Archive for the ‘Pope Benedict XVI’ Category

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The Prayer of Jesus: Jesus’ Prayer on the Mount of Olives in the Letter to the Hebrews – Pope Benedict XVI

January 24, 2012

William Blake, The Agony in the Garden, circa 1799-1800

We must turn our attention to the passage from the Letter to the Hebrews that points toward the Mount of Olives. There we read: “In the days of his flesh, Jesus offered up prayers and supplications, with loud cries and tears, to him who was able to save him from death, and lip was heard for his godly fear” (5:7). Here we may identify an independent tradition concerning the Gethsemane event, for there is no mention of loud cries or tears in the gospels.

We have to admit that the author of the Letter is clearly not referring exclusively to the night in Gethsemane, but has’ in mind the whole of Jesus’ via dolorosa right up to the crucifixion, that is to say, to the moment when, according to Matthew and Mark, Jesus “cried out with a loud voice” the opening words of Psalm 22; these two evangelists also tell us that Jesus expired with is loud cry; Matthew expressly uses the word “cried” at this point, meaning “cry out” (cf. 27:50). John speaks of Jesus’ tears at the death of Lazarus, and this in the context of his being “troubled” in spirit — for which, as we have seen, John uses the word that was to reappear in the “Palm Sunday” passage corresponding to the Mount of Olives tradition.

Each time, it is a question of Jesus’ encounter with the powers of death, whose ultimate depths he as the Holy One of God can sense in their full horror. The Letter to the Hebrews views the whole of Jesus’ Passion — from the Mount of Olives to the last cry from the Cross — as thoroughly permeated by prayer, one long impassioned plea to God for life in the face of the power of death.

If the Letter to the Hebrews treats the entire Passion as a prayer in which Jesus wrestles with God the Father and at the same time with human nature, it also sheds new light on the theological depth of the Mount of Olives prayer. For these cries and pleas are seen as Jesus’ way of exercising his high priesthood. It is through his cries, his tears, and his prayers that Jesus does what the high priest is meant to do: he holds up to God the anguish of human existence. He brings man before God.

There are two particular words with which the author of the Letter to the Hebrews underlines this dimension of Jesus’ prayer. The verb “bring” (prospherein: bring before God, bear aloft — cf. Heb 5:1) comes from the language of the sacrificial cult. What Jesus does here lies right at the heart of what sacrifice is. “He offered himself to do the will of the Father”, as Albert Vanhoye comments (Let Us Confidently Welcome Christ Our High Priest, p. 60).

The second word that is important for our purposes tells us that through his sufferings Jesus learned obedience and was thus “made perfect” (Hebrews 5:8-9). Vanhoye points out that in the Pentateuch, the five books of Moses, the expression “make perfect” (teleioun) is used exclusively to mean “consecrate as priest” (p. 62). The Letter to the Hebrews takes over this terminology (cf. 711, 19, 28). So the passage in question tells us that Christ’s obedience, his final “yes” to the Father accomplished on the Mount of Olives, as it were, “consecrated him as a priest”; it tells us that precisely in this act of self giving, in this bearing-aloft of human existence to God, Christ truly became a priest “according to the order of Melchizedek” (Hebrews 5:9-10; cf. Vanhoye, pp. 61-62).

At this point, though, we must move on toward the heart of what the Letter to the Hebrews has to say concerning the prayer of the suffering Lord. The text states that Jesus pleaded with him who had the power to save him front death and that, on account of his godly fear (cf. 5:7), his prayer was granted. But was it granted? He still died on the Cross! For this reason Harnack maintained that the word “not” must have been omitted here, and Bultmann agrees. But an exegesis that turns a text into its opposite is no exegesis. Rather, we must attempt to understand this mysterious form of “granting” so as to come closer to grasping the mystery of our own salvation.

We may distinguish different aspects of this “granting”. One possible translation of the text would be: “He was heard and delivered from his fear.” This would correspond to Luke’s account, which says that an angel came and comforted him (cf. 22:43). It would then refer to the inner strength given to Jesus through prayer, so that he was able to endure the arrest and the Passion resolutely. Yet the text obviously says more: the Father raised him from the night of death and, through the Resurrection, saved him definitively and permanently from death: Jesus dies no more (cf. Vanhoye, Let Us Confidently Welcome Christ Our High Priest, p. 60). Yet surely the text means even more: the Resurrection is not just Jesus’ personal rescue from death. He did not die for himself alone. His was dying “for others”; it was the conquest of death itself.

Hence this “granting” may also be understood in terms of the parallel text in John 12:27-28, where in answer to Jesus’ prayer: “Father, glorify your name!” a voice from heaven replies: “I have glorified it, and I will glorify it again. The Cross itself has become God’s glorification, the glory of God made manifest in the love of the Son. This glory extends beyond the moment into the whole weep of history. This glory is life. It is on the Cross that we see it, hidden yet powerful: the glory of God, the transformation of death into life.

From the Cross, new life comes to us. On the Cross, Jesus becomes the source of life for himself and for all. On the Cross, death is conquered. The granting of Jesus’ prayer concerns all mankind: his obedience becomes life for all. This conclusion is spelled out for us in the closing words of the passage we have been studying: “He became the source of eternal salvation to all who obey him, being designated by God a high priest according to the order of Melchizedek” (Hebrews 5:9-10; cf Psalm 110:4).

 

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The Prayer of Jesus: Jesus’ Will and the Will of the Father – Pope Benedict XVI

January 23, 2012

Giovanni Bellini, Le Christ Benissant, 1465 – 1470, at the Louvre in Paris

What does this mean? What is “my” will as opposed to “your” will? Who is speaking to whom? Is it the Son addressing the Father? Or the man Jesus addressing the triune God? Nowhere else in sacred Scripture do we gain t deep an insight into the inner mystery of Jesus as in the laver on the Mount of Olives. So it is no coincidence it the early Church’s efforts to arrive at an understand of the figure of Jesus Christ took their final shape as a result of faith-filled reflection on his prayer on the Mount of Olives.

At this point we should undertake a rapid overview of the early Church’s Christology, in order to grasp its understanding of the interrelation between the divine will and the human will in the figure of Jesus Christ. The Council of Nicea (325) had clarified the Christian concept of God. The three persons — Father, Son, and Holy Spirit — are one, in the one “substance” of God. More than a century later, the Council of Chalcedon (451) sought to articulate the relation between divinity and humanity in Jesus Christ by adopting the formula that the one person of the Son of God embraces and bears the two natures — human and divine — “without confusion and without separation”.

Thus the infinite difference between God and man, between Creator and creature is preserved: humanity remains humanity, divinity remains divinity. Jesus’ humanity is neither absorbed nor reduced by his divinity. It exists in its fullness, while subsisting in the divine person of the Logos. At the same time, in the continuing distinction of natures, the expression “one person” conveys the radical unity that God in Christ has entered into with man. The formula of Pope Leo the Great — two natures, one person — expresses an insight that transcended by fit the historical moment, and for that reason it was enthusiastically accepted by the Council Fathers.

Yet it was ahead of its time: its concrete meaning had not yet been fully set forth. What is meant by “nature”? But more importantly, what is meant by “person”? Since this was by no means clear, many bishops after Chalcedon said that they would rather think like fishermen than like Aristotle. The formula remained obscure. Therefore the reception of Chalcedon was an extremely complex process, and fierce battles were fought over it.

In the end it led to division: only the Churches of Rome and Byzantium definitively accepted the Council and its formula. Alexandria in Egypt preferred to remain with the formula of “one divinized nature” (monophysitism); while farther east, Syria remained skeptical about the notion of one person, as it appeared to . compromise Jesus’ true humanity (Nestorianism). It was not simply ideas that were at issue here: more significantly, contrasting forms of devotion burdened the debate with the weight of religious sensibilities, rendering it insoluble.

The Ecumenical Council of Chalcedon continues to indicate, to the Church of all ages, the necessary pathway into the mystery of Jesus Christ. That said, it has t be appropriated anew in the context of contemporary thought, since the concepts of “nature” and “person” have acquired quite different meanings from those they had at the time. This task of reappropriation must go hand to hand with ecumenical dialogue with the pre-Chalcedonian Churches, so that our lost unity may be regained in the core of our faith — in our confession of the God who became man in Jesus Christ.

The great battle that was fought after Chalcedon, especially in the Byzantine East, was essentially concerned with the question: If there is only one divine person in Jesus, embracing both natures, then what is the status of his human nature? If it subsists within the one divine person, can it be said to have any real, specific existence in itself? Must it not inevitably be absorbed by the divine, at least at its highest point, the will?

This leads us to the last of the great Christological heresies, known as ” monotheletism”. There can be only one will within the unity of a person, its adherents maintained; a person with two wills would be schizophrenic: ultimately it is in the will that a person manifests himself, and where there is only one person, then ultimately there can be only one will. Yet an objection comes to mind: What kind of man has no human will? Is a man without a will really a man? Did God in Jesus truly become man, if this man had no will?

The great Byzantine theologian Maximus the Confessor (d. 662) formulated an answer to this question by struggling to understand Jesus’ prayer on the Mount of Olives. Maximus is first and foremost a determined opponent of monotheletism: Jesus’ human nature is not amputated through union with the Logos; it remains complete. And the will is part of human nature. This irreducible duality of human and divine willing in Jesus must not, however, be understood to imply the schizophrenia of a dual personality.

Nature and person must be seen in the mode of existence proper to each. In other words: in Jesus the “natural will” of the human nature is present, but there is only one “personal will”, which draws the “natural will” into itself. And this is possible without annihilating the specifically human element, because the human will, as created by God, is ordered to the divine will. In becoming attuned to the divine will. it experiences its fulfillment, not its annihilation.

Maximus says in this regard that the human will, by virtue of creation tends toward synergy (working together) with the divine will, but that through sin, opposition takes the place of synergy: man, whose will attains fulfillment through becoming attuned to God’s will, now has the sense that his freedom is compromised by God’s will. He regards consenting to God’s will, not as his opportunity to become fully himself, but as a threat to his freedom against which he rebels.

The drama of the Mount of Olives lies in the fact that Jesus draws man’s natural will away from opposition and back toward synergy, and in so doing he restores man’s true greatness. In Jesus’ natural human will, the sum total of human nature’s resistance to God is, as it were, present within Jesus himself. The obstinacy of us all, the whole of our opposition to God is present, and in his struggle, Jesus elevates our recalcitrant nature to become its real self.

Christoph Schonborn says in this regard that “the transition between the two wills from opposition to union is accomplished through the sacrifice of obedience. In the agony of Gethsemane, this transition occurs” (God’s Human Face, pp. 126-27). Thus the prayer “not my will, but yours” (Luke 22:42) is truly the Son’s prayer to the Father, through which the natural human will is completely subsumed into the “I” of the Son. Indeed, the Son’s whole being is expressed in the “not I, but you” — in the total self-abandonment of the “I” to the “you” of God the Father. This same “I” has subsumed and transformed humanity’s resistance, so that we are all now present within the Son’s obedience; we are all drawn into sonship.

This brings us to one final point regarding Jesus’ prayer, to its actual interpretative key, namely, the form of address: “Abba, Father” (Mk 14:36). In 1966 Joachim Jeremias wrote an important article about the use of this term in Jesus’ prayer, from which I should like to quote two essential insights: “Whereas there is not a single instance of God being addressed as Abba in the literature of Jewish prayer, Jesus always addressed him in this way (with the exception of the cry from the Cross, Mark 15:34 and parallel passages). So we have here a quite unmistakable characteristic of the ipsissima vox Jesu (Abba, p. 5).

Moreover, Jeremias shows that this word Abba belongs to the language of children — that it is the way a child addresses his father within the family. “To the Jewish mind it would have been disrespectful and therefore inconceivable to address God with this familiar word. For Jesus to venture to take this step was something new and unheard of. He spoke to God like a child to his father … Jesus’ use of Abba in addressing God reveals the heart of his relationship with God” (p. 62). It is therefore quite mistaken on the part of some theologians to suggest that the man Jesus was addressing the Trinitarian God in the prayer on the Mount of Olives. No, it is the Son speaking here, having subsumed the fullness of man’s will into himself and transformed it into the will of the Son.

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The Prayer Of Jesus: The Prayer On The Mount Of Olives – Pope Benedict XVI

January 20, 2012

Christ in Gethsemane by Heinrich Ferdinand Hofmann, 1890

The prayer on the Mount of Olives, which follows next, has come down to us in five versions: first, there are the accounts in the three Synoptic Gospels (Matthew 26:36-46; Mark 14:32-42; Luke 22:39-46); then there is a short text in the Fourth Gospel that John places among the collection of Jesus’ sayings in the Temple on “Palm Sunday” (12:27 28); and finally there is one based on a separate tradition in the Letter to the Hebrews (5:7-10). Let us now attempt, by examining these texts together, to approach as close as we can to the mystery of this hour of Jesus.

After the common recitation of the psalms, Jesus prays alone — as on so many previous nights. Yet close by is the group of three disciples — Peter, James, and John: a trio known to us from other contexts, especially from the account of the Transfiguration. These three disciples, even though they are repeatedly overcome by sleep, are the witnesses of Jesus’ night of anguish. Mark tells us that Jesus “began to be greatly distressed and troubled”. The Lord says to his disciples: “My soul is very sorrowful, even to death; remain here, and watch” (14:33-34).

The summons to vigilance has already been a major theme of Jesus’ Jerusalem teaching, and now it emerges directly with great urgency. And yet, while it refers specifically to Gethsemane, it also points ahead to the later history of Christianity. Across the centuries, it is the drowsiness of the disciples that opens up possibilities for the power of the Evil One. Such drowsiness deadens the soul, so that it remains undisturbed by the power of the Evil One at work in the world and by all the injustice and suffering ravaging the earth.

In its state of numbness, the soul prefers not to see all this; it is easily persuaded that things cannot be so bad, so as to continue in the self satisfaction of its own comfortable existence. Yet this deadening of souls, this lack of vigilance regarding both God’s closeness and the looming forces of darkness, is what gives the Evil One power in the world. On beholding the drowsy disciples, so disinclined to rouse themselves, the Lord says: “My soul is very sorrowful, even to death.” This is a quotation from Psalm 43:5, and it calls to mind other verses from the Psalms.

In the Passion, too — on the Mount of Olives and on the Cross Jesus uses passages from the Psalms to speak of himself and to address the Father. Yet these quotations have become fully personal; they have become the intimate words of Jesus himself in his agony. It is he who truly prays these psalms; he is their real subject. Jesus’ utterly personal prayer and his praying in the words of faithful, suffering Israel are here seamlessly united.

After this admonition to vigilance, Jesus goes a short distance away. This is where the prayer on the Mount of Olives actually begins. Matthew and Mark tell us that Jesus falls on his face — the prayer posture of extreme submission to the will of God, of radical self-offering to him. In the Western liturgy, this posture is still adopted on Good Friday, at monastic professions, and at ordinations.

Luke, however, has Jesus kneeling to pray. In terms of praying posture, then, he draws Jesus’ night of anguish into the context of the history of Christian prayer: Stephen sinks to his knees in prayer as he is being stoned (Acts 7:6o); Peter kneels before he wakes Tabitha from death (Acts 9:40); Paul kneels to bid farewell to the Ephesian elders (Acts 20:36) and again when the disciples tell him not to go up to Jerusalem (Acts 21:5). Alois Stöger says on this subject: “When they were confronted with the power of death, they all prayed kneeling down. Martyrdom can be overcome only by prayer. Jesus is the model of martyrs” (The Gospel according to Saint Luke II, p. 199).

There now follows the prayer itself, in which the whole drama of our redemption is made present. In Mark’s account, Jesus begins by asking that, if it were possible, the hour might pass from him (14:35). This is then filled out by a statement of the essential content of the prayer: “Abba, Father, all things are possible to you; remove this chalice from me; yet not what I will, but what you will” (14:36).

We may distinguish three elements in this prayer of Jesus. First there is the primordial experience of fear, quaking, in the face of the power of death, terror before the abyss of nothingness that makes him tremble to the point that, in Luke’s account, his sweat falls to the ground like drops of blood (cf. 22:44). In the equivalent passage in Saint John’s Gospel (12:27), this horror is expressed, as in the Synoptics, in terms reminiscent of Psalm 43:5, but using a word that emphasizes the dark depths of Jesus’ fear: tetáraktai –  is the same verb, tarássein, that John uses to describe Jesus’ deep emotion at the tomb of Lazarus (cf. 11:33) as well as his inner turmoil at the prophecy of Judas’ betrayal in the Upper Room (cf. 13:21).

In this way John is clearly indicating the primordial fear of created nature in the face of imminent death, and yet there is more: the particular horror felt by him who is Life itself before the abyss of the full power of destruction, evil, and enmity with God that is now unleashed upon him, that he now takes directly upon himself, or rather into himself, to the point that he is “made to be sin” (cf. 3 Corinthians 5:21).

Because he is the Son, he sees with total clarity the whole foul flood of evil, all the power of lies and pride, all the wiles and cruelty of the evil that masks itself as life yet constantly serves to destroy, debase, and crush life. Because he is the Son, he experiences deeply all the horror, filth, and baseness that he must drink from the “chalice” prepared for him: the vast power of sin and death. All this he must take into himself, so that it can be disarmed and defeated in him.

As Bultmann rightly observes: Jesus here is “not simply the prototype, in whom the behavior demanded of man becomes visible in an exemplary manner … he is also and above all the Revealer, whose decision alone makes possible in such an hour the human decision for God” (The Gospel of John, p. 428). Jesus’ fear is far more radical than the fear that everyone experiences in the face of death: it is the collision between light and darkness, between life and death itself — the critical moment of decision in human history. With this understanding, following Pascal, we may see ourselves drawn quite personally into the episode on the Mount of Olives: my own sin was present in that terrifying chalice. “Those drops of blood I shed for you”, Pascal hears the Lord say to him during the agony on the Mount of Olives (cf. Pensées VII, 553).

The two parts of Jesus’ prayer are presented as the confrontation between two wills: there is the “natural will” of the man Jesus, which resists the appalling destructiveness of what is happening and wants to plead that the chalice pass from him; and there is the “filial will” that abandons itself totally to the Father’s will. In order to understand this mystery of the “two wills” as much as possible, it is helpful to take a look at John’s version of the prayer. Here, too, we find the same two prayers on Jesus’ lips: “Father, save me from this hour … Father, glorify your name” (John 12:27-28).

The relationship between these two prayers in John’s account is essentially no different from what we find in the Synoptics. The anguish of Jesus’ human soul (“I am troubled”; Bultmann translates it as: “I am afraid”, p. 427) impels him to pray for deliverance from this hour. Yet his awareness of his mission, his knowledge that it was for this hour that he came, enables him to utter the second prayer — the prayer that God glorify his name: it is Jesus’ acceptance of the horror of the Cross, his ignominious experience of being stripped of all dignity and suffering a shameful death, that becomes the glorification of God’s name.

For in this way, God is manifested as he really is: the God who, in the unfathomable depth of his self-giving love, sets the true power of good against all the power of evil. Jesus uttered both prayers, but the first one, asking for deliverance, merges into the second one, asking for God to be glorified by the fulfillment of his will — and so the conflicting elements blend into unity deep within the heart of Jesus’ human existence.

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The Nature of Jesus’ Resurrection and Its Historical Significance – Pope Benedict XVI

January 16, 2012

The Incredulity of Saint Thomas is a painting of the subject of the same name by the Italian Baroque master Caravaggio, c. 1601-1602. It is housed in the Sanssouci of Potsdam, Germany. Caravaggio’s Supper at Emmaus (at the National Gallery in London) graces all our pages where the world these apostles knew, like ours, is analogous to the basket of food and teeters perilously over the edge.

Let us ask once more, by way of summary, what it was like to encounter the risen Lord. The following distinctions are important:

  •   Jesus did not simply return to normal biological life as one who, by the laws of biology, would eventually have to die again.
  •   Jesus is not a ghost (“spirit”). In other words, he does not belong to the realm of the dead but is somehow able to reveal himself in the realm of the living.
  •   Nevertheless, the encounters with the risen Lord are not the same as mystical experiences, in which the human spirit is momentarily drawn aloft out of itself and perceives the realm of the divine and eternal, only to return then to the normal horizon of its existence. Mystical experience is a temporary removal of the soul’s spatial and cognitive limitations. But it is not an encounter with a person coming toward me from without. Saint Paul clearly distinguished his mystical experiences, such as his elevation to the third heaven described in 2 Corinthians 12:1-4, from his encounter with the risen Lord on the road to Damascus, which was a historical event — an encounter with a living person.

On the basis of all this biblical evidence, what are we now in a position to say about the true nature of Christ’s Resurrection?

It is a historical event that nevertheless bursts open the dimensions of history and transcends it. Perhaps we may draw upon analogical language here, inadequate in many ways, yet still able to open up a path toward understanding: we could regard the Resurrection as something, akin to a radical “evolutionary leap”, in which a new dimension of life emerges, a new dimension of human existence.

Indeed, matter itself is remolded into a new type of reality. The man Jesus, complete with his body, now belong totally to the sphere of the divine and eternal. From now on, as Tertullian once said, “spirit and blood” have a place within God (cf. De Resurrect. Mort. 51:3, CCSL, II 994) Even if man by his nature is created for immortality, it is only now that the place exists in which his immortal soul can find its “space”, its “bodiliness”, in which immortality takes on its meaning as communion with God and with the whole of reconciled mankind.

This is what is meant by those passages in Saint Paul’s prison letters (cf Colossians 1:12-23 and Ephesians 1:3-23) that speak of the cosmic, body of Christ, indicating thereby that Christ’s transformed body is also the place where men enter into communion with God and with one another and are thus all, to live definitively in the fullness of indestructible life. Since we ourselves have no experience of such a renewed and transformed type of matter, or such a renewed and transformed kind of life, it is not surprising that it over steps the boundaries of what we are able to conceive.

Essential, then, is the fact that Jesus’ Resurrection was not just about some deceased individual coming back to life at a certain point, but that an ontological leap occurred, one that touches being as such, opening up a dimension that affects us all, creating for all of us a new space of life, a new space of being in union with God.

It is in these terms that the question of the historicity of the Resurrection should be addressed. On the one hand, we must acknowledge that it is of the essence of the Resurrection precisely to burst open history and usher in a new dimension commonly described as eschatological. The Resurrection opens up the new space that transcends history and creates the definitive. In this sense, it follows that Resurrection is not the same kind of historical event as the birth or crucifixion of Jesus. It is something new, a new type of event.

Yet at the same time it must be understood that the Resurrection does not simply stand outside or above history. As something that breaks out of history and transcends it, the Resurrection nevertheless has its origin within history and up to a certain point still belongs there. Perhaps we could put it this way: Jesus’ Resurrection points beyond history but has left a footprint within history. Therefore it can be attested by witnesses as an event of an entirely new kind.

Indeed, the apostolic preaching with all its boldness and passion would be unthinkable unless the witnesses had experienced a real encounter, coming to them from outside, with something entirely new and unforeseen, namely, the self-revelation and verbal communication of the risen Christ. Only a real event of a radically new quality could possibly have given rise to the apostolic preaching, which cannot be explained on the basis of speculations or inner, mystical experiences. In all its boldness and originality, it draws life from the impact of an event that no one had invented, an event that surpassed all that could be imagined.

To conclude, all of us are constantly inclined to ask the question that Saint Jude Thaddaeus put to Jesus during the Last Supper: “Lord, how is it that you will manifest yourself to us, and not to the world?” (John 14:22). Why, indeed, did you not forcefully resist your enemies who brought you to the Cross? — we might well ask. Why did you not show them with incontrovertible power that you are the living one, the Lord of life and death? Why did you reveal yourself only to a small flock of disciples, upon whose testimony we must now rely?

The question applies not only to the Resurrection, but to the whole manner of God’s revelation in the world. Why only to Abraham and not to the mighty of the world? Why only to Israel and not irrefutably to all the peoples of the earth?

It is part of the mystery of God that he acts so gently, that he only gradually builds up his history within the great history of mankind; that he becomes man and so can be overlooked by his contemporaries and by the decisive forces within history; that he suffers and dies and that, having risen again, he chooses to come to mankind only through the faith of the disciples to whom he reveals himself; that he continues to knock gently at the doors of our hearts and slowly opens our eyes if we open our doors to him.

And yet — is not this the truly divine way? Not to overwhelm with external power, but to give freedom, to offer and elicit love. And if we really think about it, is it not what seems so small that is truly great? Does not a ray of light issue from Jesus, growing brighter across the centuries, that could not come from any mere man and through which the light of God truly shines into the world? Could the apostolic preaching have found faith and built up a worldwide community unless the power of truth had been at work within it?

If we attend to the witnesses with listening hearts and open ourselves to the signs by which the Lord again and again authenticates both them and himself, then we know that he is truly risen. He is alive. Let us entrust ourselves to him, knowing that we are on the right path. With Thomas let us place our hands into Jesus’ pierced side and confess: “My Lord and my God!” (John 20:28).

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Pope Benedict on the Epiphany

January 9, 2012

Dream of the Magi, Johann Christoph WEIGEL, Published 1695, Woodcut

The original document is here. Although Benedict is seemingly commenting on the nature of the Bishop’s calling, I couldn’t help but see the comments also apply to Saints as well (which means all of us). More and more as I enter my fourth year of PayingAttentiontotheSky (coming up in February), I’ve begun to see, however obscurely, that what I had intended to be the record of a conversion to Catholicism is not unlike a kind of preaching the Gospel of Jesus Christ. A such, I have joined a long procession, bringing up the rear as it were, of that journey of the wise men from the East.

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The Epiphany is a feast of light. “Arise, shine; for your light has come, and the glory of the Lord has risen upon you” (Isaiah 60:1). With these words of the prophet Isaiah, the Church describes the content of the feast. He who is the true light, and by whom we too are made to be light, has indeed come into the world. He gives us the power to become children of God (cf. John 1:9,12).

The journey of the wise men from the East is, for the liturgy, just the beginning of a great procession that continues throughout history. With the Magi, humanity’s pilgrimage to Jesus Christ begins – to the God who was born in a stable, who died on the Cross and who, having risen from the dead, remains with us always, until the consummation of the world (cf. Matthew 28:20). The Church reads this account from Matthew’s Gospel alongside the vision of the prophet Isaiah that we heard in the first reading: the journey of these men is just the beginning. Before them came the shepherds – simple souls, who dwelt closer to the God who became a child, and could more easily “go over” to him (Luke  2:15) and recognize him as Lord.

But now the wise of this world are also coming. Great and small, kings and slaves, men of all cultures and all peoples are coming. The men from the East are the first, followed by many more throughout the centuries. After the great vision of Isaiah, the reading from the Letter to the Ephesians expresses the same idea in sober and simple terms: the Gentiles share the same heritage (cf. Ephesians 3:6). Psalm 2 puts it like this: “I shall bequeath you the nations, put the ends of the earth in your possession” (v. 8).

The wise men from the East lead the way. They open up the path of the Gentiles to Christ. During this holy Mass, I will ordain two priests to the episcopate, I will consecrate them as shepherds of God’s people. According to the words of Jesus, part of a shepherd’s task is to go ahead of the flock (cf. John 10:4). So, allowing for all the differences in vocation and mission, we may well look to these figures, the first Gentiles to find the pathway to Christ, for indications concerning the task of bishops.

What kind of people were they? The experts tell us that they belonged to the great astronomical tradition that had developed in Mesopotamia over the centuries and continued to flourish. But this information of itself is not enough. No doubt there were many astronomers in ancient Babylon, but only these few set off to follow the star that they recognized as the star of the promise, pointing them along the path towards the true King and Saviour. They were, as we might say, men of science, but not simply in the sense that they were searching for a wide range of knowledge: they wanted something more.

They wanted to understand what being human is all about. They had doubtless heard of the prophecy of the Gentile prophet Balaam: “A star shall come forth out of Jacob and a sceptre shall rise out of Israel” (Numbers 24:17). They explored this promise. They were men with restless hearts, not satisfied with the superficial and the ordinary. They were men in search of the promise, in search of God. And they were watchful men, capable of reading God’s signs, his soft and penetrating language.

But they were also courageous, yet humble: we can imagine them having to endure a certain amount of mockery for setting off to find the King of the Jews, at the cost of so much effort. For them it mattered little what this or that person, what even influential and clever people thought and said about them. For them it was a question of truth itself, not human opinion. Hence they took upon themselves the sacrifices and the effort of a long and uncertain journey. Their humble courage was what enabled them to bend down before the child of poor people and to recognize in him the promised King, the one they had set out, on both their outward and their inward journey, to seek and to know.

Dear friends, how can we fail to recognize in all this certain essential elements of episcopal ministry? The bishop too must be a man of restless heart, not satisfied with the ordinary things of this world, but inwardly driven by his heart’s unrest to draw ever closer to God, to seek his face, to recognize him more and more, to be able to love him more and more. The bishop too must be a man of watchful heart, who recognizes the gentle language of God and understands how to distinguish truth from mere appearance. The bishop too must be filled with the courage of humility, not asking what prevailing opinion says about him, but following the criterion of God’s truth and taking his stand accordingly – “opportune – importune”. He must be able to go ahead and mark out the path. He must go ahead, in the footsteps of him who went ahead of us all because he is the true shepherd, the true star of the promise: Jesus Christ. And he must have the humility to bend down before the God who made himself so tangible and so simple that he contradicts our foolish pride in its reluctance to see God so close and so small. He must devote his life to adoration of the incarnate Son of God, which constantly points him towards the path.

The liturgy of episcopal ordination interprets the essential features of this ministry in eight questions addressed to the candidates, each beginning with the word “Vultis? – Do you want?” These questions direct the will and mark out the path to be followed. Here I shall briefly cite just a few of the most important words of this presentation, where we find explicit mention of the elements we have just considered in connection with the wise men of today’s feast. The bishops’ task is praedicare Evangelium Christi, it is custodire et dirigere, it is pauperibus se misericordes praebere, it is indesinenter orare.

Preaching the Gospel of Jesus Christ, going ahead and leading, guarding the sacred heritage of our faith, showing mercy and charity to the needy and the poor, thus mirroring God’s merciful love for us, and finally, praying without ceasing: these are the fundamental features of the episcopal ministry. Praying without ceasing means: never losing contact with God, letting ourselves be constantly touched by him in the depths of our hearts and, in this way, being penetrated by his light. Only someone who actually knows God can lead others to God. Only someone who leads people to God leads them along the path of life.

The restless heart of which we spoke earlier, echoing Saint Augustine, is the heart that is ultimately satisfied with nothing less than God, and in this way becomes a loving heart. Our heart is restless for God and remains so, even if every effort is made today, by means of most effective anaesthetizing methods, to deliver people from this unrest. But not only are we restless for God: God’s heart is restless for us. God is waiting for us. He is looking for us. He knows no rest either, until he finds us.

God’s heart is restless, and that is why he set out on the path towards us – to Bethlehem, to Calvary, from Jerusalem to Galilee and on to the very ends of the earth. God is restless for us, he looks out for people willing to “catch” his unrest, his passion for us, people who carry within them the searching of their own hearts and at the same time open themselves to be touched by God’s search for us. Dear friends, this was the task of the Apostles: to receive God’s unrest for man and then to bring God himself to man. And this is your task as successors of the Apostles: let yourselves be touched by God’s unrest, so that God’s longing for man may be fulfilled.

The wise men followed the star. Through the language of creation, they discovered the God of history. To be sure – the language of creation alone is not enough. Only God’s word, which we encounter in sacred Scripture, was able to mark out their path definitively. Creation and Scripture, reason and faith, must come together, so as to lead us forward to the living God.

There has been much discussion over what kind of star it was that the wise men were following. Some suggest a planetary constellation, or a supernova, that is to say one of those stars that is initially quite weak, in which an inner explosion releases a brilliant light for a certain time, or a comet, etc. This debate we may leave to the experts. The great star, the true supernova that leads us on, is Christ himself. He is as it were the explosion of God’s love, which causes the great white light of his heart to shine upon the world. And we may add: the wise men from the East, who feature in today’s Gospel, like all the saints, have themselves gradually become constellations of God that mark out the path. In all these people, being touched by God’s word has, as it were, released an explosion of light, through which God’s radiance shines upon our world and shows us the path.

The saints are stars of God, by whom we let ourselves be led to him for whom our whole being longs. Dear friends: you followed the star Jesus Christ when you said “yes” to the priesthood and to the episcopacy. And no doubt smaller stars have enlightened and helped you not to lose your way. In the litany of saints we call upon all these stars of God, that they may continue to shine upon you and show you the path. As you are ordained bishops, you too are called to be stars of God for men, leading them along the path towards the true light, towards Christ. So let us pray to all the saints at this hour, asking them that you may always live up to this mission you have received, to show God’s light to mankind.

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Faith and Theology by Pope Benedict XVI

October 24, 2011

 

An address on the occasioni of his receiving an honorary doctorate in Theology by the Theological Faculty of Wroclaw/Breslau.

The word Glaube [faith, belief] has in German, and no doubt in other languages, two quite different meanings. There is the everyday meaning that people usually associate with the word. Someone says, for instance: I believe the weather will be fine tomorrow. Or, I believe that this or that piece of news is not true.

Here the word “believe” is the equivalent of think; it expresses an imperfect form of perception. People talk of believing when the status of knowing has not been reached. Many people probably think that this meaning of “believing” is also applicable in the realm of religion, so that the contents of the Christian faith are an imperfect, preliminary stage of knowledge.

When we say, “I believe in God”, this, they think, is just an expression of our not knowing anything definite about the matter. If this were so, then theology would be a rather strange discipline — indeed, the concept of an academic discipline dealing with faith would actually be a contradiction in itself. For how could one construct a real academic discipline upon suppositions? In reality, for the believing Christian the words “I believe” articulate a particular kind of certainty — one that is in many respects a higher degree of certainty than that of science yet one that does indeed carry within it the dynamic of “shadow and image”, the dynamic of the “not yet”.

As I was preparing for this lecture and reflecting on the problems of the quite odd relationship of certainty and risk that is inherent in the Christian act of faith, a little incident, which happened quite a few years ago, came to mind.

I had been invited to speak at the Waldensian faculty in Rome. A discussion followed my lecture, which had concerned this very problem of the darkness and light of faith. A student raised the question of whether doubt was not the absolute condition for faith and was therefore always present within faith. It was not in fact completely clear to me exactly what the student meant, but he was probably trying to express the idea that faith never reaches complete certainty, just as a renunciation of faith cannot be sure of itself.

All faith would in the end be a “perhaps”; I recalled Martin Buber’s well-known story about Rabbi Levi Yitzhak of Berditschev and the way he countered the learned advocate of enlightenment with the words: “Yet perhaps it is true.” [Martin Buber, Werke, vol. 3: Schriftten zum Chassidismmu [Writings on Hasidism] (Munich and Heidelberg, 1963), p. 348.] This “perhaps” broke down the other man’s opposition; it appears to be faith’s strength, but it would of course also be its weakness.

Is it really only perhaps? If the forms of verification of modern natural science were the only way in which man could arrive at any certainty, then faith would indeed have to be classified in the realm of mere “perhaps” and to be constantly fused with doubt, to be virtually identical with it. But just as a person becomes certain of another’s love without being able to subject it to the methods of scientific experiment, so in the contact between God and man there is a certainty of a quite different kind from the certainty of objectivizing thought. We live faith, not as a hypothesis, but as the certainty on which our life is based.

If two people regard their love merely as a hypothesis that is constantly in need of new verification, they destroy love in that way. It is contradicted in its essence if one tries to make it something one can grasp in one’s hand. By then it has already been destroyed. Perhaps so many relationships break down today because we are aware of the certainty only of the verified hypothesis and do not admit the ultimate validity of anything not scientifically proved. Thus, the essential phenomena of human life escape us, with their quite different kind of certainty, which is in truth far higher. God, most of all, cannot be objectified as if he were a thing on a lower level than we are, which we could squeeze into our hand or into our apparatus.

Yet his light is able, as Bonaventure says, “to stabilize our emotions and to enlighten our intellect.” [2 Sentences 1. 3, d. 23, a. i, q. 5, conclusion: "Nam ipsa fides secundum essentiam suam aliquid respicit ex parte intellectus et aliquid ex parte afectus. Habet enim affection stabilire et intellection illwninare" (St. Bonaventure, Opera omnia, vol. 3 [Quarrachi, 1871, p. 484).]

Belief is not at all mere opinion, as we express it in the sentence, “I believe the weather will be fine tomorrow.” It is not doubt; rather, it is certainty that God has shown himself and has opened up for us the view of truth itself. Yet here arises the contrary objection, which Heidegger and Jaspers have insistently formulated. They say: Faith excludes philosophy, real research into and seeking for ultimate realities. For faith supposes it knows all that already. Its certainty leaves no place for questions.

Anyone who believes has already failed as a philosopher, says Jaspers, for all the questioning is merely apparent; it has to come up in the end with the answer that has already been given. A theology that was based upon mere opinion could not be scholarly or scientific, as we have already said. Jaspers’ argument takes the opposite approach. Theology, he says, cannot be a genuine scholarly discipline since it argues only in appearance, having its results already given in advance. Many objections against theology doubtless do arise from this notion, and many rebellions against the teaching office, within theology, presuppose a similar kind of argument, in more moderate form.

Thus, a twofold problem seems to loom before theology: if faith basically never gets beyond doubt, then it offers no foothold for serious scholarly thought. If it is offering only ready-made certainties, then it seems equally to exclude the movement of thought. At this point it becomes clear that the two opposing positions ultimately originate in the same model of thinking, because both are obviously aware of only a single form of certainty and never have the quite specific anthropological structure of faith in their view.

When you begin to understand that structure, it also becomes clear why the Christian faith produced theology and did so necessarily. The nature of theology can be understood only on the basis of the nature of faith. If we analyze these interconnections, then it becomes clear what is really at the heart of the two positions we have mentioned.

I do not know whether, in the short time I am allowing myself, I shall be able to some extent to make clear at least the direction in which the answers become accessible. I should like to try to do so by starting from a very dense passage of Saint Thomas Aquinas, which illuminates with great precision the nature of the Christian act of faith and thereby demonstrates its inner openness toward theology: that is, De veritate, q. 14, a. i corp.

First of all, following Augustine, Thomas defines believing as “thinking with assent”. This coexistence of thinking and assent is something faith has in common with science. It is characteristic of science for thinking to result in assent.

Anyone following its progression ends by saying: Yes, that is right. Assent is also a part of believing. This is not an act of abstention, but a decision, a certainty. Being eternally open, and keeping oneself open in all directions, is exactly what faith is not. It is “hypostasis”, the Letter to the Hebrews says (11:1): taking one’s stand, and standing firm, on what is hoped for; being convinced.

Yet the relationship between assent and thought is different in faith from what it is in science, in knowledge in general. In the case of a scientific demonstration, the obviousness of the business forces us, by inner necessity, into assent. [See Thomas Aquinas, Summa contra gentiles 111, 40, no. 3: In cognitione autem fidei principalitatem habet voluntas: intellectus enim assentit per fidem his quae sibi proponuntur, quia volt, non autem ex ipsa veritatis evidentia necessario tractus. (Thomas Aquinas, Opera onmia, vol. 2 [Stuttgart, 1980], p. 71).]

The act of perception itself brings about the “Yes, that is right.” Thomas says that the certainty attained “determines” our thinking. Thus, in the insight obtained, the movement of thought comes to rest; it finds its conclusion. The structure of the act of faith is quite different. Thomas says about this that here the thought process and the assent balance each other, they are “ex aequo.” [Thomas Aquinas, De veritate, q. 14, art. r, contra: In scientia enim motus rationis incipit ab intellectu principiorum, et ad eumdem terminatur per viam resolutionis; et sic non habet assensum et cogitationem quasi ex aequo: sed cogitatio inducit ad assensum, et assensus cogitationem quietat. Sed in fide est assensus et cogitatio quasi ex aequo (ibid., 3:91).]

What does that mean? First, it means that in the act of believing the assent comes about in a different way from the way it does in the act of knowing: not through the degree of evidence bringing the process of thought to its conclusion, but by an act of will, in connection with which the thought process remains open and still under way. Here, the degree of evidence does not turn the thought into assent; rather, the will commands assent, even though the thought process is still under way. How can it do that without doing violence to the thinking? To answer this question, we must first be aware that in Thomas Aquinas’ terminology the concept of will is more far-reaching than we understand it to be today. What Thomas calls the will corresponds roughly to what in biblical language is called “the heart”. Thus, Pascal’s well-known saying comes to mind: “Le coeur a ses raisons, que la raison ne connait point.” [Pensees sur la religion (1669), no. *277, as edited by C.-M. des Granges (Paris: Gamier, 1964), p. 146.]

The heart has its reasons; it has its own rationality, which reaches beyond “mere” reason. On the basis of the logic of this sentence we can get to the meaning: Any perception presupposes a certain sympathy with what is perceived. Without a certain inner closeness, a kind of love, we cannot perceive the other thing or person. In this sense the “will” always somehow precedes the perception and is its precondition; and the more so, the greater and more inclusive is the reality to be perceived. We are able to give the assent of faith because the will — the heart — has been touched by God, “affected” by him. Through being touched in this way, the will knows that even what is still not “clear” to the reason is true.

Assent is produced by the will, not by the understanding’s own direct insight: the particular kind of freedom of choice involved in the decision of faith rests upon this. Cetera potest homo nolens, credere non nisi volens, says Thomas on this point, quoting Saint Augustine: Man can do everything else against his will, but he can believe only of his free will. [Thomas Aquinas, De veritate, q. 14, art. i, contra: "Et ideo dicit Augustinus, quod cetera potest konio nolens, credere nisi volens" (Opera omnia, 3:91); Peter Lombard, Sententiae 1. 2, dirt. 26, C. 4, p. 2: Non est tamen ignorandum quod alibi augustinus significare uidetur quod ex uoluntate sit fides, de illo uerbo apostoli scilicet, corde creditur ad iustitiam, ita super ioannem tractans: ideo non simpliciter apostolus ait creditur, sed corde creditur, quia cetera potest homo nolens, credere non nisi uolens; intrare ecclesiam et accedere ad altare potest nolens, sed non credere; Augustine, In Iohannis euangelium tractatus 26, 2: Intrare quisquam ecclesiam potest nolens, accedere ad altare potest nolens, accipere sacramentum potest nolens; credere non potest nisi uolens. si corpore crederetur, fieret in nolentibus; sed non corpore creditur. apostolum audi: corde creditur ad iustitiam (Romans 10:5)" (PL 35, 1607; CChr. Ser. Lat. 36, 260).]

When we realize this, the peculiar spiritual structure of believing becomes clear. Believing is not an act of the understanding alone, not simply an act of the will, not just an act of feeling, but an act in which all the spiritual powers of man are at work together. Still more: man in his own self, and of himself, cannot bring about this believing at all; it has of its nature the character of a dialogue. It is only because the depth of the soul — the heart — has been touched by God’s Word that the whole structure of spiritual powers is set in motion and unites in the Yes of believing. It is through all this that we also begin to see the particular kind of truth with which believing is concerned; theology talks about “saving truth”.

For how is it that God actually touches our heart? What gives the “will” the illumination and the confidence that can then also be shared with the understanding? Augustine says, reflecting on his own experience of life: The inmost heart of the human will is the will for happiness. Everything a man does or allows to happen to him can, ultimately, be derived from his will to be happy. When the heart comes into contact with God’s Logos, with the Word who became man, this inmost point of his existence is being touched.

Then, he does not merely feel, he knows from within himself: That is it; that is HE, that is what I was waiting for. It is a kind of recognition. For we have been created in relation to God, in relation to the Logos, and our heart remains restless until it has found what the songwriter Paul Gerhardt (d. 1676) was talking about in the marvelous Christmas carol Ich steh an definer Krippen hier [Here I stand beside your crib]: “Before your hand had made me, you had already thought of how you wanted to be mine.”

The “will” (the heart), therefore, lights the way for the understanding and draws it with it into assent. That is indeed how thought begins to see, yet believing does not come from seeing, from perceiving, but from hearing. The process of thought is not completed; it has not yet come to rest. Here it becomes particularly clear that believing is a pilgrimage, and also a pilgrimage of thought, which is still following the way. Thomas described this continuing restlessness of thought in the midst of the established certainty of faith in quite drastic fashion on the basis of 2 Corinthians 10:5, where the Apostle says: “We … take every thought captive to obey Christ.”

The Doctor Communis comments: Because the process of thought has not attained to assent in its own way, but on the basis of the will, it has not yet found its rest; it is still reflecting and is still in a state of seeking (inquisitio). It has not yet reached satisfaction. It has been brought to an end only “from outside”. That is why the Apostle says that it has been taken captive. That is also why it is, says Thomas, that within faith, however firm the assent, a contrary motion (motus de contrario) can arise: Struggling and questioning thought remains present, which ever and again has to seek its light from that essential light which shines into the heart from the Word of God.

Assent and the process of thought “in some sense” (quasi) balance each other — they are “ex aequo”. In this little sentence, which looks at first just like a textbook formula from the past, is contained the whole drama of faith in history; and in it the nature of theology, with its greatness and its limitations, also becomes apparent. It demonstrates the connection between faith and theology. Thinking the whole thing over again, we could say: Faith is an anticipation that is made possible by the will through the heart being touched by God. It grasps in advance what we cannot yet see and cannot yet have. This anticipation sets us in motion. We have to follow that motion. Because assent has been anticipated, thought has to try to catch up with that and is also constantly having to overcome the contrary movement, the motus de contrario. This is the situation of believing so long as man stands within this history. That is why there must always be theology, right throughout history; that is why the task of theology within history remains unfinished. Thought is still on its pilgrim’s journey, as we ourselves are. And we are not making our pilgrimage aright unless our thought is on pilgrimage, too.

Anyone who immerses himself, even for a little while, in the history of theology can see the drama of this tension, this never-finished pilgrimage of thought toward Christ, in the attempts it makes again and again; thus he can come to know the beauty and the fascination of the adventure we call theology. Above all, he will see how the Word of God is always in advance of us and of our thinking. Not only is it never out of date; everything that claims to be making it outdated quickly becomes dated itself and becomes part of the past, if not altogether forgotten. We can never overtake it; we do not even catch up with it. The motus de contrario, which often seems all but invincible, turns out when viewed from a distance to be always motion in reverse after all.

Thus history, with its ups and downs, has an encouraging side: it lets us have confidence that anyone who is following the Word of God, anyone who follows the heart’s command to assent, and takes this a signpost for the onward journey of thinking and living, is on the right track. History shows us that thinking along with the Word of God has always something new in store and never becomes boring, never pointless. Anyone who looks into history is not just looking backward. He is also getting a better idea of which way to go forward. Without the anticipation of faith, thought would be groping around in emptiness; it would be able to say nothing further about the things that are really essential to man. It would have to conclude, with Wittgenstein, that we must be silent about what is ineffable. It is not doubt but affirmation that opens up the wide horizons to thought. Anyone who encounters the history of theology sees that the suspicions of Heidegger and Jaspers are unfounded. The pre-knowledge of believing does not oppress thought; it remains ex aequo — that is, it is that which really challenges thought and sets it in a restless motion that produces results.

What I am expounding here is not just a theory, even if I did first learn all this from the great masters like Augustine, Bonaventure, and Thomas Aquinas; and even though, first of all, I was guided to these masters by my teacher, Gottlieb Sohngen. I have now been traveling with theology for more than half a century. And so the way that God’s Word goes before us, which we follow in our thinking, has increasingly become a quite personal experience. When I was a student, the historico-critical method of exegesis seemed to have said the last word on many subjects. One of my friends, who at that time — in the late forties — was studying in Tubingen, was told by the very learned professor for New Testament exegesis there, Stephan Losch, that he could no longer offer dissertation subjects on the New Testament, since everything in the New Testament had already been researched.

Bernhard Barttnann, the important teacher of dogmatics at Paderborn, who was deservedly revered, said at that time that in dogmatics as such there were no longer any open questions and that one could only further develop knowledge of the history of theology and dogmatics. Theology was then in the process of withdrawing into the past. But how far the Word of God, and the faith of the Church that is based upon it, has left us behind meanwhile! All at once we can see once more what a long journey through a landscape of mysteries and promises is opening up before us, how immeasurably great the country of faith is, which no human travels can ever quite cross.

It is becoming apparent that that very motus de contrario which we feel so strongly today can be the challenge summoning forth a deeper knowledge. Certainly, that restlessness of thought which can never quite catch up with what is already given by God’s Word can lead us away from faith — we can see that. Yet it can, above all, be productive, guiding us into walking on the way of thought toward God. That is the fine task of a theological faculty.

My thanks for the honorary doctorate are thus at the same time heartfelt wishes for blessings upon the future work of this venerable theological faculty.

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Reading Selections: On The Occasion Of The Closing Of The Pauline Year — Homily Of His Holiness Benedict XVI

May 9, 2011

As a theologian, Pope Benedict XVI is enormously competent. At home discussing biblical texts and their languages, the fathers of the church, or the writings of contemporary theologians and philosophers, he is a man of culture as well as of learning. He is a member of the Academic Française, the Rhineland-Westphalia Academy of Sciences, and the European Academy of Sciences and Arts. Best known for his work on episcopacy, Eucharist, ministry; tradition, and eschatology, he has published over one hundred books. One cannot read him without being amazed at the breadth of his scholarship. While clearly an intellectual, his pastoral concern has always been to safeguard from harmful speculation the faith of those whom he calls the “simple faithful.” No better example than these comments on the occasion of the closing of the Pauline Year.

At The Basilica of Saint Paul, Outside-the-Walls
Sunday, 28 June 2009

The Mortal Remains Of The Apostle Paul
We have gathered at the tomb of the Apostle whose sarcophagus, preserved beneath the papal altar, was recently the object of a careful scientific analysis. A tiny hole was drilled in the sarcophagus, which in so many centuries had never been opened, in order to insert a special probe which revealed traces of a precious purple-coloured linen fabric, with a design in gold leaf, and a blue fabric with linen threads. Grains of red incense and protein and chalk substances were also found.

In addition, minute fragments of bone were sent for carbon-14 testing by experts unaware of their provenance. The fragments proved to belong to someone who had lived between the first and second centuries. This would seem to confirm the unanimous and undisputed tradition which claims that these are the mortal remains of the Apostle Paul.

All this fills our hearts with profound emotion. In recent months, many people have followed the paths of the Apostle the exterior and especially the interior paths on which he travelled in his lifetime: the road to Damascus towards his encounter with the Risen One; the routes of the Mediterranean world which he crossed with the torch of the Gospel, encountering contradiction and adherence until his martyrdom, through which he belongs forever to the Church of Rome. It was to her that he also addressed his most important Letter.

The Pauline Year is drawing to a close but what will remain a part of Christian existence is the journey with Paul with him and thanks to him getting to know Jesus, and, like the Apostle, being enlightened and transformed by the Gospel. And always, going beyond the circle of believers, he remains the “teacher of the Gentiles”, who seeks to bring the message of the Risen One to them all, because Christ has known and loved each one; he has died and risen for them all. Therefore let us too listen to him at this time when we are solemnly beginning the Feast of the two Apostles who were bound to one another by a close bond.

The Essential Nucleus Of Christian Existence
It is part of the structure of Paul’s Letters always in reference to the particular place and situation that they first of all explain the mystery of Christ, they teach faith. The second part treats their application to our lives: what ensues from this faith? How does it shape our existence, day by day? In the Letter to the Romans, this second part begins in chapter 12, in which the Apostle briefly sums up the essential nucleus of Christian existence in the first two verses. What does St Paul say to us in that passage?

First of all he affirms, as a fundamental thing, that a new way of venerating God began with Christ a new form of worship. It consists in the fact that the living person himself becomes adoration, “sacrifice”, even in his own body. It is no longer things that are offered to God. It is our very existence that must become praise of God.

But how does this happen? In the second verse we are given the answer: “Do not be conformed to this world but be transformed by the renewal of your mind, that you may prove what is the will of God…” (12: 2). The two decisive words of this verse are “transformed” and “renewal”. We must become new people, transformed into a new mode of existence. The world is always in search of novelty because, rightly, it is always dissatisfied with concrete reality.

The World Cannot Be Renewed Without New People
Paul tells us: the world cannot be renewed without new people. Only if there are new people will there also be a new world, a renewed and better world. In the beginning is the renewal of the human being. This subsequently applies to every individual. Only if we ourselves become new does the world become new. This also means that it is not enough to adapt to the current situation. The Apostle exhorts us to non-conformism.

In our Letter he says: we should not submit to the logic of our time. We shall return to this point, reflecting on the second text on which I wish to meditate with you this evening. The Apostle’s “no” is clear and also convincing for anyone who observes the “logic” of our world. But to become new how can this be done? Are we really capable of it? With his words on becoming new, Paul alludes to his own conversion: to his encounter with the Risen Christ, an encounter of which, in the Second Letter to the Corinthians he says: “if anyone is in Christ, he is in a new creation; the old has passed away, behold, the new has come” (5: 17). This encounter with Christ was so overwhelming for him that he said of it: “I… died…” (Galatians 2: 19; cf. Romans 6). He became new, another, because he no longer lived for himself and by virtue of himself, but for Christ and in him.

In the course of the years, however, he also saw that this process of renewal and transformation continues throughout life. We become new if we let ourselves be grasped and shaped by the new Man, Jesus Christ. He is the new Man par excellence. In him the new human existence became reality and we can truly become new if we deliver ourselves into his hands and let ourselves be molded by him.

Recasting
Paul makes this process of “recasting” even clearer by saying that we become new if we transform our way of thinking. What has been introduced here with “way of thinking” is the Greek term “nous“. It is a complex word. It may be translated as “spirit”, “sentiments”, “reason”, and precisely, also by “way of thinking”. Thus our reason must become new. This surprises us. We might have expected instead that this would have concerned some attitude: what we should change in our behavior. But no: renewal must go to the very core.

Our way of looking at the world, of understanding reality all our thought must change from its foundations. The reasoning of the former person, the common way of thinking is usually directed to possession, well-being, influence, success, fame and so forth. Yet in this way its scope is too limited. Thus, in the final analysis, one’s “self” remains the centre of the world. We must learn to think more profoundly. St Paul tells us what this means in the second part of the sentence: it is necessary to learn to understand God’s will, so that it may shape our own will.

This is in order that we ourselves may desire what God desires, because we recognize that what God wants is the beautiful and the good. It is therefore a question of a turning point in our fundamental spiritual orientation. God must enter into the horizon of our thought: what he wants and the way in which he conceived of the world and of me. We must learn to share in the thinking and the will of Jesus Christ. It is then that we will be new people in whom a new world emerges.

A Mature Faith
Paul illustrates the same idea of a necessary renewal of our way of being human in two passages of his Letter to the Ephesians; let us therefore reflect on them briefly. In the Letter’s fourth chapter, the Apostle tells us that with Christ we must attain adulthood, a mature faith. We can no longer be “children, tossed to and fro and carried about with every wind of doctrine…” (Ephesians 4: 14). Paul wants Christians to have a “responsible” and “adult faith”. The words “adult faith” in recent decades have formed a widespread slogan. It is often meant in the sense of the attitude of those who no longer listen to the Church and her Pastors but autonomously choose what they want to believe and not to believe hence a do-it-yourself faith. And it is presented as a “courageous” form of self-expression against the Magisterium of the Church.

In fact, however, no courage is needed for this because one may always be certain of public applause. Rather, courage is needed to adhere to the Church’s faith, even if this contradicts the “logic” of the contemporary world. This is the non-conformism of faith which Paul calls an “adult faith”. It is the faith that he desires. On the other hand, he describes chasing the winds and trends of the time as infantile. Thus, being committed to the inviolability of human life from its first instant, thereby radically opposing the principle of violence also precisely in the defense of the most defenseless human creatures is part of an adult faith.

It is part of an adult faith to recognize marriage between a man and a woman for the whole of life as the Creator’s ordering, newly re-established by Christ. Adult faith does not let itself be carried about here and there by any trend. It opposes the winds of fashion. It knows that these winds are not the breath of the Holy Spirit; it knows that the Spirit of God is expressed and manifested in communion with Jesus Christ. However, here too Paul does not stop at saying “no”, but rather leads us to the great “yes”.

He describes the mature, truly adult faith positively with the words: “speaking the truth in love” (cf. Ephesians 4: 15). The new way of thinking, given to us by faith, is first and foremost a turning towards the truth. The power of evil is falsehood. The power of faith, the power of God, is the truth. The truth about the world and about ourselves becomes visible when we look to God. And God makes himself visible to us in the Face of Jesus Christ. In looking at Christ, we recognize something else: truth and love are inseparable. In God both are inseparably one; it is precisely this that is the essence of God. For Christians, therefore, truth and love go together. LOVE IS THE TEST OF TRUTH. We should always measure ourselves anew against this criterion, so that truth may become love and love may make us truthful.

Truth In Love
Another important thought appears in this verse of St Paul. The Apostle tells us that by acting in accordance with truth in love, we help to ensure that all things (ta pánta) the universe may grow, striving for Christ. On the basis of his faith, Paul is not only concerned in our personal rectitude nor with the growth of the Church alone. He is interested in the universe: ta pánta. The ultimate purpose of Christ’s work is the universe – the transformation of the universe, of the whole human world, of all creation.

Those who serve the truth in love together with Christ contribute to the true progress of the world. Yes, here it is quite clear that Paul is acquainted with the idea of progress. Christ his life, his suffering and his rising was the great leap ahead in the progress of humanity, of the world. Now, however, the universe must grow in accordance with him. Where the presence of Christ increases, therein lies the true progress of the world. There, mankind becomes new and thus the world is made new.

Outer And Inner Nature
Paul makes the same thing clear from yet another different perspective. In chapter three of the Letter to the Ephesians he speaks to us of the need to be “strengthened… in the inner man” (Ephesians 3: 16). With this he takes up a subject that earlier, in a troubled situation, he had addressed in the Second Letter to the Corinthians. “Though our outer nature is wasting away, our inner nature is being renewed every day” (Ephesians 4: 16).

The inner person must be strengthened this is a very appropriate imperative for our time, in which people all too often remain inwardly empty and must therefore cling to promises and drugs, which then result in a further growth of the sense of emptiness in their hearts. This interior void the weakness of the inner person is one of the great problems of our time. Interiority must be reinforced the perceptiveness of the heart; the capacity to see and to understand the world and the person from within, with one’s heart. We are in need of reason illuminated by the heart in order to learn to act in accordance with truth in love.

The Life Of Prayer
However, this is not realized without an intimate relationship with God, without the life of prayer. We need the encounter with God that is given to us in the sacraments. And we cannot speak to God in prayer unless we let him speak first, unless we listen to him in the words that he has given us. In this regard Paul says to us: “Christ may dwell in your hearts through faith; that you, being rooted and grounded in love, may have power to comprehend with all the saints what is the breadth and length and height and depth, and to know the love of Christ which surpasses knowledge” (Ephesians 3: 17ff.).

With these words Paul tells us that love sees beyond simple reason. And he also tells us that only in communion with all the saints, that is, in the great community of all believers and not against or without it can we know the immensity of Christ’s mystery. He circumscribes this immensity with words meant to express the dimensions of the cosmos: breadth, length and height and depth. The mystery of Christ has a cosmic vastness; he did not belong only to a specific group.

The Crucified Christ embraces the entire universe in all its dimensions. He takes the world in his hands and lifts it up towards God. Starting with St Irenaeus of Lyons thus from the second century the Fathers have seen in these words on the breadth, length and height and depth of Christ’s love an allusion to the Cross. In the Cross, Christ’s love embraced the lowest depths the night of death as well as the supreme heights, the loftiness of God himself. And he took into his arms the breadth and the vastness of humanity and of the world in all their distances. He always embraces the universe all of us.

Let us pray the Lord to help us to recognize something of the immensity of his love. Let us pray him that his love and his truth may touch our hearts. Let us ask that Christ dwell in our hearts and make us new men and women who act according to truth in love. Amen!

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Benedict Speaks to the School Children, Twickenham, UK, September 17th 2010

November 30, 2010

Pope Benedict XVI meets school children at St Mary's University College in Twickenham, in west London September 17, 2010.

George Weigel in reporting on the Pope’s trip to Scotland and the UK this past September included this compelling catechetical message that was delivered to a gathering of students at Twickenham on September 17th; it was linked via television to Catholic schools throughout the country:

It is not often that a pope, or indeed anyone else, has the opportunity to speak to the students of all the Catholics schools of England, Wales, and Scotland. And since I have the chance now, there is something I very much want to say to you. I hope that among those of you listening to me today there are some of the future saints of the twenty-first century. What God wants most of all for each one of you is that you should become holy. He loves you much more than you could ever begin to imagine, and he wants the very best for you. And by far the best thing for you is to grow in holiness. . . .

When I invite you to become saints, I am asking you not to be content with second best. . . . Happiness is something we all want, but one of the great tragedies in this world is that so many people never find it, because they look for it in the wrong places. The key to it is very simple—true happiness is to be found in God. . . .

As you come to know him better, you find you want to reflect something of his infinite goodness in your own life. . . . You want to come to the aid of the poor and the hungry, you want to comfort the sorrowful, you want to be kind and generous. And once these things begin to matter to you, you are well on your way to becoming saints.

I can’t tell  you how deeply this little speech moved me – not even a speech really, but a brief aside to the young people gathered. I recalled G.K. Chesterton’s speaking to the parable of the Lilies of the Field on the Sermon on the Mount: “Merely in a literary sense it would be more of a masterpiece than most of the masterpieces in the libraries; yet it seems to have been uttered almost at random while a man might pull a flower.” This has this same off-the-cuff but deceptively profound feel to it. Only a man who is truly holy could have achieved the effect.

It follows from a line I first read in Peter Kreeft’s commentary on the Pensées. Kreeft attributed it to Charles Peguy: 

Knowledge of physical science will not console me for ignorance of morality in times of affliction, but knowledge of morality will always console me for ignorance of physical science…
Pensées 463

In the end, life offers only one tragedy: not to have been a saint (attributed to Charles Peguy).

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Benedict XVI on Modernity and the Politics of the West Part II

August 24, 2010
 

Pope Benedict XVI greets the audience after arriving for a Young Catholics Youth Rally held at Saint Joseph's Seminary April 19, 2008 in Yonkers, New York.

 

Continuing the Reading Selections from Tracey Rowland’s Ratzinger’s Faith on his views concerning Modernity and the Politics of the West, particularly the collision of cultures with Islam. A good product description on Amazon: “The first serious assessment of the Pope’s theological vision, this thoughtful volume situates the thought of Benedict XVI within the intellectual history and academic circles of his time, exploring topics such as the interpretations of the Second Vatican Council, Benedict’s relations with other important scholars and theologians, and his attitudes on moral and political theology, western culture, the structure of the Catholic Church, liturgy, and love. It is a common observation that Pope Benedict has been influenced by the thought of St. Augustine in contrast to many of his predecessors in the papacy who were much more strongly influenced by St. Thomas Aquinas. This work therefore addresses the topic of in what way Benedict is an Augustinian. The volume also includes a bibliography arranged thematically for those who want to explore his thought more deeply in a particular area. A penetrating account of the thought of the reigning pontiff, this volume offers a wealth of insight for everyone interested in Pope Benedict.”

Correct Our Course (Three Essential Points)

  1. First, the West needs to appreciate that law is not the opposite of freedom but is its necessary condition;
  2. Second, against all utopian projects, there needs to be an understanding that within human history no absolutely ideal situation will ever exist and a perfected ordering of freedom will never be able to be achieved because it is impossible to eradicate original sin, and all its consequences; and
  3. Thirdly, the leaders of the western world need to bid farewell to the dream of the absolute autonomy of reason [from theology] and of its self-sufficiency. As an aspect of this third course correction there needs to be a recognition that the first service that Christian Revelation delivered to the political order was to liberate it from the burden of being the highest good for humanity.

It destroyed the myth of the divine state, and in its place it put the objectivity of reason. However, Ratzinger warns that this does not mean that it has produced a value-free objectivity, such as is sometimes claimed for sociology “to genuine human reason belongs the morality that is fed by God’s commandments. This morality is not some private affair; it has public significance.” He reiterates the advice that Jeremiah gave to the Jews exiled in Babylon to seek the welfare of the city where God has placed them. He believes that the morality of the exile contains fundamental elements of a positive political ethos. As a general statement of principle, he concludes:

Although politics does not bring about the kingdom of God, it must be concerned for the right kingdom of human beings, that is, it must create the preconditions for peace at home and abroad and for a rule of law that will permit everyone to “lead a quiet and peaceable life, godly and respectful in every way.” (1 Timothy 2: 2).

The State And Moral Truth: A Platform For Conversation
In Values in a Time of Upheaval Benedict stated that he did not wish to offer a new theory about the relationship between the state and moral truth, he merely wanted to summarize a number of insights that could form a kind of platform that permits a conversation:

  1. The state is not itself the source of truth and morality;
  2. The goal of the state cannot consist in a freedom without defined contents;
  3. Accordingly, the state must receive from outside itself the essential measure of knowledge and truth with regard to that which is good; This outside cannot be ‘pure reason’ however desirable in theory, because, in practice, such a pure rational evidential quality independent of history does not exist. Metaphysical and moral reason come into action only in a historical context;
  4. Christian faith has proved to be the most universal and rational religious culture;
  5. The Church may not exalt itself to become the state, nor may it seek to work as an organ of power in the state or beyond the state boundaries;
  6. The Church remains outside the state… [but] must exert herself with all her vigor so that in it there may shine forth the moral truth that it offers to the state and that ought to become evident to the citizens of the state.

The Church’s Teaching On Economic Ethics
In the more specific context of the Church’s teaching on economic ethics, Ratzinger, like his papal predecessors going all the way back to Leo XIII, has been strongly critical of both utopian socialist and laissez-faire, liberal capitalist theory. He observes that they share common philosophical presuppositions about the relationship of ethics to economics, and a common deterministic core. In his essay “The Church and Economics” he argued that the lives of many people are completely controlled by the laws of the market, while at the same time liberal theorists argue that the market is morally neutral and associated with the promotion of human freedom. He described as “astounding” the presupposition that the laws of the market are in essence good. With reference to the work by P. Scholl-Latour, Afrikanische Totenklage: Der Ausverkauf des Schwarzen Kontinents (Munich, 2001), he has written of the “tragic legacy” and “cruelty of the liberal capitalist system”:

“Behind the superficial solidarity of the developing-nations model has sometimes been hidden the desire to expand the reach of one’s own power, one’s own ideology, one’s own market share. In the process, old social structures have been destroyed, and spiritual and moral forces have been wasted, with consequences that should ring in our ears as an unprecedented indictment.”

Ratzinger thinks it is wrong to rely solely upon putatively ‘value-neutral’ marketplace mechanisms since ‘pre-existing values are always determinants in making market decisions’  He believes that contemporary world economic affairs are driven by a form of liberalism which ‘specifically excludes the heart’ and the ‘possibility of seeing God, of introducing the light of moral responsibility, love and justice into the worlds of work, of commerce and of politics’. He argues that ‘if globalization in technology and economy is not accompanied by a new openness to an awareness of the God to whom we will all render an account, then it will end in catastrophe.” Indeed, he asserts that “any kind of social or political unity that is created without God, or even in Opposition to him, ends like the experiment of Babylon: in total confusion and destruction, in the hatred and violence of universal conflict.”

Is There Common Ground Between Liberals And Christians On The Plain Of Natural Law
In some contemporary schools of Thomism the analogue for the idea of a theologically neutral secular social space is the project of discovering common ground between Liberals and Christians on the plain of natural law. The viability of this project is currently under question by a number of scholars, including those who identify their work with the Thomist tradition. This project received its greatest impetus in. the twentieth century with the scholarship and diplomatic work of the French Thomist Jacques Maritain (1882-1973).

In Faithful Reason John Haldane concluded that anyone reviewing the degree of ideological and moral diversity and conflict exhibited today, half a century after Jacques Maritain’s attempt in The Person and the Common Good, must wonder how feasible is the project of finding common ground between the Thomist and other traditions with reference to natural law.

James V. Schall has also noted that “reading Maritain on rights and values requires a constant internal connection to recognize that what he means by these terms is something very different from what is generally meant by them in the [contemporary] culture.” To the same end, Ernest Fortin has argued that “natural law becomes intelligible only within the framework of a providential order in which the words and deeds of individual human beings are known to God and duly rewarded and punished by him.” In societies where there is no longer a belief in any rational order within creation, or indeed any belief in creation itself, the project of using the language of the natural law tradition to negotiate with non-Christians becomes extremely difficult. This is Benedict’s conclusion also. In Values in a Time of Upheaval he wrote:

Natural law has remained — especially in the Catholic Church — one element in the arsenal of arguments in conversations with secular society and with other communities of faith, appealing to shared reason in the attempt to discern the basis of a consensus about ethical principles of law in a pluralistic, secular society. Unfortunately, this instrument has become blunt, and that is why I do not wish to employ it to support my arguments in this discussion [about the moral foundations of a free state]. The idea of the natural law presupposed a concept of ‘nature’ in which nature and reason interlock; nature itself is rational. The victory of the theory of evolution has meant the end of this view of nature.

Benedict is not saying that he does not believe in natural law. He believes in it because he believes in a divinely created order and he referred to it in Deus Caritas Est. He simply thinks it is a ‘blunt instrument’ for dealing with those who no longer accept a Genesis account of the creation. He recognizes that human rights have remained the last element of the natural law tradition operative within contemporary liberal political cultures, and he suggests that the doctrine of human rights ought today to be complemented by a doctrine of human obligations and human limits. He has not, however, made any pronouncements about the rhetorical effectiveness of the human rights discourse in the promotion of the Church’s teaching on the sanctity of human life and the foundation of human dignity.

A Purified Reason
In his essay “Prepolitical Moral Foundations of a Free Republic” he wrote of a need for a polyphonic correlation in which the different religious traditions would open themselves up to the essential complementarity of reason and faith. He stated that there is a necessary correlativity of reason and religion which are appointed mutually to cleanse and heal one another, which mutually need one another, and mutually must recognize this need.  He is not, therefore, a fideist; he does want people to use their intellectual faculty to make judgments about the merits of different social practices. This theme was reiterated in Deus Caritas Est at article 28

From God’s standpoint, faith liberates reason from its blind spots and therefore helps it to be ever more fully itself. Faith enables reason to do its work more effectively and to see its proper object more clearly. This is where Catholic social doctrine has its place: it has no intention of giving the Church power over the State. Even less is it an attempt to impose on those who do not share the faith ways of thinking and modes of conduct proper to faith. Its aim is simply to purify reason and to contribute, here and now, to the acknowledgment and attainment of what is just.

In the following article Benedict endorses the notion of an autonomous use of reason in the world of politics at the same time as noting that the Church has an indirect duty to contribute to the purification of reason and to the reawakening of those moral forces without which just structures are neither established nor prove effective in the long run. In this context, the expression “the autonomous use of reason” would appear to mean ‘reason’ in the sense of a prudential or practical judgment made without recourse to any ecclesial authority. In another sense, however, the Church remains involved in the whole process, albeit indirectly, through the judgments of lay Catholics and other Christians and persons of good will who operate with purified reason. A purified reason is the “Magna Carta of all ecclesial service.”

Kantian ‘Pure Reason’ And The Church’s Purified Reason
For Benedict such ‘purified reason’ is something vastly different from Kantian ‘pure reason’. One might say that for Benedict so-called “pure reason” is impure reason. In Deus Caritas Est he concludes that the figures of saints such as Francis of Assisi, Ignatius of Loyola, John of God, Camillus of Lellis, Vincent de Paul, Louise de Marillac, Giuseppe B. Cottolengo, John Bosco, Luigi Orione, and Mother Teresa of Calcutta stand out as lasting models of social charity for all people of good will. They are the true bearers of light within history, for they are men and women of faith, hope, and love. In other words, the saints, rather than the rationality of the Enlightenment, are the true bearers of light in human history and the best models of how to engage the world.

The Problem Of Islam In The Western World
The notion of the importance of a reasoned or reasonable faith most often arises in contemporary discussions about Islam, Significantly, and contrary to popular attitudes, Ratzinger does not believe that the solution to the problem of Islam in the western world is for it to undergo its own eighteenth-century style Enlightenment. Generally, he believes that Muslims do not feel threatened by the Christian moral foundations of the West but by “the cynicism of a secularized culture that denies its own bases.” He suggests that it is not the mention of God that offends the adherents of other religions but the attempt to build the human community without any reference to God whatsoever. He believes that Islam comes alive as faith precisely when its adherents experience cultures, and, in particular, legal systems, that are God-less. None the less he is concerned that Islam has never really come to grips with the importance of the relationship between faith and reason. In 1988 he wrote:

Already in its emergence Islam is to a certain extent a reversion to a monotheism which does not accept the Christian transition to God made man and which likewise shuts itself off from Greek rationality and its civilization which became a component of Christian monotheism via the idea of God becoming man. It can of course be objected to this that in the course of history there were continually approaches in Islam to the intellectual world of Greece; but they never lasted. What this is saying above all is that the separation of faith and law, of religion and tribal law, was not completed in Islam and cannot be completed without affecting its very core. To put it another way, faith presents itself in the form of a more or less archaic system of forms of life governed by civil and penal law. It may not be defined nationally, but it is defined in a legal system which fixes it ethnically and culturally and at the same time sets limits to rationality at the point where the Christian synthesis sees the existence of the sphere of reason.

Regensburg
In his Regensburg address he was clearly trying to encourage the development of Islamic thought in the direction of a consideration of Greek ideas about reason. In his commentary on the address, James V. Schall made the point that, at their philosophic roots, the two cultures — modern secularism and Islam — are not that much different. He suggests that this is what Benedict implies in his citation from Ibu Hazn concerning voluntarism. Islam and modem secularism share the same voluntarist tendency. They both eschew the possibility that there is an obligatory order of reason. In the case of modernity and post-modernity reality is itself a product of human artifice, of mere human will. In the case of Islam, what is good is defined by reference to the will of Allah. In neither case is there a recognition of a logos inherent in the order of being itself. This is what Ratzinger was driving at, so to speak, in the Regensburg address. He was pleading at least as much with contemporary militant secularists as with contemporary militant Muslims to recognize that they share a common philosophical starting point.

This is not to say that Benedict believes that all Muslims are irrational voluntarists. He acknowledges that Islam is not a uniform thing. There is no single authority for all Muslims, and for this reason dialogue with Islam is always dialogue with certain groups. There is no commonly regulated orthodoxy; no one speaks for Islam as a whole. He does, however, believe that as a tradition Islam needs to engage with the intellectual heritage of Greece. He also believes that the attempt to graft on to Islamic societies what are termed western standards cut loose from their Christian foundations misunderstands the internal logic of Islam as well as the historical logic to which these western standards belong. All such attempts are doomed to failure. He has consistently opposed the American-led western intervention in Iraq. There is no ‘stem’ on which to graft western liberalism and the attempt to do so just fuels the resentment which is one explosive element of the original problem. It plays into the hands of the Islamic terrorists. Benedict believes that for democracy to work it needs a Greco-Christian cultural foundation.

The Rule Of Law
Underlying this position is an implicit belief that the rule of law so central to democracy is the key to the stability of the whole western system. More than anything else Ratzinger’s interventions in the area of political theory have taken the form of exhorting liberal elites to recognize that the rule of law must itself be based on solid foundations, not on the will of the people — whatever that happens to be, which is no more secure a foundation than the will of Allah — but on the logos inherent in creation. Discerning this inherent rationality, this natural order of being itself, requires a synthesis of the gifts of the Greek and Hebraic cultures. If any component of the double helix is severed and mutated then western culture finds itself in crisis, and when the whole framework is broken and mutated then there is an institutional civil war involving theists, moderns, and post-moderns.

Benedict does not believe that this conflict can be resolved by removing Christ and Christianity from western culture. Any attempt to do so will not only be a kind of cultural suicide (which is already far advanced) it will also require a change in social perceptions of the nature and dignity of the human person. Since Christianity and orthodox Judaism are the only theologies on the market, so to speak, which uphold the sanctity of human life from conception to natural death, regardless of its social utility, destroying the Judeo-Christian cultural roots of the West will lead to the emergence of a new ruling class with “Social Darwinist” social practices not all that different from those which prevailed in Nazi Germany.

The Suicide Of The West
From Benedict’s perspective the suicide of the West began when people stopped believing in the Christian account of creation and started to sever the intrinsic relationship of faith and reason. With the political arrival of Islam within western countries, including the heartland of what was once Christendom, a new four-cornered battle is emerging between Christians, Muslims, and different varieties of secularists and Nietzscheans. In this context Benedict’s approach is best summarized as: charity to all under the unambiguous standard of the cross, and, if need be, martyrdom and persecution before accommodation. The 265th successor to St Peter will not allow Christ to be placed in any contemporary pantheon. Not on his watch will Christianity be reduced to a mere “booth in the fairground of post-modernity.”

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Benedict XVI on Modernity and the Politics of the West

August 23, 2010

A Dictatorship Of Relativism
In his homily at the Mass prior to his election Ratzinger rhetorically asked: ‘how many winds of doctrine have we known in recent decades, how many ideological currents, how many ways of thinking?’ He suggested that the western world was currently in the throws of a dictatorship of relativism that did not recognize anything as definitive and whose goal consists solely of the satisfaction of the desires of one’s own ego. However, while post-modem relativism is replacing the Ten Commandments in the area of private morality, in the area of public morality eighteenth-century ‘Enlightenment’ conceptions of freedom and truth continue to provide the foundation of the dominant political cultures of the West. Paradoxically, these theories are now being used to promote nineteenth-century romantic-movement visions of human dignity, which, at least implicitly, and sometimes quite explicitly, reject the eighteenth-century accounts of reason and morality.

For this reason contemporary public life in the western world has been described as a three-cornered ‘civil war’ of hostile traditions. The pattern of alliances in this war is constantly changing from issue to issue, country to country, and political forum to political forum. This is the political environment in which the Catholic Church finds herself at the beginning of the twenty-first century. Benedict has to navigate between the Charybdis of eighteenth-century-style attacks on the rationality of Christianity and the Scylla of nineteenth-century ‘post-modern’ attacks on Christian conceptions of human dignity and the meaning and purpose of sexuality.

Depending on the context, Benedict’s statements can sound more or less hostile, more or less favorable to the Enlightenment(s). When dealing with conceptions of the meaning and value of human life which have a nineteenth-century neo-pagan Romantic pedigree he tends to implore recourse to reason. When dealing with political philosophies which flow from eighteenth-century thought he reminds his interlocutors that philosophy has always been nourished by religious traditions. He is almost on a weekly basis contending with the theological presuppositions of hostile traditions. He believes that the Church cannot simply retreat into her own ghetto: the Church “cannot enclose men and cultures in a kind of spiritual nature reserve.”

Three Views of Modernity
So what is the framework from within which Benedict operates when judging aspects of contemporary culture? The point is often made that where a person stands on the issue of the culture of modernity depends upon how she or he views the evolution or, in academic parlance, genealogy of this culture. In other words, what is its pedigree, where did it come from? How did we get to this state of civil war among hostile traditions? There are several schools of interpretation, but most can be slotted into one of three academic stables:

(i)       modernity represents the severance of the classical-theistic synthesis: what we have now are free-floating concepts which have lost their meaning once separated / from the whole;

(ii)     modernity represents a mutation of the classical-theistic synthesis since the key concepts once severed from their Christian roots are given new meanings; and

(iii)    modernity is an entirely new culture based on concepts and values which were specifically developed to take the place of the defunct Greek and Christian concepts.

The above categories are not necessarily closed or always exclusive. For example, one can accept Alasdair MacIntyre’s ‘first stable’ account of the severance of faith from reason, and the severance of politics and economics from ethics, at the same time as accepting von Balthazar’s ‘first stable’ account of the severance of the true, the beautiful, and the good from one another, as well as agreeing with William T. Cavanaugh, Catherine Pickstock, and John Milbank’s ‘second stable’ account of the emergence of the liberal state as an entity which conies with its own heretical soteriology. They each hold pieces of a puzzle which can be fitted together. Those who study the cultures of modernity and post-modernity are rather like art curators who each work on understanding one or two pieces of a great mosaic in order to discern where they once fitted into the picture. The insights of many scholars can be brought together to get a clearer and larger picture. Some focus on the processes of severance and disintegration, others on the form of the mutation. So the question arises: where does Ratzinger fit into these categories? Is there a stable in which he might feel at home?

Ratzinger’s View
Ratzinger has not written one all-encompassing comprehensive exposition of his own genealogy but he has offered pieces of the puzzle in various books and articles. The first general point to be made is that he has no sympathy at all for the third category which views modernity as something completely new, nor does he have any patience for the doctrine of social evolution and the Hegelian belief in constant progress to which it is closely allied. Ratzinger rejects all materialistic and deterministic theories of history.

The English historian Christopher Dawson (1889-1970) once made the observation that the Christian view of history is not a secondary element derived by philosophical reflection from the study of history. It lies at the very heart of Christianity and forms an integral part of the Christian faith. As a consequence there is no Christian ‘philosophy of history’ in the strict sense of the word. There is, instead, a Christian history and Christian theology of history. This is essentially the position that Ratzinger has taken since at least the time of his Habilitationsshrift  post-doctoral thesis required for qualification as a professor on the theology of history in the thought of St Bonaventure.

It echoes the position of the German philosopher Josef Pieper who has been one of the seminal influences on the thought of Ratzinger and it resonates with the whole Christocentric trajectory of von Balthasar. Pieper argued that ‘there is no philosophical question, which, if it really wants to strike the ground intended by itself and in itself, does not come upon the primeval rock of theological pronouncements’ and as a consequence “the beginning and end of human history are conceivable only on acceptance of a pre-philosophically traditional interpretation of reality; they are either “revealed” or they are inconceivable.”  

A New History
While this is cold comfort for those who want a philosophy of history, its positive side is that it means that “the Incarnation is not the nth performance of a tragedy already lying in the archives of eternity.” It is an event of total originality. In accord with Dawson, Pieper, and von Balthasar, Ratzinger holds that Christian Revelation is the foundation of a new history which, paradoxically, is experienced as the end of all history:

The beginning and end of this new history is the Person of Jesus of Nazareth, who is recognized as the last man (the second Adam), that is as the long-awaited manifestation of what is truly human and the definitive revelation to man of his hidden nature; for this very reason, it is oriented toward the whole human race and presumes the abrogation of all partial histories, whose partial salvation is looked upon as essentially an absence of salvation.

Ratzinger thus rejects all philosophies of history which would find in the historical process some dynamic outside the theo-drama of God’s offer of grace and the human response to this offer. He describes secular theories of historical progress, especially the Marxist and liberal accounts, as examples of ideological optimism and a secularization of Christian hope. His genealogy of modernity does not follow the school of thinking which reads modernity as an entirely new culture, completely severed from all Christian roots. He believes that it is entangled with the Christian heritage however much secular liberal political elites may want to deny this.

Ratzinger’s Critique Of The Culture Of Modernity
What Ratzinger offers by way of his own contribution to the critique of the culture of modernity is a kind of ‘double helix’ genealogy with reference to two sets of three intellectual moments in which the Hellenic component of the culture was severed from the Christian and in which the Christian component was fundamentally undermined by the mutation of the doctrine of creation. Indeed in both cases the severances are accompanied by mutations.
When faith in creation is lost, Christian faith is transformed into gnosis, and when faith in reason is lost, wisdom is reduced to the empirically verifiable which cannot sustain a moral framework.

With reference to the Christian side of the ‘double helix’, Ratzinger identifies the first moment of severance with the philosophy of Giordano Bruno (1545-1600). He acknowledges that, at first sight, ‘it may seem strange to accuse him of suppressing faith in creation, since he was responsible for an emphatic rediscovery of the cosmos in its divinity’, but he argues that it is precisely this reversion to a divine cosmos that brings about the recession of faith in creation: “Here ‘renaissance’ means relinquishing the Christian so that the Greek can be restored in its pagan purity. In the Greek conception, the world appears as a divine fullness at peace within itself. While for the Christian account of creation, the world is dependent on something other than itself.” Ratzinger concludes that this is the aesthetic prelude to an increasingly prominent idea in the modem mind: the idea that the human dependency implied by faith in creation is unacceptable.

The second significant moment arrives with the thought of Galileo (1564-1642) in which there is also a return to the Greeks, not to their aesthetic insights, but to the mathematical side of Platonic thought. Here Ratzinger writes:

“God does geometry’ is the way [Galileo] expresses his concepts of God and nature as well as his scientific ideal. God wrote the book of nature with mathematical letters. Studying geometry enables us to touch the traces of God. But this means that the knowledge of God is turned into the knowledge of the mathematical structures of nature; the concept of nature in the sense of the object of science, takes the place of the concept of creation. . . Determined by this axiom [‘God does geometry’], God has to become Platonic. He dwindles away to be little more than the formal mathematical structures perceived by science in nature.”

Ratzinger concludes:

A mere ‘first cause’ which is effective only in nature and never reveals itself to humans, which abandons humans to a realm completely beyond its own sphere of influence, such a first cause is no longer God but a scientific hypothesis. On the other hand, a God who has nothing to do with the rationality of creation, but is effective only in the inner world of piety, is also no longer God; he becomes devoid of reality and is ultimately meaningless. Only when creation and covenant come together can either creation or covenant be realistically discussed — the one presupposes the other.”

The third form of deviation from the classical-theistic idea of creation came with Martin Luther (1483-1546). While Bruno and Galileo represent a return to a pre-Christian, Greek, and pagan world, Luther went in the extreme opposite direction. He wanted to purge Christian thought of its Greek heritage, and the Greek element he found most objectionable was the concept of the cosmos in the question of being, and therefore in the area of the doctrine of creation. For Luther, redemption sets humans free from the curse of the existing creation and thus grace exists in radical opposition to creation. Developing an argument taken from Angelo Scola and Rocco Buttiglione, Ratzinger concluded that “without the mystery of redemptive love, which is also creative love, the world inevitably becomes dualistic: by nature, it becomes geometry: as history, it becomes the drama of evil.”

Hegel and Marx
After these three moments in which the doctrine of creation was mutated, the German philosopher Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel (1770-1831) tried to resolve the dualism by positing God not as the eternal self-existent Almighty, who stands facing the evil of the world, but rather God who exists in the process of reasoning. He reinterprets the whole of human history as the unfolding of reason. With Karl Marx, the greatest of the left-wing Hegelians, redemption was then construed as something which humanity must achieve through its own efforts by an intellectual and political process.

In the Marxist schema, the place of creation is reoccupied by the category of self-creation, which is accomplished through work. Against the Marxist idea that the human person is someone defined by the capacity to work and produce things, Ratzinger believes that the human person is first of all a being created for worship. Against Marx’s idea that redemption should take a political form, Ratzinger argues that “the only goal of the Exodus [the liberation of the Jews from slavery to Pharaoh] was worship, which can only occur according to God’s measure.” He suggests that this orientation of creation to the rest of the Sabbath is not a peculiarly Christian idea, but that all the great pre-Christian civilizations point to the fact that the universe exists for worship and for the glorification of God.

From this premise he concludes that “the danger that confronts us today in our technological civilization is that we have cut ourselves off from this primordial knowledge which serves as a guidepost and which links the great cultures, and that an increasing scientific know-how is preventing us from being aware of the fact of creation.” As a consequence, “those who reject God’s rest, its leisure, its worship, its peace and its freedom, fall into the slavery of activity.”

On this reading the Christian component of the classical-theistic synthesis was mutated in the above three moments represented by the figures of Bruno, Galileo, and Luther, whose dualist consequences Hegel sought to overcome by a completely new idea of God and history.

The Subversion Of The Greek Strand Of The Helix (Three Moments)
Ratzinger then further identifies three moments in the subversion of the Greek strand of the helix. This subversion was actually the central theme of his famous Regensburg address. This time Luther remains in the trilogy but as the representative of the first rather than third moment. As stated above, the Reformation he fostered sought to sever all the Greek components of the synthesis from the Christian. For Luther, reason was the bastard child of Aristotle brought up by the pimp Thomas Aquinas. Two centuries later the Lutheran Immanuel Kant carried through the programme of severance. Although Ratzinger seems to include Kant as an heir to the Lutheran ‘first moment’ he does say that in his anchoring of faith ‘exclusively in practical reason, denying it access to reality as a whole’ he carried through Luther’s programme with a radicalism that the Reformers could never have foreseen.

The second moment in the programme of de-Hellenization arrived in the nineteenth century with Adolf von Harnack (1851-1930) as its leading representative. Von Harnack sought to distinguish between the God of the philosophers and the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. The God of the philosophers was said to have put an end to worship in favor of morality. He was presented as the father of a humanitarian message. Harnack’s goal was to liberate Christianity from philosophy altogether as well as to purge it of doctrinal elements such as faith in Christ’s divinity and the belief in the Trinity. Ratzinger concludes that the end result of this second moment is that the radius of both science and reason has been severely narrowed and the question of God is made to appear either unscientific or pre-scientific. In this situation any attempt to maintain theology’s claim to be ‘scientific’ would end up reducing Christianity to a mere fragment of its former self.

The third moment is contemporary and is associated with the anti-European attitude which surfaced in the aftermath of two world wars started in Europe and the rise of Asian and African nationalism in the 1960s. It holds that the synthesis of Greek and Christian thought in the first centuries after Christ was an important project for those times but has no relevance to contemporary non-European cultures. To put the position somewhat crudely, the Greek component may be of some interest to Europeans but it is irrelevant in outback Australia, the highlands of New Guinea, or the safari parks of Kenya. Ratzinger says that there is some element of truth in this position.

Ratzinger’s Genealogy Of Modernity
It is true that a knowledge of classical letters is not necessary for salvation. None the less, Ratzinger believes that the relationship of faith to human reason arose providentially from the junction of the Greek and Hebraic cultures. For him an understanding of this relationship is indispensable. This is the universal cultural patrimony of Catholics across the globe and its importance was also recognized in paragraph 72 of John Paul II’s encyclical Fides et Ratio: “In engaging great cultures for the first time the Church cannot abandon what she has gained from her inculturation in the world of Greco-Latin thought. To reject this heritage would be to deny the providential plan of God who guides His Church down the paths of time and history.”

It is something of a paradox that Luther was hostile to the Greek interest in rationality and yet it was a philosopher deeply influenced by Lutheran pietism who did more than anyone else to drive a wedge between faith and reason and in effect exalt the faculty of reason. The cumulative effect of Luther and Kant was to force a choice between scripture alone and so-called ‘pure’ reason alone. Those who took the path of reason alone tended to instrumentalize Christianity by turning it into a moralism. Thus reduced, the task of evangelizing the peoples of Asia, Africa, and the Pacific came to be seen, at least in the 1960s and 70s, as a project of transmitting a Christian moral vision along with helping these peoples to improve their material standards of living, particularly their access to medical treatment. While Ratzinger is not opposed to either the transmission of a moral vision or improving material standards of living, he does believe that to reduce Christianity to these goods is severely to truncate it, and to drain it of its most dynamic, most life-giving elements.

Ratzinger’s genealogy of modernity thus takes the form of both severance and mutation (first and second stable accounts) wherein the classical-theistic synthesis is unraveled through three successive attacks on the doctrine of creation on the one side, and at least three successive attacks on the relationship of faith to reason on the other. Linked to the mutation of the Christian doctrine of creation is the emergence of a notion of human freedom as the ability to pursue any vision of the good which might appeal. Once the relationship between nature and creation has been severed, then the way lies open for the severance of nature and morality and the arrival of the Nietzschean project of the transvaluation of the Judeo-Christian heritage.

The Role Of The Church
Politically the end result is that the Church has to contend with the argument that only Enlightenment culture can be constitutive for the identity of Europe, and the countries of the western world generally. Within the culture of modernity different religious cultures can coexist with their respective rights only on the condition and to the degree in which they respect the criteria of this culture, and are subordinated to it. Ratzinger, however, believes that the Church cannot accept this kind of marginalization. In the collection of essays published in 1988 under the tide The Church, Ecumenism and Politics he noted with approval that the early Christians would not allow Christ to be included in the pantheon alongside the pagan gods. They would not pay their dues to the pagan gods and nor would they accept that the life of the polis was the highest good there is.

In this context Ratzinger has been influenced by the work of the German philosopher Robert Spaemann who has warned against a ‘fatal tendency’ to understand Christianity as just one of an ensemble of social forces. According to Spaemann, the Church must understand herself as “the place of an absolute public validity surpassing the state under the legitimizing claim of God.” Ratzinger agrees with this but says that this claim to public validity should not be construed as an opposition to a genuine religious tolerance. He agrees with the basic principle of the conciliar document Diqnitatis humanae that religious observance can never be coerced. None the less, he argues that the state must recognize that a basic framework of values within a Christian foundation is the precondition for its own existence and it must learn that there is a truth which is not subject to consensus but which precedes it and makes it possible.

Included in this judgment is Ratzinger’s assessment that there is no such thing as a theologically neutral state which is the good which the liberal tradition claims to offer. It is logical nonsense. He quotes Rudolf Bultmann’s line that “an unchristian state is possible on principle, but not an atheistic state.” It is at this point that Ratzinger’s thought resonates with much contemporary scholarship from the Radical Orthodoxy and evangelical Protestant stables and also with the Thomist political philosophy of James V. Schall SJ and Alasdair MacIntyre.

Secularism
The evangelical scholar Oliver O’Donovan has written that “the appearance of a social secularity could only be created by understanding society as a quasi-mechanical system, incapable of moral and spiritual acts,” and, thus, “the false consciousness of the would-be contemporary secular society [or theologically neutral liberal state] lies in its determination to conceal the religious judgments that it has made.” The Anglican John Milbank, and the Catholic William T. Cavanagh, have both traced the mutation in the meaning of the concept of the secular realm. Prior to modem times it referred to this temporal world before Christ’s second coming; it has only recently come to mean a separate social space which is impermeable to grace and the intrusion of theological principles. They argue that within the traditional meaning of the term saeculum society as a whole could never be secular.

The fact that the concept is one of those which has undergone a process of mutation was also recognized by Ratzinger in an interview with the Italian newspaper La Repubblica in 2003. Here he stated:

“Secularism is no longer that element of neutrality which opens up areas of freedom for everyone. It is beginning to turn into an ideology that imposes itself through politics and leaves no public space for the Catholic and Christian vision, which thus risks becoming something purely private and essentially mutilated.” Similarly, in 2000 he wrote: “the problem with the liberal privatization of religion is that, in the name of tolerance, it favors what is in fact an intolerant suppression of the (ultimately religious) question of this fidelity.”

In The Yes of Jesus Christ: Spiritual Exercises in Faith, Hope and Love, he concluded: “A society that turns what is specifically human into something purely private and defines itself in terms of a complete secularity (which moreover inevitably becomes a pseudo-religion and a new all-embracing system that enslaves people) — this kind of society will of its nature be sorrowful, a place of despair: it rests on a diminution of human dignity.”

In part this diminution of human dignity stems from the fact that the criterion of rationality by which this Enlightenment culture runs is increasingly taken from an experience of technological production based on science. At its most extreme this leads to a scientific domination and manipulation of nature that is problematic in view of the dramatic environmental problems the world now faces and in view of its effects on the very conception of what it means to be human.

Conception no longer needs to be the result of an act of love but can be the result of a laboratory technique; parents are encouraged to abort genetically imperfect babies; the sick and elderly in some countries can now choose to end their lives rather than being a burden on their families. In each of these cases human life is no longer accepted as sacred and inviolable. It has its market value. Ratzinger writes that according to the values of this culture imperfect individuals must be weeded out and the path of planning and production must aim at the perfect man. Suffering must disappear, and life is to consist of pleasure alone. This leads to new forms of coercion and the emergence of a new ruling class.

A New Political Moralism
Ratzinger believes that members of this new ruling class are fostering a “new political moralism” whose key words are justice, peace, and the conservation of creation. He includes Hans Kung’s Weltethos (world ethos) project in this category and he strongly endorses the criticisms of this project by Robert Spaemann. Kung’s project is to try and boil down the values of all the great religious traditions to a short list of moral principles upon which they might all agree. In some ways it is a variation on the Kantian political philosophical project of John Rawls with its concept of “reflective equilibrium.” Neither Spaemann nor Benedict has any opposition to justice, peace, and the conservation of creation per se, but they make the point that the content which is commonly given to these terms by members of the new ruling class is different from what a creedal Christian would give them, and they also believe that the project simply will not work.

Spaemann argues that Kung’s Weltethos reduces religion to being merely ‘a booth in the fairground of post-modernism, adding an ambiguous offer of “sense and meaning beyond death” to the somewhat plausible “be nice to each other.”  This is the very claim of religion’s ‘educated’, ‘benign’, and ‘enlightened’ detractors. For Spaemann any political philosophy which tries to ignore the reality of original sin becomes just another utopian ideology. He asks, why would a chap who is otherwise going to commit adultery refrain from doing so because it might offend the world ethos? If it is not enough for a Christian that Jesus Christ tells him the same thing, why should this person suddenly change his judgment because Muhammad or some other religious figure has joined the chorus? Spaemann concludes that Hans Kung is firmly rooted in the tradition of modernity’s instrumentalization of religion in the service of morals and morals in the service of national preservation.

In other words, Kung’s Weltethos is a kind of warmed-up version of Adolf von Harnack’s nineteenth-century project. Benedict adds to this his judgment that there is no rational or ethical or religious universal formula about which everyone could agree and which could then support everyone, and it is for this reason that the so-called world ethos remains an abstraction. He also cites the judgment of the German historian and anti-Nazi hero Joachim Fest (1926-2006) that “the farther the agreements — which cannot be reached without concessions — are pushed, the more elastic and consequently the more impotent the ethical norms become, to the point that the project finally amounts to a mere corroboration of that unbinding morality which is not the goal, but the problem.” Ratzinger concludes:

“The political moralism that we have lived through, and are living through still, not only does not open the way to regeneration, it actually blocks it. The same also holds therefore for a Christianity and a theology that reduce the core of Jesus message, the ‘kingdom of God’ to the ‘values of the kingdom’ while identifying these values with the main watchwords of political moralism, and proclaiming them, at the same time, to be the synthesis of all religions — all the while forgetting about God, despite the fact that it is precisely He who is the subject and the cause of the kingdom of God.”

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