Gnosticism is the perennial Christian heresy that says matter, and thus bodies, is evil. It’s a form of Platonism on steroids. Plato’s mouthpiece Socrates on several occasions speaks about the body as the prison of the soul, and also as death as the soul’s liberation from the body. Prisons are not nice places, and places from which one needs liberation are not nice places.

But let’s cut the Gnostics some slack. Briefly, at least. They weren’t simply crazy people hellbent on twisting Christian faith. They were dealing with the serious reality of pain and suffering in the world. And in their world in their heyday in the 2d-3d centuries AD there was a lot of serious suffering. You come to believe what Gnostics believe when you come to the point that you can’t reconcile a good God with the horrors evident in creation and the suffering experienced by human persons in their bodies. You want to be pulled out of the nightmare of the matrix, with its devious, satanic architect. You want the red pill.

And so a Gnostic, confronted by a corpse eaten and finally mortified by cancer, decides that the body is the problem, and that it must have been a lesser deity who created creation with its frail bodies. Experience leads them to filter divine Christian revelation through the lenses of Platonic ideology.

The red pill is a hallucinogen, however. The Christian holds to divine revelation, which teaches that God created everything good (Genesis 1), that God made our very bodies from the stuff of earth (Genesis 2), and that sin is a reality that makes bodies liable to death (Genesis 3). Divine revelation teaches that resurrection is the corollary of creation, that we get our bodies back, (2 Maccabees 7), transformed, glorified (1 Corinthians 15).

Gnosticism is salvation on the cheap, God helping us escape from the mess of matter. Christianity is God’s hard work of fixing what is broken, revivifying what is dead.

Do we trust God enough to believe him when through Jesus and the apostles he promises us he will raise the dead?

I believe–help thou mine unbelief.


Funeral for a Friend

Death scatters, so some scattershot thoughts…

The funeral liturgy (Anglican) was lovely. The Latin requiem was most welcome. A Walhout youth played the cello perfectly. Closing hymn was SLANE=Be Thou My Vision. Wonderful. I couldn’t sing any of it, but I let the sound wash over and through me.

Why, I ask myself, does every single Christian tradition, from Pentecostal to Anglican, do better with worship than we Catholics do? It’s just not that hard.

Wake last night: I couldn’t look at the picture boards. Much easier time at the casket, for some reason, once I sucked it up to say goodbye. Probably because that’s ice cold reality, and the boards remind you of what sort of things the guy would still be doing, if…

Brett was dressed in a zippered argyle sweater with a slight collar, which was perfect. Coat and tie was always artificial on him.

Another Wheaton professor of English and thus colleague of Brett’s, Roger Lundin, died late Thursday night. He was on leave this fall. Are you kidding me?

News of Paris hit yesterday during the wake, of course.

Five friends and family members with cancer. Right now the score is 1-3 with one in the balance, at a critical moment.

Noah Toly is an absolute mensch. Others too. But Noah. His parents should write a book on parenting because he turned out more than OK. (Here’s his tribute to Brett from a few days ago.)

Hard to place a lot of people after just five years, and if I couldn’t find your name back in my head, apologies! Good to see former students, like Maggie, doing so well. Colleagues too.

I joked there’s not enough alcohol for such a weekend. I’m pacing myself. I say bold stupid things like that in certain situations for effect.

Nothing sadder, I think, than an untimely widow embracing her husband’s casket graveside to say goodbye for the final time. That’s when I really lost it inside. But I really tried not to cry, because crying is wrong. At least in public. In private it’s just bothersome.

I did just say I say bold stupid things like that in certain situations for effect…

Death is uncomfortable for us because there’s not enough of it. Meaning, we don’t face it routinely like prior generations, perhaps up to 100 or 75 years ago. Florence at the height of the Renaissance, about 6 out of 10 babies died between birth and first birthday. There’s no antibiotics until the 1920s, so infections and fevers were often a death sentence. Nowadays in the modern west thanks to modern sanitation and medicine, most babies live long and prosper, and when we get seriously sick medication and surgery save us. Count all the times in your life when you’ve been seriously sick, and think how many times you might have died were you living several generations ago.

Fr. Martin Johnson, priest at All Souls Anglican Church, where we attended when we were in Wheaton, who officiated today, can really preach. He might be the most peculiar homilist in the Christian world. Hard to explain, but his homilies are meticulously composed formalist exercises, like Joyce’s Ulysses almost but with theological substance. Poetry in theological motion. Incredibly complex, but he always brings it back around. “Here ends the reading.” I have to, I just have to, get a copy of the homily from today.

Brett Foster, accidental midwife: you had to be there, I guess. My 2+ minutes memory of Brett as a man on whom you could count, as proved by that time my wife was in labor and he needed to babysit our doula’s kids through the night in a sketchy hospital parking lot in Oak Park, Ill. I was glad to get through it without losing my cookies, because I thought I was going to. And crying is wrong. I couldn’t look at anyone in the chapel in the eye, but stared into a vague space about 20 feet out from my line of vision. And got through it.

If you’re going to break through an automotive funeral procession in your impatience, remember, your sparkly SUV is far from paid for, and my car is a mere rental. Count yourself lucky.

I hadn’t cried, and I really haven’t cried, yet. A few times before I stop myself. I think that was the issue at the wake and funeral for me. Brett’s friends in Wheaton have been walking through this with him, rather directly, for months, and were there in town when he died last week. They got a lot of crying out of their systems already, I suspect. I hadn’t, and haven’t, so it really hit me when I showed up at the wake just as dark had settled over Wheaton, that Brett was really gone.

Appreciate the little kind gestures from colleagues and administrators et al. I haven’t seen since I left–hugs, pats on the shoulder, etc.

Since Brett was a poet, I’ve been thinking of poetry, and this one by Stephen Crane came to mind today, and makes a fitting closing here:

In the desert

I saw a creature, naked, bestial,
Who, squatting upon the ground,
Held his heart in his hands,
And ate of it.
I said, “Is it good, friend?”
“It is bitter—bitter,” he answered;

“But I like it
“Because it is bitter,
“And because it is my heart.”


Brett Foster, RIP

Brett Foster was my best friend at Wheaton College. Brett was roughly my age. Brett died last evening of cancer.

Brett was an accomplished academic of multiple talents: a poet himself, a translator of medieval & Renaissance Italian poetry, and an expert in Shakespeare. Those three points don’t quite cover all that Brett could do. From Italy to England, from the 1300s to the 1600s, he knew it and worked in it.

A graduate of Yale, he was close to a couple legends I esteem: John Hollander and Harold Bloom. I was tickled one evening when the phone rang, and it was the latter on the line. “Harold!” Brett exclaimed. “How are ya!” Brett exclaimed in his slightly raspy, still-Missouri accented voice.

Above all Brett was a prince of a human being, a regular guy who liked drinking beer and watching football, who enjoyed people and brought them joy.

My fondest memory of Brett involves Orvieto, Italy. Brett was there on some monthlong-fellowship, and I was in Rome for the international Society of Biblical Literature meeting. We spent the better part of the day in Orvieto working on academic things at various cafes (as Brett had this habit of working somewhere for an hour or two and then wanting to relocate), always somewhere under the aegis of the glorious cathedral.

Having retreated to his apartment later in the day, we decided around 10:30 that it’d be good to begin preparing dinner. We went to the local grocer (still open) and got the requisite ingredients for whatever we were making, along with a sufficient supply of sagrantino, the local Umbrian wine. A friend of Brett’s was with us too, Chris van den Berg, and he did most of the cooking while we drank and talked. We ate around midnight, and stayed up until about four in the morning, talking about everything friends talk about–work, college politics, family, daydreams, passions. Given the lateness of the hour when we finally retired, about four in the morning, and the quality of the sagrantino, we did not make our planned trip to Siena the next day.

Brett was too humble and normal and Christian to be the “strong poet” Bloom describes, but neither was a he a “weak poet,” composing derivative drivel or doggerel. Bloom’s typology (in my humble opinion, poetry not being my formal field) is too polarized, too binary. Brett was a very good poet, swimming within the best streams of the literary tradition, his poetry informed by his Christian faith.

Here, then, are three of my favorite poems from Brett, so you, dear reader, can get a taste of his work. I like the first the best. The second is perhaps the most poignant and powerful. The third is especially interesting to me, as I’m supposed to be writing a major commentary on Mark’s Gospel…


Poem with a Phrase from George Herbert

Even if the body’s garment has been rent,
it can still become an establishment
for rebuilding spirit, new, tender, and quick.
If there is no market for one’s sickness,
there is at very least an etiquette
for feeling better—felt pain and everything met
in extremity, that is. There exists
the tumor, cyst, or grisly polyp, and Christ
resides, persists amid these hundred hells,
his garment hemmed with pomegranates, golden bells.


Tongue is the Pen

Isaiah 43

I am making all things new! Or am trying to,
being so surprised to be one of those guys
who may be dying early. This is yet one more
earthen declaration, uttered through a better
prophet’s more durable mouth, with heart
astir. It’s not oath-taking that I’m concerned
with here, for what that’s worth— instead just a cry
from the very blood, a good, sound imprecation
to give the sickness and the shivering meaning.
Former things have not been forgotten,
but they have forgotten me. The dear, the sweet,
the blessed past, writes Bassani. Tongue is the pen.
Donning some blanket of decorousness
is not the prophet’s profession, not ever.
Not that I’ve tasted the prophet’s honey or fire:
I’m just a shocked, confounded fellow
who’s standing here, pumping the bellows
of his mellifluous sorrow. Yet sorrow’s the thing
for all prophets. Make a way in the wilderness,
streaming your home-studio-made recordings
from a personal wasteland. These are my thoughts.
I can’t manage the serious beard. My sackcloth
is the flannel shirt I’m wearing. But the short-circuited
months have whitened my hair, and it’s not
for nothing that Jeffrey calls me, with affectionate
mockery, the silver fox. It’s a prerequisite, finally—
being a marginal prophet, but a severe attention
to envisioned tomorrows must be present, too,
must be perceived as possible, audible, or followable.
There’s a hypothetically bright future for everything,
each wounded creature that is bitten, or bites.
And speaking of things overheard, you heard right:
if I have to go out, I am going to go out singing.


Prayer Before Reading St Mark’s Gospel

Please attack my colonialist ego,
o lion-face, o ancient evangelist.
The carcinogenic self, gleeful
but cruel in its unhealthy glow,
needs every means of resistance,
nor do I expect your treatment to be
remotely easygoing, if any freedom
is to be won from tumor, polyp, cyst.
Don’t let my withheld forgiveness
be among the glittering cargo
of my sickly little boat, battered, kissed
by fortune’s surges. Let me bestow
instead regard to every fellow narcissist,
to thief and punk, humbug and arsonist.

Bonus: video of Brett reading “The Breaking”

john as eagle

The Gospel of John

I had written something introducing the Gospel of John on a now-defunct website. Here it is.


Preaching John

The Gospel of John is the capstone of the fourfold Gospel canon. Different in character and content from the prior three synoptic Gospels, it supplements and complements them, presenting (in accord with its traditional iconography) an “eagle-eye” view of Jesus Christ as the Incarnate Word, the God who strides upon the earth, bringing divine revelation into a hostile world. In preaching John it may be useful to note its position as the final Gospel, making plain the significance of Jesus in a spiritual or theological way. St. Clement of Alexandria (ca. 150-211) said, “As for John, the last [evangelist], upon seeing that in the Gospels they [i.e., the synoptic evangelists] had told of the corporeal matters, supported by his disciples and inspired by the Holy Spirit, he wrote a spiritual Gospel.” (Quis dives salvabitur 42,1). Similarly, in commenting on John’s placing of Jesus’ “cleansing of the temple,” Origen (ca. 184-254) claims that “John does not always tell the truth literally, but he always tells the truth spiritually” (Commentary on John 10.4.6). St. Augustine similarly said:

These three evangelists, however, were for the most part engaged with those things which Christ did through the vehicle of the flesh of man, and after the temporal fashion. But John, on the other hand, had in view that true divinity of the Lord in which He is the Father’s equal, and directed his efforts above all to the setting forth of the divine nature in his Gospel in such a way as he believed to be adequate to men’s needs and notions…[John] is like one who has drunk in the secret of His divinity more richly and somehow more familiarly than others, as if he drew it from the very bosom of his Lord on which it was his wont to recline when He sat at meat. (De cons. ev. 1.4[7])

Much could be said about the multifold theological themes and literary dynamics of the Johannine Gospel; good commentaries will deal with the standard background issues and themes like light, darkness, life, the world, glory, and so on. (Perhaps the best crash course or refresher on John is the late Raymond Brown’s An Introduction to the Gospel of John, intended to be a revised opening chapter to his magisterial commentary on John in the Anchor Yale commentary series, but now published as a separate book.) I wish to focus on John’s overarching story, in which God invades a hostile world in the Incarnation to establish the divine presence in the world in the Church and its sacraments.

I. The World

Astute observers have noted that the Gospel of John is dark indeed, for the “World” (kosmos) is hostile to Jesus Christ and his disciples because it is hostile to God, being under the dominion of Satan. The world does not recognize Jesus (John 1:9); it is sinful (1:29); it stands in need of salvation (3:16); the people of the world prefer darkness to light because their deeds are evil (3:19); it stands under judgment because it stands under satan’s power (12:31); it rejects the Spirit (14:17). Indeed, the world hates both Jesus and his disciples (15:18-19). All is ultimately well, however, for Jesus reminds his disciples, “In the world you have tribulation; but be of good cheer, I have overcome the world.”

What significance might this have for preaching? Jesus Christ and his Church do not hate the World, even if the world hates them. Rather, Jesus (and his Church) loves the world, for God loves the world (cf. John 3:16). But John’s dark description of the enmity that the world has towards us is a stark challenge to much Christian thinking and practice today; sent out as sheep among wolves, we’re often innocent as doves but not wise as serpents (cf. Matt 10:16). True, much good is found in our world, and all its goodness, beauty, and truth is ultimately the Lord’s. Nevertheless, those who know their history (and who pay attention to contemporary events) know that the Church often finds itself in a pitched battle with the world, conquering hate with love, overcoming evil with good, fighting a spiritual battle with implements suited to that task (cf. Eph. 6).

II. Incarnation

In John’s perspective, the World is enemy-occupied territory. God himself thus invades the world in a vulnerable offensive of love in the Incarnation, the enfleshment of God in Jesus Christ, in which God becomes meat (in-carnem). John 1, of course, presents the most profound reflection on the Incarnation. We are told in John 1:1-3 that the Word (logos), the second person of the Trinity, was with God, was God, and was an agent of creation. I would emphasize here two items:

(A) The rationality of God: In contemporary culture, many people assume that there exists a broad, ugly ditch between faith and reason, so that religion must be irrational. But this is not the case, and the preacher does well to challenge this point. (Indeed, effective preaching often involves challenging basic assumptions imbibed from the culture with Christian truths.) Logos is the rational principle of creation; it may be translated simply “reason.” Thus, John 1:1 may be paraphrased, “In the beginning was reason, and reason was with God, and God was reason.”

(1) From here the preacher may delve into the relationship between faith and reason, which often overlap (e.g., one can ask, Is “Thou shalt not kill” a truth of faith and revelation or a truth of reason?).

(2) He or she may also discuss the intelligibility of the created order.

(3) Another avenue concerns the Imago Dei, the image of God in humans, especially appropriate as John 1 alludes to Gen 1:1 (“In the beginning God created…”; In the beginning was the Word…”). In Christian history the Imago has been understood in three chief ways:

(a) Rationality: Since God is rational, so are humans, and this rationality separates us from animals (for instance, in St. Augustine’s Letter 120, he writes, “God forbid Christians should denigrate reason, which separates us from animals”). Here the preacher might reflect on humanity’s lofty position in the created order, especially in light of contemporary worldviews and technological processes that challenge that position.

(b) Relationality: As the persons of the Trinity relate to one another, so to do man and woman in marriage related to one another, and indeed the whole human family.

(c) Stewardship: Man and woman have loving dominion over the earth.

(B) That the Word, the logos, the second person of the Trinity is an agent of creation (“All things were made through him, and without him was not anything made that was made,” John 1:3), has profound implications. Many people think of the Father as the Creator, the Son as the Redeemer, and the Holy Spirit as the Sustainer or Sanctifier of creation. But this understanding is fundamentally modalist and thus heretical, and attempts to avoid the masculine Name of the Holy Trinity usually run into this heresy. All three persons of the Trinity are involved in all operations of creation, redemption, and sanctification.  Why is modalism a problem? It imperils revelation. For if we only know God in his modes – as one actor wearing three different masks in a play – we don’t know God himself, but just the masks.

Indeed, the Incarnation is the chief instance of divine revelation, for God has made himself fully known in Jesus Christ: “No one has ever seen God; the only Son, who is in the bosom of the Father, he has made him known” (John 1:18). Now many people have what amounts to an Islamic view of God and Jesus; God remains a monad, a unity (not a trinity) in the heavens, while Jesus is his human prophet. (The legacy of Schleiermacher looms large still today.) And thus often in pastoral practice one encounters people who have a hard time with God and his love for them but feel close to Jesus. But this ought to be gently corrected, as a right understanding of God is requisite for spiritual health: When one sees Jesus, one sees God, and if someone wants to know what God is like, one ought to look at Jesus. The revelation of God in Jesus thus makes possible real relationship, for it is simply easier for a human to relate to another human than to an impersonal divinity (say, like the Deist God, or Plato’s One) or even a personal divinity unmediated by the humanity of the Incarnation.

But the Jesus to which Christians relate is not only the literary figure of the Gospels, a mere character in a story played out long ago. Indeed, John tells us that “The Word became flesh, and dwelt among us” (1:14), and dwells with us still. Literally, that verse says that he “pitched his tent” among us – his tabernacle, an allusion to the tabernacle that accompanied the Israelites in their sojourns, the tabernacle which sheltered the Ark in which the very Presence of God resided. Jesus is thus a new tabernacle, a new temple (as the tabernacle was the forerunner of the two temples, Solomon’s temple and the second temple). Indeed, the narrator makes clear that Jesus’ body is the new temple (“But he spoke of the temple of his body,” 2:21), and as such is the sacrament of God’s presence with us. Where might his body and thus God’s presence be found today?

III. Sacrament

John is a sacramental Gospel, for the Incarnation is the sacrament par excellence. And while the Eucharistic import of John 6 is long contested among interpreters, a subtle triple typology found therein suggests a rather high view of Holy Communion, along the lines of what St. Ignatius of Antioch had in mind when he called the Eucharist “the medicine of immortality” (Eph. 20:2). (Of course, preachers may follow their own informed judgment and traditions on this point.)

In John 6, we have the feeding of the five thousand, a miracle which both looks backward to the feeding of the Israelites with manna in the wilderness and also forward to the Eucharist. Challenging Jesus for a sign, Jesus’ interlocutors remind him that Moses gave their fathers “bread from heaven,” manna in the wilderness (John 6:31). Jesus tells them that it is his Father who gives the true bread from heaven, Jesus himself, the bread of life (6:32-35). After some grumbling, Jesus reiterates his words:

I am the bread of life. Your fathers ate manna in the wilderness, and they died. This is the bread which comes down from heaven, that a man may eat of it and not die. I am the living bread which came down from heaven; if any one eats of this bread, he will live for ever; and the bread which I shall give for the life of the world is my flesh. (6:48-51)

After a dispute arises concerning just how one might eat Jesus’ flesh, Jesus states:

Truly, truly, I say to you, unless you eat the flesh of the Son of man and drink his blood, you have no life in you; he who eats my flesh and drinks my blood has eternal life, and I will raise him up at the last day. For my flesh is food indeed, and my blood is drink indeed.  He who eats my flesh and drinks my blood abides in me, and I in him. As the living Father sent me, and I live because of the Father, so he who eats me will live because of me. This is the bread which came down from heaven, not such as the fathers ate and died; he who eats this bread will live for ever. (6:53-58)

What, then, are the parallels? (1) In the Old Testament, God gives miraculous manna to the people through Moses, and the people eventually die. (2) In the feeding of the five thousand, the Father gives miraculous bread and fish to the people through Jesus (who gave thanks, 6:11, thus involving his Father), and the people eventually die. In each case the food provided sustains the people in their biological life, but it is powerless to provide eternal life; in each case the people ultimately die. But (3) in the case of the Eucharist, the Father has sent the Son, Jesus, in the Incarnation, and then in the Eucharist, a token of the Incarnation, gives the people the bread of life, and the people will live forever.

This is good news: Not just that God sent his Son in the Incarnation to invade a hostile world two millennia ago, but that God is present in the body and blood of his Son who gives his Eucharistic flesh for the life of that world in the present moment. The Eucharist feeds those living in a world where most are starved both of transcendence and immanence, and good preaching will bring congregants to a profound experience of this reality.

IV. Church

John also presents a robust, if subtle, picture of the Church. Just as the Father sent the Son into the world in the Incarnation, Jesus the Son sends forth the disciples into the world, sent forth to spread the divine presence not only in the Church’s Eucharistic celebrations but also through the ministry of reconciliation.

John 13 presents a crucial hermeneutical test case for an issue significant for all the Gospels and Acts: Are the disciples representative of all Christians, serving as examples good and bad for Christian discipleship? Or are the disciples different in kind from other Christians? Put another way, is what is addressed to Jesus’ disciples always addressed also to us?

The answer depends on one’s ecclesiology; the “lower” one’s ecclesiology, the more the disciples are understood as representative of all Christians, the “higher” one’s ecclesiology, the more the disciples are regarded as apostles, bishops and priests and different from us in kind.

Now obviously many things said to the disciples are intended to be heeded by all Christians. On the other hand, certain things are not meant for all Christians; the prime example that comes to mind is Jesus’ giving Peter the keys in Matthew 16. However one interprets the passage, something special and particular is going on with Peter.

These decisions affect how preachers interpret John 13, the scene of Jesus washing the disciples’ feet. On one hand, what Jesus teaches the disciples by this example seems incumbent upon all Christians:

When he had washed their feet, and taken his garments, and resumed his place, he said to them, “Do you know what I have done to you? You call me Teacher and Lord; and you are right, for so I am. If I then, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also ought to wash one another’s feet. For I have given you an example, that you also should do as I have done to you. (15:12-15)

On the other hand, the footwashing scene in John 13 traditionally bears on the institution of the priesthood, as the ordination rite for priests under the old covenant involved washing (Ex 29:1-8; Lev 8:1ff). (This is why in the optional Holy Thursday service in many Catholic parishes involves the washing of the feet of males alone, as the rubrics for the service technically specify viri selecti – “chosen males.”)

A second crucial passage concerns the ministry of reconciliation. The risen Jesus appears among the disciples and says:

Jesus said to them again, “Peace be with you. As the Father has sent me, even so I send you.” And when he had said this, he breathed on them, and said to them, “Receive the Holy Spirit. If you forgive the sins of any, they are forgiven; if you retain the sins of any, they are retained.” (20:19-23)

Here we have the traditional institution of the sacrament of reconciliation (confession). Protestants, of course, will understand the passage to concern the ministerial declaration of the forgiveness of sins.

However one understands these passages, whether in a more Catholic or more Protestant way, they teach that the Church is sent into the world by Jesus as God sent Jesus into the world, that the Church is to be God’s alternative community of love in the world, ever more the City of God within the City of Man, marked by humble service and the spirit of reconciliation.


Two more pieces on John:

Holy Thursday, Footwashing, and the Institution of the Priesthood

Look up!” (deals with John’s allegory in a brief, reflective way)

papal audience st peters square

Why I Stay

Elizabeth Scalia has challenged every Catholic with some sort of internet access to write a brief piece explaining why he or she stays Catholic, instead of leaving, in the wake of a recent Pew report that suggests Catholics continue to leave the Church in steady droves. So sure, I’ll bite and freewrite from the gut, no revisions, as I’m under the gun on too many projects.

I suppose the short answer is: Because I just got here.

I was reconciled with the Church at the Easter Vigil of 2011. “Reconciled with” more than “received into.” Quick version: I was baptized Catholic but raised Lutheran from about six years old, for reasons which need not detain us now. I had an intense conversion experience as a young teen involving a fairly dramatic healing. I kept going to my Lutheran parish but started hanging out in baptist and Assemblies of God youth groups. Halfway through college I returned to the tradition of the magisterial Reformation (Luther, Calvin), finding there a theology and spirituality more substantive than what was on offer elsewhere.

In college I also had a good Catholic friend who planted seeds, as it were, that finally sprouted several years ago. He made sure none of us were under any illusions regarding what the Catholic Church did and didn’t teach. My Protestant friends and I were the most well catechized Protestants on the planet.

Fast forward: I get married in 1997, a year out of college. I go to Princeton for my M.Div. and Duke for my Ph.D. in New Testament. I take a job at a wonderful evangelical school. And finally having a real job, my wife and I get serious about starting a family. And so after about ten years of marriage, we finally get around to asking what marriage is for on a deep level.

And we run square into Catholic teaching on marriage, sex, and family, particularly JPII’s reflections on human love (what’s popularly known as the “Theology of the Body”) in its authentic, strong version, as JPII actually taught it. We decide on Scriptural, historical, and philosophical grounds the Catholic Church is right on these matters.

Once you decide contraception is evil, and also decide that that conviction really matters, there’s only a few places to go. Either you wind up Catholic, or you join some fundamentalist sect.

Other factors too: As a new professor in an evangelical context teaching precious young souls for whom Christ died, I found the theological dissonance among my colleagues and me unbearable. Students would ask me their deepest intellectual and personal questions (I’m getting married, should we use contraception? I think I’m gay, what do I do? I have an opportunity with ROTC to learn to slit throats–is that OK? I’m pregnant, do I baptize my baby? I’ve never been baptized, do I take communion at the all-school service? etc.) and I could give them good answers, but no answers that were ultimately authoritative, with their truth grounded in anything other than my own wits. I could give a good answer, but my colleague next to me could give another and my colleague on the other side a third. In spite of our common commitment to Scriptural authority, almost everything seemed up for grabs. With Newman, I decided that authoritative interpretation required an authoritative interpreter.

And then kids came. Our first was born in 2008, our second on the way and would be born late summer 2010. How do we raise them?

More reasons: The beauty of the Mass, especially in the extraordinary form, the deep sacramentality of Catholic prayer, eucharistic adoration, the cultural resistance the Church is able to offer to the latest deleterious fads and fashions, the Church’s commitment to beauty, goodness, truth, to reason and nature, to God and the human race.

We got to a point where everything other option seemed derivative, flat, sepia-toned, in comparison, in spite of the faith and goodness often found elsewhere. (New flash: Baptized Protestants and evangelicals are Christians.) With Walker Percy, we found ourselves saying, “What else is there?” So we plunged, believing that the Catholic Church was “the Church of Jesus Christ most fully and rightly ordered through time.”

I think most Catholics who leave the Catholic Church never really believe that claim, deep down. For many, religion is a consumer affair, and when they tire of or get offended by the Catholic brand, they switch or quit. Others (thinking of my friend Rod Dreher) did believe that claim deeply but have horrifying experiences and existential crises. A few believe it deeply but come to believe otherwise deeply for whatever reason.

But for us, that’s the claim we believe. And so when we run into headaches, when something in the Catholic world horrifies or annoys us, local or far afield, we’re not shocked. The Church on earth is composed of fallen humans clergy and lay whose fallenness and finitude remains even after baptism.

Knowing history helps: I just completed Sigrid Undset’s biography of St. Catherine of Siena. Whatever is happening today in the twenty-first century, we don’t have a papacy in Avignon, we don’t have multiple claimants to the throne of Peter, we don’t have cardinals leading armies and crushing cities.

I often think of Chesteron’s Five Deaths of the Faith in The Everlasting Man. I often wonder if he were around today if he’d speak of the last few decades as the Sixth Death of the Faith, given the precipitous drop in mass attendance and vocations as well as the fundamental infidelity surveys betray. Then there’s the situation in the Rheinland…ach. But we figure if the Church survived the prior five, she’ll survive anything: Five times “the Faith has to all appearance gone to the dogs. In each of these five cases it was the dog that died.”

Some of us do better, some worse, but the Church remains. Our job in spite of whatever nonsense and sin and silliness we encounter is to endure in joy, to pray and to love, in Jesus, in the Catholic Faith. Our attitude is that of Frank Sheed:

We are not baptized into the hierarchy; do not receive the Cardinals sacramentally; will not spend an eternity in the beatific vision of the pope. Christ is the point. I, myself, admire the present pope (John Paul II), but even if I criticized him as harshly as some do, even if his successor proved to be as bad as some of those who have gone before, even if I find the church, as I have to live with it, a pain in the neck, I should still say that nothing a pope (or a priest) could do or say would make me wish to leave the church, although I might well wish that they would leave.

Richardton St Mary's Assumption Abbey

A long weekend at Assumption Abbey

One of the treasures of western North Dakota is Assumption Abbey in Richardton. It’s about an hour west of Bismarck (the way I drive, at least), making it easily accessible.

I find myself spending a decent amount of time there, at least recently. Kari and I took our kids there for their open house some weeks back; I teach Bible there every now and then for deacon aspirants and candidates; and I go on retreat there.

It’s been a long year. Not a lot of drama, but a grind. For me, part of that’s been family, with the addition of little Max; instead of zone or man to man, my wife and I have been playing penalty kill 3-2 while I’ve tried to keep up a schedule involving teaching, administration, writing, and some speaking. Often I’ve been too busy or too tired to go fishing. To. Go. Fishing. That tells you something, because fishing is one of the things–perhaps the main thing–that keeps me grounded. Lately sometimes I feel like I should declare, “I will fish no more forever.”

The other thing, of course, that keeps me grounded, that refreshes me, is the regular rhythm of prayer that Catholics (and in similar ways, other liturgical Christians) practice–Mass, rosary, the liturgy of the hours, adoration, family devotions. But in the grind that was this academic year, I practiced those things all too often with too little consistency, too little depth.

So it’s time to retreat to Richardton. The first part of this weekend I’ll teach the letters of Paul to deacon candidates, and the second part of the weekend into next week our Theology department will have its now-annual retreat. For us, theology isn’t merely intellectual, but a matter of encountering the Triune God in prayer and liturgy; as St. Bonaventure said, Et non sufficit ad habendam sapientiam scholastica sine monastica; quia non audienda solum, sed observando fit homo sapiens–loosely, It does not suffice to have academic learning without monastic wisdom, for it is not only hearing, but doing, that makes a human being. (Note in the Latin the link between sapientiam scholastica sine monastica and homo sapiens which I’ve managed to occlude in the translation.)

And I need it. It’s time to recollect, to gather myself, to catch my spiritual breath, in the beauty that is Assumption Abbey.

(The picture is the main church at the Abbey, St. Mary’s, which functions also as Richardson’s community parish.)


The Four Watches of This Night

“But about that day or the hour no one knows, neither the angels in heaven, nor the Son, but only the Father. Keep awake, watch; for you do not know when the time will come. It is like a man going on a journey, when he leaves home and puts his slaves in charge, each with his work, and commands the doorkeeper to be on the watch. Therefore, watch—for you do not know when the master of the house will come, in the evening, or at midnight, or at cockcrow, or at dawn, or else he may find you asleep when he comes suddenly. And what I say to you I say to all: Watch.” (Mark 13:32-37)

Observe: “in the evening, or at midnight, or at cockcrow, or at dawn…” — not 24 hours, but about 12, through the watches of the night. Jesus’ last night is about to run right through that sequence:

(1) Jesus betrayed at the Last Supper at evening: “When it was evening, he came with the twelve. And when they had taken their places and were eating, Jesus said, ‘Truly I tell you, one of you will betray me, one who is eating with me.’” (Mark 14:17-18)

(2) Jesus finds the disciples “sleeping” in Gethsemane, having failed to keep “watch” (cf. Mark 13:36-37, end of the above), presumably at midnight, when “the hour” (cf Mark 13:32!) comes:

“He came and found them sleeping; and he said to Peter, ‘Simon, are you asleep? Could you not watch one hour?'” (Mark 14:37)

He came a third time and said to them, ‘Are you still sleeping and taking your rest? Enough! The hour has come; the Son of Man is betrayed into the hands of sinners. Get up, let us be going. See, my betrayer is at hand.’” (Mark 14:41-42)

(3) Peter denies Jesus at cockcrow: “And immediately the cock crowed a second time. And Peter remembered how Jesus had said to him, ‘Before the cock crows twice, you will deny me three times.’ And he broke down and wept.” (Mark 14:72)

(4) Jesus handed over to Pilate at dawn: “As soon as it was dawn, the chief priests held a consultation with the elders and scribes and the whole council. They bound Jesus, led him away, and handed him over to Pilate.” (Mark 15:1)

Mark’s literary-theological point: In the “Parable of the Doorkeeper” above (Mark 13:32-27), Jesus tells the disciples several times over to “watch” and not be found sleeping precisely because they do not know “the hour,” which could come at evening, midnight, cockcrow, or dawn. They fail to watch, Jesus finds them sleeping, and they miss “the hour” that very night, when Jesus is arrested.

Mark is saying be prepared at all times for “the hour,” for it will come suddenly; indeed, it came for Jesus the very night he gave the teaching. So sudden it already happened.

This very night.


Joyeux Noël

A holiday film not for the whole family: Joyeux Noël (Merry Christmas) (2005/2006, French & German & English with subtitles), a great film about the WWI Christmas truce.

German film really picked it up over the past 15 years, I think; still artistic but also (how else to put it?) watchable, and indeed entertaining, whether we’re talking about The Edukators or Sophie Scholl: The Final Days or Good Bye Lenin!  Seems to be to case with European and international film more generally; Joyeux Noël is French-produced but features German actors Diane Kruger (who’s been popular in the US as well, of course), Benno Fürmann, and Daniel Brühl, and is a strong film.

Two reasons to watch it, in lieu of a formal review:

(1) The Stille Nacht/Adeste Fidelis sequence (grainy YouTube here). Haunting. That’s part of the broader theme of…

(2) …the religious concerns of the film, primarily the implicit lament of the loss of Christian Europe thanks to the rise of nationalism. In the midst of the truce, the film envisions the Scottish priest celebrating Mass for all the soldiers of the three nationalities (Scots, French, German) there present (which unfortunately I can’t find on YouTube). He begins, Dominus vobiscum, and all respond, et cum spiritu tuo.

It’s in Latin, of course. My own reaction (whatever the film’s intent) was that this signified a lost time when Europe was united in a common faith, a common rite, a common language. Catholic faith and the Catholic Mass make for unity and peace, whereas the rejection of that faith and Mass with the rise of nationalism in the late middle ages and early modern period leads to bloodshed. The blood of our tribes may be thicker than the waters of baptism, but it sure seems to spill easier…

By contrast, later in the show a different chaplain preaches to fresh Scottish recruits, encouraging them to kill and kill some more for God and Country–every last German, young or old. The scene ends with The Lord be with you / and also with you, and a Trinitarian blessing. In English. In the vernacular. To be honest, I’m not sure if this second chaplain is Catholic, or Church of England, or Presbyterian, or what, given the visuals of the scene.

I haven’t been able to find commentary on this, but it seems to me the film invites the viewer to consider a contrast between a Europe united in faith, rite, and language, and a Europe divided by nations, confessions, and languages.

We can’t go back, and nostalgia is a soft form of the deadly sin of sloth. But we lament, and repent, and learn. And remember this holiday season that Christ, the everlasting man in whom all men and women of whatever nation find themselves, who is indeed the ruler of all nations, is the One who gives peace, and not as the world gives, not any temporary truce or armistice, but Peace.

(streaming here at Amazon)


Yes on Measure 1

On Measure 1

Measure 1  would amend North Dakota’s constitution to include the following: “The inalienable right to life of every human being at any stage of development must be recognized and protected.” North Dakotans will vote on this measure this coming Tuesday in the general election.

The lay of the land looks like this: Pro-lifers will vote for it, while those who describe themselves as pro-choice are probably not going to. The real question concerns those who would like to vote for it, but who are genuinely concerned about the wisdom of making changes to our state constitutional by initiated measure (which in my thinking should not be done lightly) and who are concerned about the law of unintended consequences.

It is this last that Planned Parenthood and other pro-abortion groups bankrolling “North Dakotans Against Measure 1” has exploited powerfully with a terrible parade of horribles. Supposedly Measure 1 could lead to the banning of in-vitro fertilization, legal problems surrounding miscarriage, and the overriding of advanced directives pertaining to end-of-life care.

This move is a red herring. It would be nice if the organized opponents of Measure 1 would just come clean and say, “Y’know, we think abortion is great, and we want to promote it, even among your minor children apart from your knowledge.” But seeking truthfulness from Big Abortion is futile, as we shouldn’t expect plain talk from those who engage in crimes against humanity. Hence the head-fakes.

The truth is Measure 1 is needed to protect pro-life laws we already have on the books, laws passed with bipartisan majorities (and over bi-partisan opposition). The legislature is responsible for placing Measure 1 on the ballot, to prevent judges like Wickham Corwin (who was disciplined thanks to his sexual harassment of a female employee) from inventing a right to abortion in the ND constitution (see here and here).

The choice Tuesday is between lies spread by the abortion industry, or life, deception or decency, corruption or common sense.

I append here something a friend without a blog has written in hopes of achieving its wider dissemination, as I agree with his thoughts:


Dear Friends and Families of North Dakota, I would like to explain why we should vote yes on Measure 1 on November 4th. We have a tremendous opportunity before us this upcoming election.  There are a number of measures that are signs of the coming times both in our state and in our country. The measures deal with civil rights, education, taxes, representation, environmental conservation, parental rights, and medical care. They reveal the scope of change taking place. Nevertheless, I think one of the most important is the first. I find it very critical simply because it points to who we are as a nation and as a state.  Why? Two familiar documents will answer this question— the Declaration of Independence and the North Dakota State Constitution. All of us are familiar with the following line from the Declaration of Independence:

“We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.”

This line has continued to change our history as a nation. Its ideals created a magnetism that drew many of our ancestors and relatives to this country.

Now for the North Dakota State Constitution. Article one, section one, reads:

Section 1. All individuals are by nature equally free and independent and have certain inalienable rights, among which are those of enjoying and defending life and liberty; acquiring, possessing and protecting property and reputation; pursuing and obtaining safety and happiness; and to keep and bear arms for the defense of their person, family, property, and the state, and for lawful hunting, recreational, and other lawful purposes, which shall not be infringed.

Notice that both the Declaration and the ND Constitution speak of inalienable rights. Both speak of life.

In measure 1, you find similar language.  In fact, it does not aspire to the full magnitude of the original Declaration of Independence, but it nevertheless moves to incorporate part of the Declaration of Independence into our own constitution as a state.  Here is Measure 1 and what you will see on the ballot:

Constitutional Measure No. 1

(Senate Concurrent Resolution No. 4009, 2013 Session Laws, Ch. 519)

This constitutional measure would create and enact a new section to Article I of the North Dakota Constitution stating,

“The inalienable right to life of every human being at any stage of development must be recognized and protected.”

YES – means you approve the measure stated above.

NO – means you reject the measure stated above. Notice the quote being proposed. I would like to break it into three parts.

First – “Inalienable right to life of every human being” Measure 1 speaks of the values articulated at the foundation of the United States of American in the Declaration of Independence. It uses the word “inalienable” and means the same thing.  It refers to “life” and means the same thing. Adding the phrase “of every human being” uses some of the language that we are familiar with today, hence it adds clarity. The word “life” in both the Declaration and in our state Constitution clearly refers to any human life, and not the life of a tree or a mouse. Even the focus on life is the same in the measure and the Declaration of Independence. Both refer to existence itself. In the ND constitution there is a slight difference of focus, since it points to the right to enjoy and protect life. Notice, however, that the focus of the ND constitution does not contradict the Declaration and the measure. An inalienable right to enjoy and protect life presumes the right to have it. Measure 1 introduces the contents of our Declaration of Independence directly into our Constitution. It adds clarity when you examine it in the location where it will be placed in our constitution.

Second – “at any stage of development.” This phase highlights the universal aspect of this inalienable right at any age. That is all. We all know that our ND Constitution and our Declaration applies the inalienable right to any human being. It does not matter whether our skin is black or white, whether we are a man or a woman, whether we are from the northern or from the southern hemisphere. And it does not matter what stage of life we are at. If we are a human being we have this inalienable right.

Third – “recognized and protected” The word “recognized” emphasizes something already implied in both the Declaration of Independence and in our ND Constitution. To “enjoy and defend life” presumes that we recognize it. Just a point of clarity is added, that is all. As for “protected,” how is that different than “defend?” No real difference there. So why add these two words, simply because what holds for enjoying and defending life also applies to the right to have that life as well. It adds clarity.

Perhaps as time goes on we could say more about liberty and the pursuit of happiness as well!

Why the fears?

Many have talked about the consequences of this measure. I would simply point out that speaking of inalienable rights and human life has no further consequences than does the Declaration of Independence and the ND Constitution. If the Declaration of Independence and the North Dakota Constitution do not have ramifications for IVF and end of life issues, then neither does Measure 1.

Please, I beg you to add this small but important clarification to our constitution. Vote yes on it. Human life is certainly an inalienable right, and it does not matter what our race might be, where we have grown up, or how old or young we are. And that is a good point to clarify. Being a better communicator is always a good thing, especially when it comes to a constitution, an immensely consequential document. Introducing something from our Declaration of Independence more directly into our state constitution is a good thing to do.

With kind regards to all of you,

David Fleischacker



C.S. Lewis, Learning in War-Time

A sermon preached in the Church of St. Mary the Virgin, Oxford, Autumn, 1939

A University is a society for the pursuit of learning. As students, you will be expected to make yourselves, or to start making yourselves, in to what the Middle Ages called clerks: into philosophers, scientists, scholars, critics, or historians. And at first sight this seems to be an odd thing to do during a great war. What is the use of beginning a task which we have so little chance of finishing? Or, even if we ourselves should happen not to be interrupted by death or military service, why should we — indeed how can we — continue to take an interest in these placid occupations when the lives of our friends and the liberties of Europe are in the balance? Is it not like fiddling while Rome burns?

Now it seems to me that we shall not be able to answer these questions until we have put them by the side of certain other questions which every Christian ought to have asked himself in peace-time. I spoke just now of fiddling while Rome burns. But to a Christian the true tragedy of Nero must be not that he fiddles while the city was on fire but that he fiddles on the brink of hell. You must forgive me for the crude monosyllable. I know that many wiser and better Christians than I in these days do not like to mention heaven and hell even in a pulpit. I know, too, that nearly all the references to this subject in the New Testament come from a single source. But then that source is Our Lord Himself. People will tell you it is St. Paul, but that is untrue. These overwhelming doctrines are dominical. They are not really removable from the teaching of Christ or of His Church. If we do not believe them, our presence in this church is great tomfoolery. If we do, we must sometime overcome our spiritual prudery and mention them. The moment we do so we can see that every Christian who comes to a university must at all times face a question compared with which the questions raised by the war are relatively unimportant. He must ask himself how it is right, or even psychologically possible,for creatures who are every moment advancing either to heaven or to hell, to spend any fraction of the little time allowed them in this world on such comparative trivialities as literature or art, mathematics or biology. If human culture can stand up to that, it can stand up to anything. To admit that we can retain our interest in learning under the shadow of these eternal issues, but not under the shadow of a European war, would be to admit that our ears are closed to the voice of reason and very wide open to the voice of our nerves and our mass emotions.

This indeed is the case with most of us: certainly with me. For that reason I think it important to try to see the present calamity in a true perspective, The war creates no absolutely new situation: it simply aggravates the permanent human situation so that we can no longer ignore it. Human life has always been lived on the edge of a precipice. Human culture has always had to exist under the shadow of something infinitely more important than itself. If men had postponed the search for knowledge and beauty until they were secure the search would never have begun. We are mistaken when we compare war with “normal life”. Life has never been normal. Even those periods which we think most tranquil, like the nineteenth century, turn out, on closer inspection, to be full of cries, alarms, difficulties, emergencies. Plausible reasons have never been lacking for putting off all merely cultural activities until some imminent danger has been averted or some crying injustice put right. But humanity long ago chose to neglect those plausible reasons. They wanted knowledge and beauty now, and would not wait for the suitable moment that never come. Periclean Athens leaves us not only the Parthenon but, significantly, the Funeral Oration. The insects have chosen a different line: they have sought first the material welfare and security of the hive, and presumable they have their reward. Men are different.They propound mathematical theorems in beleaguered cities, conduct metaphysical arguments in condemned cells, make jokes on scaffold, discuss, the last new poem while advancing to the walls of Quebec, and comb their hair at Thermopylae. This is not panache; it is our nature.

But since we are fallen creatures the fact that this is now our nature would not, by itself, prove that it is rational or right. We have to inquire whether there is really any legitimate place for the activities of the scholar in a world such as this. That is, we have always to answer the question: “How can you be so frivolous and selfish as to think about anything but the salvation of human souls?” and we have, at the moment, to answer the additional question, “How can you be so frivolous and selfish as to think of anything but the war?” Now part of our answer will be the same for both questions. The one implies that our life can, and ought, to become exclusively and explicitly religious: the other, that it can and ought to become exclusively national. I believe that our whole life can, and indeed must, become religious in a sense to be explained later. But if it is meant that all our activities are to be of the kind that can be recognized as “sacred” and ties are to be of the kind that can be recognized as “sacred” and opposed to “secular” then I would give a single reply to both my imaginary assailants. I would say, “Whether it ought to happen or not, the thing you are recommending is not going to happen.” Before I became a Christian I do not think I fully realized that one’s life, after conversion, would inevitable consist in doing most of the same things one had been doing before: one hopes, in a new spirit, but still the same things. Before I went to the last war I certainly expected that my life in the trenches would, in some mysterious sense, be all war. In fact, I found that the nearer you got to the front line the less everyone spoke and thought of the allied cause and the progress of the campaign; and I am pleased to find that Tolstoy, in the greatest war book ever written, records the same thing — and so, in its own way, does the Iliad. Neither conversion nor enlistment in the army is really going to obliterate our human life. Christians and solders are still men: the infidel’s idea of a religious life, and the civilian’s idea of active service, are fantastic. If you attempted, in either case, to suspend your whole intellectual and aesthetic activity, you would only succeed in substituting a worse cultural life for a better. You are not, in fact, going to read nothing, either in the Church or in the line: if you don’t read good books you will read bad ones. If you don’t go on thinking rationally, you will think irrationally. If you reject aesthetic satisfactions you will fall into sensual satisfactions. There is therefore this analogy between the claims of our religion and the claims of the war: neither of them for most of us, will simply cancel or remove from the slate the merely human life which we were leading before we entered them. But they will operate in this way for different reasons. The war will fail to absorb our whole attention because it is a finite object, and therefore intrinsically unfitted to support the whole attention of a human soul. In order to avoid misunderstanding I must here make a few distinctions. I believe our cause to be, as human causes go, very righteous, and I therefore believe it to be a duty to participate in this war. And every duty is a religious duty, and our obligation to perform every duty is therefore absolute. Thus we may have a duty to rescue a drowning man, and perhaps, if we live on a dangerous coast, to learn life-saving so as to be ready for any drowning man when he turns up. It may be our duty to lose our own lives in saving him. But if anyone devoted himself to life-saving in the sense of giving it his total attention –so that he thought and spoke of nothing else and demanded the cessation of all other human activities until everyone had learned to swim — he would be a monomaniac. The rescue of drowning men is, then a duty worth dying for, but not worth living for. It seems to me that all political duties (among which I include military duties) are of this kind. A man may have to die for our country: but no man must, in any exclusive sense, live for his country. He who surrenders himself without reservation to the temporal claims of a nation, or a party, or a class is rendering to Caesar that which, of all things, most emphatically belongs to God: himself. It is for a very different reason that religion cannot occupy the whole of life in the sense of excluding all our natural activities. For, of course, in some sense, it must occupy the whole of life. There is no question of a compromise between the claims of God and the claims of culture, or politics, or anything else. God’s claim is infinite and inexorable. You can refuse it: or you can begin to try to grant it. There is no middle way. Yet in spite of this it is clear that Christianity does not exclude any of the ordinary human activities. St. Paul tells people to get on with their jobs. He even assumes that Christians may go to dinner parties, and, what is more, dinner parties given by pagans. Our Lord attends a wedding and provides miraculous wine. Under the aegis of His Church, and in the most Christian ages, learning and the arts flourish. The solution of this paradox is, of course, well know to you. “Whether ye eat or drink or whatsoever ye do, do all to the glory of God.” All our merely natural activities will be accepted, if they are offered to God, even the humblest: and all of them, even the noblest, will be sinful if they are not. Christianity does not simply replace our natural life and substitute a new one: it is rather a new organization which exploits, to its own supernatural ends, these natural materials. No doubt, in a given situation, it demands the surrender of some, or al all, our merely human pursuits: it is better to be saved with one eye, than, having two, to be cast into Gehenna. But it does this, in a sense, per accidens — because, in those special circumstances, it has ceased to be possible to practice this or that activity to the glory of God. There is no essential quarrel between the spiritual life and the human activities as such. Thus the omnipresence of obedience to God in a Christian’s life is, in a way, analogous to the omnipresence of God in space. God does not fill space as a body fills it, in the sense that parts of Him are in different parts of space, excluding other object from them. Yet He is everywhere — totally present at every point of space –according to good theologians.

We are now in a position to answer the view that human culture is an inexcusable frivolity on the part of creatures loaded with such awful responsibilities as we. I reject at once an idea which lingers in the mind of some modern people that cultural activities are in their own right spiritual and meritorious — as though scholars and poets were intrinsically more pleasing to God than scavengers and bootblacks. I think it was Matthew Arnold who first used the English word spiritual in the sense of the German geistlich, and so inaugurated this most dangerous and most anti-Christian error. Let us clear it forever from our minds. The work of a Beethoven, and the work of a charwoman, become spiritual on precisely the same condition, that of being offered to God, of being done humbly “as to the Lord”. This does not, of course, mean that it is for anyone a mere toss-up whether he should sweep rooms or compose symphonies. A mole must dig to the glory of God and a cock must crow. We are members of one body, but differentiated members, each with his own vocation. A man’s upbringing, his talents, his circumstances, are usually a tolerable index of his vocation. If our parents have sent us to Oxford, if our country allows us to remain there, this is prima facie evidence that the life which we, at any rate, can best lead to the glory of God at present is the learned life.

By leading that life to the glory of God I do not, of course, mean any at tempt to make our intellectual inquiries work out to edifying conclusions. That would be, as Bacon says, to offer to the author of truth the unclean sacrifice of a lie. I mean the pursuit of knowledge and beauty, in a sense, for their own sake, but in a sense which does not exclude their being for God’s sake. An appetite for these things exists in the human mind, and God makes no appetite in vain. We can therefore pursue knowledge as such, and beauty, as such, in the sure confidence that by so doing we are either advancing to the vision of God ourselves or indirectly helping others to do so. Humility, no less than the appetite, encourages us to concentrate simply on the knowledge or the beauty, not too much concerning ourselves with their ultimate relevance to the vision of God. That relevance may not be intended for us but for our betters — for men who come after and find the spiritual significance of what we dug out in blind and humble obedience to our vocation. This is the teleological argument that the existence of the impulse and the faculty prove that they must have a proper function in God’s scheme — the argument by which Thomas Aquinas probes that sexuality would have existed even without the Fall. The soundness of the argument, as regards culture, is proved by experience. The intellectual life is not the only road to God, nor the safest, but we find it to be a road, and it may be the appointed road for us. Of course it will be so only so long as we keep the impulse pure and disinterested. That is the great difficulty. As the author of the Theologia Germanicai says, we may come to love knowledge — our knowing — more than the thing known: to delight not in the exercise of our talents but in the fact that they are ours, or even in the reputation they bring us. Every success in the scholar’s life increases this danger. If it becomes irresistible, he must give up his scholarly work. The time for plucking our the right eye has arrived.

That is the essential nature of the learned life as I see it. But it has indirect values which are especially important to-day. If all the world were Christian, it might not matter if all the world were uneducated. But, as it is, a cultural life will exist outside the Church whether it exists inside or not. To be ignorant and simple now — not to be able to meet the enemies on their own ground — would be to throw down our weapons, and the betray our uneducated brethren who have, under God, no defense but us against the intellectual attacks of the heathen. Good philosophy must exist, if for no other reason, because bad philosophy needs to be answered. The cool intellect must work not only against cool intellect on the other side, but against the muddy heathen mysticisms which deny intellect altogether.

Most of all, perhaps we need intimate knowledge of the past. Not that the past has any magic about it, but because we cannot study the future, and yet need something to set against the present, to remind us that periods and that much which seems certain to the uneducated is merely temporary fashion. A man who has lived in many place is not likely to be deceived by the local errors of his native village: the scholar has lived in many times and is therefore in some degree immune form the great cataract of nonsense that pours from the press and the microphone of his own age.

The learned life then is, for some, a duty, At the moment it looks as if it were your duty. I am well aware that there may seem to be an almost comic discrepancy between the high issues we have been considering and the immediate task you may be set down to, such as Anglo-Saxon sound laws or chemical formulae. But there is a similar shock awaiting us in every vocation — a young priest finds himself involved in choir treats and a young subaltern in accounting for pots of jam. It is well that it should be so. It weeds out the vain, windy people and keeps in those who are both humble and tough. On that kind of difficulty we need waste no sympathy.

But the peculiar difficulty imposed on you by the war is another matter: and of it I would again repeat, what I have been saying in one form or another ever since I started — do not let your nerves and emotions lead you into thinking your present predicament more abnormal than it really is. Perhaps it may be useful to mention the three mental exercises which may serve as defenses against the three enemies which war raises up against the scholar. The first enemy is excitement — the tendency to think and feel about the war when we had intended to think about our work. The best defense is a recognition that in this, as in everything else, the war has not really raised up a new enemy but only aggravated an old one. There are always plenty of rivals to our work. We are always falling in love or quarreling, looking for jobs or fearing to lose them, getting ill and recovering, following public affairs. If we let ourselves, we shall always be waiting for some distraction or other to end before we can really get down to our work. The only people who achieve much are those who want knowledge so badly that they seek it while the conditions are still unfavorable. Favourable conditions never come. There are, of course, moments when the pressure of the excitement is so great that any superhuman self-control could not resist it. They come both in war and peace. We must do the best we can.

The second enemy is frustration — the feeling that we shall not have time to finish. If I say to you that no one has time to finish, that the longest human life leaves a man, in any branch of learning, a beginner, I shall seem to you to be saying something quite academic and theoretical. You would be surprised if you knew how soon one begins to feel the shortness of the tether: of how many things, even in middle life, we lave to say “No time for that”, “Too late now”, and “Not for me”. But Nature herself forbids you to share that experience. A more Christian attitude, which can be attained at any age in that of leaving futurity in God’s hands. We may as well, for God will certainly retain it whether we leave it to Him or not. Never, in peace or war, commit your virtue or your happiness to the future. Happy work is best done by the man who take his long-term plans somewhat lightly and woks from moment to moment “as to the Lord”. It is only our daily bread that we are encouraged to ask for. The present is the only time in which any duty can be done or any grace received.

The third enemy is fear. War threatens us with death and pain. No man — and specially no Christian who remember Gethsemane — need try to attain a stoic indifference about these things: but we can guard against the illusions of the imagination. We think of the streets of Warsaw and contrast the deaths there suffered with an abstraction called Life. But there is no question of death or life for any of us; only a question of this death or of that — of a machine gun bullet now or a cancer forty years later. What does war do to death? It certainly does not make it more frequent; 100 per cent of us die, and the percentage cannot be increased. It puts several  deaths earlier; but I hardly suppose that that is what we fear. Certainly when the moment comes, it will make little difference how many years we have behind us. Does it increase our chance of a painful death? I doubt it. As far as I can find out, what we call natural death is usually preceded by suffering; and a battlefield is one of the very few places where one has a reasonable prospect of dying with no pain at all. Does it decrease our chances of dying at peace with God? I cannot believe it. If active service does not persuade a man to prepare for death, what conceivable concatenation of circumstance would? Yet war does do something to death. It forces us to remember it. The only reason why the cancer at sixty or the paralysis at seventy-five do not bother us is that we forget them. War makes death real to us: and that would have been regarded as one of its blessings by most of the great Christians of the past. They thought it good for us to be always aware of our mortality. I am inclined to think they were right.

All the animal life in us, all schemes of happiness that centered in this world, were always doomed to a final frustration. In ordinary times only a wise man can realize it. Now the stupidest of us know. We see unmistakable the sort of universe in which we have all along been living, and must come to terms with it. If we had foolish un-Christian hopes about human culture, they are now shattered. If we thought we were building up a heaven on earth, if we looked for something that would turn the present world from a place of pilgrimage into a permanent city satisfying the soul of man, we are disillusioned, and not a moment too soon. But if we thought that for some souls, and at some times, the life of learning, humbly offered to God, was, in its own small way, one of the appointed approaches to the Divine reality and the Divine beauty which we hope to enjoy hereafter, we can think so still.