Category Archives: Faith

Matters relating to the Christian faith in general

What did He know, and when did He know it

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Some exegetes are fond of playing the game “What did Jesus know, and when did He know it.” One place I’ve often seen this is Mark 7:24–30, in which a non-Jewish woman comes to Jesus asking for help for her daughter. Jesus explains that he has been sent to the Jews and asks, shockingly, if he should throw what is holy to dogs? The woman says that even dogs get to eat the crumbs that fall from their master’s table, after which Jesus commends her for her faith, and does what she asks.

Some exegetes take this as a learning experience for Jesus. He thought he was called only to the Jews; but here a foreign woman talks him around, and shows him something new. Now, this is clearly nonsense. Jesus is the Son of God–the Second Person of the Trinity–incarnate. He knew very clearly who he was, and what he was doing. God is the grand author, whose manuscript is history, and I think it’s fair to say that He staged the whole incident for our benefit.

The Fifth Joyful Mystery is the occasion when Jesus, as a young lad of twelve, goes missing for three days and is found, finally, in the Temple, bemusing the priests and scribes with his precocity. And personally, I’ve always found “mystery” to be the right tag. Why was it, alone of the incidents of Jesus’ youth, included in the Gospel? I think I’ve got a piece of the answer, and it has to do with the matter I mentioned above, and with today’s feast day, that of Mary, Mother of God.

Today’s feast was instituted as the result of a controversy in the early church. Mary had long been called the “Mother of God”; but Nestorius said that this title was invalid: Mary, a human being, could not possibly be the mother of the Second Person of the Trinity. Eventually this was resolved by a doctrined called, impressively, the Hypostatic Union: that Jesus Christ was one person possessed of two natures: a fully divine nature, that of the Second Person of the Trinity, and a fully human nature. The key phrase here is “one person”. Mary was undeniably the mother of Jesus’ human nature; and as Jesus is one person, fully God and fully Man, it is reasonable to call here the Mother of God.

In short, Jesus is not simply a good man, touch in some special way by the Diety. Nor was Jesus’ body a sort of mask worn by God. Jesus is God Incarnate, true God and true Man. And that’s why it makes no sense to play the game of “What did Jesus know and when did He know it?” He was God. As an adult, He knew certainly knew what he was about. But on the other hand, surely His human nature was capable of learning, and indeed needed to learn? In his human nature, he surely wasn’t possessed of the secrets of the universe as an infant lying in a manger. In human terms, he certainly did need to come to terms with who He was, to grow into Himself, as it were.

And this is precisely the importance of the day when Mary and Joseph found Jesus in the Temple, and He asked them, in wonder, “Did you not know that I would be in my Father’s house?” It was obvious to Him; the surprise was (and this shows His humanity) that it wasn’t obvious to Mary and Joseph. Even then, as a boy of twelve, He knew His Father in heaven, and was about His Father’s work.

Wednesday Books

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Here’s a couple of more books I’ve been spending time with recently.

The Fathers, by Pope Benedict XVI. Every Wednesday, Pope Benedict gives a “General Audience,” at which he does some teaching. He spent most of 2007 and the beginning of 2008 on the lives and teaching of the Apostolic Fathers: that is, on the great teachers of the Church from the time just after the Apostles up until St. Augustine of Hippo. He covers 26 of the Fathers, including St. Clement of Rome, St. Ignatius of Antioch, Justin Martyr, St. Irenaeus of Lyons, Origen, Tertullian, St. John Chrysostom, and of course Augustine himself.

As such, the book is similar in format to his The Apostles, which also started its life as a series of Wednesday talks; however, I enjoyed it considerably more. Note that I didn’t read it straight through; instead, I kept it in the backpack I take when I leave the house, and read it a chapter or two at a time. The only problem is, now I need to go look up the writings of each of these guys and get the whole story.

Highly recommended; and I love the painting of St. Jerome and St. Augustine on the cover. Carlo Crivelli rocks.

Benedict XVI: An Intimate Portrait, by Peter Seewald.
On two separate occasions, Seewald spent a period of two or three days closeted with the then Cardinal Ratzinger; the result of these extended interviews is captured in two remarkable and outstanding books, Salt of the Earth and God and the World, both I which I’ve devoured. When I saw this book at the bookstore last weekend, consequently, I snapped it up, and devoured it over the last several days. The bad news is, it’s not as good as the two books of interviews; which is to say that it’s merely good rather than excellent. And much of the purely biographical information is available in Cardinal Ratzinger’s own book, Milestones. Nevertheless, it’s a fascinating portrait–and a portrait not only of our current Pope, but of his theological adversaries, like Hans Küng, and of Seewald himself. When Seewald was first assigned to interview Ratzinger (for an extended magazine article; the books came later) he was an atheist and a communist with no reason to say anything good about the man the German press had dubbed the “panzerkardinal”. By the time of the interview sessions for God and the World, Seewald had quietly become Catholic. It was interesting to read how it happened.

Some Books

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Wonder of wonders, miracle of miracles, it’s actually time for some book-blogging. Here are just a few of the things I’ve been reading over the last month or so.

Halting State, by Charles Stross. Stross has a number of moods; this particular book is most like his The Atrocity Archive without the supernatural aspect, that is, it’s a thriller about organized cybercrime, counter-terrorism, distributed espionage, and massively-multiplayer on-line games. It begins with an unprecedented crime–a robbery of a bank in a virtual world by armed orcs–and goes on from there. There are geeks, cops, and spooks galore, and the whole thing is a lot of fun. It isn’t primarily a comic novel…but if you understand why the line “They’re tunneling TCP/IP over AD&D!” had me rolling on the floor, then this is definitely a book for you.

The Merchants’ War, by Charles Stross. Here’s another of Stross’s moods: the fourth book of his series The Merchant Princes. For those who came in late, the series concerns one Miriam Beckstein, an investigative reporter who discovers (early in the first book) that there are parallel worlds, that there is regular contact between them, that she’s not really from here, and that her new relatives have significant expectations as to how she is going to lead her life. It’s a series about intrigue, politics, interdimensional economics, and alternate history, and it just keeps getting better. The only downside is that every volume ends with a major cliffhanger…and then, of course, you have to wait for a year to find out what happens. I won’t say more, as the books naturally follow closely one upon the other, and I don’t want to spoil the earlier volumes. (Start with The Family Trade; and if it leaves you a little cold, don’t let that bother you. The later volumes are worth it.)

Howl’s Moving Castle and Castle in the Air, by Diana Wynne Jones. We got these on the strength of Hayao Miyazaki’s movie version of Howl’s Moving Castle, and read ’em aloud to our kids. I liked Miyazaki’s movie (I gather Jones likes it as well), but I have to say that Jones’ novel makes a whole lot more sense, especially toward the end. Castle in the Air involves Howl and Sophie as well, though they are not the primary characters. There’s a third novel, House of Many Ways, which was published last June; we’ve not gotten it yet. Bottom-line: charming fantasy, and the kids all loved them.

East of the Sun, West of the Moon, by John Ringo. This is the latest in the series that began with There Will Be Dragons. That book was a fun outing marred only by Ringo’s need to share his sexual tastes and philosophy with the rest of us. Each successive book has been a little weaker than its predecessor, and this one was, frankly, a major disappointment. Too little plot, too little fun, too much sexual silliness. I really didn’t need to hear any more about rape fantasies, rape victims, or overcoming rape-trauma, thank you very much, or hear about all of the ladies who’d really like to sleep with the hero. I’ll take a gander at the next volume in the series, if any (there are some outstanding plot threads that were not addressed here that I’m curious about) but I don’t know whether I’ll buy it or not.

Yours, Jack, by C.S. Lewis. Lewis had a prolific correspondence, much of which has been published previously; this book is intended to be a selection of that correspondence devoted to matters of spiritual direction, that is, to helping others to grow in the spiritual life. I’m not entirely sold on that label, as I suspect that Lewis would have been the last to consider himself a spiritual director; indeed, he often pleads incompetence and suggests that his correspondents take up some question with their own spiritual directors (or “directeurs“, as he calls them). And many of the letters involve matters of doctrine or apologetics rather than any kind of spiritual direction. Nevertheless, it was an intriguing book to read, giving as it does a more personal flavor to the material I’ve seen in his books. And it was fascinating to watch Lewis grow and mature over the course of his life.

I would not advise sitting down and reading it straight through; I bought it in July, and read it a few letters at a time as the opportunity (ahem) presented itself over the next four months. There’s nothing astonishing or new here, but I enjoyed it, and it gave me food for thought.

Everything You Ever Wanted To Know About Heaven, by Peter Kreeft. It’s a challenging subject; but so, as Kreeft points out in the introduction, is God Himself:

But that hasn’t stopped us from writing millions of books and billions of words about God. Many of those words are silly and stupid. Most of them are secondhand platitudes. But some are helpful and enlightening. And a few are even awesomely wise and wonderful. Perhaps the same is true of our word about Heaven. And perhaps all four kinds of words are found in this book.

I don’t know that I thought any of it “awesomely wise and wonderful.” But I did find it helpful and enlightening on a number of axes, and particularly on the relationship between time and eternity. Time is due to change; God is unchanging, and hence eternal, timeless. Some have therefore said that Heaven is utterly timeless. And yet, as the Apostles’ Creed tells us, we must believe in the Resurrection of the Body. We will, ultimately, have bodies in heaven; they will be both similar to and different from the bodies we have now. But the possession of bodies implies the ability to change, which implies some experience of passing time. And yet, it must be greater, larger, richer than our experience of time now.

Many things there are that are a mystery, that are too deep and wonderful for me to understand. Kreeft has touched on these, and it’s clearly necessary to take much of what he says with a grain of salt. I suspect him (through no fault of his own) of saying things that are ultimately true, and yet misleading, just as any description of something we’ve not yet experienced can be exactly true and completely precise, and yet not communicate the essence of the experience. (How can you describe a chocolate chip cookie?)

Moral Obfuscation

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First thing this morning, The Deacon’s Bench called my attention to a distressing exercise in moral obfuscation.

The writer, a retired priest named Fr. Emmett Coyne (about whom I know nothing beyond what appears in his essay) takes Catholic bishops to task for their stand on moral issues. The core of his statement is that conscience trumps hierarchy, or, in other words, what I think is right and wrong is more important than what the Church says is right and wrong.

To a certain extent Fr. Coyne is correct. If my conscience tells me that something is wrong, I must not do it. However, it is also my responsibility as a Catholic to form my conscience, and the magisterial teachings of the Church are key here.

You can read the piece yourself; let me mention a couple of key points:

Bishops indeed have a task to teach and educate, but they cannot usurp the role of judge of another’s conscience. That is domain of God alone. Unfortunately, today, they are perceived as being the judge of others’ conscience, particularly as they have politicized the Eucharist. They are determining who has a right to receive or not. They have sadly undermined their role as teachers by selective unfairness. They are slow to deny Communion to politicians who favor capital punishment, support an immoral war, the inequity of income distribution, etc.

However, the Church does not teach that capital punishment is always wrong, and never has. The Church does not teach that war is always wrong, and never has. These are matters about which prudential judgements may be made, and, in fact, it is the State that is responsible for making them. Nor has the Church ever taught that income distribution must be “equitable”; rather that those who have more must help those who have less. On the other hand, the Church has always and everywhere taught that abortion is gravely wrong, intrinsically wrong. There are no prudential judgements here; it’s simply wrong. Though he doesn’t mention it, this is clearly what Coyne’s talking about, as it is only in this context that the Bishops have discussed who should and who shouldn’t receive Communion. Another misstatement: no Bishop I’m aware of has told anyone that they do not have the right to receive Communion–no one has the right to receive Communion. They have told certain public individuals that they ought not present themselves for Communion at the risk of their immortal souls.

All this said, political support for abortion certainly isn’t the only grave sin that should prevent one from receiving Communion without repentance and confession. I’m addressing Fr. Coyne’s argument, not the moral state of politicians, or anyone else, including Fr. Coyne.

The other point that really bugged me was this one:

The prayer a Catholic prays before receiving Communion is, “Lord, I am not worthy to receive you.” But now a Catholic needs to pass judgment on having a well-formed conscience before proceeding to receive Communion (praying now, “Lord, I am worthy!”).

I begin to wonder what planet Fr. Coyne has been living on. It has always been a Catholic’s responsibility to make sure he is free of grave sin (by receiving the Sacrament of Confession, if necessary) before presenting himself to receive Communion. He is still not worthy, even then; the Eucharist is the “Good Gift” par excellence. None of us are ever worthy. But yes, indeed, it is a Catholic’s responsibility to attend to forming his conscience, and to be sure he is clear of grave sin. That’s what I was taught in Catechism class as a small boy, and it’s what I read in the Catechism now.

Examine your conscience. Ask forgiveness for your sins. Go to confession regularly, and more often if need be. And repent of grave sin, and do not present yourself for Communion until you have done so and been absolved. “Have mercy on me, God in your goodness.”

Heresy Doesn’t Develop

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Here’s a nifty post from a blog I’d not seen before, Army of Martyrs.

It’s a commonplace of Roman Catholic theology that doctrine develops: that as time goes by and questions arise, new doctrines arise that answer the questions while remaining consistent with what was known before. Sometimes development is simply drawing out the implications of what is stated explicitly in Scripture; other times, it’s more like discovering that Newtonian physics is a special, approximate case of Einsteinian physics: there’s more going on than we realized. But either way, developed doctrine cannot contradict what went before.

The blogger at Army of Martyrs points out that heresy does not develop in the same way: being error, you can’t build a large structure on it that will stand of its own. Interesting thought.

The Sunrise Lands, by S.M. Stirling

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The Sunrise Lands is the latest (paperback) release in Stirling’s series about “The Change”. Short synopsis, for those who came in late: one day, all high technology, from steam engines and gunpowder on up, simply ceases to work. Civilization collapses. There are mass die-offs, and all manner of horrible things. New societies begin to coalesce, and fight for survival against nature and against each other.

At the end of the previous novel, A Meeting at Corvallis, relative peace has settled in the Pacific Northwest, and our heroes (those that survived) get to take a break. Twelve years pass. The son of Juniper MacKenzie, Rudi MacKenzie, is now a grown man, and the tanist of Clan MacKenzie. His blood sister, Mathilda Arminger, remains princess and heir to the throne of the Portland Protective Association. The various states that formed in the previous three books are generally prosperous. And weird things are beginning to happen….

In short, this is the book in which we begin to get an idea–no, that’s way too strong–this is the book in which we begin to get hints about why the Change occurred…and possibly, just possibly, begin to see those who caused the Change begin to make their presence known. I won’t say more than that.

I have mixed feelings about this book. It’s very clearly the first book in a set (of three, I presume) and so there’s lots of set-up and very little payoff. A lot happens, but there’s little suspense; the plot meanders forward, but it doesn’t really build to a climax.

On the other hand, it’s a pleasant enough ride; and there’s a lot about it to like. Stirling’s post-apocalyptic world is an interesting one, and the characters are fun. And given that it is the first book in a set, and given Stirling’s past performance, I’m more than willing to cut him some slack.

I have to say, I really like the treatment of religion in this book, which is amazingly realistic. From most books written from a more or less American viewpoint, you’d think that deeply religious people are either fruitcakes or hypocrites. In this book, we have realistic people whose religion is simply part of their lives. Some, naturally, are more devout than others, but most have some form of religious practice–just as most Americans do. More than that, Stirling plays fair. He has done his homework. This book is chock full of serious Roman Catholics who act, speak, and pray like serious Roman Catholics, including one of the principles, Mathilda Arminger.

Of course there are also a great many not-terribly-serious Catholics, especially when it comes to sexual sin; but I can’t argue that that’s unrealistic either.

I do have a qualm, and a complaint. The qualm is that while Catholicism is presented realistically, the “Old Religion” is presented as true, that is, true in the context of the world Stirling is building. (I don’t mean to imply that Stirling is a neo-pagan; so far as I know, he’s a somewhat lapsed Episcopalian, or was.) Of course, it’s possible that the scenes in which the pagan gods appear to take a hand are evidence of something else….

I didn’t expect anything different, though. So that’s a minor quibble. The complaint is about a brief mention of the Dominican order. In earlier volumes, the Lord Protector of Portland has set up his own version of the Catholic Church, with a nutcase as “pope”, and his own version of the Inquisition. Now, twelve years later, the “Church” in Portland has come back into communion with the Church of Rome under Pope Benedict’s successor, Pius XXIII and the Inquisition has been abolished…and it’s said that some of the Dominicans mourn its passing. Now, whatever might be said about the Inquisition as it really was (and the Pope has formally apologized for its excesses), the Inquisition in Portland in Stirling’s books is a wholly evil endeavour, and one that the Dominicans I’ve met (mostly on-line) would have had nothing to do with, much less look back with fondness on. But it was a passing moment, no more.

The Narnian, by Alan Jacobs

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I was given this biography of C.S. Lewis for Christmas quite some time ago now, but didn’t so much as open it until about a week ago. It’s an odd thing, as there was a time when I’d have dropped good money on a grocery list if it happened to have Lewis’ name on it. I simply wasn’t in a C.S. Lewis mood. On top of that, I’d previously read The Inklings once or twice, and Surprised by Joy numerous times, and almost all of Lewis’ other books, and I’m afraid my thought was, “Just what I needed, another biography of C.S. Lewis.” An ungrateful thought, to, as the family member who gave it to me really had considered my likes and dislikes.

Anyway, it languished on the shelf until I happened to pick it up about a week ago. I just finished it; and frankly, it’s not just another biography of C.S. Lewis. There’s a lot of material in it that was new to me, and the author writes with perception, affection, and good sense.

The only rough spot comes toward the end, when Jacobs addresses Lewis’ thoughts on men and women and what we now call “gender roles”. Poor Lewis, so wise in other ways, but here such a prisoner of his class and era–it is only in this section that Jacobs appears a prisoner of his own.

Anyway, good stuff; I enjoyed it thoroughly.

Socrates Meets Descartes, by Peter Kreeft

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I picked up this book as the result of several intersecting strands of thought. First, thanks to my interest in Thomas Aquinas I’ve been delving into things philosophical. Second, I’ve become familiar with Peter Kreeft from his writings on Catholicism. Third, I’ve long held a kind of an intellectual grudge with respect to René Descartes. Descartes is generally known as the “Father of Modern Philosophy”; and the really new and radical element in his philosophy is doubt: doubt of the things that are as plain as the existence of the floor under my feet. In my view, to begin by doubting objective reality makes as much sense as having yourself hogtied before commencing a wrestling match. That many philosophers have followed Descartes down this garden path is simply proof of C.S. Lewis’ observation in The Magician’s Nephew: the trouble with trying to make yourself stupider than you are is that you very often succeed.

Consequently, I snagged this book when by chance I came across it: for I thought I might learn something, that I would be entertained, and that the author was trustworthy. On the former two points I was amply satisfied; on the latter I am satisfied as well, but with a qualification.

Kreeft’s book is a dialog between Socrates and Descartes in which Socrates cross-examines Descartes about the content of his book, the Discourse on Method. As such, it’s one of a series by Kreeft; apparently Socrates has previously met Marx, Machiavelli, and Sartres, and I gather he’s going to meet Kant in the future.

I’ve occasionally run across books in which a fictional interviewer questions great figures of the past, and they respond with bits from their written works. This is something different. The conceit is that Descartes has met Socrates in the Afterlife–in Purgatory, to be precise–and that as part of his purgation he must attempt to defend his philosophical work against Socrates’ questioning. It works quite well, for the most part, though I think that Kreeft gets a little too cute with it here and there.

But here’s the qualification I need to make: Socrates isn’t really Socrates–not Plato’s Socrates. The Socrates we know is primarily a literary conceit adopted by Plato as a way to convey his own philosophical ideas. The manner and philosophical style of the fictional Socrates is no doubt descriptive of the real man, and no doubt many of the ideas presented originated with him as well–Socrates was Plato’s teacher, after all. But just as Plato’s Socrates is Plato’s mouthpiece, so Kreeft’s Socrates is Kreeft’s mouthpiece. This book isn’t a meeting between Descartes and Socrates as Plato presented him. Kreeft’s Socrates has clearly been doing a deal of studying since he died; he’s familiar with the history of the world, both politically and intellectually, from his day to ours, and he not infrequently argues from an Aristotelian and Thomistic point of view rather than from a Platonic or even Neo-Platonic point of view.

I’ve no real problem with this; I picked up the book rather hoping that this is just what he would do. But a reader unfamiliar with Kreeft’s work would reasonably expect (given the cover blurb) to find Descartes being cross-examined by Plato’s Socrates rather than Kreeft’s. That said, it’s hard to know how any author, however pure his motives, could have achieved that; and at least the basis for Kreeft’s criticism of Descartes is right out there in plain sight.

And of what does that criticism consist? I don’t feel able to state that in any pithy or authoritative way; I’m still very much a newbie at thinking about these things. In part, though, “Socrates” shows that despite his avowed policy of “universal doubt”, Descartes actually assumes quite a bit more than he thinks he does (including the ability to reason logically) and that a certain amount of circular reasoning in involved in his attempts to safeguard reason and objective reality. Descartes comes across as a brash young man, brilliant but a little too ready to assume that the beauty of his conclusions validates the argument by which he reached them.

Pleasingly, Socrates leaves Descartes with his contemporary Blaise Pascal, with the hint that Pascal possesses what Descartes lacks. This is pleasing because, due to Julie D‘s recommendation some while back, Kreeft’s edition of Pascal’s Pensées, was in eyeshot at the
time.