With the arrogance of youth, I determined to do no less than to transform the world with Beauty. If I have succeeded in some small way, if only in one small corner of the world, amongst the men and women I love, then I shall count myself blessed, and blessed, and blessed, and the work goes on. -- William Morris

Friday, September 29, 2006

On Origen

Origen of Alexandria (c. 185 – 254) is one of the most famous, important, and yet controversial theologians of all time. Indeed, many scholars think that he is the founder of systematic theology. While his writings are filled with grand speculations, we must remember that in them he tried to answer the questions that Christians were being asked by their pagan critics. He did not engage theology for the sake of speculation, but for the sake of the Church. Whatever excesses and errors we might find in his theological writings, they must be understood in the light of his willingness to be corrected by the Church. He was not a heretic desiring to impose his own mental reconstruction of the faith upon the Church: he was a man seeking to use his intellectual abilities to offer possible solutions to questions which in his day had not been answered

His teacher, St Clement of Alexandria, taught him to use the best aspects of pagan philosophy as tools for theological analysis. For Origen, the method pagan philosophers used to interpret their own religious writings was more important than the philosophical ideas they produced. Pagan philosophers interpreted Homer allegorically. Origen believed that Christian Scriptures needed to be interpreted the same way. While he believed some Scriptures could easily be believed and followed on a literal level, when he noticed difficulties in Scripture, such as contradictions inherent in a literal understanding of Genesis, he believed they were put in Scripture on purpose to indicate to the careful reader that there were deeper, more important, truths to be discerned in the text. The Song of Songs, he believed, could be seen as a very base work if one understood it literally, but when one understood it as the relationship between a perfect soul or the church with God, its true intent becomes clear. His critics thought this use of allegory as the mean to interpret Scripture was excessive, and relatives its message.

It would be very surprising to find Origen taking a passage of Scripture literally when no one else, not even his opponents, does so. Yet this is a claim we find spread about Origen. According to Book VI of Eusebius’s Ecclesiastical History Origen, after reading the Gospels took Jesus’ words, “there are eunuchs who made themselves eunuchs for the sake of the Kingdom of Heaven” (Matthew 19:12) literally and had himself castrated. Eusebius, it must be noted, did not invent this story, but reported the rumor that had by his time been accepted as true. Does this make any sense? Would one who took Scripture hyper-allegorically take this one text literally? Probably not!

While it has become normative to joke about Origen and his self-castration, is this bit of “orthodox” history really true? We do not find it mentioned in any of his writings. Looking to the source of this tradition (the one whom Eusebius notes first told others about this so-called event in the life of Origen), it seems it is more likely a piece of malicious gossip than truth. For its source is Patriarch Demetrius of Alexandria. Demetrius originally was one of Origen’s supporters. However, in 215, Origen was in Jerusalem and Bishop Alexander of Jerusalem requested Origen, a layman, to preach in his presence. Demetrius was upset, believing a layman should never preach when a bishop is present. After a brief reprimand, Demetrius’ anger cooled off. Then, in 230, Origen was asked to settle a dispute in Achaea. He used the opportunity to revisit Caesarea; the bishop there, remembering the conflict of 215, decided to have Origen ordained so that Origen could be given a chance to preach. When Demetrius heard about this, he was enraged: Origen was one of his subjects and his ordination was seen as a breach of ecclesiastical etiquette. Demetrius had Origen banished from Alexandria, and it was at this time that he, bitter at Origen, suggested the story of Origen’s self-castration. If true, it would suggest Origen’s ordination was invalid. Yet, in his exile, his ordination was not rejected. Would not his supporters have been curious about the validity of the claims and checked into them to make sure Origen was indeed a valid priest?

Combing these two lines of reasoning, that is, it seems to contradict Origen’s hermeneutical principles for him to take the Gospel passage literally and that the source of our information on Origen’s so-called self-castration is a biased source who could not prove its truth, it seems to me that this rumor was nothing more than malicious gossip. Origen did not castrate himself. He had no reason to do so. Just because this story was often repeated does not make it anything more than a rumor. It was uncritically accepted as true, in part, because those who believed it wanted it to be true. They did not like Origen's theological ideas. They helped to make this story repeated so often it just was accepted as true. Yet, it seems to be an ad hominen written against him to make him look foolish. It was spread by those who were jealous of his genius. They could not argue against his intellectual arguments, and so it appears, they tried to make it so they would not have to do so.

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Tuesday, September 26, 2006

Anamnesis

In my last discussion on memory, I ended with a brief discussion on communion and its relationship to memory. The following is a re-examination and continuation of that theme.



In the book of Hebrews, we are given an image of Jesus as the high priest who presents himself once and for all “in the presence of God on our behalf” (Hebrews 9:24b NRSV). The Apocalypse contains a vision of these heavenly rites, where the throne of God is surrounded by “four living creatures full of eyes in front and behind: the first living creature like a lion, the second living creature like an old, the third living creature with a face like a human face, and the fourth living creature like a flying eagle” (Revelation 4:6b-8). Beyond these four creatures are twenty four thrones, and upon each of these thrones there is an elder clothed with a white gown and a golden crown. Next, we find those who have been slain for the faith, the martyrs, in front of God petitioning him for his just judgment. Finally there appears an uncountable multitude from every nation, clothed also with a white robe, and countless angels of God. Coming together, they bow down in worship, praising God with the heavenly hymn. “Amen! Blessing and glory and wisdom and thanksgiving and honor and power and might be to our God forever and ever! Amen” (Revelation 7:12). Later there is another heavenly sign, that of “a woman clothed with the sun, with the moon under her feet, and on her head of crown of twelve stars” (Revelation 12:1). She brings forth “a male child, who is to rule all the nations with a rod of iron. But her child is snatched away and taken to God and to his throne” (Revelation 12:5).

These two visions relate one reality in two different perspectives. They show us two aspects of the one, eternal liturgical celebration and sacrifice performed by Jesus. The first gives us a glimpse of the liturgy as it is celebrated in the heavens. The second shows the earthly, human, side, where the eternal plan is lived out in the life of Jesus, from his birth to the point of his ascent into the heavens. The culmination of this mystical rite is shown to us at the end of the Apocalypse, where we are to experience the eternal presence of Jesus as God with us (cf. Revelation 22:1-5). In these glimpses of the heavenly and earthly work of Jesus, not only are we shown the countless saints before his throne, but we also see his all-glorious mother, Mary the Theotokos, the “queen in gold of Ophir” (Psalm 45:9).

Historically, it seems that the earthly elements of this liturgy have been accomplished once and for all in the distant past through the historical life, death and resurrection of Jesus. How then can we experience it ourselves? Yet if we do not, how will we be brought into the presence of God, which is the purpose of this liturgy?

This is where the category of memory comes into play. Because memory brings the presence of that which we remember to us, through memory we can participate, time and again, in the one, central, historical yet eternal act of Jesus. He told us that we should participate in this event at the Mystical Supper. “Do this in memory of me.” Do this each and every time you come together to worship me. When you do, you can experience eternal life even in your temporal existence by experiencing that one eternal heavenly liturgy. Join in with all of the angels and saints. They have their part in the celebration, just as you do. Do you not sense them with you?

The experience of the divine liturgy is the experience of heaven on earth. In its celebration we partake of the full heavenly liturgy as expressed in Scripture. We are drawn up to God through beauty. There are many ways that we can experience the splendor needed in our earthly worship to raise us up to the heavens. With beauty as our guide, we can reach the perfect anamnesis of God that can only be found in holy communion.

While the manner of the ascent might differ from church to church, or from liturgical tradition to liturgical tradition, the essentials are always the same. Experiencing the presence of Jesus in our community and in the spoken word of the Gospels, we share the fullness of his presence through communion. In our spiritual height we are not alone: we share the eternal banquet of the Lord not only with all who have gone before us but also all who shall come after.

“Remembering our most holy, most pure, most-blessed and glorious Lady, the Mother of God and ever-Virgin Mary, with all the saints, let us commend ourselves and one another, and our whole life, to Christ, our God” Liturgy of St John Chrysostom. By our act of remembrance, we experience the presence of the saints. Images in our churches, whether they are the icons in the Eastern tradition, or the statues in the Western tradition, are aids in experiencing their presence. This is what is meant when we say they are aids to our memory. They provide a focus for us to help establish that presence. They provide a way to break down the veil between heaven and earth, to help visualize the communion of the saints. “Visible things are corporeal models which provide a vague understanding of intangible things,” St John of Damascus, On The Divine Images. Trans. David Anderson (Crestwood, New York: St Vladimir’s Seminary Press, 1994), p.20. The heavenly realm is intangible to us, and yet we are called up to it in the beauty that surrounds us by the holy images found in our churches. Indeed, icons represent more than their earthly glory, but are seen as representing the saints in their deified, form.

It is important for us to have images around us. We are bodily creatures, and our bodies must be engaged. Presence in mind is one kind of presence; presence experienced through the senses is another. The second engages the first. “A certain perception takes place in the brain, prompted by the bodily senses, which is then transmitted to the faculties of discernment, and adds to the treasury of knowledge something that was not there before.” Ibid.

Eastern churches in their architecture also try to represent many aspects of our communion with the saints. Painted on the entry can be an icon of Jesus Christ. “I am the gate. Whoever enters by me will be saved, and will come in and go out and find pasture” (John 10:9). The pillars holding up the frame of the building have images of the martyrs, whose strong faith held the church together in times of persecution. The iconostasis in the front of the church represents the barrier (never entirely closed) between heaven and earth, with the saints encouraging us, showing us the blessed reward being prepared for us. We can be there with the saints in the presence of the Lord. Indeed, we are there when we celebrate the liturgy.

“May the Lord God remember in His kingdom, Our Holy universal Supreme Pontiff N . . ., the Pope of Rome, our most reverend Archbishop and Metropolitan N . . ., and our God loving Bishop N . . ., and the entire priestly, diaconal, and monastic order, our civil authorities, and all our armed forces, the noble and ever memorable founders and benefactors of this holy Church, (our suffering brethren), and all you orthodox Christians, always, now and ever, and forever” Liturgy of St John Chrysostom. Just as we remember the Lord and the saints, bringing their presence to us, we must in turn bring ourselves to the Lord, to be remembered by him, to have our presence preserved in his eternal memory. The heavenly liturgy is not just God’s presence with us, but our presence with God. It is not just our memory of God, but God’s memory of us. Communion is the celebration where the two become one. Nor is it an individual event, where we alone are preserved in God’s memory, as we can see in the prayers offered by the priest in the Liturgy of St John Chrysostom:

Priest (silently): For the holy prophet, precursor and Baptist John, for the holy glorious and illustrious apostles, for Saint N . . ., whose memory we celebrate, and for all Your saints, through whose prayers, O God, visit us. Remember also all who have departed in the hope of resurrection unto eternal life. (Priest mentions those deceased he wishes to remember) And grant them rest where the light of Your face shines.

Moreover, we pray you, O Lord, remember the entire episcopate of the orthodox, who faithfully dispense the word of Your truth, the entire priesthood, the diaconate in Christ, and all others In holy orders.

We further offer You this spiritual sacrifice for the whole world, for the holy, Catholic, and Apostolic Church, for those who live in chastity and venerable conduct; for our civil authorities and for all the armed forces. Grant them, O Lord, a peaceful rule, that we also, sharing their tranquility, may lead a tranquil and calm life in all piety and dignity.


If memory is presence, then beauty is the means by which we experience this presence. Through beauty, the spiritual epiclesis, communal remembrance is more than a mere mental recollection. “The beauty of the world is an effect of the Holy Spirit, the Spirit of Beauty, and Beauty is Joy, the joy of being” Sergius Bulgakov, The Comforter. Trans. Boris Jakim (Grand Rapids, Michigan: Eerdmans, 2004), p. 201 The Holy Spirit, the Lord of Life, the Great Artist, the Lord of Beauty, in its descent upon the gifts offered at the altar clothes Jesus through them by the beauty inherent in the eucharistic rite. “O Lord my God, you are very great. You are clothed with honor and majesty, wrapped in light as with a garment” (Psalm 104:1). Beauty is the means by which we ascend to God, but it is also the means by which God comes down to us. Thus through the beauty of liturgy we find the fulfillment of memory, and the presence of heaven with all the saints is experienced here on earth.

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Sunday, September 24, 2006

The Significance (or Beauty) of Human Action- Part I: Action as Revealing

The following is an excerpt from an essay written a couple of years ago concerning Karol Wojtyła's (Pope John Paul II) understanding of moral action. I figured this would be a suitable entrance into exploration regarding human action (as well as an easy first post):

In order to understand how action reveals or expresses the person, it is necessary to understand first the nature of the human person. Wojtyła’s presentation of human nature and the person closely follows Thomas Aquinas while also including a phenomenological reading that brings out the lived-experience of the person. It is in light of the uniqueness of human nature, specifically as rational and free, that the significance of the human act in expressing the person comes into view.

In contrast to all other earthly creatures, only humans can act morally. Humans do have acts which are similar to animals (actus hominis), but there are also acts that are proper only to humans (actus humanus). The reason why animal and human acts differ is because of the different nature involved.[1] Animals will never be persons. As much as a pet dog or cat might take on personal characteristics in virtue of its owner, an animal remains sub-personal. Humans, on the other hand, are persons. Following Boethius’ definition, Wojtyła says that the first distinctive element constituting a human as a person is rational nature. Humans can reason; they can conceptualize, think through problems, and wonder about the meaning of life. Even more importantly, humans can know the truth by virtue of their rational nature.[2] This truth, as Wojtyła points out, involves moral truth—“the truth with respect to the good and the truth with respect to goods.”[3] Reason is the starting point for understanding the uniqueness of human beings as persons. In addition, reason grounds the fact that human nature is a “basis of morality”—i.e., from humans come acts that are distinct from all other earthly creatures, namely, moral acts (i.e., human acts).

Reason itself is not the end point in the investigation of what is distinct about human nature. Humans are also free. This freedom derives from rational nature. Yet, freedom, or free will, expands beyond the efficacious realm of reason and enables the person to act as a person, i.e., in a moral way. The will, as an appetitive power, is directed towards the good rather than the truth per se. Still, there is an intimate relation between reason and will. As Wojtyła says of Thomas’ understanding: “Reason and will work so closely together (utraque ad actum alterius operatur): the will wills so that reason may know; reason, in turn, knows that the will wills and what the will wills.”[4] The will, as a rational appetite, is open to the moral truth of the good that reason presents. The will goes beyond knowledge and is that by which a person acts freely and morally.

It is the activity of the will that Wojtyła wants to emphasize with regard to the human person. Human thought is indeed a significant aspect of the person. However, the activity of the intellect is only a step—albeit a crucial one—towards the activity which is most expressive of the person. “That which is most characteristic of a person, that in which a person (at least in the natural order) is most fully and properly realized, is morality.”[5] While knowledge is a constitutive aspect of personhood, the person makes himself known fully only through free acts.

Wojtyła’s thought here, again following Thomas, deserves some reflection. The sphere of morality is the sphere most revealing of the human person. In a general sense, a moral act, which derives from free will, reveals an individual as a person, i.e., as one capable of a moral act. A human person can never remain in the world of thought alone—such a person would die. Action is an integral part of all living creatures. Yet, since humans are rational and, even more crucial, since humans are free, human action is moral and therefore particularly expressive of the person, revealing the person in a way that thought itself can never do. In a somewhat simplistic example, when getting to know someone, we are not interested in merely how much truth that person knows. A person’s knowledge of truth is indeed a crucial aspect of personality, relating to moral action with regard to knowing the truth that is good and providing the foundation for willing such good. However, how much truth someone knows is not constitutive in getting to know the person. In other words, knowledge itself is not fulfilling. More fundamental are the questions (when asked in a truly moral way, i.e., not separated from the truth as good): What kind of person is she? Is she nice? Is he good? These are essentially moral questions, and they are played out all the time in our daily interactions with other persons. The moral quality of a person becomes manifest through action, filling out and completing the person, and hence revealing the person herself.

The more specific sense to the expressive nature of the moral act—alluded to above—is that the act reveals the good or evil (in various degrees) of the person. A good act says something about the person, just as an evil act does in a different way. The reason why a moral act says something about the person is because of its origination in free will. “Thanks to our will, we are masters of ourselves and of our actions, but because of this the value of these actions of our will qualifies our whole person positively or negatively.”[6]

The nature of the person as a free agent is crucial for Wojtyła’s understanding of the moral act as revelatory of the person. From the above, we have seen how much Wojtyła depends upon Thomas and his “objective” description of human activity.[7] Wojtyła himself, however, is interested in deepening the description of human activity by means of phenomenology. His reflections on reflexive consciousness are particularly apropos here regarding the fundamental linkage between action and the person. An important part of Wojtyła’s task is to integrate the ‘turn to the subject’ with traditional metaphysics. In examining experience through consciousness, Wojtyła is always careful not to reduce the person to consciousness. Rather, the person is a subject (suppositum) of consciousness (and before that, a subkect of being). In this light, Wojtyła is able to fruitfully reflect on the subjectivity of the person found in consciousness without leaving out the important objective reality of the metaphysical subject.

Reflexive consciousness manifests the revelatory nature of action regarding the human person. Specifically, reflexive consciousness is self-consciousness; it is that consciousness which turns towards the self as subject (i.e., we experience our subjectivity through reflexive consciousness) and hence as the free and responsible one. Through reflexive consciousness, the person experiences himself as the author and originator of his action.[8] Here, Wojtyła invites us to see in our own conscious experience this reality of freedom and responsibility that we live out on a daily basis. It is in this reflexive consciousness where we experience the intimate connection between person and act in our very own person. Since the moral act is so tied into the very core of the person—originating from that core—it would seem that the moral act must reveal something of the person.

Thus we come full circle to what is “most characteristic” of the person—morality. Not only do we see this from a Thomistic explanation of intellect and will, but we also see this through a phenomenological reading of lived-experience. We ourselves experience that knowing is not enough—it is rather the experience of acting and of being responsible that is central to the human person.[9] Because of this experience, we can see even more clearly the intimate relation between person and act.

[1] “Human Nature as the Basis of Ethical Formation,” 96. (All articles taken from Karol Wojtyła, Person and Community: Selected Essays, trans. and ed. Theresa Sandok [New York: Peter Lang, 1993].
[2] Ibid., 97.
[3] Ibid.
[4] “The Role of Reason in Ethics,” 58.
[5] “Thomistic Personalism,” 172.
[6] Ibid.
[7] Ibid., 171. Worth mentioning here is the importance of the principle operari sequitur esse, that action follows upon being and is thus an expression of being. As Wojtyła notes: “Activity as activity is a kind of extension of existence, a continuation of existence. Activity as the particular content that is realized in this activity is a kind of externalization or expression of the being’s essence” (“Human Nature as the Basis of Ethical Formation,” 96).
[8] Dr. Kenneth Schmitz, Wojtyła class notes, Catholic University, 4/6/04.
[9] Ibid.

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The Saga Of The Cave


From a caveman, it is said, we came;
And yet, in salvation, we find the same.
From start to finish, Alpha to Omega,
Cave to cave, there is one long saga.
In the darkness of its hearth,
We felt protected by the earth.
Even Cain, that impious knave,
Had for his home an artificial cave.

Its darkness protected our vision,
From our disfigurement by sin.
Lights danced upon the wall,
And we hoped God would stall,
The wrath that we feared.
From the sun we fled, lest it sheared,
The conscience with its illumination:
We were afraid of its devastation.

Dancing with the shadows,
Mixing our dreams with sorrows,
We bound ourselves in the muck and mire.
In it all, God saw how dire
The need we had to be set free.
Thus, born in a cave amidst the sea
Of suffering, came the new man, the new creation:
The Godman offering us his jubilation.

Adam and his kin enslaved by the cave,
The new caveman came to save.
Into the darkest, cruelest depths of the cavity,
He journeyed, looking for all held in captivity.
To all who would follow, into the light he led:
By his love, all their fears were shed.
Up they went and out at last into the light,
They beheld a fantastic sight:

Beauty.

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Thursday, September 21, 2006

Eternal Memory

Eternal memory. Eternal memory. Grant, 0 Lord, to Your servant blessed repose and eternal memory.
In the Byzantine tradition, both funeral services and memorial services for the dead, except during the Paschal season, end with prayers asking for the deceased to be in God’s eternal memory. For many unfamiliar with this tradition, this request might seem strange. Is it possible for an omniscient God to forget someone?

The problem lies with the way we understand memory. For us, memory is merely the mental recollection of a phenomenon we have previously experienced. To remember someone is to think about them, bringing to mind whatever qualities and characteristics which we associate with their being. We might ponder the way they looked, how they used to act, or some spectacular deed they did. Yet, there are always aspects we forget. Memory is an imperfect mental reconstruction of the past which is now non-existent. Once a moment of time has past, it is gone. Only the now is real. Thinking about the past does not make it come back to life.

While a reflection of people, places and things which once existed in the past is indeed a part of the process of memory, to consider memory solely in this fashion is not to understand what the ancient world, and therefore the authors of Scripture (and their heirs who developed the Christian liturgical tradition), meant by it. Memory was an act of presence: to be in God’s memory was to be present with God. Those who remembered you preserved your presence on the earth. It was a great blessing to be remembered, because while someone remembered who you were, you continued to live. To be forgotten was to perish. “The memory of the righteous is a blessing, but the name of the wicked will rot” (Proverbs 10:7, NRSV). When God remembers someone, he preserves them. “But God remembered Noah and all the wild animals and all the domestic animals that were with him in the ark” (Genesis 8:1). When God remembers a covenant, he acts upon it, doing whatever is necessary to keep it intact. “After a long time the king of Egypt died. The Israelites groaned under their slavery, and cried out. Out of the slavery their cry for help rose up to God. God heard their groaning, and God remembered his covenant with Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. God looked upon the Israelites and God took notice of them” (Exodus 2:23-25). In the Torah, we find the blotting out of one’s memory to be God’s greatest curse. When Israel was attacked by Amalek, God’s response was to say, “I will utterly blot out the remembrance of Amalek from under heaven” (Exodus 17:14b).

The Torah calls us to remember the Sabbath and keep it holy. It is not a command to merely reflect upon some past Sabbath day, it is a call to re-experience the holiness of the Sabbath each and every Sabbath. When the Passover was celebrated by the Israelites, it was understood that they were re-experiencing the original Passover.

We can understand many of the words of the prophets in this context. Recognizing Israel’s apostasy, they asked God to remember his covenant with the patriarchs. “We acknowledge our wickedness, O Lord, the iniquities of our ancestors, for we have sinned against you. Do not spurn us, for your name’s sake; do not dishonor your glorious throne; remember and do not break your covenant with us” (Jeremiah 14:20 -21). Yet, how is God to do this when Israel has sinned against him? Did he not promise retribution for disobedience? When sin is remembered by God, it is in his presence, and it will bring out his wrath.

The solution was simple. Sin had to be blotted out. “Hide your face from my sins, and blot out all my iniquities. Create in me a clean heart, O God, and put a new and right spirit within me” (Psalm 51: 10 – 11). Sin is forgotten by God, that is, he removes it from his presence. “I, I am He who blots out your transgressions for my own sake, and I will not remember your sins” (Isaiah 43:25).Fundamentally, there is an ontological change in the subject, and the sin itself no longer exists. We are told he does this because he remembers his first covenant. It is from the first and its continuation that a second is established. “Yet I will remember my covenant with you in the days of your youth, and I will establish with you an everlasting covenant […] I will establish my covenant with you and you shall know that I am the Lord, in order that you may remember and be confounded, and never open your mouth again because of your shame, when I forgive you all that you have done, says the Lord God” (Ezekiel 16:60; 62-3).

When we turn to the New Testament, we continue to see memory understood by this Semitic approach. We also see a development of what it means to remember coming from the Hellenistic context in which the New Testament was written. We find in the Apocalypse a very Jewish approach towards salvation and damnation. Here the saved are found written in the Lamb’s Book of Life (cf. Rev 3:5; 20:12; 20; 21:27). Their names are remembered, giving them life eternal. In the Torah, God said, “Whoever has sinned against me I will blot out of my book” (Exodus 32:33). In the Apocalypse we see what will happen if that threat is carried out: “anyone whose name was not found written in the book of life was thrown into the lake of fire” (Revelation 20:15). One whose name is forgotten perishes; one who is remembered will be given the heavenly reward – they will experience eternal life in the very presence of God.

“Remember Jesus Christ, raised from the dead, a descendent of David – that is my gospel” (2 Timothy 2:8). Only by this traditional understanding of memory as presence, can the gospel be said to be established by the remembrance of Jesus. While the presence of Jesus in our life is established interiorly through our memory, we find his presence in our community through our communal memory. “For where two or three are gathered in my name, I am there among them” (Matthew 18:20). Just as we found out that the preservation of our names in the Book of Life indicates God’s remembrance of who we are, to be gathered in Jesus’ name is to gather so we can remember him. It is through remembrance we get his presence. It is also through remembrance we have communion, one with another, in the Lord. “We always give thanks to God for all of you and mention you in our prayers, constantly remembering before our God and Father your work of faith and labor of love and steadfastness of hope in our Lord Jesus Christ” (1 Thessalonians 1: 2-3).

While memory signifies presence, we must admit that there are many ways we can experience this presence. Even when we are physically before one another, we can experience each other’s presence in a multitude of ways. Each way is unique. However, the greatest, purest act of remembrance of Christ comes through the new paschal meal he established before his death. He told us that when we come together, we are to perform this meal in remembrance of him. To fully understand the New Testament understanding of remembrance, we must appreciate the implications of the Greek work anamnesis which is being used. “It is a recollection of the past that enlivens and empowers the present as well. Such memory is not restricted to the mental activity of individuals; it is found above all in the ritual and verbal activity of communities” Luke Johnson, The Writings of the New Testament (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1986), 114-5. It is truly a re-collection, re-establishment, a re animating or “member”-ing of Jesus’ presence, the ongoing presence of Jesus as the bread of life (John 6:51).

Our memory is imperfect. Through memory we experience the presence of others relative to how well we remember them. But, through the Holy Spirit, the Lord and Giver of Life, that which is imperfect is perfected. The Spirit, through the order established by God the Father, through the work of his Son, is fully capable of bringing that Son, Jesus, to us. The bread we bring to share with one another as the remembrance or re-collection of Jesus becomes that very presence through the work of the same Spirit who turned dust into life. In communion we find not only the perfect presence of Christ, but the perfection and end of memory itself. “Those who eat my flesh and drink my blood have entered eternal life, and I will rise them up on the last day; for my flesh is true food and my blood is true drink” (John 6:54-5). In our communal remembrance of Christ, we find Christ remembers us – in communion we find eternal life, that is, eternal memory. Remember me, O Lord, when you shall come into your kingdom!

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Friday, September 15, 2006

Inculturation Through the Ages IV: Robert de Nobili in India

One has to know the Veda of the Lord – but also act ccordingly. It is as if someone knows the way to the reach the city but, because he does not take the way, he never reaches the city. So too, if one knows the Lord’s Veda but does not act accordingly, he will not reach liberation. -- Roberto de Nobili, “Dialogue on Eternal Life,” in Preaching Wisdom to the Wise. Trans. and ed. Anand Amaladass and Francis Clooney. (St Louis: The Institute of Jesuit Sources, 2000), p. 234 – 5.


Speaking like a guru to one of his disciples, Robert de Nobili might appear as if he were a Hindu ascetic telling how one obtained moksha: Listen to the Veda, do what it tells you to do, and you will be liberated.

While this is the way he portrayed himself in India, Nobili was a Jesuit missionary. To him the Veda or revealed wisdom of the Lord was the Christian Scriptures. Hindu intuition was correct in looking for such a holy text. And they were correct in thinking it would be the guide for liberation or salvation. Hindus were prepared for the Gospel, and Christians were ready to provide it to them.

Born in 1577, Robert de Nobili joined the Jesuits in 1597, was ordained a priest in 1603, and arrived in Goa in 1605 only to be the base of departure for his work in Southern India. He took a considerable interest in Indian society and culture. A year after his arrival in in India, he studied Sanskrit, Tamil, and Telugu, and became competent in all three of them by 1607. He came to believe that if Christianity is to be preached in India, Christianity would have to understand Indian society and its cultural practices. Converts should not be expected to abandon their traditions just because they converted to Christianity. Such expectations would only cause Christianity to be rejected because its way of life would be seen as a practical impossibility. Any such convert would be kicked out of the community and quickly perish.

Nobili did not believe every aspect of Indian culture could be accepted by Christians. He made the distinction between cultural norms which are harmless, and religious practices which could contain superstitious error. His model was what was established in the Council of Jerusalem as recorded in the book of Acts. Just as the gentiles were not expected to become Jews and follow Jewish norms, Indians should not be expected to become Europeans. Their cultural practices were, on the whole, compatible to Christian livelihood. Those which are not should either be modified, if possible, or, as a last resort, abandoned.

Nobili took upon himself the form of a brahmin priest, dressing up as the brahmins did, even wearing the twisted cotton thread which indicated he was a sage. He studied Sanskrit and the Sanskrit classics, but he read them within the light of his prior Thomistic education. His writings show how indebted he was to St Thomas Aquinas. St Thomas’s firm commitment to the light of reason allowed him to affirm the good within Indian society, and to use their literature as the starting point for religious discussion. When the question of idolatry came up, like St Thomas, he believed the cause lay on the side of human error and mistake. For example, some idols could have originally been understand as a symbol, but later became confused for the thing in itself:

To show that God has no beginning or end, some drew a circle in their picture. By this picture they did not intend to say that God is round; rather, their intention was to show that just as a circle with its round shape has no beginning or end, so too the transcendent-and-immanent Being has no beginning or end. This was their only intention. […]

But, after a long period of time, a later generation of being who lacked understanding about the transcendent-and-immanent Being and were dull-witted starting calling the round-shaped figure, the circle itself, God. Even though some did not [explicitly] equate the circle with God, in their confusion they accepted the idea that God has a round shape.
--Ibid, 302 - 303.


Nobili’ adventure in India was quite successful. He was able to establish, despite much contention from his peers, an Indian form of Christianity. He was respected by the Indians for his wisdom and learning. But in doing so, he had to often set himself apart from the rest of his Jesuit order, because they did not, like him, go native. He believed such an association could confuse his converts. Would they eventually be expected to imitate the European way of life?

We must point out that initially his mission was controversial. From 1612 -1623, he had to defend his methodology with his superiors and various ecclesiastical authorities in India and Rome. Moreover, during this time he was not allowed to receive converts until a decision was made upon the validity of his work. Because of this controversy, he developed a theory to defend inculturation, a work of ingenuity way ahead of its time. He distinguished cultural customs from religious activity. While they certainly influence one another, they are not the same. If one were to reject all customs that were practiced in non-Christian religious devotion, then one could not do anything as simple as eat or drink, because some non-Christians had eating and drinking as part of their religious devotion. One must distinguish what aspect of the act is permissible, and what aspect (perhaps a prayer or incantation) is not. This distinction allowed him to gain the support of Rome in 1623, a support which he had until his death in 1656. It also allowed him explain why various customs long equated with Hindu practices were, to him, acceptable as long as the intention was approrpiate.

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Thursday, September 14, 2006

The Spirit's Breath

It has been said that in Christ all aspects of our life, even the dark terrors we face daily, and the horror of death, find their proper place. Therefore, in a work of Christian aesthetics, even the darkness can and should be represented. Ours hopes as well as our fears find their life and fulfillment in the incarnation, from the joy of the nativity to the grotesque glory of the cross.

A poet and dear friend of mine, using the pen name of Shea Jacobs, is ever fascinated with the crucifix. This is often manifested in her poetry. It is not without surprise that we see her write with the mix of beauty and sorrow that one finds in the cross. Her love for humanity manifests itself especially in her fascination with the glorious works of art we have, as a race, created; yet, not unlike Jesus following the path to the cross, we see her write with great sorrow and despair. What has been made can be destroyed. Do we have what it takes to preserve our glorious heritage and the earth we live on? There is much to learn here, much to contemplate, and it is without further introduction I give to you her poem, this on the Feast of the Exaltation of the Holy Cross, Worship the Tin God: From Genesis to Revelation.



Worship the Tin God
From Genesis to Revelation

Brooding Spirit breathes
The darkness shone
Night as dark - Day as light
Crepuscular glowings
Aqueous ripples of Spirits breath,
Gihon, Pishon, Euphrates
Green planted, blue saturated
The brooding Spirit sang ! – a falsetto range
Permeating echoes
Ticking time awoken !
Genesis of man
Of all !
Teeming embryos, growing, changing
The waltz beganExploring, loving orgasmic rhythm
Seed planted
Womb fattens
Man from manEozoic finger of Buonarroti’s Adam
Pointing to his makerArising from dust to glory
Life is sweet.
Silently the slippery serpent slides
Tricking, tempting, taking, turning,
Envy, greed, jealously.
The spirit sighs.
Wait for the Lamb, He is coming!
“Love one another’
Is killed
RISES!!!
Sins of the father live on,
Killing plundering warring
Riches unshared
Land raped
Waters soiled
One invidious World Power
Scrapers burners pushers cutters
Warrers haters killers hurters
The mantle groans
The white flash – melting all to shadow
Buonarroti’s Adam, fallen – gone for all time
Oceans boiled, faeces rise to break the surface
No arc of Noah nor olive branch
No dove of peace nor saving grace
That inverse globe of deadened life
Inert, sent spiralling to the sun.
And the timekeeper stopped the clock
And the Spirit wept.

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Tuesday, September 12, 2006

Beauty As The Source of True Religious Experience

The Church, therefore, exhorts her sons, that through dialogue and collaboration with the followers of other religions, carried out with prudence and love and in witness to the Christian faith and life, they recognize, preserve and promote the good things, spiritual and moral, as well as the socio-cultural values found among these men. -- Nostra Aetate, 2.
Vatican II promoted a long held belief among many Christians: non-Christian faiths contain elements of truth, goodness, and spiritual beauty and these elements not only should be preserved, but promoted by Christians engaging inter-religious dialogues with non-Christians. St Paul understood this on Mars Hill:
Then Paul stood in front of the Areopagus and said, “Athenians, I see how extremely religious you are in every way. For I as I went through the city and looked carefully at the objects of your worship, I found among them an altar with the inscription, ‘To an unknown god.’ What therefore you worship as unknown, this I proclaim to you.” Acts 17:22-23.

Even without looking into the apophatic overtones of the statue, we can quickly observe that Paul was able to use the religious devotions of the Athenians as a means of promoting the Christian faith. He was not critical of the Athenians, rather he found what he could affirm in their faith, and synthesized it with his own message. He found, to put it plainly, religious truth in a non-Christian religion.

Christian theological history is a history containing many such affirmations. Inculturation is one place where this has taken place, and perhaps it is the most important. Yet there comes a time in theological reflection that many ask about other religious traditions: what truths do they hold, and what can I learn from them to enrich my own faith? In asking this question, there is also a second question which must be asked, and that is, what in these other religious traditions are incompatible with my Christian faith? If we do not ask this second question, it is very easy to lose our grip on our faith and end up promoting an incoherent syncretism.

There is nothing wrong in looking for religious truth in other religious traditions, but when we do that many questions can be asked, such as: Are we just looking for statements which reiterate what we already believe? Are we open to truly learning from them and coming out of the encounter with something new, something we might not have learned in our own religious tradition? Suggesting we can learn something new from other religious traditions sounds heretical to many. Is not the fullness of truth in the Catholic faith? Perhaps, but the human grasp of that truth is limited. If the argument were valid, it would be valid not only against those looking for truth in the religious realm, but in any enterprise looking for truth, such as the sciences. In saying the Catholic faith contains the fullness of truth, one should look at it as saying all truth should find itself at home in the Church, since the Church is the pillar and ground of truth (cf. 1 Tim. 3:15).

How can we, as Christians, go about looking for truth in other religious traditions, so that we not only promote it among the non-Christians, but use it to enrich our own faith? This is not an easy question. Early Christians seemed to think truth would be discernable in itself, and often looked for statements from non-Christians which sounded like they were in accord with the Christian faith. There are two problems here: one, we cannot assume that what one religious tradition means by those words is exactly the same thing we mean by them (the problem of eisigesis). The second is that we are not looking to learn from these religious traditions. We are just using them to proselytize their practitioners based upon our own pre-conceived notions of truth. Yet, St Justin Martyr, following Paul, established with this principle a good foundation by which Christians were able to find truth in pre-Christian societies:

We have been taught that Christ is the first-born of God, and we have declared above that He is the Word [Logos, Reason] of whom every race of men were partakers; and those who lived reasonably [following the principle of the Logos] are Christians, even though they have been thought atheists; as, among the Greeks, Socrates and Heraclitus, and men like them; and among the barbarians, Abraham, and Ananias, and Azarias, and Misael, and Elias, and many others whose actions and names we now decline to recount, because we know it would be tedious. --St Justin Martyr, First Apology in Ante-Nicene Fathers (1), eds. Roberts and Donaldson. (Peabody: Hendrickson, 1994), p.178 [XLVI]. Brackets are my own commentary.

One can easily believe that the Logos (Jesus, God the Son) has been at work in all civilizations, in many subtle and diverse ways, and that the Logos has inspired people within them to discover truth. One can easily believe these truths took root in the cultural and religious milieu they were discovered and became a part of the religious traditions of the culture in which that truth was found. It is not difficult to believe that this truth then developed, as all religious truths do, and in its developed form, took on a form which is a mixture of wisdom and error. If we can see this has happened in Christian history (and who can deny it?), then it is not difficult to acknowledge this is the case in other religious traditions. When we confront non-Christians traditions today, we must then see them as bearers of a religious experience with truth that contains much which is good and much which needs reform. This is not only true with non-Christians, but with ourselves, as we know our faith is a faith which is ever reforming itself, purifying and improving itself through the centuries. But what is good should be preserved, and through dialogue, what is good in other religious traditions should be able to find its home and acceptance in the Church. This was the principle St Thomas Aquinas held not only with Aristotle, but with all religious faiths he encountered and debated.

There should not be a problem for Christians looking for truth in other religious traditions, nor should their be a problem with Christians acknowledging that these other traditions might have discovered truths or insights on truth that we have as Christians neglected. If this is a problem, we can hardly admit that scientists are discovering new truths. Who, using a computer, could ever deny this fact? Perhaps one way to look at religion is to see religion as a scientific search for truth in the fullest sense, that is, in a sense which does not limit itself to the material world. It is a dangerous search, to be sure, but dare we ignore it?

This brings us back to the question, what way do we have to determine if a religious idea has its foundation in truth? One possible way, and one way recommended by many, is the way of morality. If the truth is the good, then when we discover that which is good, we discover that which is true. C. S. Lewis follows this view in many of his writings. In Mere Christianity, he looks to fairness as a category by which we can discern a belief in universal right and wrong, and from that universal law of right and wrong, we can establish an order of truth. His greatest, most sustained use of this methodology is in The Abolition of Man where tries to discern a common ethical heritage accepted by us, not by logical proof but by intuition, which he calls “the Tao.” This idea is useful, because it helps promote common humanitarian work among members of world religions. It does not, however, provide what we want, which is a way to discover where and when the divine has been encountered in other religious traditions.

This brings us to the third transcendental, that of beauty. If beauty is truth, then perhaps we can say, when we find beauty, we have found truth. Beauty is the transcendental which brings us joy; it is the one which draws us in and brings out the bounty of life’s experiences. It is by no mistake that of the three transcendentals, beauty is most associated with the Spirit, the Lord and Giver of Life. It is also not a mistake that sanctification, holiness, is called beatification and finds its end in the Beatific Vision. If the Logos is one of the revealing arms of the Father, then the Spirit is the other. The Spirit of Life, the Spirit of Beauty, is working with, complementing, and enlivening the work of the Logos, turning truth alive, making it quick and free, instead of cold and bound. “The Spirit blows where it wills, and you hear the sound of it, but you do not know where it comes from or where it goes. So it is with everyone who is born of the Spirit.” John 3.8.The Spirit is everywhere present and fills all things, bringing joy and happiness to those who are attuned to its presence, revealing the way to the Father, the way of truth. To discover where truth is, look for beauty. To discover truth, you must discover beauty. Error is the “tuneless voice” that J.R.R. Tolkien equates with evil in his poem, Mythopoeia. Thus, a search for truth in other religious traditions means for us to search for what is holy, what is beautiful within them. Terrifying brutality, such as we find in the human sacrifices practiced by the Aztecs, proclaims its error by the ugly monstrosity it is.

Beauty unites. It creates the bond of love needed to sustain the pillar and ground of the truth. St Paul said love, not truth, is the greatest of all. Beauty, and not cold rigorous logic, provides the field necessary to relate religious experience with religious experience. It provides not only the foundation of truth but of goodness, for all that is good is beautiful, all that is holy is beautiful, all that is holy draws us in through beauty to love. This is because the beautiful is the good, and they are united in showing us love as the way of truth as The Fifth Century of Various Texts attributed to St Maximus the Confessor in the Philokalia (the love of beauty!) states,

The beautiful is identical with the good, for all things seek the beautiful and good at every opportunity, and there is no being which does not participate in them. They extend to all that is, being what is truly admirable, sought for, desired, pleasing, chosen and loved. Observe how the divine force of love – the erotic power pre-existing in the good – has given birth to the same blessed force within us, through which we long for the beautiful and good in accordance with the words, ‘I became a lover of her beauty’ (Wisdom 8:2), and ‘Love her and she will sustain you; fortify her and she will exalt you’ (Prov. 4:6, 8). St Maximus the Confessor, Fifth Century of Various Texts in The Philokalia Volume II. Ed. and trans. G.E.H. Palmer, Philip Sherrard, and Kallistos Ware. (London: Faber and Faber, 1990), p.280.

If beauty becomes the category by which we engage in inter-religious dialogue, then it must be said there is a danger we must be concerned about. Beauty indeed does lead to the divine and represents, when it is found, an experience of the sacred. However, beauty enshrined and encased in religious tradition can be transformed from a vehicle to the divine into a siren, an idol, which becomes an end to itself. This is not the fault of beauty, nor the fault of the religious experience – just as it is not the fault of Christ that the Apostles wanted to inappropriately hold onto the experience of the Transfiguration. The idol needs to be destroyed, certainly, but not the religious experience, the true sense of beauty and the Spirit hinted at within its foundation. To destroy the idol does not mean to destroy the beauty, but to cut off the fetters we have put onto the idol itself, holding it back from its true mission to lead us to the divine.

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Saturday, September 09, 2006

Art Is Prophecy



The artist – a prophet, whether true or false,
Is taken up to heights unknown.
His heart beats, a quick pulse,
In ecstasy, his spirit flown.

The experience ends, on earth again,
The artist records what he has seen.
“Follow me, let us begin,”
He cries out, “to the light, a distant beam”

Shall we follow, or do we wallow
In the mire of everyday boredom?
Is he a man of God, so hallow
Or living in the Luciferean kingdom?

Beauty leads to the divine, doubt it not!
All art, prophecy, yet where is the source?
Is it delusion, or the illumination sought?
Beware of sirens, stay on course.

Yet even that which is false, suggests the truth.
Stolen art is yet art indeed – even Satan sees the need
For beauty, the source of eternal youth;
Yet if a sham, despair not, it is full of good seed.

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Friday, September 08, 2006

On Satanic Beauty

As one of the three united transcendentals, beauty has historically received the least amount of theological attention. Perhaps the reason for this is simple: people perceive beauty in its relative dimension and therefore believe it is opposed to concrete, unchanging truth. Of course, the end result of this is that truth and goodness, cut off from beauty, have ended up being relativized.

Beauty attracts and brings joy; it shows us the way to the truth in goodness: the three are different perceptions or ways of seeing the same ontological reality. However, one might ask, “If beauty is good, what are we to make of Satan, and with him, any evil Satanic beauty?”

One could easily say that in his beauty Satan is good. There is truth in this, a truth that many people forget. Satan is not pure evil. His intellect, his beauty, must in themselves be seen as good. He has obviously perverted them, and used them to turn others away from God, the source of all goodness, and towards himself, a false, illusionary good.

It is here that we must begin our analysis. Beauty’s aim is for the good, and any beauty which turns us away from the good is not beauty pure in and of itself, but a perversion of beauty. It either is beauty which has been warped, or an imitation of beauty, that is, a hollow illusion which externally imitates beauty. It could also be both. If truth cut off from goodness and beauty ends up becoming a dead, cold logic, and goodness cut off from truth and beauty becomes a harsh, cold tyranny, then beauty when cut off from truth and goodness becomes maya, a perverse momentary joy that ultimately leads to suffering and death. Just as there is a foundation for idolatry in a perversion of truth, we find here the foundation of idolatry in the realm of beauty.

True art, true beauty must itself represent an experience of truth and goodness in order for it to be qualified as art. Certainly there can be works of art which can technically be works of genius, and the talent of the artist cannot be denied. Yet in their perversion of nature and in their morbid curiosity, they have not fully enshrined the subject they are repesenting: instead, they have destroyed it. They create, as Sergius Bulgakov would say, a corpse of beauty. Instead of enlivening the spirit, their work ends up suffocating us. For Bulgakov, Picasso represented this destructive deconstruction of beauty:

But when one enters the room where Pablo Picasso’s works are collected, one is surrounded by an atmosphere of mystical fear amounting to terror. The veil of day with is reassuring multiplicity of colours is blown away, and one is encircled by horrible, formless night, full of dumb, evil phantoms and shadows. It is stifling like the grave. --Sergius Bulgakov, “The Corpse of Beauty,” in A Bulgakov Anthology, ed. James Pain and Nicolas Zernov. (Philadelphia: The Westminster Press, 1976), p.67.

By its mystical nature, by its attraction, art and beauty are an important part of our creative freedom, the creative freedom we are called to live out in our Christian life. Creation is the free creative act and art of God; being in the image of God, we are, as Tolkien tells us, sub-creators called to freely share in the creative act of God. Because of its potent nature, when it is perverted, it turns into a demonic, dark art, perhaps more deadly than the perversion of truth or goodness, because “art, in contradiction to philosophy and even more to science, is connected with the inmost depths of the spirit.” Ibid, 71. This can explain the tendency to associate idols with demons, because this perversion of beauty possesses its worshiper and spiritually kills them. Bulgakov believed this demonic art, unleashed into the modern world, requires a new exorcism that only the Church and her full grasp of beauty can fulfill.

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Thursday, September 07, 2006

The Terror of Idolatry and the Beauty of Proof

Contemporary thought, in particular French phenomenology, is right to demonstrate how any and every conceptualization of God is reducible to idolatry. The claim is that any attempt to “prove” the existence of God can only yield an idol of God rather than God Himself, since the proof would necessarily, as proof, only offer a concept. Since a concept, as such, is always finite, limited and imaged, it reflects a representation of the thing rather than the thing as it is in itself.

But there is, I think, more to the story than this.

First, there is the question of nature of idolatry, which Jean-Luc Marion certainly works out with rigor in his famous God Without Being. But he ultimately sidesteps the distinction between the idol as a volitional construct by an intractable, and malevolent mind, and the idol as a term used to characterize the necessity of all human thought – namely, the need to abstract from an object of knowledge in order to take it into the finite intellect. He offers a fine analysis of the general nature of idolatry: it is the mirror that reflects our own limitations, beyond which our fear of the eternal unknown looms over us, compelling us out of fear to reject its offer by settling for what the mirror reflects. In this way, he implies, images of God tend to be mere reflections of self rather than authentic encounters with the divine. Still, it seems more than plausible to suggest that in this way the matter of idolatry is somewhat overstated.

Are we to believe, as Marion seems to want, that every moment of conceptualization is a willed imposition of limitations upon the ‘other’ and so rather than granting to our cognitive faculties an authentic representation actually offers only a reduced form, and hence in the case of God, an ‘idol’? Comparatively, is every instance of mathematical activity inauthentic since it reduces the infinite sequence of units into determinate forms in order to be manipulated by the mind? Would not every relationship between persons, then, be reducible to utter prejudice insofar as what one may believe he knows of another person is really only knowledge of his representation of the other to himself (...and can we feel the Kantian waters rising)?

Second, there is the question of proof. This question hinges upon ‘ways of being a mind’ as the great contemporary thinker William Desmond would say. Proof is as rich in plurality of forms as Being itself, and to simply throw the word ‘proof’ around with the assumption that the matter is evidently clear (something that happens all too often in scientific discourse) is a misleading arrangement. Let me explain.

The difference between proof as it is sought in the natural sciences, and proof as it is demonstrated in mathematics is illustrated clearly in the so-called, ‘mutilated chess board’ analogy. The illustration begins with a simple chess board and a set of dominoes, noting how it is possible to cover the entire chess board by using 32 dominoes. Then, the question is posed: if two opposite corners are removed from the board (see figure at left), is it still possible to cover the board using 31 dominoes? If 32 dominoes can cover a board of 64 squares, can 31 dominoes cover 62 squares?

Scientific methodology would have us perform a series of experiments with the dominoes to determine whether in fact one could cover the entire mutilated board with 31 dominoes. After a series of failures, the scientific method would conclude that it is not possible. The objectivity of the truth of the conclusion would be independent of the certainty that would have accompanied the conclusion. The certainty would depend on how many times the scientist performs the experiment. If he tries it 100 times, or 1000 or even 1,000,000 times, the certainty of his conclusion would be proportionate to the multitude of attempts, but never finally able to reach absolute certainty. But with each new experiment, he could be one instance more certain. (The difficulty here is that wihtout an objective measure of certainty, each experiment may yield only subjective certainty.)

The point is that when proof is considered from the perspective of certainty, where certainty is used to mean ‘truth as it is measured by the finite mind’, then scientific methodology is unable to yield anything more than a weak form of proof.

Mathematic methodology would take a different approach. The mathematician would draw a few calculated conclusions. First, a domino must cover two squares. Second, each square on a chessboard is surrounded on every non-diagonal side by a square of the opposite color. Thus, a domino must cover two squares of opposite colors. But the two squares that have been removed were of the same color, leaving the board with, now, 30 white squares, and 32 black squares. The disparity of colored squares would render it impossible to cover the entire board with 31 dominoes. With this calculated proof, mathematics has shown that it is capable of offering greater certainty than scientific methodology. But does this end the story?

The question must be posited: to what extent is the ‘power’ or ‘force’ of the mathematical proof dependent on its other (‘scientific’ proof)? Would the mathematical method be as recognizably powerful as a mode of proof if not for the apparent incapacity of the scientific methodology? If we answer negative to this second question, as I think we are compelled to do given the fact that the mutilated chessboard analogy requires both methods, then a conclusion follows necessarily: difference has played an indispensable role in the demonstration and hence the recognition of the power of mathematics to prove truth. This means, further, that mathematics is not of itself able to demonstrate, or manifest, the full power of its ability, but requires a relation. Here, it is not only the difference of the scientific methodology that has participated in the demonstration of mathematical power, but difference as such.

There is, then, a third way of thinking that is unrecognized in the chessboard analogy, and it is to this way of thinking that I want to draw attention because it is this way of thinking that is utilized when we speak of proving God’s existence. In the above example, the scientific attempt to prove a theory, or answer a question, provided what we can call a weak determination: it offered a possible solution, or illuminated a possible ‘truth’ of the matter, but only based upon a foundation of experimental repetition. This provided weak certainty of the truth it espoused, and has both a drawback and a benefit. The drawback is that it does not give the curious, perhaps skeptical, mind the absolute certainty it seeks; the benefit, however, is that it leaves the question open to further examination; mystery remains.

The mathematical method, which provided a strong determination, also had a benefit and a drawback. The benefit is that it does provide absolute certainty, eliminating any possible skepticism (except the utterly absurd, of course). The drawback, however, is that it entirely closes the matter, seducing the mind – which is created for ever deepening knowledge – into believing that mathematics is a guarantee of certainty and proof. This may be profitable at times, but there are areas of life where such a belief, insofar as it utterly destroys mystery and ambiguity, is deadly (..."I won't marry you until you prove that you love me..." or "...I can't believe in God because it can't be proven...").

Although the mathematical method provided a solution for what we were seeking, it did so with such determination that it ‘shut the door’ upon the matter, even to the point of preventing one from further asking: is there a greater illumination at stake in the matter at hand (which in our case is the mutilated chessboard analogy)? The residual mystery that necessarily remains in every cognitive encounter between the mind and an object of knowledge is eclipsed when the certainty offered in mathematical proof seduces the mind into a complacent satisfaction. Contented with mathematical solidity, the mind is lured into a false sense of sufficiency and ceases to penetrate any deeper into the matter at hand. Is there a deeper illumination in the mutilated chessboard analogy?

Granted, perhaps the analogy was done simply to distinguish between scientific knowledge and mathematical knowledge. To that end, the experiment was successful. But even the success itself depended on antecedent factors that, should they go unrecognized and unthought – indeed unappreciated – then mathematics itself has been robbed of its fuller power to release the mind into deeper thought beyond itself (reality is, I would suggest, not a problem to be solved, but a mystery to be celebrated). For what the experiment proves irrefutably is that intrinsic to the power of mathematics is its dependence upon its others – science (or what is more authentically called natural philosophy), on the one hand, and that which enables the mind to think difference as such, which we can now reveal is quite simply, metaphysics.

There is, then, a proof beyond the proof at play in the analogy. And so, to return to our original question, we may now suggest rightly that there are innumerable kinds of proofs. To say that a proof for the existence of God is simply idolatry insofar as such a proof can offer only a concept to the mind, and hence a finite capture of what eternally exceeds finitude, is to neglect this pluriformal structure of proof; it is to reduce the richness of proof to solely its mathematical form
.

To bring the point home, consider the following: can one prove that there is an infinity of numbers? Surely, it would defy reason itself to deny that there is an infinity of numbers. But the hard-hearted skeptic might want to suggest that since such a matter cannot be proved mathematically – at least not with the kind of certainty offered above by mathematics – that there is ultimately no way to know. Of course, in refutation, one could easily say that infinity is proven insofar as whatever number one may think, any other numerical value can be added to it. But then are we not using ‘proof based upon experimental repetition,’ the kind of scientific proof we saw in the mutilated chessboard analogy, rather than the solidity of mathematical proof so many believe necessary for any authentic proof?

Still, with respect to ‘proving’ infinity, this ‘experimental method’ should and must be conceded as the only kind of proof available to the mind. Here, when mathematical methodology is imported to handle the infinite, it appears similar to scientific methodology, capable of certainty based soleley upon success of repeated experimentation. The similarities, however, should not prevent us from seeing the important difference that remains.

The primary difference is that when applied to the infinite, mathematical proof is the kind of proof that, rather than demonstrating anything positively, merely serves as a negative norm: it says, ultimately, that if we believe we have reached the highest number possible, we should not be inclined to assent to it as the highest or final value since another value can always be added to it. It is, then, a proof by way of negation – it is an apophatic proof that demonstrates truth based upon negation rather than by reducing the truth in question to the determinate, finite, limits of the mind, declaring something to be positively the case. It is a kind of proof that allows the infinite to remain itself, while simultaneously bringing us into chorus with it in an ever-expanding dynamism.

This is the kind of proof of God that is not, and could never be, mere idolatry.

The Medievals knew this well, which is why Aquinas, for instance, always ended his quinquae viae with a form that we can call ‘preemptive predication’ – essentially, the evidence he would offer to demonstrate the reasonableness of God’s existence (or perhaps we should say the non-unreasonableness) was a predicated description of what in the end would be revealed with the words: “and this is what all speak of as God," or "this is what we call God." This is a way of preventing the limits, which a word necessarily ushers into the mind, from hindering the necessary opening of mind to what is ever beyond itself. In other words, Aquinas tactically describes the matter before he defines it. He ‘preemptively predicates’ the subject.

It is vastly different to say ‘God is infinite’ than to say ‘there is something infinite and this is what we call God.’ The statement ‘God is infinite’ too easily allows the copula ‘is’ to be taken as a predication of identity, which in the case of God it simply cannot be – God, in himself, cannot be finally captured in one definition since He has no finite identity. The statement ‘there is something infinite and this is what we call God’ never refers to God with the copula ‘is.’ Instead, it draws attention to the fact that the word ‘infinite’ is used in the human act of naming: it is a name that we must apply to God insofar as we must use names whenever we humans speak of anything. The nature of divine being never comes into the definition and so God’s Being – which can never be thought of as a being among beings – is never part of the limiting definition. This is, quite simply, proof without idolatry, proof that remains open, proof that welcomes mystery and embraces our human weakness of unknowing – it is, in a word, the beauty of proof, and it lives most fully in that form of knowledge called faith.

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Tuesday, September 05, 2006

On Idolatry


From times of old, we have been told,
An idol -- we should not create.
They should not be bought or sold,
For our souls, they do not sate.

But when we opine on the nature of God,
And bind others to our philosophical construction,
Demanding it to be followed with threat of a rod,
We have devised a new idol: it leads to destruction.

Ineffable, transcendent, beyond compare,
Our God is incapable of being limited to our supposition.
What we make of Him He does not spare,
It all goes to the flame, turned to ash in the devestation.

But, weary heart, do not hold any thoughts of despair,
We might not be able to describe God with our words,
But He is there, do not ever forget -- He is there,
Leading us beyond the shallow idols unto Himself.

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Monday, September 04, 2006

Inculturation Through the Ages IIIB: The Syrian Mission to China


Let us praise the Dharma:

Dharma King John, Dharma King Luke
Dharma King Mark, Dharma King Matthew
Dharma King Moses, Dharma King David,
Dharma King of Easter, Dharma King Paul
Dharma King of the Thousand Peacock Eyes
Dharma King Simeon, Dharma King Mar Sergius,
Dharma King George, Dharma King Mar Barsauma,
Dharma King Simon, and the Twenty Four –
Dharma King Henana, Dharma King Hosea
Dharma King Michael, Dharma King Silas
Dharma King Gur, Dharma King Announcing Teachings – John.

Martin Palmer, The Jesus Sutras. (New York: Ballantine Publishing Group, 2001), p.184.

There is just something about China that has caused many Christians to incorporate into their religious message the vast riches of its civilization. The Jesuits in China were not the first to attempt a synthesis of the Christian message with Chinese culture. The first large-scale missionary endeavor into China came from the Assyrian Church of the East (known also as the Chaldean Syrian Church of the East) and her missionaries took considerable effort in translating the Christian message to the religious and philosophical outlook they found in China. During the life of Matteo Ricci, Neo-Confucian thought took precedence, and the Jesuit missionary took on the role of the Confucian scholar, granting him a place in the ranks of the cultural elite of his day. The Syrian missionaries took a rather different approach.

Around 635, Christian monks, led by Aleben, crossed into China via the Silk Road. The emperor, the rather enlightened Taizong, was interested in their mission, and wanted a translation of the texts they carried with them to be placed into his ever-expanding imperial library. He was more than a little impressed with what the monks had told him. He heard from them about their faith in a savior who liberates humanity from the darkness of sin. From this description the emperor entitled their faith in Chinese as “The Luminous Religion.”

Being given an imperial welcome, they were given the grounds and finances necessary to build their first monastery and to begin translating their sacred texts. For the next several generations, the monks were given considerable prominence and respect in China. Even though Christianity slowly spread among the Chinese, the mission was not a failure. Monasteries were being built throughout China: early texts suggest one was built in every province, later texts, one in every major city.

The Christians found themselves to be in a far from an ideal situation. They were outsiders, and outsiders in China were often feared. The xenophobic in China grouped them with other foreigners, such as the Manicheans, as being a bad influence to the state. Not only did Christians have to defend themselves from the attacks of native Taoists and Confucians, they had to be able to differentiate themselves from other religious traditions trying to make their way into China at the same time.

By the time the Christians had entered China, the most successful foreign mission in China was done by the Buddhists, and many of their ideas had already entered the general Chinese milieu. Even though it had been in China for centuries, Buddhists were still entering the land, bringing new religious texts with them, translating them for their faithful. It is rather difficult to explain, but in the midst of these two differing missions, the Christians, under the leadership of the 8th century Ching-Ching from Chang-an, undertook a cooperative work with an Indian monk, Prajna, to translate the Buddhist Satparamitta Sutra into Chinese. Prajna knew Sanskrit but had difficulty with Chinese, and welcomed Ching-Ching’s willingness to help him translate the text into Chinese. Their collaboration was stopped, not by Christians or Buddhists, but by the emperor who thought the two religious traditions should not be so easily mixed.

Ching-Ching, however, is important to us, because he represented the Syrian Christian mission at its height. He erected the famous monument of 781, giving us not only a glimpse of the history of Christianity in China, but also the way Christianity engaged the Chinese intellectual tradition in the way earlier Church Fathers had engaged Hellenism. His catechetical and liturgical texts are among the few texts that have been recovered from this ancient Christian mission. They indicate how inculturated the Chinese mission had become, taking significant Taoist and Buddhist themes as a means to express the teaching and work of Jesus.

Ching-Ching indicates that Jesus’ message can be summed up into four laws: non-desire, non-action, non-virtue, and non-demonstration. Similar to the Buddhists and Taoists, desire is seen as an alienating force the defiles the mind and causes us to sin. We must put an end to our desires, that is, as Jesus said, we must die to the self. This means we must engage in non-action. Non-action here means that we need to rely upon the natural goodness of creation, sustained by the Messiah. Like a ship at sea, the Christian must rely upon the driving force of the Messiah, and if they resist the work of the Messiah by their own activity, they will be like a ship struggling against the wind. Non-virtue means we should not rely upon our own virtue, but be at rest in the work of the Messiah. It is not, as it might sound, moral relativism. Rather, it points out that virtue is natural, and when we seek virtue, we create an unnatural understanding of what it means, an attachment to an incomplete, and thus false, view, and so end up struggling against the grain to achieve what, through the Messiah, should be natural in and through him. Non-demonstration means we should not seek to create systematic, conceptual “truths,” which restrict one’s mind from seeing a pure vision of reality. We must abandon ourselves, even our own thoughts, and be open to the full revelation of the Messiah. Anything else, including our own feeble attempts at moral or intellectual superiority, will only fail. In this way, one can see a Christian anthropology which combines a radical vision of grace with Taoist and Buddhist ideals. Jesus is expressed as the Sage who is himself the Way, the Tao.

The Syrian mission came to an end from several outside factors. The first was the advent of Islam. The second was a new xenophobia within China which persecuted and kicked out foreigners (which included not only the Christians, but Jews, Zoroastrians, Manicheans, and even the Buddhists). With their homeland controlled by the Muslims, the Syrian Church of the East was not able to support their Chinese mission. They were, more or less, on their own. When the Chinese took on a hyper-nationalistic ideal in the 9th century, the mission could not successfully keep itself open, and by 845, no functioning church could be found within China (cf. Palmer, 236). A few Christians remained within the region, but they were incapable of restoring the mission. Interestingly enough, under the Khans, the Syrians would again have one last brief renaissance in China, but it would prove a little to little a little too late.

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Saturday, September 02, 2006

Inculturation Through the Ages III: The Jesuits in China

Perhaps the most sophisticated and exotic cultures Christians encountered in their missionary activities were in India, China, Japan and the rest of the Asian landscape. This provided for unique challenges to Christians, making them reconsider their own cultural prejudices. Previously, it was easy to equate the way Christianity had developed in Europe as establishing what it meant to be Christian. Thanks to the Christian influence, European civilization advanced to new heights, and missionaries impressed indigenous peoples with their cultural refinements.

This changed when Europeans began serious missionary activity in Asia. While they had much to offer Asian nations, the Asian nations also had much to offer Christians in return. St Francis Xavier (1506 - 1552) in his travels across Asia came to understand that Christianity would only be accepted by Asians if Christianity was willing to adapt itself to their own cultural standards. Christianity could not succeed in Asia if it tried to turn Asians into Europeans before making them Christian. According to Joseph Sebes, this necessity occurred to St Francis Xavier only after his disputed with Buddhists in Japan:


The Japanese response helped Xavier realize that for Christianity to succeed in Asia, missionaries had to reach the natives on their own terms: speak, read, and write the native languages; become an integral part of a particular civilization and behave like the natives of that country – or, as will be said later, “Become Chinese to win China for Christ.” -- Joseph Sebes, S.J. “The Precursors of Ricci” in East Meets West: The Jesuits in China, 1582 – 1773. Ed. Charles E. Ronan, S.J. and Bonnie B. C. OH (Chicago: Loyola University Press, 1988), p. 23.

From his travels across Asia, St Francis Xavier realized that (outside of India) the central focal point of Asian civilization was in China. Its influence was felt throughout his travels, and the people he encountered often wondered why, if Christianity were the true religion, China with its ancient cultural heritage knew nothing of it. In order to reach the rest of Asia, Christians had to impress the Chinese.

While the Franciscans had already sent missionaries into China, Christianity would receive wider acclaim and acceptance in that land only after the missionary work of the Jesuit priest Matteo Ricci (1552 – 1610). Understanding the ideal established by St Francis Xavier, Ricci took to heart that Christianity must adapt itself to the Asian sphere if it is to be accepted by the Chinese. His first idea was to have his band of Christian missionaries come into China looking and acting like Buddhist monks. Interestingly enough, while this allowed the Jesuits to achieve limited success in China, they impressed the Chinese more by their technical, scientific lore than with their attempt to act as Buddhist monks. The Chinese came to see them as exemplars of a Western scholarly tradition. One early Chinese convert suggested that the Jesuits should take this seriously, and that instead of coming across as other-worldly Buddhists, they should try to equate themselves with the Confucian elite. Following this advice, Ricci developed a rather intricate foundation for Christianity based upon the Confucian classics.

Through Ricci’s efforts, the Chinese believed Christianity contained the same moral and cultural tradition as was prescribed in their literary classics. Christianity helped provide new justification for traditional morality in a society which beginning to question itself. The emperor respected Ricci and his Jesuit companions because he saw them as helping him in his desire to keep the empire together.

Ricci certainly desired the Chinese to equate Christianity with their cultural tradition. Not only did he study and learn it, but he wrote catechetical material using the ideas found within the Chinese classics as a way to preach the Christian faith. He changed his outward appearance so as to appear as a Confucian sage, but the Chinese took the transformation to be more than an external gloss, and they respected him as being as competent as any of their own sages. He knew that this respect was only honorary.

In China, there was an imperial examination system set up to determine one’s competency within the classics, and the rare individual who passed a rigorous series of examinations would be given a governmental post. Ricci, seeing that the respect he had earned as an individual could not be passed down to others, made sure he would have literati among the converts, and they would continue to study the classics until they passed the imperial exams.

Ricci’s success lay not only with his willingness to outwardly adapt himself to the Chinese norms, but that he also looked within the Chinese cultural tradition, respected them for their own inherent strengths, and tried to show where they could be united with and strengthened by the Christian message.

We must understand, however, this instance of inculturation was not without controversy. It was an innovation. As their mission in China developed, the Jesuits were willing to accept many traditional Chinese practices, such as ancestor worship, as something a convert can continue to practice, with a few caveats in place. They developed a Chinese form of Christianity, with its own rites and practices, but this form of Christianity became challenged in Europe. Supporters of the Chinese Rites, as they were to be called, were found throughout Christendom. Leibniz, for example, supported the ideal established by Ricci, calling him a wise man following the example of Paul (cf.. Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz. Writings on China. Trans. and ed. by Daniel J. Cook and Henry Rosemont, Jr. (Chicago: Open Court, 1994), p. 67 – 74).

Dissenters were found throughout Christendom as well, and they would eventually win the upper hand. The early success of the Jesuit mission in China failed in part because of the efforts of rival Dominican and Franciscan missionaries in China. They could not accept the method established by the Jesuits, and eventually were able to get it stopped. The Chinese, seeing the Christians squabble among themselves, believed that the moral superiority presented to them by the Jesuits were undermined by the rest of the Christians, and so came to believe that there was nothing special about Christianity in itself. Their interest in the faith diminished as the Christians stopped trying to acculturate themselves to the Chinese

While this history of inculturation presents us a mixed message, the work established by Ricci, following the example of St Francis Xavier, became one the historical ideals that missionaries used when they entered new cultures. The success of the Jesuits among the Native Americans was, in part, because they continued to follow the precedence established by their order in China, a tradition that can trace itself not only to the work of Ricci, but to St Francis Xavier, one of the founding fathers of the Jesuits.

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Friday, September 01, 2006

More Considerations on Liturgy as Definition

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

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

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

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

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

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

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