoples, Ukrainian peasants, and Orthodox and Catholic clergy in Russia, in Belarus, and beyond the Urals. Likewise all those who were “inconvenient” for the regime were persecuted; for example, the ex-combatants of September 1939, the soldiers of the National Army in Poland after the Second World War, and those among the intelligentsia who did not share Marxist or Nazi ideology. Normally this meant physical elimination, but sometimes moral elimination: the person would be more or less drastically impeded in the exercise of his rights.

Other Ideologies Of Evil Emerge
At this point, we cannot remain silent regarding a tragic question that is more pressing today than ever. The fall of the regimes built on ideologies of evil put an end to the forms of extermination just mentioned in the countries concerned. However, there remains the legal extermination of human beings conceived but unborn. And in this case, that extermination is decreed by democratically elected parliaments, which invoke the notion of civil progress for society and for all humanity. Nor are other grave violations of God’s law lacking. I am thinking, for example, of the strong pressure from the European Parliament to recognize homosexual unions as an alternative type of family, with the right to adopt children, It is legitimate and even necessary to ask whether this is not the work of another ideology of evil, more subtle and hidden, perhaps, intent upon exploiting human rights themselves against man and against the family.

The Root Of Post-Enlightenment Ideologies That Generate Ideologies Of Evil
Why does all this happen? What is the root of these post-Enlightenment ideologies? The answer is simple: it happens because of the rejection of God qua Creator, and consequently qua source determining what is good and what is evil. It happens because of the rejection of what ultimately constitutes us as human beings, that is, the notion of human nature as a “given reality”; its place has been taken by a “product of thought” freely formed and freely changeable according to circumstances. I believe that a more careful study of this question could lead us beyond the Cartesian watershed. If we wish to speak rationally about good and evil, we have to return to Saint Thomas Aquinas, that is, to the philosophy of being. With the phenomenological method, for example, we can study experiences of morality, religion, or simply what it is to be human, and draw from them a significant enrichment of our knowledge. Yet we must not forget that all these analyses implicitly presuppose the reality of the Absolute Being and also the reality of being human, that is, being a creature. If we do not set out from such “realist” presuppositions, we end up in a vacuum.

The Limit Imposed Upon Evil
In 1945, at the end of the war, communism seemed very solid and extremely dangerous — much more so than before. In 1920 we had had the distinct impression that the Communists would conquer Poland and advance farther into Western Europe, poised for world domination. In fact, of course, it never came to that. “The miracle on the Vistula,” that is, the triumph of Pilsudski in the battle against the Red Army, muted those Soviet ambitions. After the victory over Nazism in 1945, though, the Communists felt reinvigorated and they shamelessly set out to conquer the world, or at least Europe. At first, this led to the repartition of the Continent into different spheres of influence, according to the agreement reached at Yalta in February 1945. The Communists merely paid lip service to this agreement; in reality, they violated it in various ways, above all through their ideological invasion and political propaganda both in Europe and elsewhere in the world. Even then I knew at once that Communist domination would last much longer than the Nazi occupation had done. For how long? It was hard to predict. There was a sense that this evil was in some way necessary for the world and for mankind. It can happen, in fact, that in certain concrete situations, evil is revealed as somehow useful, inasmuch as it creates opportunities for good. Did not Johann Wolfgang von Goethe describe the devil as “ein Teil von jener Kraft / die stets das Böse will und stets das Gute schafft”? Saint Paul, for his part, has this to say: “Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good” (Romans 12:21). That, after all, is the way to bring about a greater good in response to evil.

If I have wanted to underline the limit imposed upon evil in European history, I must conclude that the limit is constituted by good — the divine good and the human good that have been revealed in that history, over the course of the last century and of entire millennia. Yet it is hard to forget the evil that has been personally experienced: one can only forgive. And what does it mean to forgive, if not to appeal to a good that is greater than any evil? This good, after all, has its foundation in God alone. Only God is this good. The limit imposed upon evil by divine good has entered human history, especially the history of Europe, through the work of Christ. So it is impossible to separate Christ from human history. This is exactly what I said during my first visit to Poland, in Victory Square, Warsaw. I stated then that it was impossible to separate Christ from my country’s history. Is it possible to separate him from any other country’s history? Is it possible to separate him from the history of Europe? Only in him, in fact, can all nations and all humanity “cross the threshold of hope”!

Redemption As The Divine Limit Imposed Upon Evil
When I speak of the limit imposed upon evil, I am thinking, above all, of the historical limit Providence imposed upon the evil totalitarian systems established in the twentieth century, namely national socialism and Marxist communism. Yet I find myself wanting at this point to explore some further reflections of a theological nature. I do not simply mean what is sometimes described as a “theology of history.” Rather, I mean a deeper theological reflection, analyzing the roots of evil in order to discover how it can be overcome through Christ’s saving work.

It is God himself who can place a definitive limit upon evil. He is the essence of justice, because it is he who rewards good and punishes evil in a manner perfectly befitting the objective situation. I am speaking here of moral evil, of sin. In the Garden of Eden, human history already encounters the God who judges and punishes. The Book of Genesis describes in detail the penalty imposed on our first parents after their sin (cf. Genesis 3:14-19). And their penalty has been prolonged throughout human history. Original sin is an inherited condition. As such, it signifies the innate sinfulness of man, his radical inclination toward evil instead of good. There is in man a congenital moral weakness which goes hand in hand with the fragility of his being, with his psycho-physical fragility. And this fragility is accompanied by the multiple sufferings indicated in the Bible, from the very first pages, as punishment for sin.

And Deliver Us From Evil: Sin And Human Sinfulness
It could be said that human history is marked from the very beginning by the limit God the Creator places upon evil. The Second Vatican Council has much to say on this subject in the pastoral constitution Gaudium et Spes. It would be worth quoting the introductory account given in that document concerning man’s place in the modern world. I shall limit myself to some extracts regarding sin and human sinfulness:

When man looks into his own heart, he finds that he is drawn toward what is wrong and sunk in many evils which cannot come from his good Creator. Often refusing to acknowledge God as his source, man has also upset the relationship which should link him to his last end; and at the same time he has broken the right order that should reign within himself as well as between himself and other men and all creatures. Man therefore is divided in himself. As a result, the whole life of men, both individual and social, shows itself to be a struggle, and a dramatic one, between good and evil, between light and darkness. Man finds that he is unable of himself to overcome the assaults of evil successfully, so that everyone feels as though bound by chains. But the Lord himself came to free and strengthen man, renewing him inwardly and casting out the ‘prince of this world’ (John 12:31), who held him in the bondage of sin. For sin brought man to a lower state, forcing him away from the completeness that is his to attain. Both the high calling and the deep misery men experience find their final explanation in the light of this Revelation.

It is impossible, then, to speak of the “limit imposed upon evil” without considering the ideas contained in the passage just quoted. God himself came to save us and to deliver us from evil, and this coming of God, this “Advent;’ which we celebrate in such a joyful way in the weeks preceding the Nativity of the Lord, is truly redemptive. It is impossible to think of the limit placed by God himself upon the various forms of evil without reference to the mystery of Redemption.

The Mystery Of Redemption And The Response To Historical Evil
Could the mystery of Redemption be the response to that historical evil which, in different forms, continually recurs in human affairs? Is it also the response to the evil of our own day? It can seem that the evil of concentration camps, of gas chambers, of police cruelty, of total war, and of oppressive regimes — evil which, among other things, systematically contradicts the message of the Cross — it can seem, I say, that such evil is more powerful than any good. Yet if we look more closely at the history of those peoples and nations who have endured the trial of totalitarian systems and persecutions on account of faith, we discover that this is precisely where the victorious presence of Christ’s Cross is most clearly revealed. Against such a dramatic background, that presence may be even more striking. To those who are subjected to systematic evil, there remains only Christ and his Cross as a source ~of spiritual self-defense, as a promise of victory. Did not the sacrifice of Maximilian Kolbe in the extermination camp at Auschwitz become a sign of victory over evil? And could not the same be said of Edith Stein — that great thinker from the school of Husserl — who perished in the gas chamber of Birkcnau, thus sharing the destiny of many other sons and daughters of Israel? And besides these two figures, so often named together, how many others in that tragic history stand out among their fellow prisoners for the strength of the witness they bore to Christ crucified and risen!

Purified And Perfected By The Cross And Resurrection Of Christ
The mystery of Christ’s Redemption puts down deep roots in our lives. Modern life is a predominantly technological civilization, but here too the mystery leaves its efficacious mark, as the Second Vatican Council reminds us:

To the question of how this unhappy situation can be overcome, Christians reply that all these human activities, which are daily endangered by pride and inordinate self-love, must be purified and perfected by the Cross and Resurrection of Christ. Redeemed by Christ and made a new creature by the Holy Spirit, man can, indeed he must, love the things of God’s creation: it is from God that he has received them, and it is as flowing from God’s hand that he looks upon them and reveres them. Man thanks his divine benefactor for all these things, he uses them and enjoys them in a spirit of poverty and freedom: thus he is brought to a true possession of the world, as having nothing yet possessing everything

It could be said that the whole of the constitution Gaudium et Spes is an exploration of the definition of the world with which the document begins:

Therefore the world the Council has in mind is the whole human family seen in the context of everything which envelops it: it is the world as the theater of human history, bearing the marks of its travail, its triumphs and failures, the world, which in the Christian vision has been created and is sustained by the love of its maker, which has been freed from the slavery of sin by Christ, who was crucified and rose again in order to break the stranglehold of the evil one, so that it might be fashioned anew according to God’s design and brought to its fulfillment.

Redemption
The vital words — Cross, Resurrection, and Paschal Mystery — appear again and again throughout Gaudium et Spes. All three point to the same thing: Redemption. The world is redeemed by God. The scholastics used to speak of status naturae redemptae –  the state of redeemed nature. Although the Council hardly uses the word “Redemption:’ it frequently invokes the idea. In the language of the Council, Redemption is understood as the culmination of the Paschal Mystery in the Resurrection. Was there a reason for this choice? When I became more familiar with Eastern theology I understood better the important ecumenical character that lay behind this conciliar vision. The insistence on the Resurrection was an expression of the spirituality typical of the great Fathers of the Christian East. If Redemption marks the divine limit placed upon evil, it is for this reason only: because thereby evil is radically overcome by good, hate by love, death by resurrection.

The Mystery Of Redemption 
In the light of these reflections, one is impelled to seek a fuller explanation of the nature of Redemption. What exactly is Redemption in the context of the battle between good and evil in which man is caught up?

Sometimes the battle is expressed using the image of a pair of scales. In terms of this symbol, we could say that God, through the sacrifice of his Son on the Cross, placed that expiation of infinite value on the side of good, so that it would always ultimately prevail. In Polish, the word for “Redeemer” is Odkupiciel, derived from the verb odkupić meaning “regain:’ Similarly, the Latin term Redemptar is related to the verb redimere (regain). This etymological analysis may bring us closer to understanding the reality of the Redemption.

Closely connected to it are the concepts of forgiveness and justification. Both these terms belong to the language of the Gospel. Christ forgave sins, strongly emphasizing that the Son of Man had the power to do so. When they brought the paralytic before him, the first thing he said was: “My son, your sins are forgiven” (Mark 2:5); only later did he add: “Rise, take up your bed and go home” (Mark 2:11). In so doing he implicitly made the point that sin is a greater evil than physical paralysis. And after the Resurrection, when he appeared for the first time in the Upper Room where the Apostles were assembled, he showed them the wounds in his hands and his side, breathed on them, and said: “Receive the Holy Spirit. If you forgive the sins of any, they are forgiven; if you retain the sins of any, they are retained” John 20: 22-23). In this way he revealed that the power to forgive sins, which only God possesses, has been given to the Church. At the same time he reaffirmed that sin is the greatest evil from which man has to be delivered, and he showed that the faculty to bring about this deliverance has been entrusted to the Church through the Passion and redemptive death of Christ.

Redemption And The Concept Of Justification
Saint Paul expresses the same truth in greater depth through the concept of justification. In the Apostle’s Letters — especially those to the Romans and the Galatians — the doctrine of justification even acquires a polemical connotation. Paul was formed in the schools of the Pharisees, who were well versed in the study of the Old Covenant, and he challenges their conviction that the Law was the source of justification. In reality, he affirms, man does not attain justification through the actions prescribed by the Law — particularly not through observing the multiple prescriptions of ritual character, to which great importance was then attached. Justification has its source in faith in Christ (cf. Galatians 2:15-21). It is Christ crucified who justifies sinful man every time the latter, through his faith in the Redemption accomplished by Christ, repents of his sins, is converted, and returns to God as his Father. Hence, from one point of view, the concept of justification is an even deeper expression of the content of the mystery of Redemption. To be justified before God, human effort is not enough; the grace which pours forth from Christ’s sacrifice is also needed. Only the immolation of Christ on the Cross has the power to restore man’s righteousness before God.

The Definitive Measure Of Man’s Existence In The World
The Resurrection of Christ clearly illustrates that only the measure of good introduced by God into history through the mystery of Redemption is sufficient to correspond fully to the truth of the human being. The Paschal Mystery thus becomes the definitive measure of man’s existence in the world created by God. In this mystery, not only is eschatological truth revealed to us, that is to say the fullness of the Gospel, or Good News. There also shines forth a light to enlighten the whole of human existence in its temporal dimension and this light is then reflected onto the created world. Christ, through his Resurrection, has so to speak “justified” the work of creation, and especially the creation of man. He has “justified” it in the sense that he has revealed the “just measure” of good intended by God at the beginning of human history. This measure is not merely what was provided by him in creation and then compromised by man through sin; it is a superabundant measure, in which the original plan finds a higher realization (cf. Genesis 3:14-15). In Christ, man is called to a new life, as son in the Son, the perfect expression of God’s glory. In the words of Saint Irenaeus, gloria Dei vivens homo—the glory of God is man fully alive.

Redemption: Victory Given As A Task To Man
In the mystery of Redemption, Christ’s victory over evil is given to us not simply for our personal advantage, but also as a task. We accept that task as we set out upon the way of the interior life, working consciously on ourselves-with Christ as our Teacher. The Gospel calls us to follow this very path. Christ’s call “Follow me!” is echoed on many pages of the Gospel and is addressed to different people-not only to the Galilean fishermen whom Jesus calls to become his Apostles (cf. Matthew 4:19, Mark 1:17, John 1:43), but also, for example, to the rich young man in the Synoptic Gospels (cf. Matthew 19:16-22, Mark 10:17-22, Luke 18:18-23). Jesus’ conversation with him is one of the key texts to which we must constantly return, from various points of view, as I did, for example, in the encyclical Veritatis Splendor.

The call “Follow me!” is an invitation to set out along the path to which the inner dynamic of the mystery of Redemption leads us. This is the path indicated by the teaching, so often found in writings on the interior life and on mystical experience, about the three stages involved in “following Christ.” These three stages are sometimes called “ways.” We speak of the purgative way, the illuminative way, and the unitive way. In reality, these are not three distinct ways, but three aspects of the same way, along which Christ calls everyone, as he once called that young man in the Gospel.

When the young man asks: “Teacher, what good deed must I do to have eternal life?” Christ answers him: “If you wish to enter life, keep the commandments” (Matthew 19:16-17 et passim). And when the young man continues to ask: “Which?” Christ simply reminds him of the principal commandments of the Decalogue, and especially those from the so-called “second tablet” concerning relations with one’s neighbor. In Christ’s teaching, of course, all the commandments are summarized in the commandment to love God above all things and one’s neighbor as oneself. He says so explicitly to a doctor of the Law in response to a question (cf. Matthew 22:34-40; Mark 12:28-31). Observance of the commandments, properly understood, is synonymous with the purgative way: it means conquering sin, moral evil in its various guises. And this leads to a gradual inner purification.

Discovering Christian Values: The Purgative, Illuminative and Unitive Ways
It also enables us to discover values. And hence we conclude that the purgative way leads organically into the illuminative way. Values are lights which illumine existence and, as we work on our lives, they shine evermore brightly on the horizon. So side by side with observance of the commandments — which has an essentially purgative meaning — we develop virtues. For example, in observing the commandment: “You shall not kill!” we discover the value of life under various aspects and we learn an ever deeper respect for it. In observing the commandment: “You shall not commit adultery!” we acquire the virtue of purity, and this means that we come to an ever greater awareness of the gratuitous beauty of the human body, of masculinity and femininity. This gratuitous beauty becomes a light for our actions. In observing the commandment: “You shall not bear false witness!” we learn the virtue of truthfulness. This not only excludes all lying and hypocrisy from our lives, but it develops within us a kind of “instinct for truth” which guides all our actions. And living thus in the truth, we acquire in our own humanity a connatural truthfulness.

So the illuminative stage in the interior life emerges gradually from the purgative stage. With the passage of time, if we persevere in following Christ our Teacher, we feel less and less burdened by the struggle against sin, and we enjoy more and more the divine light which pervades all creation. This is most important, because it allows us to escape from a situation of constant inner exposure to the risk of sin — even though, on this earth, the risk always remains present to some degree — so as to move with ever greater freedom within the whole of the created world. This same freedom and simplicity characterizes our relations with other human beings, including those of the opposite sex. Interior light illumines our actions and shows us all the good in the created world as coming from the hand of God. Thus the purgative way and then the illuminative way form the organic introduction to what is known as the unitive way. This is the final stage of the interior journey, when the soul experiences a special union with God. This union is realized in contemplation of the divine Being and in the experience of love which flows from it with growing intensity. In this way we somehow anticipate what is destined to be ours in eternity, beyond death and the grave. Christ, supreme Teacher of the spiritual life, together with all those who have been formed in his school, teaches that even in this life we can enter onto the path of union with God.

The dogmatic constitution Lumen Gentium states: “Christ, made obedient unto death and because of this exalted by the Father (cf. Philemon 2:8-9), has entered into the glory of his kingdom. All things are subjected to him until he subjects himself and all created things to the Father, so that God may be all in all (cf. 1 Corinthians 15:27-28) .“Evidently the Council is thinking on a very large scale, illustrating what it means to participate in Christ’s kingly mission. At the same time, however, these words help us to understand how union with God can be achieved during earthly life. If the kingly way, indicated by Christ, leads definitively to the state in which “God will be all in all,” the union with God that can be experienced on earth is attained in just the same way. We can find God in everything, we can commune with him in and through all things. Created things cease to be a danger for us as once they were, particularly while we were still at the purgative stage of our journey. Creation, and other people in particular, not only regain their true light, given to them by God the Creator, but, so to speak, they lead us to God himself, in the way that he willed to reveal himself to us: as Father, Redeemer, and Spouse.

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