'A Perfectly Consistent Mind'

'I came to the conclusion that there was no medium in true philosophy between atheism and Catholicism, and that a perfectly consistent mind, under those circumstances in which it finds itself here below must embrace either the one or the other.' -- John Henry Newman, Apologia Pro Vita Sua (1864)

Fr Dwight Longenecker treats 'consistency' at length in this blog post.

Translation

What you call hang-ups, I call virtues.
What you call bigotry, I call discretion.
What you call progress, I call a mob.

Somewhere along the way the Romantic ideal of self-expression met the Enlightenment ideal of individual rights. They worked well together, they got married, and after a long incubation--perhaps 150 years, till 1965--they became American culture. Here is where we are today:

Freedom is all there is. We displace the virtuous man with the free man, stripped of moral and spiritual content, and we say, "You decide."

Suppose, however, that the virtuous man is what we should aim for. There are two ways of getting there: coercion or freedom, being compelled into habits of growth or having the autonomy to seek the ideal on one's own.

What if freedom really means something else? Perhaps the best thing we can hope for is to be good, and being free to get there on our own is preferable to being dragged kicking and screaming. Choosing to do the good is vastly more satisfying than mere obedience. But we must want to do the good before we choose it.

We have a design, and we will not be happy unless we fulfill it.

Hell on the Faces of Men

No wonder people recoil at the image of hell as a place of fiery torment. When we see wickedness, it usually stares back at us blankly.

Top is James Holmes, the movie theater gunman, and below him is Jerry Sandusky, the child-rapist football coach. These men have deliberately committed unspeakable crimes with full knowledge, and the wages of sin is written on their face. Death is not a wild flailing for these men, but an emptiness. Are they even capable of repentance? We hold out hope that somewhere deep down they are, but such a possibility exists only because of the undeserved grace of God, and in spite of their present state.

Anyone who follows the news is now quite familiar with the way terrible criminals usually conduct themselves. Wild, screaming loonies are the exception. The stereotype of "loner" is often used, though it doesn't always apply. There's usually a great deal of depression and compulsiveness. The norm is coldness, rationalization, excuse-making, measured pleas for sympathy. How much of this is courtroom coaching is unknown, but I do believe we are observing something of their natural state, the personal consequence of deliberate and habitual sin.

There are scriptural images of Gehenna as a place of fire, but whether such images are real or metaphorical, and how they inform the doctrine of hell, is uncertain. Looking at these men, Dante's vision of hell is more convincing. He finds Satan stuck in ice, flapping his wings but unable to escape: the most pathetic and disappointing thing you ever saw. Not so much demonic as defeated.

Hell is the absence of life, and the absence of God. Though we may pray for the men shown above, we see some intimation of hell in their eyes. Hell is not just punishment, but in its lifelessness and hopelessness is itself the natural consequence of deadly sin, which separates us from God's fellowship. Hell is not just the place where God judicially chooses to send us if we aren't good. Hell has roots in the here-and-now (so does heaven). If we are honest, we feel it in our souls: the effect of willful sin is a deadening, and a loss of spiritual life. Do it enough--that is, refuse the free grace of God--and you'll wind up like these creatures.

If God is love and the source of all life, then Hell is not just punitive torment, but is the saddest nothing that ever existed. It's a terrifying whimper. Losing our lives, we may want to fly again on our own, but cannot do so. The only way we can fly beyond the grave is by the sheer grace of God which perfects us by drawing us nearer to Him:

'Heaven is heaven only for the holy'

Before I began to see life as a Catholic, I imagined my transition to heaven after death as pretty discontinuous. I would die hoping to be with Christ. I would still have much the same tastes, inclinations, habits as I do now. But then I would be with Jesus, and everything would be better.

This is empty, unjust, and inhuman. If my salvation is a process rather than a singular event, then it must have an end point. That end point, if salvation means heaven, must be the point at which I am ready for heaven. I am ready for heaven when I am holy. Being unholy doesn't just mean doing bad things. It means not being pleased with the things of God, and being too much pleased with the things only of this world; it's as much about the state of my soul as the judicial status of my sins and good works. Therefore as long as I am unholy in who I am (not just what I've done), I am not ready for heaven. Whether in this life or the next, Christ must make me ready for heaven before I go there. Thus until I am ready, i.e. holy--here's what blows my mind--I simply won't want to be there, not really.

But Cardinal Newman has put this far better than I ever can, if you will tolerate his Victorian style.

Answering Atheism, Pt. 1

Atheism deserves to be answered. I emphasize "deserves" because many people have become atheists in good faith. For Christians, the prototypical atheist is a pissed-off math and computer geek who watched one too many YouTube videos and probably likes porn. He had a distant or absent family growing up, and found atheism as a handy framework for explaining all the ills of the world and distancing himself from it. Politically the only thing he's allergic to is social conservatism, and he thinks Julian Assange is a martyr for freedom.

Tempting as this image may be, I've realized a lot of people wind up atheists because they simply aren't taught, much less exampled, a more compelling alternative. They're not atheists as an act of rebellion, but as an act of desperation, trying to make sense of the world once their sight has been scrubbed of wonder and transcendence. If some have arrived at atheism in good faith, then I should answer them in good faith.

A feisty atheist on Facebook today pulled out this well-worn chestnut: "But as all great thinkers know, extraordinary claims require extraordinary evidence." I've seen this used quite a bit. I wrote the following in reply:


'The "extraordinary claims require extraordinary evidence" argument seems to have grown in popularity in recent years. What is appealing about it is its sense of proportion. But in order to call a claim "extraordinary", one really just means "it's very different from what appears to be the case as I see things." The person making the argument typically assumes that how he or she sees things--most often through methodological naturalism--is somehow the default or central viewpoint we all should adopt, so that a claim's "extraordinariness" is measured by its distance from this central viewpoint. But I've never seen why methodological naturalism (a mode of inquiry) or atheism (a worldview based upon methodological naturalism) should be the central viewpoint against which extraordinariness must be measured. Far more plausible would be a sort of agnostic or deistic position, say, "We can't prove or disprove God using scientific inquiry, the universe appears to be fine-tuned, the vast majority of human throughout history have intuited that the world has a Creator, therefore unless we explain all this away using evolutionary psychology (itself far more conjectural than testable), the existence of a Creator is plausible." If we stand there, then the claim "there is no God" may seem just as "extraordinary" as "there is a God, and He cares for us."'


More later.

'Hell is the Country of Clowns': Twelve Theses on Smiling and Sadness

I am bowled over by these 'twelve theses' on sadness and smiling.

Since returning to the Catholic Church, I have often contrasted the blank, even morose, personal imagery of a typical Mass with the countless, beaming smiles I recall from my evangelical Protestant church. For some time this contrast unsettled me. Did it mean my fellow Catholics were just there out of routine and compulsion--in other words, that nothing was really happening in their hearts despite being there? Did it mean they were (gasp) not 'saved'?

This contrast, and my evolving understanding of it, leaves aside a treatment of very real problems in the Church. What I mean to say is that sadness, or at least a lack of obvious enthusiasm, is not in itself a sign that one is spiritually adrift or lukewarm.

These morose Catholics' very attendance is and was, ipso facto, an act of worship.

If sadness is an integral part of the human experience this side of the grave, even for those who are promised redemption, then the people who banish it are, in a sense, inhuman. The author's words on Christ's sadness ring true:

"The sinless humanity of the Son of God was manifest not in happiness or success but in a life of sadness and affliction. Erasing sadness from our culture, we also erase Christ."

Aim #5: Resolve to Share God's Word

Proclaim the Word of God.
Enact the Word of God.

Putting one's mission in such simple, gospel-centered terms is unlikely to connote,
or even connect with, modern-day Catholicism. But it should. Why is gospel simplicity alien
to the Great Tradition, at least on appearances? There are two reasons: the fault of Catholics as wayward sons, and the misunderstandings of Protestants, who see it as a bewildering mess which,
regardless of its doctrinal merits, obscures God's Word more than it enlightens.

There is nothing intrinsic to Catholicism which should prevent this.
But I am unsatisified with saying only that. Much more important:
There is no better way to proclaim and enact the Gospel than Christ-centered Catholicism.

I'll have opportunity to return to this claim in future posts. But for now, an anecdote.

I had a terrific talk tonight with a friend of a friend. He is studying religion
at Yale. He spoke fondly of Gustavo Gutierrez, the famous liberation theologian. My
predisposition toward this particular thinker is one of suspicion, due to his association
with Marxism, though I have not read him. We argued varying models of what the church
is supposed to be, and what its failings are, back and forth. The discussion was amiable,
and to be honest I was just delighted to have someone engage me on theology and history!

I realized the priority of God's Word as I pondered our talk on my walk home, in a few ways.

1.) Has the Church ever been too desirous of public prestige? Yes. But what is the remedy? Some
would say the Church should be less public. No, the answer is greater than that. She should
prioritize the Word of God--that is the answer. She should take God's Word to the public, in a
winning way to be sure, but utterly without fear of consequences. The answer is not one of mere
worldly back-and-forth, but one of realizing ultimate priorities. When She is chastened, it is
not toward a diminished private sphere, but toward a recovery of Who She is for: faithfulness
to Her divine Spouse, Jesus Christ. If diminished public prospects result, God will still be
faithful. If persecution results, God will still be faithful.

2.) Should I, as both a Catholic and an aspiring social scientist, aim to endear my faith to
academics in a way that speaks to them? Yes and no. If my speaking only translates into secular
terms those parts of the faith toward which they are predisposed, they will give me a seat at
the table, but they will not see Jesus Christ. If my speaking instead answers their questions
but in turn orients them to something greater and fundamentally beyond human grasping, then
I will have spoken effectively. Yet too often I am desirous to only convey those parts of the
faith for which a strong secular argument can be made. Little of what I say savors of God's
transcendence, His otherness and mystery. Some of the wisest men have savored this saying:
Credo quia absurdum, "I believe because it is absurd": no man could make it up.

The Church's calling, then, is to commend Christ to the world in terms which appeal to the good
yet also point beyond the good as they see it, toward the true Good, Jesus Christ, who has
overcome the world and now transcends it. Proclaim God's Word. Enact God's Word. This will
never lead the Church astray, and She will be less likely to stray insofar as Her members grasp
this.

And similarly:

The Catholic's calling, then, is to commend Christ to all persons in terms which appeal to the
good as they understand it, yet also point them personally beyond it, to its true Source, which
though it touches all we see, still transcends it. For the Christian beholds a transcendent Good,
Who alone truly satisfies, answers our deepest longings, and, because He is transcendent, will
always keep us thirsting for more. Proclaim God's Word. Enact God's word. This will never lead
the Christian astray.

Aim #5: Resolve to Worship

I mean, really worship. See God for who He is. "Worship" = "worth" + "-ship". What worth do we give to God? True worship sees God for who He is. So who is He?

Most people recognize that God exists and that He is our Creator. For that, we should be thankful to Him. That's easy, and quite literally, it comes naturally. Evidence of animal sacrifices even among prehistoric peoples confirms the human species' in-built responsiveness to a great and unknown source of provision, even if those responses were violent in nature and directed toward some dimly perceived power. Humans still have this orientation toward divine thanksgiving naturally, and we only bury it with great effort.

So people, Christian or otherwise, understand that we owe something to God, and we can worship Him by giving Him thanks. Is this the case for a Christian? Yes and no. He's not just the Creator, though if He were only that we'd still obviously owe him an awful lot. He's also the Redeemer. And how He redeemed, and redeems, us matters greatly to how we respond to Him.

What did He do? Everyone knows the story: He died on the Cross to save us, and our deliverance was ratified when He rose from the dead. But for this fact, do we simply owe gratitude? The naive response is yes, but there's something much more.

What makes the sacrifice of Jesus apply to us is the fact that He was God in the flesh: the Incarnation. His sacrifice was efficacious not just because of what He did, but Who He was. Take that away, and his death is just poignant and inspiring, a footnote in the annals of Roman-era Palestine.

The Incarnation was the greatest stooping and the deepest paradox in history. It was scandal to the Jews, who rightly exalted God above all things and thus, despite His miracles, could not grasp with human understanding the nature of the Man who taught them and was one of them. The Incarnation of God in Jesus Christ is the fundamental affront Christianity poses to Islam, which like Judaism sees the doctrine as impossible to square with God's utter transcendence. Two thousand years of Christian prayer and thought have given form to the belief, but have made it no less explainable or reasonable to us than to Thomas, who upon realizing His leader's divinity was left aghast: "My Lord and my God!"

Think about the Incarnation this way: to save us, God took on a humble form. Philippians 2: "[Jesus] did not consider equality with God a thing to be grasped." He who dwells in light inaccessible clothed Himself in the stuff of men, the seed of God fertilizing the egg of a woman in the womb of a teenage virgin. If you can grasp one hundredth of this, you have some sense of the hushed awe with which we know and understand Jesus Christ, the "God-man" as St. Anselm called Him.

I say this not to expound theology, but to draw out the particularly Christian sense of worship, here and now.

In the Mass, we participate in a miracle made possible by what I have just described. But we don't just count God as one of us, which is crazy enough. We actually eat Him. Does this bother you? So did the teaching of the Incarnation stagger Jesus' hearers. How much more then, were those same hearers staggered--not just staggered, scandalized--by His teaching that we must eat His flesh and drink His blood. They were troubled enough by the thought that God had become a man and walked among them. But this? When Jesus taught it, people left. And he let them leave.

With hindsight, and the gift of the Holy Spirit, we can see a parallel. God stooped in the Incarnation. People couldn't believe it. But He stooped, and through stooping saved mankind. How much more then: God stoops at the Consecration of bread and wine into His own flesh and blood. People can't believe it. God--in this stuff? Yet He stooped enough to become a man, and by His own promise He now stoops enough to give us His flesh and blood through the humble appearances of bread and wine. Through these He saves us now, in the sense that our participation in it hastens our being made fully into His likeness. St Ignatius of Antioch, appointed bishop by Peter himself, writing around the year 96, called this the "medicine of immortality" en route to his own martyrdom.

If we will worship the God whose Word to us is Jesus Christ, then ordinary thankfulness is just a meager first step in approaching Him. More important, rather, is the response we give to His shocking humility and His coming down, not just a long time ago but, equally importantly, today. On the one hand, "Holy, Holy, Holy is the Lord God Almighty; the Heavens and Earth are full of Your Glory." And there, bowled over by this inexhaustible mystery, our only sufficient response echoes the words of the Roman soldier: "I am not worthy that you should enter under my roof." And after we have received Him, the words of Mary: "I am the Lord's handmaid; let it be done unto me according to thy Will."

That is Christian worship. Anything less is not worthy of the name.

Aim #4: Resolve to be Brave

Bravery is a word much abused in contemporary rhetoric, and thus cheapened in use. Anything perceived as being contrary to the preferences of anyone else may count as 'brave' today. We understand the word today in a sense that is unattached to any greater good, the only criterion being that what one does or speaks for is unpopular, whether or not it is really good. For example, a man who promotes pederasty despite its unpopularity could be considered 'brave' by some. Reductio ad absurdum. I need explain no further.

True bravery occurs when defending something that is not only unpopular but also good. Particularly, true bravery involves real risks to one's person, not just rhetorical scorn.

Today, March 9, is the feast of St Dominic Savio. A mid-19th century Italian boy, he died when only fifteen but left a lasting mark on all those who knew him. A student at the Mondonio Oratory, he was considered by both classmates and teachers to be an ideal student, hard-working, intelligent, helpful to the other boys, and devoted to God. But the most famous story from his life highlights his bravery above all else. What is unique about Dominic's bravery is what purpose it serves in this story: not just a morally vague, I-gotta-be-me goal like climbing a mountain, but making peace and giving Christian witness to two dueling boys. He's not just doing something for the sake of doing it, nor sticking his neck out to feed his own ego, but rather being brave for the eternal spiritual good of others. His bravery points toward Goodness of the highest degree. After reading this story, I will always associate the best kind of bravery with St. Dominic Savio (forgive some of the archaic language):

"The occurrence in question concerns two of his school fellows, between whom a fierce quarrel had arisen, on account of some remarks on a point of family honour. The quarrel proceeded from the exchanging of insults to the giving of blows and stone throwing. Dominic came to hear of this quarrel, but he saw the difficulty of trying to interfere, for both boys were older and bigger than he was. However he found means for approaching each in turn, urged them to give up their hatred, and pointed out that anger and revenge were against the commandments of God; he wrote to each of them, threatening to acquaint their parents and their master, but the headstrong boys were not to be influenced; their minds had become so embittered that all entreaties were in vain. Apart from the risk of bodily injury to themselves, Dominic was most concerned with the offence against God, and he was eager to find some means of effectually interfering, but was perplexed as to the manner of doing so.

"He then seemed to have an inspiration. He waited for the boys after school, and contriving to speak to each alone, he said: "Since you will persist in this insane and sinful quarrel I ask you to accept one condition." Each agreed, provided it did not interfere with their challenge of a fight with stones, and indulged in some very unbecoming language in reference to his enemy. The very language was enough to make Savio shudder, but desirous of preventing a greater evil he said: "The condition I wish to impose does not interfere with the challenge: "Then what is it?" "I shall not tell you till you meet for the duel."

"They thought he was making game of them, but Savio insisted that he was quite serious and that he would be on the scene. Neither could conjecture what his plan was.

"The place for the fight was a lonely spot outside the town. The boys, getting more and more incensed, were almost going to fight on the way, but Dominic managed to prevent them. The scene of action was reached, and the boys took up their positions at a little distance from each other, and had by them the stones they were to hurl. Now wasDominic's time for mediation. He stepped in the middle and said: "Before you commence to fight you must fulfil the condition you agreed upon." So saying he drew out of his coat pocket a crucifix and held it up in the air. "I desire," he said, "that each of you should look on this crucifix, and then if you will throw, you must throw the stone at me and say: "Our Saviour died pardoning his very persecutioners; I, a sinner, am about to offend Him by an act of open revenge."

"Having said this, he threw himself on his knees before the one who seemed most enraged, and said: "Throw your stone at me; let me have the first blow." A shiver seemed to go through the boy thus addressed. "No," he exclaimed, "I couldn't do it. I am not so mean as that. I have nothing against you."

"On hearing this Dominic turned to the other boy, who had been watching in amazement, and made the same proposal to him. He too refused such a cowardly act.

"Then Dominic got up and said, with great earnestness: "You are both ashamed to commit this act of brutality against me; and yet you would commit it against God and lose your soul by grievous sin." And he held up the crucifix again.

"This proved too much for the two boys; they were moved by his true Christian charity and his courage. One of them confessed that he felt a cold shiver, and felt thoroughly ashamed that he had forced a friend of Savio's character to take such extreme measures. Wishing to make him some amends, he forgave entirely the boy with whom he had quarrelled and promised to go to Confession at once. Thus Dominic secured a victory for charity and taught the boys a lesson. Is it too striking an act of courage to recommend for example to young school boys? This incident would have remained a profound secret, had it not been related by both boys who were the partners to the challenge."

+JMJ