Theology and Childhood

What does it mean to be a child in Christ's sense? Is it not a simple and total confidence in the Father? Does it not include the faithful abandon and freedom of a pure imagination--pure receptivity and creativity--placed in the service of the Lord? The honesty and righteousness of a pure child. "Unless you become like one of these little ones, you cannot enter the Kingdom of Heaven." The recovery of wonder, innocence, beauty, imagination, deep curiosity, love for truth and goodness, littleness... All of these are dimensions wrapped up in a "theology of childhood" meant to be lived but so often forgotten in the face of pressures, deadlines, anxieties, failures, and sins. Lord Jesus, You want us to have the heart of a child. You want us to strive after this heart in response to the gift of Your own Heart. "Create in me a clean heart, O Lord..."

Can theology be a science of integrity without this constant striving after the heart of a child?

Saying and Unsaying with Pseudo-Dionysius

(Here is a short overview of affirmative and negative theology in Pseudo-Dionysius that I wrote for my class on mysticism...)

In his treatise The Mystical Theology (MT), Pseudo-Dionysius employs the Biblical account of Moses’ ascent on Sinai in Ex 19-20 as a broad paradigm for the believer’s ascent to God. Moses, he notes, first comes to contemplate “not him who is invisible, but rather where he dwells”: “the holiest and highest of the things perceived with the eye of the body or the mind,” through which “his unimaginable presence is shown…”[i] Moses proceeds, however, beyond what sees and is seen into the “mysterious darkness of unknowing,” where he is “wrapped entirely in the intangible and the invisible” and is “supremely united to the completely unknown by an inactivity of all knowledge.”[ii] As, for Dionysius, Scripture alone reveals to us the true pattern for our language about God (logos of the theos),[iii] it seems here in his exegesis of the Book of Exodus he has discovered the foundations for both affirmative and negative theological discourse: the former attaining to God as He is revealed through that which is below Him; the latter negating all attributions in an ascent toward union with Him in unknowing. By explicating further the foundations of both approaches to theology, one can come to a deeper understanding of their relationship to one another.

In chapter two of The Divine Names (DN), Dionysius asserts that Scripture reveals a distinction between the “divine differentiations” and the “divine unions” in God, and it is according to these two perspectives that we may begin to parse the different theologies.[iv] The “divine differentiations” refer to the “benign processions of the supreme Godhead,” or rather the ways in which the being of the Godhead overflows in its goodness, pours itself out, and is in some sense revealed and multiplied.[v] Such processions include the distinction between the Trinitarian persons[vi] and the being of Jesus in the Incarnation. God’s being is also differentiated and multiplied in the act of creation, by which God “irrepressibly imparts being, life, wisdom, and the other gifts of its all-creative goodness.”[vii] This is accomplished insofar as creatures are granted a participation in the divine perfections or “exemplars” which produce creaturely essences yet preexist as a unity in God.[viii] These perfections are multiplied in creatures and it is through the limited share in them that all beings become, as it were, theophanies of God: each becoming a faint similitude or symbol of the divine as it embodies perfections that, through causal inference, we know exist pre-eminently and simply in the Godhead.[ix] According to Dionysius, this differentiation of God in causation is what our finite minds can attain knowledge of: “…what our minds lay hold of is nothing other than certain activities apparent to us, activities which deify, cause being, bear life and grant wisdom.”[x] Knowledge is correlated with the order of beings, and as beings reveal perfections such as life, wisdom, and goodness through their participation in the divine exemplars, we are then able to affirm such names of God insofar as He causes them in creatures, and thereby must contain them Himself in a full, unique, and simple manner. The divine differentiations, according to which God imparts a share in His perfections and thereby reveals Himself through creation, are the primary foundation for affirmative theology.

Further, God’s overflowing procession in creation forms the structural blueprint of the method which Dionysius lays down for affirmative discourses in The Mystical Theology. In chapter three, he notes that the way of affirmation begins with attributing those perfections to God which most approximate his nature, i.e. those that are most primary and universal among creatures. One then proceeds to descend, naming God according to more particular and remote perfections.[xi] This is precisely the order of affirmation that Dionysius follows in The Divine Names: in chapter five of that work, he ranks “Good” as the primary name of God because it is the most universal perfection (“procession”): extending to beings and nonbeings. Following this is the name “Being,” which extends to all that exists; “Life,” extending to all living beings; and “Wisdom,” extending to all living beings with reason.[xii] Dionysius justifies this ordering with the claim that the passage from most universal to most particular (eventually treating of names like “Lord of Lords” and “Holy of Holies”) mirrors the creative and providential outpouring of God Himself. Thus, The Divine Names performs what is laid down in The Mystical Theology, and our naming of God according to His perfections follows the pattern revealed in God’s overflowing from unity to differentiation. It is God as He is differentiated that is praised with the positive names found in Scripture and drawn from creatures.

Having addressed affirmative theology as grounded in the “divine differentiations” of God, we must now turn to the “divine unions.” While it is true that God differentiates Himself in creation, Dionysius stresses the fact that He does so “in a unified way”: in a way in which His unity remains intact. God’s oneness is not exhausted by His outpouring into the universe of creatures; rather, “He remains one amid the plurality, unified throughout the procession, and full amid the emptying act of differentiation.”[xiii] This enduring integrity of the Godhead refers to the “divine unions.” They are, as it were, God considered insofar as He is in Himself, rather than as He is poured out into the created world. They are “the hidden and permanent, supreme foundations of a steadfastness which is more than ineffable and more than unknowable.”[xiv] They refer to a transcendent Oneness that precedes and exceeds all oneness and multiplicity, grounding and defining them.[xv] Dionysius notes that the divine unities hold a higher place than the differentiations: they form that “aspect” of God, if one may use the term, which retains singularity and admits of no multiplication.[xvi]

One can see immediately the implications that the divine unions have for affirmative theology. God is not simply that which is poured out in the many processions that ground the created world; He is not simply this dynamic action. Rather, there is an infinite and transcendent excess of His being behind and before these processions. While a creature may in its nature have the capacity to reveal God, it to the same extent masks Him: for there is always more to God than is shone through in the limited participation of creatures in the divine exemplars.[xvii] Thus, the divine unions mark off that “region” of the Godhead which is not revealed through beings, and thus cannot be properly known. To name God under this aspect would require an “understanding beyond being…mind beyond mind, word beyond speech.” With respect to the divine unions, God is “gathered up by no discourse,” and therefore cannot be named.[xviii] None of the names attributed to God as He is differentiated adequately name God as He is in His unified nature. One must therefore posit a theology that proceeds by way of unknowing and un-naming.

This is precisely the form of discourse that Dionysius expounds in The Mystical Theology. In the third chapter, he shows that the way of negation inverts the way of affirmation: “But my argument now rises from what is below up to the transcendent…we have to start by denying those qualities which differ most from the goal we hope to attain.”[xix] One begins by denying those names and perfections that are more particular and remote from God’s nature and ascends gradually denying more and more universal ones, eventually negating even “Being” and “Good.” This is, for Dionysius, a form of language more appropriate to the divine nature because that nature is on a plane beyond being, beyond what the mind can conceive.[xx] Negation becomes a means of purifying our language of God, for our words are always “confined to the ideas we are capable of forming.” Because God as He is in His divine unions is beyond being, knowledge and sight cannot be grounds for our relation to God. Thus, “unseeing” and “unknowing” become the means of ascent, and the more we climb, “the more language falters, and when it has passed up beyond the ascent, it will turn silent completely, since it will finally be at one with Him who is indescribable.”[xxi] It follows from this that the end of negative theology cannot be any knowledge of God: rather, it is union with Him. Negative or mystical discourse is ordered to arriving at “the brilliant darkness of a hidden silence,” “uplifted to the ray of divine shadow which is above everything that is.”[xxii] When we abandon all words and knowledge, “we reach a union superior to anything available to us by way of our own abilities or activities in the realm of discourse or of intellect.”[xxiii]

Just as the differentiation of God in His creative procession formed the model for our affirmative speech, so too does the return from multiplicity back to unity form the model for negative theology in its ascending negations. And according to this Neo-Platonic scheme of exitus and reditus, we see the reciprocal and unified relationship of the forms of theology. God reveals Himself in His generous outpouring through beings and we first come to knowledge of Him in this way. Only then can we rise to consider God under the aspect of His divine unions, and thereby deny all of our affirmations. The two discourses thus form two ordered phases in one dynamic of providence. The outpouring is always ordered to our return to God through negation, ultimately ending in a voiceless union with Him. So union with God is the ultimate end of all theological discourse: it is not primarily about knowledge, because knowledge is only a phase in the overarching movement; nor is it simply about negation, because Dionysius notes that God is beyond every denial as well as every affirmation.[xxiv] Neither exhausts the language of God. Both must be seen in the one divine dynamic drawing us beyond language and beyond multiplicity to that divine darkness where, like Moses, we may rest in God as He is.

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[i] Pseudo-Dionysius. The Mystical Theology. in Pseudo Dionysius: The Complete Works. trans. Colm Luibheid. New York/Mahwah: Paulist Press, 1987: MT 1.3, 1000D-1001A, p.137

[ii] MT 1.3, 1001A, p.137

[iii] Pseudo-Dionysius. The Divine Names. in Pseudo Dionysius: The Complete Works. trans. Colm Luibheid. New York/Mahwah: Paulist Press, 1987: DN 1.1, p.49: “This is why we must not dare to resort to words or conceptions concerning that hidden divinity which transcends being, apart from what the sacred scriptures have divinely revealed.”

[iv] DN 2.2, p.60: “…the Word of God operates sometimes with, sometimes without distinctions.” Cf. DN 2.4

[v] DN 2.11, 649B, p.66

[vi] With regard to the Trinity, it seems that Dionysius classifies this manner of “differentiation” as “differentiation in unity,” insofar as they are the “source of oneness as a unity” and thus relate to the divine unity in a manner above and beyond any other form of multiplicity. See DN 2.4, p.61.

[vii] DN 2.5, 644A, p.62

[viii] DN 5.8, 824C, p.102

[ix] DN 7.3, 869D, p.108: “But we know him from the arrangement of everything, because everything is, in a sense, projected out from him, and this order possesses certain images and semblances of his divine paradigms.”

[x] DN 2.7, 645A, p.64.

[xi] MT 3, 1033C

[xii] DN 5.1, p.96-97

[xiii] DN 2.11, p.66

[xiv] DN 2.4, 640D, p.61

[xv] DN 13.2, p.128

[xvi] DN 2.11, 649C-652A, p.67

[xvii] DN 9.7, 916A, p.108: “…the very same things are both similar and dissimilar to God.”

[xviii] DN 1.1, 588A-588B, p.49-50

[xix] MT 3, 133C, p.139-140

[xx] MT 1.2, 1000B, p.136

[xxi] MT 3, 1033B-1033C, p.139

[xxii] MT 1.1, 997B-1000A, p.135

[xxiii] DN 1.1, 585B-588A, p.49

[xxiv] MT 5, 104B, p.141

Henri de Lubac Quote

You may say: You paint the Church in fine colors, you behold it in its ideal form, such as it should be, such as God desires it to be--such as it is in your dreams....

To which I answer: No. I depict her--far from well indeed--such as she is in her mystery, that is to say, in her most real reality--but as faith sees her. I do not deny the ills of various orders, the moral order or any other, which at all times have affected her, which affect her today in each one of us. Indeed, I affirm them, I proclaim them, I declare the paradox and scandal to which they give rise and which are inherent in her very constitution.

As for describing these ills in detail, exhibiting these wounds, that would contribute nothing to our knowledge of the mystery of the Church. That must be left, then, in so far as their particular task demands it, either to historians, to deal with the past, or to preachers to deal with the present, if they think it useful, or to investigators, "sociologists" or other reformers. Much more should it be left to good spiritual advisers--they are not in the habit of shouting aloud in the main squares. Anything else would only be facile scandal-mongering and ill-considered criticism.

And then, the Church is all of us. So she is I as well. By what right should I leave myself out of the picture? Now, I have no desire to make a public confession.

--Henri de Lubac (1896-1991), Paradoxes of Faith, translated by Ernest Beaumont (San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 1987), 233-234. This selection comes from de Lubac's Nouveaux Paradoxes (1955). I have altered the translation of pronouns referring to the Church in order to capture better de Lubac's own approach towards the Church.

On Academic Theology

What exactly should the role of theology be in academia? In the modern world, the two disciplines almost seem to be at odds with one another. Even if we recognize that the most proper form of theology is doxology, that loving, prayerful response to one’s encounters with God, the practice of theology as a scientific discipline (as St Thomas Aquinas calls it) requires the theologian to study and investigate not just their own experiences of God, but what has been experienced and taught by others, especially the movement of the Holy Spirit working in the Church throughout history. They need to know what it is the Church proclaims; they need to know not just the words, but the intent and meaning behind her dogmas. They must understand that the way we define words changes from age to age. Thus, they must be made capable of properly reading creedal statements and interpreting them so that they make sense to the people who live in their own day and age. To do this, they must look into the sources of Christian doctrine. They must discern how and why different doctrinal positions developed, because this will reveal what a specific doctrine was meant to teach, and what it did not teach.. But there should be a purpose in all of this. Theologians are not meant to be curiosity seekers, looking for interesting facts to display; they are looking to understand their own relationship with God, and finding a way to bring that understanding to the community, for the good of the community and not for any individual glory. Their investigation should be to build up the faith, not to destroy it. They should seek to overcome confusion, not to add to it.

Academia, however, has a different intent. While once it was a pursuit of truth, now it is a pursuit of glory. Academia desires new ideas, new thoughts, and new traditions to argue over, to contend with, so that its practitioners can easily find an outlet for their writings. Academics are expected to publish, and their publications are expected to be new, improved analyses, overturning the way people used to understand their respective academic disciplines. It seeks to investigate, just as a theologian does, but for a different reason than a theologian would. It seeks to deconstruct the past as a means of overcoming its influence, so that the academic’s position can be accepted as the new norm to be followed. That is, if they have a position – many times, there is no reconstruction, there is merely a deconstruction; it is easier to cause doubt, to bring fire to the ideas of the past, than it is to rise out of the ashes, a phoenix.

When one combines the art of theology with modern academia, it is quite understandable why this new discipline, academic theology, is often a nihilistic wreck destroying the faith of its practitioners and its readers. There are many bright lights in the field, showing that the field itself is not without merit. Indeed, when it is done properly, it is a rather important endeavor and those who do it properly should be thanked for the contributions they have given to the world. But there are far more dim lights, far more black holes trying to snuff out whatever light that still exists, than there are these bright lights, and as time goes by, fewer and fewer bright lights seem to be born in the field. This could change in the future, and let us pray toGod this happens. But currently, as one who engages the discipline, I find the field to be in utter shambles, and there are many reasons for this.

First, the field follows the academic discipline in trying to deconstruct the past. Let me state that I agree with this, as far as it goes. We need to understand the past, and with it, we need to understand where our theological teachings come from, including the presumptions which helped shape their proclamation. But academics often feel, once you deconstruct the past, and show that a given teaching developed only as a result of a specific historical situation, you then remove all value of the teaching itself. This kind of historical criticism has led many theologians to doubt their faith, and when this study is not brought back to some sort of positive affirmation of the faith (as, sadly, is most often the case), it is not surprising that these studies end up destroying the faith of those who read them and those who make them. Of course, the academic, though they should know better, has fallen for a rather peculiar form of ad hominem. While it might be true that a given teaching arose out of certain circumstances, and those circumstances might not have been ideal, those circumstances alone do not determine the truth or falsehood of that teaching. The moral character of a teacher does not entirely determine the accuracy of their teachings; nor does the fact that a teacher gave inaccurate justification for a teaching mean that teaching is necessarily wrong.

Secondly, the field follows academic discipline in trying to offer new, innovative insights to justify its existence. This is not necessarily a bad thing in itself, because we would expect development of Christian doctrine as history moves closer to the eschaton. But the problem is that academic theology engages deconstruction of the past in order to justify new, and often farfetched, views. One needs to only look to the Jesus Seminar to see this at work. Its participants first seek to destroy the past, to destroy the way Christianity views Jesus, then it seeks to offer new, sensationalistic declarations on Jesus as a way to justify its existence. They realize (unlike some) it is not just a deconstruction of the past that is necessary. They realize that people need to come out feeling they gained something after reading the studies of the Seminar, and in this respect, they are right. But, for them, the pursuit they hold is that of the glorification of their own ego, and their right to that glory comes from the fact that they have published the newest, most absurd views on Jesus yet. Probably the only reason why they did not ask Dan Brown to be a member is that they at least hold some intellectual integrity, and require their participants to at least have a working knowledge of Biblical languages.

Thirdly, it seems that many people who engage in the field of academic theology at one time were people of faith, but after having their faith battered by the assault of modern academic deconstruction of the faith, they have lost whatever faith they once held, while remaining active in the discipline. They have nowhere else to go. So they just become historians looking at the past, with no belief, no hope to share with others. This creates a continuous, downward cycle in the field itself; all that is taught leads to the same faith-destroying conclusion one generation after the next. There is no understanding of how to take these new facts and interpret them in more fulfilling manners, because there is no faith left by the professor to impart to their students. Those few who continue to hold onto their faith do so with great difficulty, limping through their studies. It comes to no surprise that this has affected Patristic studies the most. Where once there was a lively theological contribution from the discipline, we find now it has become a discipline which seeks to destroy the ideas and reputations of the Fathers.

Fourth, because those who hold positions of power in the discipline no longer hold to any faith themselves, they discourage students from making the leap from historical analysis to any positive theological proclamation. They do this many ways. First, they will tell their students that their opinions do not matter; they are just students, after all. They must prove themselves in the discipline, in the activity that the professors find relevant (which, of course, is not theology proper). “Only when you have shown yourself capable of understanding all that we can teach you, after showing you accept all our deconstruction for a lifetime, you are permitted, when you are on top, to make your own theological declarations for us to hear.” Dissertations are to be done in this pattern – they are to be academic, not theological. This is the attitude of many (thankfully not all!) in the field. Imagine how different the history of theology would have been if this practice had been enforced in times past: how many theologians who died at a young age, such as Blessed Duns Scotus, would never have written any significant theological treatises? Imagine if St Pavel Florensky had been told not to write his theological masterpiece, The Pillar and Ground of The Truth because it was a proclamation of theological faith more than it was a study of the past?

Fifth, for those who still hold some faith, they do go to the other extreme – their problem is not a problem of deconstruction, but how they reconstruct the faith. Since academic theology follows the academic pursuit of newness, those who hold faith seek to justify their credentials by creating new, and often perverse, interpretations of the faith. At least they have faith, but what they have faith in – is hard to tell, and difficult to know if it is still Christian. But they are to be complimented, because in their struggles, they hold on, and have not found their faith to be entirely destroyed. There are many new areas of theological discipline where this is taking place, for example, in political theology, in ecumenical theology, and in my personal favorite, comparative (interfaith) theology. Yet, because what they create is usually a pure innovation, their idea holds very little weight, and is easily forgotten; the glory of an innovator is short and sweet, before a bitter fall from grace. In the end, their students will either have their faith shattered when their teacher and guide falls from grace, or they will seek to replace their teacher in a rather evolutionary fashion, waiting for their own short moment of glory.

It comes to no surprise that some of the greatest theologians of the twentieth century, for example C.S. Lewis and Hans Urs von Balthasar, were not academic theologians, but people who held such a great faith, they had to proclaim it. C.S. Lewis, for example, might not have wanted himself viewed as a theologian because he was not capable of offering all the deconstructive analysis of the past, nor because he did not show all the intellectual sleight of hand that makes one seem to be a great theologian, yet he is, far more than most, a theologian in the truest sense. His writings are popular because they offer honest, yet insightful, declarations of his faith. He was willing, even, to accept his role as being a non-theologian, and to learn from the analysis of so-called theologians, but he did so in the true form: he analyzed the results, and used them to form some positive assessment of the faith. Hans Urs von Balthasar is an odd case. He could have been an academic theologian. He engaged all of its disciplines, but he never wanted to be a part of it. Even when he acted as a member of the International Theological Commission, he never called himself a theologian. He wrote out of faith, and wrote to promote it; he moved beyond the academic pursuit and turned his writings into a pursuit for truth, even if that truth is as old as the Church herself.

Those who actively seek to be academic theologians must look to the example, not of their peers, but of the theologians of the past; they must look to them as the proper example of what it means to be a theologian. We must not think our field is about debate on subtle points of history. If we are called to be a theologian, we must remember that as an academic theologian we are called to be a theologian first. We should be a theologian even more than being an academic. The training and discipline of academia is good, useful, and even needed, but it should be the form in which the practice of theology is engaged, instead of the means by which theology as a discipline self-destructs.

Theologian as Wise Man

What, precisely, is the nature of the theologian? What is his essence qua theologian? Is he simply a philosopher in religious guise? Or is his a distinct way of life, a distinct manner of being rational? It may seem that the theologian only appears as an impractical specialist whose labor produces nothing of use: his cloister is the academy, and the choir to which he preaches is a small circle of equally unworldly specialists. His language is lofty, technical, unapproachable; his greatest battle is with humility (one thinks of Abelard). And why, one might ask, is his particular skill required? The Church is not, after all, some kind of Gnostic schoolmaster that requires high grades on theology tests to merit salvation. Even the poor, rustic farmer can be saved despite his lack in theological vocabulary, seemingly skipping over all of the speculative busy-work because a true faith does the work for him. He is likely to read Holy Scripture, but use Lombard’s Sentences as a coaster. And he could be a saint just the same. Is the theologian, then, little more than a scholar condemned to obscurity and far from any means of positively affecting his brothers and sisters in Christ?

How one figures the role of the theologian will undoubtedly depend upon how one figures the art of theology. For Alexander of Hales and his Franciscan followers, theology was primarily a means of interpreting the Scriptural Word through the various modalities by which its Revelation can affect the will, and transform the heart. Set in the context of the then rediscovered categories of Aristotelian epistemology, Theology, the science of Sacred Scripture, was for this school a practical science, not a theoretical one. Thus, the particular skill of the theologian would be measured by the degree to which he is able to employ his intellect in service of the structures presented in Scriptural Revelation and ultimately in the service of his moral character.

But in contrast, St. Thomas Aquinas identifies man’s end as an intellectual one. Not only does St. Thomas expand the notion of Revelation beyond a limited focus on Scripture (incorporating, for instance, the Church tradition), but he also locates theology among the theoretical sciences. Is he thereby condemned to the intellectualism spoken of above: the exile of the theorist in a world untouched by the common believer? In fact, he is not. For St. Thomas, the theoretical element is not detached from personal transformation, because properly speaking theology transcends the rigid dichotomy of practical and theoretical science. Scripture expounds upon truth concerning God as well as the nature of human action within salvation history. But there is present here, unseen by thinkers such as Alexander, an internal hierarchical ordering: God is the primary focus, and the realm of human action and moral transformation is only treated of insofar as it relates to God.

In treating of God and, within the same fabric of Revelation, the relations of creatures to him, St. Thomas is able to cast theology in terms not just of abstract theory, but of wisdom. And thus, he is able to conceive of the theologian as the wise man. The wise, Thomas says, are those “who order things rightly and govern them well.” (Summa Contra Gentiles (SCG) Book I: 1; cf. Aristotle, Metaphysics, I, 2). Wisdom involves the intimation of a certain ordering of things to their ends. It is a knowledge of ends and the governance of things in light of that end, for the identity of created things derives from their dynamic orientation to their ends. Wisdom can thus be linked to moral transformation insofar as wisdom discloses the truth through which man can be ordered to his proper telos. Here, wisdom breaks out beyond abstraction and has the power to touch the lived experience of the believer.

Thomas also notes a certain analogia in wisdom: some arts control the ends of other arts, and artisans of these are called “wise” in reference to their more comprehensive knowledge of the ends of particular things. But the universe itself is oriented to an end distinct from that of any particular “thing.” This end, he concludes is that which the First Cause intends, and as the First Cause is, in his unlimited providence, divine intellect, the end of the universe as a whole is Truth. Truth is that at which the wise man principally aims, for it is the ultimate end to which all things are disposed, and thus in the light of which all things can be most properly ordered to their end. “The name of the absolutely wise man, however, is reserved for him whose consideration is directed to the end of the universe, which is also the origin of the universe”(SCG Book I: 1). The divine intention for creation becomes the archetype for the true revelation of the nature of all things, because the origin from which they emerge is the end to which they are driven: and thus things can only be fully ordered and seen as fully ordered in the proportio or beauty of their nature when they are cast in the light of Divine Truth. And because the final end is the divine, only a knowledge of the divine will allow one to perfectly govern things. Wisdom, then, is essential to the life of man, for this life is free and self-moved and thus requires the light in which man can order his own actions toward his true divine end.

But in what sense does this wisdom differ from the knowledge and governance that derive from philosophical science? For this reaches a consideration of highest causes, as Aristotle holds, and can rightly be called wisdom by ordering things to their natural ends. Yet Thomas explicitly distinguishes the ordering knowledge of sacra doctrina from that of philosophical science, precisely because man is ordained to a supernatural end in God. Thus, to properly order his actions to this end, there must be a disclosure of that end beyond the power of his nature (Summa Theologiae I, Q.1 Art.1). Further, sacra doctrina for Thomas is not simply one among the other theoretical sciences, which simply connect truths expressed in natural principles with complex conclusions, resulting in the conforming of one’s mind to the subject matter. For if man’s end rests in that Divine Truth, then his starting point must be above and beyond the principles of natural reason (which are coextensive with a merely “natural” end).

Sacra doctrina is for St. Thomas a subalternate science: one whose principles derive from a higher science. Its principles, rather than beginning with the self-evidence found on the natural level, derive their evidence from their position as the conclusions of the higher science. In this case, the higher science is the highest form of knowledge, the perfect knowledge of the end: the “science of God and the blessed,” or “the knowledge that God has of himself and of his plan of salvation.” (Torrell, Jean-Pierre. St. Thomas Aquinas, vol.2: Spiritual Master. The Catholic University of America Press, 1996: p.1-21.) God’s perfect and simple self-knowledge forms the body of knowledge from which this wisdom derives its starting points, and can thus more perfectly orient man to his true end. Because, through Revelation, man “borrows” principles from a knowledge infinitely beyond his own power, he is not only given a knowledge of his end, but is given a share in that end’s perfect and simple knowledge of Himself. God’s divine intellect is the most perfect knowledge of the divine end, and theology just is man’s share in that radically perfect Wisdom. Thus, theology is not only wisdom, but a radically gratuitous share in the divine Wisdom, God’s knowing of Himself and His perfect ordering of all creation.

Theology is, then, the most perfect wisdom among all kinds of wisdom, because it discloses the ultimate end of all that is. Not only this, but it is a real participation in the divine mind: it is Wisdom in the sense of granting a share in God’s knowledge of the same Divine end (a knowledge whose perfection exceeds all human certainty). Theology then allows one to order his actions most perfectly in accordance with his ultimate end, and thus opens up a dimension for man to transcend a merely “natural” happiness. Without this wisdom, this share in Wisdom itself, man’s self-transformation in happiness would be radically imperfect.

Theology as wisdom constitutes a real situation of the human rational power in the stream of God’s eternal self-knowing. Reasoning is resituated in a plane higher than his natural orientation, and paradoxically allows him to craft his lived experience in accord with his only proper happiness. It is thus a share in the beatitude to come. By engaging in this wisdom, the theologian is not the master of an exclusive and obscure discipline lost in its impracticality: by stressing its orientation to divine truth, it is infinitely more practical than any human practical wisdom. The theologian is engaged in a pursuit that by sharing in God’s action, develops in him the likeness of God (whose very Being is His Wisdom), and joins him existentially to God in friendship (SCG Book I: 2).

Finally, there is a particularly Christocentric element to the practice of the theologian. For as we have seen, theology is a participation in the divine self-knowing. Christ as the Son, the Word, bears the appropriation of Divine Wisdom (1 Cor 1:24), generated in the Father’s eternal intellection of Himself. Christ is Divine Wisdom become manifest to us (1 Cor 1:30), incarnate, and insofar as we share in that divine action, we partake of Christ. We can then figure the likeness to God that wisdom grants as an imago Christi. It is a unique way or manner of becoming likened to Christ. Further, we may then view this art as a distinct way of life within the Mystical Body of Christ: an extension of Himself, who was Wisdom in the flesh, continually present to the world through our participation. The life of the theologian is a radically Christic life. As a limb of the mystical body, its fruit comes to benefit the whole body, by meditating on that truth revealed about God and teaching others how it orders them dynamically toward God, giving them a share in their own salvation (as Christ Himself did; SCG Book I: 1). This wisdom then, the gratuitous wisdom by which we are principally united to God, begins with Christ incarnate: Wisdom for us, descended to us, uniquely that we may have a share in Him and rise to union. The truth that we are to serve, the truth that saves us, is in fact, as Thomas notes, a Person. We find that the theologian, in being ordained to Divine Truth, is ordained to Jesus Christ even unto the very contingency of his place in human history. For this descent itself (even unto the Cross) is, beyond all conception, the deepest expression of Divine Wisdom (Himself).

More Considerations on Liturgy as Definition

By way of response to some of the comments posted in reply to my last post, all of which intend to deepen and flesh out our understanding of Liturgy, I offer the following thoughts.

Quasi-Liturgy (things such as rituals, experiences, and examples from groups more or less related to the Church) need not distract us. Whatever is genuine about man must find a source and summit in Liturgy. IN whatever way other societies have come into genuine human contact, they have seen the image of God, and their communal life has approached Liturgy.

In order to separate the Sacraments/Liturgy (in actu) from Sacramentality (in potentia), we can turn to God’s saving presence and the presence of Christ in his Body. That is, we might be tempted to think that all activities which tend toward uniting man as Body/Soul also tend towards Liturgy. Furthermore, that they tend toward Liturgy in a way that makes it difficult to accept this as the heart of the Church since these things happen outside the Church. We must not forget that the definition of a Sacrament always involves this sense of being fully human, but that humans have this innate purpose or goal which is to grow ever closer to the God in whom they exist in relation.

The Eucharist as one of seven sacraments is not coextensive with Liturgy, which surrounds all seven. The Eucharist as the form of Liturgy is coextensive, and it is this patter which is Liturgical; which is Catholic; which is love, fueled by Faith and led by Hope. The mystery of the Eucharist extends well beyond the necessary belief in Christ’s Real Presence because this awesome presence is a mystery. Most poignantly, Christ sets the pattern for theandric love, that is, love between God and Man. I attempted to call special attention to the fact that Creed and Moral exhortation and example resolve to Liturgy in a theological understanding. This is reason I offer Liturgy as a definition for Catholics. The other is because Liturgy is the fundamental pattern for Christian life-this pattern is one in which God gives-man receives-man gives-God receives. Consider the beginning of the Eucharistic Liturgy, which in the Latin Rite involves these words: “Blessed are you, Lord, God of all creation, through your goodness, we have this bread to offer you, which earth has given and human hands have made. It will become for us the Bread of Life.”

A good friend pointed out in a more private context that the theme of communio is vitally important. He is right. Communio as a theme for Ecclesial definitions cannot be ignored, for it is the model of the Trinity which is the model of the Church and Salvation. But can it not also be said that “God is Love” (1 Jn 4:8), and, further, that this is the meaning of communio? It is certainly the meaning of the sense of communio which is captured by the Law-Torah-Covenant (Mt 22:34-40, in which Jesus offers the Greatest Commandment). It is certainly the meaning of communio explained by the Mystical Doctors of the Church. It is certainly the meaning of “This is my Body,” spoken by Christ on the Cross, the priest at Mass, and spouses to each other.

Again, I call attention to Liturgy as a definition for Catholics because it exists in the category of presence: Eternal Present; Real Presence, my unique and particular place in the world as it unfolds and includes my choice to stand here and be among the People of God. This is how we love: we are. Perhaps there is no greater mystery than that of existence, and the must be because of the relationship between love and being. Liturgy is the when and where of the playing out of this nexus day after day, year after year, life after life.

On Science and Religion

One of the fundamental myths preached by the positivists, and readily accepted without dispute by their heirs, is the myth that religion and science are in a constant struggle, one against the other, for our hearts and minds. The positivists understood science as the principle of rational progress and religion as the principle of irrational, dogmatic superstition: the two can never meet, they can never work together. To prove their point, positivists gave to us the example of Galileo, but the Galileo they show us is not the Galileo of history, but the manufactured Galileo of positivistic superstition, a Galileo martyred by religion instead of the Galileo rejected by the scientific establishment of his day.

Before I started my graduate studies in theology, I considered the possibility of studies in the history and philosophy of science. My love for the truth is one which searchers for it wherever it can be found, even in the sciences. I am fascinated by the history of their progress: it is a story which goes back to the dawn of time and continues to be written in our day. Sadly, those who study the sciences do not get told this story, and most are not given the philosophical tools to understand the implications of their endeavors. They are trained to be scientific technicians, nothing more, nothing less. They might be well trained in their little slice of the sciences, but they are not expected to see the big picture, and so they cannot offer us a proper model of the universe. Such a model, while it incorporates the sciences, is not exhausted by them. Most scientists seem to accept the myth given to them by the positivists without question, and if they preach any philosophy, it is the philosophy of scientism: the philosophy of scientific reductionism. They offer their technical achievements as what establishes the validity of their shared myth: they fail to remember that such practical validity can be found even with religion.

Without question, my studies have shown me that this “received truth” is overwhelmingly false. Not only do the sciences create their own brand of superstitious dogmatism, history shows us that it is usually one generation of scientists, with their rigid understanding of the universe, who contends with and opposes the next generation with their new, innovative, yet unproven hypotheses, not religion.

Galileo, that hero of scientific positivism, is actually a case which shows this point. Galileo’s theories, while supported by some of his peers, went against the accepted scientific views of his time! More importantly, he wanted people to believe him based upon his own personal authority! He proclaimed his vision of the universe as infallible: the sun is the center of the universe, and everything else revolves around it. If only he had understood what Nicholas of Cusa had written in the fifteenth century, his view of the universe would not have been so erroneous: “The world-machine,” Nicholas tells us, has “its center everywhere and its circumference nowhere…” Nicholas of Cusa, On Learned Ignorance. Trans. Jasper Hopkins (Minneapolis: The Arthur Banning Press, 1990), p. 117. Nicholas believed that the sun could relativisitically be said to be the center of the universe, but so could the earth, because the universe is infinite, and each point in the universe could be seen, relative to the rest, as the center. Nicholas predated Einstein by several centuries with this theory of relativity! (In an absolute sense, Nicholas believed the only real center lies with God). The Catholic Church did not condemn his view: rather, he was made a Cardinal and more than once, he was almost elected Pope.

Why was Nicholas acceptable to the Catholic Church and Galileo condemned? Was it to do with science? No, it was due to Galileo’s erroneous theological interpretation of his scientific ideas, and his unwillingness to consider the possibility that his scientific and theological interpretations were in error. If he had even accepted that one possibility and overcame his own personal hubris, he would have had far fewer enemies. It was not as a scientist, but as an amateur theologian, that Galileo made his greatest mistake. It was also as a theologian that he made enemies within the Church. He proclaimed the Bible was in error, and only his interpretation of the Bible was valid. Contrary to the positivistic myth of the opposition of religion to science, it must be remembered that Galileo had many supporters of his beliefs from within the leadership of the Catholic Church, just as a scientist, he was rejected by his peers. As a group, the scientists of his era continued to follow a Ptolemaic model of the universe. As it happens with many such scientific debates, both sides of the dispute held aspects of truth while proclaiming an incomplete, and thereby false, model of the universe

Today the heirs of Galileo’s accusers are found not only within the religious sphere, but within the scientific establishment as well. Unfounded, simplistic dogmatism reigns with practitioners of both now as it ever did.

What science offers is of tremendous practical benefit to society. What many of its students fail to offer is a reasoned analysis of the phenomena they study, because they have not been trained to do this. Scientist after scientist readily accepts the norm they have been given by the positivistic mythology, without realizing the problems inherent in this worldview. They have forgotten that it is the fundamental mystery behind the phenomena of the universe which should lead them in a non-dogmatic search for truth as the basis of their experiments. Perhaps the reason why so many scientists are not taught this is simple: once it is accepted that the universe and its contents remain to us primarily a universe of mystery, we enter into the religious sphere of meaning, and it is that sphere which their positivistic teachers want them to deny.

The Beauty of Catholic Certainty Part I

Thomas Aquinas held that faith is the most certain of all forms of knowledge, even more certain than the first principle of human reason (e.g., De Veritate q.14, a.1, ad.7, Scriptum super libros sententiarum q.1, a.3, qc.3, ad.1). There are two avenues upon which we can illuminate the beauty of such a claim. The first avenue concerns the notion of faith, while the second concerns the notion of certainty.

Faith is a term that, like beauty (cf. Beauty’s Long Road to Calvary on this blog), has suffered at the hands of modern thought, overly driven as it was with concern for human knowing at the neglect of human ‘being’. Again, for the sake of balance, we must admit that Descartes, and Kant especially, bequeath to us a legacy of insightful analysis and synthesis focusing upon the nature of human thought and understanding. However, it is no great secret that their influence tilted things too much in the direction of the mind, and as that splendid philosopher Etienne Gilson remarked, “once you start philosophizing in the mind, you can never get out” (“Vade Mecum of a Young Realist,” Philosophy of Knowledge, Roland Hande and Joseph P. Mullally, (eds.) (Chicago: J.B. Lippenott co., 1960).

This may be why it is so very difficult for the person of today to conceive the nature of faith in any terms other than ‘what I myself believe.’ This not only reduces faith to mere subjective assent, but it goes further insofar as it de facto neglects those ‘objective’ propositions that are necessary for any assent: all assent is a willful commitment to truths, or Truth, that precedes and exceeds the individual mind. There can be no purely subjective assent because there can be purely subjectively conceived notions (a truth that was, with a certain irony, especially illuminated by none other than Kant himself).

Oddly, though, many today are quick to claim that there is no need for assent when it comes to the truths involved in the natural sciences. With a dogmatic mindset arguably more intense than anytime in history, many people today seem to affirm, with a virtual religious faith, that science provides the highest truths, and as such is the most certain kind of knowledge. This affirmation is so prevalent that it is identified with the assurance of a self-evident proposition free of any need for critical examination: ‘this is science,’ the claim can be overheard, ‘how can we possibly refute this?’

Here we can detect a first point. To the extent that the reception of all knowledge involves assent to principles beyond that knowledge itself, it requires an element of trust and belief, elements more associate with the notion of faith. Now, lest we be accused of committing fideism, we should briefly remark that the degree of trust is primarily determined by the kind of object that beckons our knowledge of it. Aquinas, following Aristotle, maintained that there are exhaustively three categories of objects, which then generated the three exhaustive categories of the sciences: natural philosophy (what today is called 'natural science') investigates objects that require sensible matter both to exist and to be understood (e.g. a tree); mathematics investigates objects that require sensible matter to exist, but not to be understood (e.g., a number); and metaphysics investigates objects that never require sensible matter, though matter may sometimes be involved (e.g., potency).

But both Aquinas and Aristotle also held that no science could be the source of its own principles (truths which guide its inner logic), and therefore must borrow from higher sciences. This fact points to an always present element of uncertainty whenever knowledge is driven by its natural curiosity to know the end and cause of things. Of course, the degree of uncertainty is minimized when this natural curiosity is eliminated, as when a scientist, for example, is content merely to discover the parts of a cell, and ceases to wonder how they emerged or why they are thus. But as a multitude of examples demonstrate, this elimination of uncertainty leads to a rationalism that elevates reason to a divine status. And so to avoid either rationalism or fideism we must declare, in union with Church teaching, that reason and faith constitute a harmony of human knowing. But we can also add that because the principles of the faith come from a source not stained with original sin, they are superior to our faculty of reason, which is everywhere burdened by the weight of original sin. (The skeptic could certainly prod: how could you possibly have certainty that faith comes from such a source? But this question, because it is asked within a context that already assumes the superiority of reason, is itself undermined by its own skeptical assumptions: the skeptic wants a rationally certain proof for all truth claims, but fails to see that he himself is incapable of granting rational certainty to human reason – it must be always assumed.)

Once we can get past the assumption, widespread as it is erroneous, that faith is merely subjective belief, we can begin to see how faith, in the Catholic tradition, has been understood as ‘that which is proposed for assent.’ This objective pole can only be legitimated as certain when it acts in harmony with the subjective dimension: the principles of the faith (objective) draw the assent of the believer (subjective) in the always-arriving harmony of the Church, which consists of the entire community extended over time constituting a living narrative. It is this narrative logic, or perhaps we might say narrative logos, where the notion of certainty finds greatest illumination.

Like faith, certainty is a concept that today suffers from the tyranny of the mind. Modern thought won a number of benefits for humanity, but it also generated a deep suspicion and fear of all things mysterious and unknown. In the face of such fear, it is hastily assumed that one must find a rational foundation of certainty in order for any belief system to prove worthy of our assent. This would explain why so many turn to science, even though it comes with the high price of denying those realities that do not fall under its purview (what we Catholics in the creed refer to as the “things unseen” cf. also Rom 1: 20).

Still others have opted for a mathematical sort of logic believed capable of refuting anything that contradicts the first principles of reason (e.g., the principle of non-contradiction, the principle of identity etc.). This option, itself not without plausibility, has tended to move its proponents in a very defensive and largely reactionary direction. The result is that its potential for light is tragically eclipsed by shadows of suspicion: suspicion of subjectivity, suspicion of the role of the subject, and especially suspicion of anything even slightly connected to the notion of relativity. This further tends toward a reduction of all things religious and theological to moral propositions, where anything even remotely relative is burned like a Salem witch, judged as it is by the solid certainty of the first principles of human reason. But where does that leave us when we read the words of Aquinas, for whom faith is more certain than even these?

Many label the current era with the (highly overused and hardly understood ) term ‘postmodernity’. As a reaction to the tenets born from modern thought, tenets that can be described as the will to solid foundations and the espousal of the universal over and against the particular, its hallmark claim is that all absolute claims to truth are merely disguised wills-to-power because no one can legitimately claim a privileged position on truth. A simplistic way out of this would be to point out the obvious logical inconsistency: how is this postmodern claim itself not guilty of the very criticism it levels? This kind of rebuttal only returns us to the mathematical certainty provided by the principles of logic. And a simple glance at the western world reveals that this kind of certainty, rather than stimulating attraction to the faith, seems to turn people into disciples of the almighty microscope.

In our next post, we will suggest how an aesthetic logic, energized by the beauty of the faith given in and through Christ, is capable of illuminating the certainty of the Catholic faith beyond the mathematical certainty that many faithful Catholics too easily adopt. To be sure, this is not a declaration that apologetics and solid logical thinking are to be eschewed. It is, rather, to reinvigorate a sense of logic that once, in premodern eras, lived inside beauty, and served an apologetics of redemption that hearkens back to the dawning of the Church: defense of the faith was not about being right, but about illuminating its beauty, even if it led to death, in order to extend the attraction of the Lord to those who have not yet fallen in love with him.

Defining Catholicism

Many years ago, while working with the Rites of Christian Initiation for Adults, I became very curious about what defined a Catholic. In particular, I reflected upon what the Church asks of those who seek to join her at the most profound and intimate level. Since then, I’ve had extensive discussions with theologians and canonists of various degrees of expertise. A common position is that Catholicism is defined by her teachings, in particular, by her dogmatic statements. That is, those elements of doctrine (teaching) which have been officially stated as crucial (dogmatic) to the Faith are often considered the definition of Catholicism. It makes a bit of sense, too, for definitions are typically a series of key points, and doctrine seems to state clearly the key points.

Another common understanding of what defines a Catholic revolves around the moral code. Catholics are among the groups of Christians who have quite a few rules and regulations on what constitutes appropriate behavior and what does not. The field of moral theology seems to be quite developed and quite important for Catholics. There are many who think the essence of being Catholic lies somewhere in the kind of life you lead, even more than the doctrine you profess. This, too, has a common sense appeal to it, for a definition is often a series of rules that describe how a thing is supposed to work.

There are, of course, the great many Catholics who feel somewhere deep inside them that they are Catholic and can’t really be anything else. Nevertheless, they don’t feel a need or really much desire to participate in regular Sunday Mass or other activities of parish life. Perhaps on great feast days or for important family celebrations they seek the larger Church community. Basically, their position is that they were raised Catholic, Baptized Catholic, even Confirmed Catholic. What has happened cannot be taken away. This has a very easy and comfortable feel to it, as well, for being Catholic is something being a man or a woman-it usually just happens to you, and there’s not much you can really do about it but accept it.

As an aspiring professional theologian, I cannot reasonably claim that doctrine is unimportant. The battles fought over creedal statements, even things we take as common sense Christianity (such as the Trinity or the Resurrection) were and continue to be a cause of disagreement and even martyrdom. The Creeds and the surrounding doctrine are important, but I do not think they define a Catholic at the very core of Catholicism. In a similar manner, the moral life is not the sum or defining characteristic of Catholicism. Not that one can disregard the Commandments and remain hopeful for eternal salvation, but rather, that one can genuinely hope to be changed, to find himself with a will that is united to God-this is the sphere of morality in Catholicism. Yet, even this kind of hope for a better existence does not define a Catholic. The case, as I see it, remains similar with the mentality of “once a Catholic, always a Catholic.” This perceptively and correctly understands what theologians have long called the permanent character of certain sacraments, but it still fails to grasp the heart of Catholicism as I have come to understand it. One need not understand the depths of the mysteries of the Church and the Resurrection, which depend upon the ultimate and primordial mystery of the Trinity, in order to be Catholic. The Church exists for the sinners to become saints. Sacraments are essential and often permanent, but they are not static.

I suggest that Liturgy is what defines Catholics. By “Liturgy,” we mean the public act of worship in which the community gathers and acts as the Body of Christ. The Creed, you will note, exists first and foremost as a liturgical reality. The most grave penalty for teaching contrary to orthodoxy (which literally means something like “proper worship”) is excommunication-to no longer be part of the Liturgical action. The source and summit of the moral life is the Liturgical action of gathering with the people of God and being nourished by the Sacred Scriptures and the Sacraments. Indeed, the Sacraments only occur within the context of Liturgy, however small that Liturgy may seem.

But the ubiquity of Liturgy as a theological theme is not why I think Liturgy defines Catholicsm. In the end, I think the ultimate theological formula for Catholics is the appeal to the theological virtues, the triad of Faith, Hope, and Love. Liturgy is the action of the faithful: Liturgy is the action of the hopeful: Liturgy is the action of lovers; For it is in Liturgy that we gather, sometimes even when we know not why. When we come to Liturgy, especially the Mass and the Eucharist, we say with our very presence that we genuinely want to experience the God who saves us, especially from our own deepest, most secret fears and failings. We say, by our presence in the pew, “I need not understand; I need not always enjoy; I need not even be certain; I simply must be. And I chose to be here with this community, in this place of worship, at this time of God’s presence.” This is both why and how Liturgy defines the Catholic.

Note that it is very much the same for how a lover is defined. A lover is not defined by expensive gifts or by profound understanding. A lover is defined by presence. A true lover is known by where he sits, stands, and kneels. This is something we know even without much reflection. To be friends, to be lovers is to be together. It is not necessarily to be happy or to understand. Lovers stand beside lovers and say “I cast my lot with you.” In Liturgy, we say to God, “I cast my lot with you,” and God says to us, “I cast my lot with you.” This, I think, is the meaning of being “God’s people.” This is how we follow Christ. This, I submit, is what defines Catholicism.