The Holy Trinity

It is a daunting task for any theologian to attempt to tackle the subject of the Holy Trinity. It is perhaps the most profound and indeed, non-intuitive, of the Christian mysteries. Yet it is also the central mystery of our faith. While it is sometimes tempting to avoid the complexity of the Trinity, it must be addressed in order to speak clearly and knowledgeably of the Christian creed as a whole. Because of its mysterious nature, it is one of the most misunderstood tenets of Christianity, and easily the one round which the most objections have been raised. Thus, it is the dogma most jealously guarded by the Church, and consequently, one which many theologians are loath to touch.

Pope Benedict XVI referred to this as “a realm in which Christian theology must be more aware of its limits… where the attempt to gain too precise a knowledge is bound to end in disastrous foolishness; [where] only the humble admission of ignorance can be true knowledge and only wondering attendance before the incomprehensible mystery can be the right profession of faith in God.” (Ratzinger: Intro to Christianity, 1,V)

The Trinity will always remain a mystery. Yet it is a beautiful glimpse into the nature of God, a threefold nature which our feeble minds are not capable of fully grasping. The extent to which God has deemed to enlighten us reveals a remarkable love in God’s interaction with his creation. It is an awareness of that love, a fluid and threefold love, toward which I hope to point this inquiry.

THE DOGMA

First let us examine the Church’s summary of the dogma, according to the Catechism:

“The Trinity is one. We do not confess three Gods, but one God in three persons, the “consubstantial Trinity.” The divine persons do not share the one divinity among themselves but each of them is God whole and entire. Each of the persons is that supreme reality, viz., the divine substance, essence or nature.” (CCC, 253) “Now this is the Catholic faith: We worship one God in the Trinity and the Trinity in unity, without either confusing the persons or dividing the substance; for the person of the Father is one, the Son’s is another, the Holy Spirit’s another; but the Godhead of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit is one, their glory equal, their majesty co-eternal.” (CCC, 266).

The Theology is based primarily on Jesus’ final commandment, to “Go and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.” (Matt. 28:19) While having hinted at the triune Godhead throughout his ministry, here at the end, he states it clearly. While he does not name it a Trinity, or describe the relationship of the three, the deity he describes is definitely “triune.” This cannot be ignored.

There is nothing in our lives which can be likened to the relationships of the Trinity. In our experience a father must always precede a son and nothing can be both the same and individual. It is little wonder that the Trinity has caused so much controversy. The demand of the dogma is to accept the mystery. We must accept that God is larger than our understanding. If he was not, then he would not be God. Far from the complete truth, the Trinity is an attempt by feeble minds to grasp the nature of God, as the Holy Spirit has enabled us. We humbly continue to call it a mystery, for it would be impertinent to assume we fully understood God. “We see now in a mirror, dimly, but then we will see face to face. Now I know only in part; then I will know fully.” (1 Cor. 13:12)

Even so, I will attempt to explain this mystery as I understand it, not to solve it like a puzzle, but merely as an effort to eliminate confusion in the minds of my readers, and to illuminate the love at the root of God’s nature, which has been revealed to us through a Trinity. This will by no means be a “proof text,” for I do not presume to have a proof for the Trinity. I am coming from a perspective of belief, using argument and metaphor to support that belief, rather than arguing a position beginning from a point of complete neutrality.

THE FLUID NATURE OF GOD

One of the oldest, and I think the best, metaphors for understanding the mystery of the Holy Trinity is the idea of water. Water is a single entity, but it is manifested in three states familiar to us: ice, liquid water, and steam. Yet any of these can be accurately described by the same chemical name, H20. Similarly, the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit can all be rightly called God. Their individuality comes in the ways they are made manifest to us through experience and revelation.

Water is the most abundant thing on our earth. It gives life to all the plants and animals. It can be all places at once, and even when it is ingested, processed, polluted, and evaporated, the water in our world is not lessened. Its transition between ice, water and steam never threatens its unity. So can God be in all places at once, in all three of his forms, as the world needs him most.

Trinitarian theology has come to us slowly over the history of the Judeo-Christian religion. Many scholars argue against it because it is not specified emphatically by Scripture. The Bible certainly describes the workings of all three essences of God, particularly when read with a hermeneutic interpretation fitting to the post-Apostolic era, and there is the defining passage already quoted from Matthew, but the Bible does not name them as a Trinity. The first extant Christian texts which use the word Trinitas are those of Tertullian, at the beginning of the Third Century. But it should not surprise us that our understanding had to grow over time. It was necessary for God to increase our enlightenment as our knowledge became more prepared for comprehending the mystery. Just as, while we have understood the connection between the three essences of water for many centuries, it was not until the development of modern chemistry that we truly understood the phase transition it undergoes.

St. Gregory Nazianzen outlines the long-term development of the doctrine: “The Old Testament proclaimed the Father openly, and the Son more obscurely. The New manifested the Son, and suggested the deity of the Spirit. Now the Spirit himself dwells among us, and supplies us with a clearer demonstration of himself. For it was not safe, when the Godhead of the Father was not yet acknowledged, plainly to proclaim the Son; nor when that of the Son was not yet received to burden us further.” (Oratio, 31, 26) God uses time and the advancement of human knowledge to gradually enlighten more of the truth of his mysteries.

Early man, with his understanding only of God’s fatherhood, can be likened to a civilization living in an ice age, or high on a mountain where the temperature never warms past freezing. The life-giving nature of water can be gained, but it is more difficult. This civilization knows the necessity of ice for their survival, they love it, but they also fear it, knowing it can and will destroy them if they do not give it the proper respect. These people will never know the beauty and warmth of liquid water. This was the state of the Israelite nation in the Old Testament.

Jesus was like liquid water coming into the world, giving a life that sprung from the Father, but was altogether new and fresh. “The water that I will give will become in them a spring of water gushing up to eternal life.” (John 4:14) Jesus is like the stream flowing out of the glacier which is the Father. As he says “The Father is Greater than I” (John 14: 28) and “I do as the Father has commanded me, so that the world may know that I love the Father.” (John 14:31). The dawn of the Christian age was like the rolling back of winter into spring. The new essence of God that came to be known took nothing away from the old, but it made life more accessible to all humanity.

Imagine now a civilization which has come to know water in its liquid form. Suddenly, this people learns to harness the power of steam. This discovery gives them a sudden advantage in heating, transportation, and all manner of industry. Such a sudden advancement can be likened to the disciples’ receipt of the gift of the Holy Spirit at Pentecost. Though the Holy Spirit was at work all throughout the Old Testament, explicitly revealing its power and nature to humanity was not necessary, as we were still endeavoring to learn the nature of the Father. Now that the Son has given us new life, new law, and new opportunity, the power of the Holy Spirit is tantamount in our works and our comprehension of truth.

It is ridiculous to speculate on which is greater—ice, water, or steam. Obviously, ice is easier to grasp, so an ignorant mind might think it was greater. Water is most visibly abundant, and steam is invisible. But though different, they are one, and it is nonsense to discuss which is greater. So it is with the Trinity. All three are God. We encounter them differently, but each holds the full power of God.

DIFFICULTIES OF UNDERSTANDING

A problem with rightly comprehending the Trinity comes from some of our careless definitions. We seek to describe the mystery with words we can understand, to describe God with terms we have created and defined. Yet God is beyond all definitions or words we might devise, and beyond all comprehension our brains can muster.

I feel that the use of the word “persons” in describing Father, Son and Spirit, is misleading, and has confused Christians throughout the ages. It leads us to think of them as a group, even a committee, rather than as one. When defined as a group, the idea of a hierarchy naturally replaces that of equality. Father, Son and Spirit are not persons as we know the term to mean, just as ice, water and steam cannot be accurately discussed without recognizing the behavior of the others.

Addressing the difficulty, the Fourth Lateran Council stated that while there is a distinction between the three, there is a “unity of nature. They are not different realities… all are contained in a certain supreme reality, incomprehensible and ineffable, which truly is the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit, the three together and each separately.” (Lateran IV, 2)

Pope Paul VI sought to further contextualize the use of terms when discussing the Trinity. He does not consider the use of terms such as “persons” as an attempt to “submit the faith to human wisdom, but [that their use] gave a new and unprecedented meaning to these terms, which from then on would be used to signify an ineffable mystery, infinitely beyond all that we can humanly understand.” (Solemni hac Liturgia 9, CCC 251)

Father, Son and Spirit are essences of God. The presence of one does not signify only a portion of God, or negate the possibility of the others. Any encounter we have with the Father, the Son or the Spirit is an encounter with the complete and total fullness of God. God is never reduced by his manifestation.

If the Trinity were three parts of a whole, then God in heaven would have been somehow reduced by Jesus’ incarnation into the world, and perilously endangered by his descent into hell after crucifixion. Yet God is never reduced by the giving of himself, and though present in many forms and in many places, he is always fully God. Jesus was fully God through all his life on earth. He died as fully God. As fully God he descended into hell. And as fully God he rose again. All the while, the Father in heaven was not reduced by the fact that Jesus was also fully man. The Father was still remarkably present, listening to Jesus as he prayed from the garden. The Father nourished Jesus in his suffering, just as a glacier’s melting feeds the lake, maintaining its strength even in the heat of summer.

We refer to Jesus as the Father’s “only begotten Son.” We also speak of the Holy Spirit as “proceeding from both the Father and the Son.” These statements make us think, was the Father there before his Son? and, were both there before the Spirit? Does this not connote a separation of the essences, making them more of persons, and giving the Trinity a necessary and unavoidable hierarchy?

The difficulty we face with words like begotten, from and before, is that they are indicators of time. Time, as St. Augustine first taught (Confessions, XI), and Einstein eventually proved, is not absolute, and therefore cannot be applied to God. Time is a law of this earth, it is relative to the observer, and it is certainly not as limiting a factor as we once thought it was. “What times should there be, which were not made by thee?”(Ibid) Time is nothing more than a creation of God, just like every other phenomena we observe. It is a measuring device that accurately describes the passage of events in our universe, but it cannot be used to describe God. Ergo, we should not fall into the trap of over-analyzing the concept of Jesus being begotten by the Father, yet being co-eternal with him. Once we eliminate the obstacle of time, we do not find it to be such a conflict.

CONFESSION OF NON-OBJECTIVITY

Before addressing some of the various arguments against the classical view, I wish to make an honest confession of non-objectivity regarding the Holy Trinity. Certain of the heresies, which keep cropping up over time, seem attractive. The Church has always had to fight to keep the doctrine pure. My search, insight and prayer has led me to a belief in the dogma of the Trinity as taught by the Catholic Church, and surely, if the evidence pointed me elsewhere, I would readily admit it. But the truth remains and I must confess that I want to believe it. Therefore, if my arguments seem to come from a positive point of belief, I am not apologizing. My belief in the Trinity, while strong and defensible, cannot be considered truly a priori or a posteriori. Rather, it is upheld by the teachings of the Church Fathers. The Trinity is not something which can be proven, nor even a mystery which can be fully understood. Accepting mystery is a requirement of the Christian faith.

Modern philosophy finds such non-objectivity naïve. But I would argue that a small portion of naïvety, from an epistemological perspective, is wise. As a Catholic, I draw on two thousand years of literature and tradition which support the classical view of the Trinity. I feel it would be naïve to banish the teachings of such wise men and women and search for an answer contrary to their findings. I would rather begin from a place of affirming their concept of truth, and if I truly, prayerfully, and academically find that I cannot agree, then I will make such an admission.

Biblical and theological scholars now days are tempted to be drawn into studying scripture, “Etsi Deus non daretur” (As if God did not exist). Their exegesis then necessarily becomes strictly scientific and historical, allowing no place for revelation. While I am certainly not belittling the use of science and history, if scripture is read from these perspectives alone, it will inevitably lead to a dead end.

Even if scholars do not go this far, a recent trend in Christianity, particularly in certain Protestant traditions, has been to strip away much of the dogma which has come into Christianity after the conclusion of the Apostolic era. They wish to purify their theology by limiting it to the writings of John, Luke, Paul, and the other New Testament writers. However, if we are to believe Christianity, accepting its mystery and wonder, then we cannot discount Jesus’ final gift—that of the Holy Spirit. The inspiration which came upon the believers at Pentecost was not a one-time event. It continues to this day. The Spirit of Truth led the development of Christianity, even through its corruptions. If we believe any of Christianity, then we must believe in the Spirit’s inspiration, and if we believe in the Spirit’s inspiration, then it would be inconsistent to expect the Spirit would not have stayed with us.

The development of trinitarian theology is not surprising. In the fourteenth chapter of his gospel, as well as in other places, John explained the Trinity to the best of his ability with his own limited understanding of the mystery. It was natural for later Christians to attempt to understand the mystery further, and eventually to name it. If we limit ourselves to John’s words, without acknowledging the work of later dogmatists like Tertullian, St. Gregory Nazianzen, and St. Augustine, we do ourselves a grave disservice, and blaspheme the work of the Spirit in the lives of the later Christians.

The interesting thing about trinitarian belief is that it assigns miraculous power to the work of the Holy Spirit. Once we believe in the Spirit’s work, we have to observe the development of the Church and its dogma within this context. Our belief in the Spirit necessitates admission of the Spirit’s guidance of those who immediately succeeded the apostles. Belief in the Trinity therefore supports itself philosophically, if not entirely exegetically.

In his monumental book “On the Development of Christian Doctrine,” John Henry Cardinal Newman offers the following explanation: “It may be objected that [Scripture’s] inspired docu-ments at once determine the limits of its mission without further trouble… The question is whether those ideas which the letter conveys from writer to reader, reach the reader at once in their completeness and accuracy on his first per-ception of them, or whether they open out in his intellect and grow to perfection in the course of time. Nor could it surely be maintained without extravagance that the letter of the New Testament, or of any assignable number of books, comprises a delineation of all possible forms which a divine message will assume when submitted to a multitude of minds.” He goes on to say, “This moreover should be considered—that great questions exist in the subject matter of which Scripture treats, which Scripture does not solve; questions too so real, so practical, that they must be answered, and, unless we suppose a new revelation, [they are] answered by means of the revelation which we have, that is, by development.” (II, 1)

With this background, we can now address some of the arguments which have been put forth against the Holy Trinity. I hesitate to call them heresies, even though the Church has defined them as such, because most often those who held to these views were on an honest search for truth, and in human weakness, failed to find it. Yet if their search was indeed for the face and character of God, then their search would not be in vain, even if dogmatically they may have been in error. As the Second Vatican Council so poignantly reminds us, “Whatever good is found sown in the minds and hearts of men, or in the rites and customs of peoples, these not only are preserved from destruction, but are purified, raised up, and perfected for the glory of God.”(Lumen Gentium,17)

True heresy is when a man or woman attempts to lessen God or promote humanity, done with a will toward selfishness or freedom from moral law, not simply out of a philosophical error. While some of the arguments against the Trinity can indeed lead to such faults, this is seldom the intention of the arguetant. Even heretics must be treated with compassion, for in most cases, their search is valid and commendable, even when the answer is wrong.

ADDRESSING THE ARGUMENTS

Though the Trinity may not at first seem intuitive, it holds up more logically than the arguments against it. Let us examine three of the most commonly recurring non-trinitarian viewpoints on the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.

Arianism is a hierarchichal view, with God the Father having always existing, being the greatest and only true God. Jesus Christ (only-begotten) was born before time began and while still God, is lesser than the Father. The Holy Spirit, then is subservient to the Son as the Son is to the Father. This view was widespread throughout the early centuries of Christendom. In many parts of Europe and North Africa, the membership of the Arian churches surpased that of the Catholic churches. It was in response to Arianism that the council of Nicea coined the word “co-eternal” to describe the relationship of Father and Son. Though Arianism fell out of vogue for many centuries, many of its tenets have returned in some present day sects, notably, the Johovah’s Witnesses.

One of the main problems of believing in a hierarchichal Godhead such as Arianism, is that it turns Jesus death into a blood sacrifice. Whether it is the Father’s order or the Son’s choice does not really matter here. The point would be that God’s justice had to be avenged for human sin, and Jesus gave himself as the sacrifice to appease God’s anger, just as the Isrealites sacrificed lambs and pigeons to God, and the Romans sacrificed bulls to Jove. Although this type of terminology is widespread in Christian literature, the reality of trinitarian theology is that Jesus’ death is an act of love, more than a blood sacrifice.

Jesus’ death is an act of personal love and mercy from God, the lover, to humanity, the beloved. By being truly God and also truly man, Jesus fulfills the words of the prophet Hosea, “For I desired mercy and not sacrifice; and the knowledge of God, more than burnt offerings.” (Hos. 6:6)

If Jesus is less than Father, then the Father sacrificed the Son on the altar. But the marvel that arrises from knowing that Jesus is one with the Father, that he is Very God, is that Jesus laid himself on the altar. He was not a lamb who was sacrificed. He is the lamb who sacrifices himself as an act of love. Jesus is fully God, and shows his love for us by walking with us through the darkest time of our existence—death and descent into hell. Jesus, as fully God, but experiencing the totality of human weekness, freely chose to shoulder the sin of the world. Only by truly being God, does the crucifixion hold its marvel. If Jesus was not one with God, but subservient, then his death implies a character of the Father which is unlike the character we know of him. Of this kind of God, who would order his own Son’s slaughter, the Pope says “one turns away in horror from a righteousness whose sinister wrath makes the message of love incredible.” (Ratzinger: Intro to Christianity, 2, II, 3)

Arianism is an attempt to put God into terms we can more easily understand. While it makes more logical sense than the Trinity, it puts a limitation on God by implying that the Father, Son and Spirit have a relationship similar to that of earthly progeny. It also implies characteristics for the Father unlike that which Jesus attempted to show us.

Another view which was popular in the early days of Christianity was Modalism. This is the belief that the Father, Son and Holy Spirit are different modes, or aspects of the same single God, rather than three distinct persons (or to use my prefered word, essences). God could reveal himself as one or the other, but was always God in his completeness. Thus, Jesus was an actual incarnation of the entire Godhead. Tertullian pointed out the implication inherent in Modalism that the Father himself would have suffered on the cross (pater passus) and even descended into hell. While this would truly be a heroic God, it is also somewhat terrifying, for Jesus truly limited himself to the human experience during his years on earth. If the entirety of God was contained in the suffering Christ, then for that time the world was truly in the devil’s hands, and during his three days in the grave, the world was void of God.

Gnosticism is a widely encompassing term, but I wish to address one form of it here because it has again gained popularity in the present day. According to certain gnostic views, Jesus of Nazareth was born a man and through his goodness, became like unto God. He is thus the embodiment of God incarnate on earth. Many people find themselves attracted to this view because it implies that the goodness of Jesus is something toward which we can all aspire. Jesus is divine in that he manifests the true divinity inherent in humanity, and has risen to the level of sitting at the right hand of God in heaven. The novel “The Da Vinci Code” has brought gnostic thought back to the foreground in the last few years, along with attempts to scientifically and historically disprove both the Virgin Birth, and the Resurrection. However, if Jesus is not in fact God, then ultimately we find ourselves cut off from God. For Jesus is the God who meets us and guides us. If he is only the greatest man, the highest of the Saints, then we are isolated from God, reduced to the Communion of Saints as our only access to the divine.

As mentioned previously, I come from a position of belief. My inquiry, using logical and scientific means, have led me to a belief in Christianity, including a belief in Jesus’ divinity. The Trinity holds Christianity together. Some of these other views of Father, Son and Spirit seem attractive, but if I dispense with the dogma of the Trinity, the rest of Christianity begins to unravel. The Trinity itself may not appear entirely logical, and cannot be proven through argument. But when it is married to the rest of the faith, it is supported by other dogmas and teachings which are logical and intuitive. Believing in the Trinity is the point at which faith is demanded. We observe God’s love, but he also requires us to accept his mystery.

LOVE IS ACT & GIFT

So what is the Trinity? The Trinity is love. It is a God who is both individual being, and relationship within himself, thus being both the act of loving and being loved in one, perpetually existing as the completeness of love.

“Oh Eternal Light, Thou only dwell’st within
Thyself, and only thou know’st thee; Self-knowing,
Self-known, lovest and smilest upon thyself!
That circle—which begotten so, appeared
In thee as light reflected.”
Dante: Paradiso XXXIII

God contains the completeness of parenthood, the completeness of childlikeness, and the complete spirit of Truth within himself. God is love, and love is gift. God is perpetually in a state of giving life and love, not only to us, his creation, but to himself through the unity and relationship of Trinity. This is how the Father begets the son, while still one in being, and how the Holy Spirit proceeds from the Father and the Son. Pope Benedict XVI identifies the names of the “persons” of the Trinity in relation to this giving love. Father and Son describe God as an act, not as a stable state. God is Father in the act of self-giving. God is Son in the act of being given. The “begetting” of the Son is not contained by time, but is a constant state of gift. (Ibid. 1,V,2,b)

Love is gift. The blood of the cross is the greatest gift which God has given us. It is this act of love whereby Jesus redeems our sins and requires us to take part in our own redemption, by following his example of love for one another. Through the Eucharist we are made one with Christ’s sacrifice, and our redemption is achieved through his love. Furthermore, seeing the Trinity as an acting embodiment of the fullness of love, Jesus had to rise from the dead, else love in the Godhead would no longer have been complete.

There is no love where there is not act and gift. Love is most truly manifested in the action of giving oneself to the beloved. This is God’s gift to us through Jesus Christ. Only if Jesus is Very God, equal to the Father, does this gift constitute true and perfect love.

God reveals his love to us through countless actions and gifts. We can see the Father’s action and gift profoundly in the beauty and blessings of our world and our lives therein. We see the action of Jesus through his life and ministry, and his gift in his loving death. The Holy Spirit enables our action, and our gift.

GOD’S THREEFOLD LOVE

God has blessed us with three ways of interact-ting with creation. He interacts with us in his fullness as Creator, Companion, and Confidence.

As Father Creator, God breaths life into us, and gives us the phenomenal bounty of his gifts. God, as parent, is in a perpetual state of giving, pouring the totality of himself into every corner of the world. God’s love was so great that creation burst out from that love, and we are the unworthy recipients. Our Creator interacts with us through love, through gift, through beauty, and through grace. Our Creator contains the fullness of parental love, both fatherhood and motherhood. The Creating Love is the first essence of the Trinity.

God also chose to walk among us as our Companion. Jesus took on the humanity of his own creation, experiencing not only the joy of created life, but also the pain, sorrow and suffering. Through Jesus we know that God is always with us, helping us, guiding us through the twisted journey we call life. The profound blessing of Jesus is to know that our God has empathy for our struggles, having lived them himself. Knowing that he is fully God enlivens and sweetens his sacrifice and his example. “For we do not have a high priest who is unable to sympathize with our weaknesses, but we have one who in every respect has been tested as we are, yet without sin.” (Heb. 4:15) The second essence of the Trinity is Jesus, our Companion.

But unable to walk with us forever as a man, God sent the comforting Spirit of Truth into our hearts. The Holy Spirit enables us to know God’s truth, to confidently interpret Scripture, speak of our faith, and witness it to the world. “The Spirit of the Lord shall rest on him, the Spirit of wisdom and understanding, the Spirit of counsel and might, the Spirit of knowledge and the fear of the Lord.” (Is. 11:2) We can be assured of the true development of Christianity over the ages, through the guidance of the Spirit. He is more than truth; he is also our Comforter, with us through our trials, gently assuaging our fear. God is intimately with us every day, both as an inspiration to know the truth, and as a comfort when life is too much to bear alone. The third essence of the Trinity is our Confidence, and our Comforter.

The Trinity gives us a glimmer into the breadth of God’s love for us, his creation. God is beyond our comprehension, and we do our best to understand with conceiving of three essences that describe God’s manifestation to the world, but our minds will never be able to fully comprehend God’s love. For love is so complete that it encompasses the entire world and every substance therein. God’s love is present in everything. We see that love manifested sometimes as Creator, sometimes as Companion, and sometimes as Confidence. In the words of St. Augustine, “In that simple and highest nature, substance should not be one thing and love another, but that substance itself should be love, and love itself should be substance, whether in the Father, or in the Son, or in the Holy Spirit.” (De Trinitate, XIX, 29)

Let us embrace God as the mystery which is the Trinity, and trust that the Holy Spirit has given for our knowledge that which we need to understand. Above all, let us see the Trinity as God’s incomprehensible love, pouring out to us as the Creator whose very love necessitated gift, as our Companion, who loves us so much that he walks with us through life, even to death, and even beyond the gates of hell, and as our Confidence to know and proclaim the truth.

Jesus — Our Virgil

This is Part Two of my exploration into Dante’s Divine Comedy and the true nature of God. The first part, A God of Love or a God of Wrath should be read first.

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Jesus is the proof that God is love. We may blame God for the suffering in the world, but God’s answer was, rather than denying such pain, to come down from the heaven that is perfect beauty and to share not just human existence, but the worst, most degrading, excrutiatingly painful moments of human existence. By becoming a weak baby, experiencing the joys and sorrows of life from the perspective of humanity, and by willingly taking on the lowest aspects of the human experience, Divine Love not only shows itself, but proves itself, in the person of Jesus.

Jesus came to show us that God was not a distant ruler of humanity, but the Lover of humanity, with us every moment of every day. In Jesus, God became a helpless baby. God worked for a poor family, learning a trade. God studied the history, religion and culture of the time. God journeyed by foot from town to town in an occupied nation. God had friends.

A popular song a few years ago asked the question, “What if God was one of us?” I remember hearing it play on the radio, describing God commuting home from work, experiencing all the menial existence of human day-to-day life. I thought, not only is God one of us, God has been trying to show us that for two thousand years! God became one of us in the person of Jesus. The composer of that song still struggled with the Danteen view of an aloof God, and thus the question seemed to be a marvel. That we can ask a question like “What if God was one of us?” as if it was a new idea shows how much we have gotten it wrong from the very beginning!

Jesus example, his love and his death, shows us what kind of Creator we have. We say that Jesus died for us without further thought. But we must give this further thought. It is quite a difficult statement which centuries of saying has made easier. Jesus chose a painful and humiliating death to show his solidarity with the suffering of the world. What a profound love! Jesus is difficult to believe in because what he did is so far removed from common human nature—to put others first, even unto death. In Christianity, we place our faith in a man who endured humiliation and suffering beyond anything most of us will ever face.

The cross is the symbol of Christianity. We are so used to seeing it that we have forgotten what it is. The cross is the invention of a sick ancient mind, a tool of torture beyond most of our imaginations (though not too far off from some of the tortures described in Dante’s Inferno). At the time of Jesus the cross was a symbol of terror. On the cross pain and despair overwhelmed the mind. Death was a relief so far distant the hours seemed like days.

Crucifixion was also considered the most degrading of executions. The convicted is stripped and their naked body stretched out for the entire community to see. In Jewish culture, this made one “unclean” in just about every sense of the Mosaic law. Images of Jesus on the cross typically give him a courteous cloth around his groin, but the reality of the time was that men were crucified naked to maximize the humiliation of the punishment.

As Jesus, God not only experienced the day-to-day life of humanity, but its lowest moments. God was betrayed by a friend and denied by another. God was ridiculed and spit upon. God suffered. God was executed. God died a painful death, utterly alone. “What if God was one of us?” God was!

Imagine for a moment the experience undergone by Jesus. Imagine looking upon the cross on which you would die—the firm and awful darkness of its wood. Death more certain than if you were staring into the barrel of a firing gun, and a thousand times more painful. Imagine the crippling fear just to see this instrument of your death before you.

Your body is already exhausted from scourging and carrying the cross up the hill as they lay you upon the prostrate wood. As the nail pierces your first hand the shock of pain lashes through your entire body. Your arm is pulled across the beam, yanking your hand sharply against the nail as a second nail is drilled through your other hand. Yet the pain in your hands does not even begin to compare with the horror of the spike which pierces your feet. For a moment you try to relax, but soon your cross is lifted upright, jerking against the ropes that lift it as pain pulsates through your body, pulling against every nail. The pain is far worse than you ever imagined. For the next three hours each breath you take pulls against those awful nails, scrapes your back, already raw from lashes, against the rough wood behind you. If you try to relax your arms it pulls excruciatingly against the spike in your foot. If you try to relax your feet you feel like the skin of your armpits will tear from the weight and strain. There is some comfort in seeing your mother below, but her tears are so painful to witness that you can hardly look at her. Beside her are a few other women who loved you. You look for your friends, the ones who said they would willingly die with you. What a relief it would be to see your companions one last time and feel their support. But of your twelve closest friends, only one stands beside your mother below. The pain of rejection almost surpasses the pain of the nails.

Jesus chose this fate. When he was praying at Gethsemane the night before and the soldiers came to arrest him, he could have escaped. The back-side of the Mount of Olives leads away from Jerusalem, into the desert. Jesus was familiar with the desert and knew how to survive in it. A mob coming up the hill with lanterns and torches, as John’s gospel describes them, would have been seen while they were still rising the hill. Jesus and his three friends would have had plenty of time to retreat on the other side of the hill and escape. Later, when Pilate questioned him, he could have defended himself, but he remained silent. Pilate wanted to acquit him. He could have fled Jerusalem and continued to preach his message. But he chose not only death, but the most painful and degrading death possible, to give his message life, by sharing humanity’s lowest moments. Throughout his ministry, Jesus told his disciples that to die was his redemptive purpose. “Verily I say unto you, unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains just a single grain; but if it dies it bears much fruit.” (John 12:24)

Jesus’ death was not to satisfy a blood justice for our sins, as is often portrayed, but that by dying we might trust the love and compassion he preached: the same love and compassion which God has been giving us ever since our creation. The world suffers because of humanity’s selfishness, humanity’s tireless quest for satisfaction and pleasure, and its unwillingness to share what has been gained. God cannot change the human nature that spawns this folly. To change it would be to take away our free will, and with it, our ability to love. What God can do is to prove how much he loves us by sharing in our suffering, even the suffering of death. This is what it means to say that Jesus died for us.

If we view God as did the poets Dante and Milton, the wrathful God demanding punishment to atone for sin, then Jesus becomes a mediator, standing between us and God’s anger. This theology places Jesus’ death in the context of ancient Jewish sacrificial rites, and against the unity of Trinity. Jesus is a sacrificial lamb. Sin must be atoned for by death. If Jesus did not die, then we all must die. As Dante described, “Ne’er was a penalty so just as that inflicted by the Cross…. that a just vengeance was, by righteous court, justly revenged.” (Par. VII) The problem with this view, still widespread in Christianity today, is that it is entirely inconsistent with the picture of God given by Jesus. If God is pure and perfect love, why would he need blood to satisfy wrath and justice? What God of love would send his own son to slaughter in order to satisfy laws he had created?

Such a doctrine turns God’s love into a kind of currency which can be bartered for through sacrifice, rather than his very nature. Many Christians still think that this is what the doctrine of the cross means, but this is not the case. The Pope himself works tirelessly to dispel this gruesome view of God. “One turns away in horror,” he says, “from a righteousness whose sinister wrath makes the message of love incredible.” Rather, he identifies the cross as “the love that gives itself completely, of the process in which one is what one does and does what one is; it is the expression of a life that is completely being for others.” (Ratzinger: Introduction to Christianity, II, II, 3) This is indeed the description of a God who is by his very nature Love, who’s gift of himself is so complete that the cross was the result. We have here a God who out of unbounded compassion for creation, chose to become one with humanity, showing love by example, and as Jesus subjecting himself to our own worst hours—betrayal, ridicule, torture, and death. (Ibid, II, II, 2)

If Jesus was merely the greatest man who ever lived, or a lesser form of God, then the cross again begins to appear as a sacrificial rite, where God’s justice must be appeased with blood. Jesus, then, as the best man, offers a sacrifice for all humanity. But Jesus was in fact God incarnate. Thus, again in the Pope’s words, “it is not man who goes to God with a compensatory gift, but God who comes to man, in order to give to him… God does not wait until the guilty come to be reconciled; he goes to meet them and reconciles them… The cross is not an offer from mankind to the wrathful God, but the expression of that foolish love of God’s that gives itself away to the point of humiliation in order thus to save man; it is his approach to us, not the other way around.” (Ibid. II, II, 3) Jesus died for our sins, not as a blood sacrifice, but because only by passing through death, even through the gates of hell, can he bear us up with him. This is how he cleanses us with his blood.

How remarkable! Jesus really loved us that much! Jesus is our Virgil, guiding through every terror of our lives, but then he even goes so far as to die with us in order that we, who have earned none of the love we seek, might achieve perfect love. Jesus not only leads the path out of hell, he shares in the suffering of hell, of his own accord, that he might destroy it. Only our selfishness, our egotistical greed, has allowed a place without love—hell—to continue to exist.

It seems ridiculous to believe that God could be so close. We set God in a cloud, not believing he could touch us, and thus we do not need to touch God. Jesus shatters that possibility. Jesus says, yes, it is ridiculous. But love is ridiculous. Love knows no bounds and will defy logic for its be-loved. Jesus says I am love. You are my beloved. This is what I am willing to endure for you!

Dwell on this for a moment. Think about this love that Jesus gave. Contemplate the terror of the cross—the utter hell he endured! Could you willingly endure such horror, even for the sake of your beloved? Yea, not only to endure it for the beloved, but to endure it at the hands of the beloved! What terrible pain of body, and what worse pain of heart Jesus suffered! Next time you feel tempted to blame God for your suffering, realize that God has faced suffering much worse than your own!

In Jesus, God, the Omnipotent Creator stands in solidarity with creation. When Jesus faces the terror of the cross he gives us the courage to stand firm in our darkest hours. This is the love God has for us, that he became one of us. Jesus truly took the sins of the world on his shoulders that day at Golgotha. How he must have suffered, not just in the pain, but to bear the creation he had so lovingly made spitting on him and scourging him. In Jesus, God shows himself to so love the world and pity its suffering to come into it and share its suffering, that by example, the world could have hope.

Let us reflect again on Michelangelo’s two Jesuses. God willingly became the limp, weak frame of the “Pieta.” If we have love, need we fear the wrathful Jesus of “The Last Judgement?” When we die will we face the upraised arm that casts the sinners down to their doom, or will we meet our friend, our own Virgil, the Jesus who walked with us through life’s misery? We all have failed. We all deserve to be punished for our selfishness and rejection of love. We should all be fearful of judgement. But take heart, for the Jesus who judges is none other than he who shared our sufferings and temptations. We fall at the judge’s feet, begging mercy, but he stoops down to lift our chin, saying, “Fear not, it is I.” (Revelation 1:17, Mark 6:50)

A God of Love or a God of Wrath

This is the first in a two part exploration into Dante, and the true character of God.

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God is love. All of creation stands as evidence of God’s love. Yet it is surprisingly difficult for us to believe in a Creator who is none other than love itself. Rather, we have been fed an image of a vengeful God, more eager to remind us of our failures than our goodness. But love does not behave that way. Love always encourages, forgives, and energizes the beloved.

How did we come to believe in this God of wrath? More importantly, what is God really like?

I recently journeyed to Rome and was struck by an astounding contrast between two images of Jesus, rendered by the same artist, Michelangelo. These pieces illustrate the dichotomy between the God of wrath and the God who is Love.

Across the front interior wall of the Sistine Chapel is spread the vibrantly colored, action packed painting of “The Last Judgement.” Here a muscular Jesus, flanked by his mother Mary, stands with arm upraised, separating the dead souls, half of them being carried up to heaven, and the rest cast down to hell. To the right, men (and they are all men; besides Mary there are only a handful of female figures in the painting) line up for their turn before the judge, all desirous, all fearful, and they seem not to have any idea what their impending verdict will be. Jesus and Mary wear emotionless faces as some people are spared and the rest eternally damned. The imagery in the lower half of the painting is cruel and grotesque, complete with angels punching the unwilling souls into the waiting arms of demons, and Phlegyas in his boat, bearing the lost souls across the dark river Styx.

Minutes later I entered the Basilica San Pietro and beheld the sculpture called the “Pieta,” Michelangelo’s sublimest work. Here a contemplative Mary holds the lifeless frame of Jesus, limp, weak, his body thinned by the cruel death he underwent. This Madonna, by contrast, has a face full of emotion—sorrow, complacency, love, and the pity for which the work is named. Jesus, in contrast with the painting, is a thin man, his legs and arms showing none of the girth seen in the prior Jesus. His stomach is indrawn from hunger and dehydration, his ribs exposed. This is not the body of a fallen warrior, but of one who was taken and killed by stronger men than he.

I cannot help but see sacred art as theology, and there is a huge theological contrast between the Jesus of the “Pieta” and the Jesus of “The Last Judgement.” The dead frame shows the Jesus who took on the despair of the world, loving the least of creation with his own acceptance of a lowly death. Yet the muscle-bound Justice of “The Last Judgement” is a figure of wrath, casting the lowest of creation into eternal perdition.

The theology of one artist may be interesting to analyze, but Michelangelo’s theology has had much more far reaching effects. It amazes me how much the theology depicted in the wall, and the ceiling of the Sistine chapel continues to influence our view of our Creator, and our perspective on the afterlife.

The theology is not Michelangelo’s. This image, and indeed most sacred Renaissance art reflects the theology of his fellow Florentine of two centuries before—Dante Alighieri. Seven hundred years have passed since The Divine Comedy was published, yet it still colors our concept of the Christian religion today.

In this graphic tale, Dante, using himself as narrator, journeys through all the circles of hell and purgatory with Virgil as his guide. All manor of torment is described, particularly for those who were the author’s political rivals. The pilgrims are immersed in a dark realm, accosted by demons and lost souls on every side. Dante is constantly in fear, but the steadfast Virgil comforts him with his confidence and by addressing the demons with authority. The suffering of the shades is horrendous and grotesque, the punishment not of a merciful judge, but of a masochistic ruler who employs a twisted knowledge of suffering to enact his revenge.

Is it the masochism of Satan that assigns this terror? Not in the picture drawn by Dante. Satan is simply God’s pawn. It is God’s anger that drives the sinners into Satan’s net. God’s justice is satisfied to be rid of the damned and this God feels no regret. Where is love in this scenario? Who is this lover who forsakes the beloved? “I opened to my beloved but my beloved had turned and was gone. I sought him, but did not find him; I called him but he gave no answer.”(Song of Solomon 5:6)

The Divine Comedy is one of the most celebrated books within the Catholic tradition, and much of its theology, especially from the last half, gives a beautiful image of a soul striving for the divine. But the imagery of inferno and early purgatory is gruesome and vengeful. It is this imagery that has abided over the centuries. It was obviously written as an allegory, never intended to be viewed as a literal description of hell. Yet the details are unimportant. The spirit of this work has significantly and negatively colored the Christian view of our Creator.

There are some particularly disturbing encounters made by the two travelers as they sojourn the underworld. There are the souls of good Christians who died in battle without being administered last rights. (Prg. V) For no other wrong they are condemned to eons in purgatory before being admitted to paradise. In hell they pass through “limbo” where dwell worthy souls who were not baptized, either because of infant death or because they lived before the age of Christianity. “These of sin were blameless: and if aught they merited, it profits not, since baptism was not theirs: the portal to thy faith…” (Inf. IV) Further on in hell Dante converses with Francesca, who with her lover is condemned to eternal hell because their love for one another distracted them from their love for God. (Inf. V) Even in heaven, the narrator meets the soul of a nun who was raped. She is consigned to the lowest level of heaven because her vow of chastity was broken, even though by no fault of her own. (Par. IV)

To believe that humans would be thus punished because their deaths were sudden with no opportunity for last rights or baptism depicts a God reduced to the size and restrictions of his own rules. Where is mercy in this scenario? What reason is there for such a damnation? How terrible it would be for a Creator to turn its back on its creation for a failure in a rule when there was no chance to obey. What baby chooses to die before baptism? What soldier chooses to be slain? What person chooses to succumb to a catastrophe when no priest happens to be near? Does the soul deserve to suffer for such circumstances? What woman, whether or not she has taken a vow of chastity, deserves a reduced blessing for being raped?

Virgil, the ancient Roman poet who serves as the allegorical guide, confesses that he is amongst the souls in limbo. Despite his good soul he is condemned to this place in hell. He is trusted to shepherd the character of Dante through the abyss, but he disappears as soon as they reach the gate of heaven, for he is allowed no further, and never will be.

Francesca and her lover, in their love for one another, supposedly deprioritize love for God. What is love for God but love for one another? When can love be wrong? This is a twisted view of God, and a twisted view of love.

Interestingly, Dante identifies love as the guiding theme both in the grace of heaven, and in the punishment of hell. In Virgil’s soliloquy at the central point of the work, he makes the case that it is through loving things of the world, or themselves too much, that the souls in hell are forced to suffer. Their punishments are ordered based on this corrupted love. There is a confusion here between love and lust. True love is gift. What is identified as love for self and love for sin, is actually lust.

The souls in hell are described as penitent, longing for the love God can give to spare them from their self lust. If God is love, then the Divine Comedy is a story of a God who lost the celestial war. The beloved is cast into a pit of suffering. The fallen angels, Lucifer in particular, are masters of their realm, drunk on the suffering they inflict. What type of punishment is this for the demons who turned all humanity away from God? They are tasting eternal success? Why would God allow Lucifer such satisfaction in his power? Why must Francesca suffer more pain than Lucifer? The whole picture does not make sense. Lucifer has won! This is a God who has lost the power to do good in all places. This God lacks either the power or the will to reach out a hand to rescue the beloved.

The God of Dante is a God whose need for justice outweighs love and mercy. This God no longer cares about the souls in hell. They were placed there because of specific rules and transgressed laws, and there is no looking back. For this God, rules are more important than morality and love. If one broke the rules for whatever reason, or lacks a proper conversion experience and baptism, damnation is certain. And once the soul is damned, God leaves the equation. Once Lucifer and the fallen demons are out of God’s sight, they are out of mind, free to inflict any suffering on others they may wish, even if those souls are guilty of lesser evils.

You may be thinking this is an archaic view of God and saying “I don’t view God that way.” But have any of us really left it behind? Don’t you still picture hell as some sort of fiery pit, where sinners work like slaves before the whips of grotesque demons? Logically, you don’t, but doesn’t your brain still conjure up this image?

We were made because of love, and it is our free will to reciprocate our Creator’s love that makes us the beloved of God. What would be the point of this life if the rules change in the next? No, God’s reward is our willingly reciprocated love, out of free will. Heaven is the culmination of our lifelong pursuit of beauty and love. There will be no obligation in our praise—how could we refuse it, being finally in the presence of perfect beauty and perfect love? By contrast, hell is the chosen rejection of love.

But we have been taught a God of rules and wrath instead of a God of love. Christians are far quicker to judge error than to laud goodness. Just like Dante, we pass judgement on those we consider sinners, never with any doubt that God is doing the same. Dare we consider that mercy may be greater than judgement?

We should embrace a love-theology rather than a fear-theology. The songs in heaven will be sung out of the joy of the beloved to be in the presence of the Lover. Beholding the beauty of life’s gifts, our desire to please God will come from pure gratitude, not because of fear or obligation. Fear begets obedience only until the moment of rebellion.

Grown out of the disturbing view of God, where wrath trumps love, comes a faulty notion of Jesus’ role which propagated in the middle-ages and was key in fear-theology. Jesus is seen as a mediator between us and a vengeful God. It is as if Jesus convinces God to tip his emotional balance from anger to love. John Milton described Jesus begging God to forgive humanity after the first sin. “Bend thine ear to supplication; hear his sighs… let him live before thee reconciled… and for these my death shall pay..” (Paradise Lost, XI) God gives in to Jesus’ intercession. God is not love, Jesus is love.

To a God of love, if the afterlife really were the way Dante and Milton describe it, God would not be in heaven accepting the love of an obedient creation. God would be weeping in eternal pity for the beloved’s suffering. How God would grieve to know that his repentant beloved (as the souls in hell are described in Dante’s Inferno) suffered! In Dante’s hell, the souls long for forgiveness and grieve because of their separation from God. Could the Lover listen unmoved to the beloved’s cry of regret? God would be wandering the seven circles of Dante’s hell, desperately trying to free the victims and take them to a better place. Love would have no blind eye toward suffering.

Hell, rather, is a chosen rejection of love, not a place designed for punishment. If a soul chooses selfishness over love, hell will be their fate. If a soul wishes to be with God’s love, and demonstrates it by exercising love, Divine Love will not reject that wish. Yes, hell is a place of suffering, but it is a chosen suffering, because to be embraced by love, self must be sacrificed.

God cannot reach into hell to save the damned because hell is the absence of love, and there, God cannot go. Nor can a soul in hell ever be repentant, for hell’s darkness is eternal selfishness. When in such a state, there is no desire for change. Purgatory is the journey away from self, toward love. In the end, if we are to experience purgatory or hell, we will discover that it was our own choice that put us there. I do not only mean metaphorically, but that we will be actively choosing to be there by rejecting love.

Will the Last Judgement be the Dies Irae (day of wrath), or a day of Pieta (pity)? If God is love, then ours will be a judgement where God wants to pardon us, wants us in heaven. But we must embrace the gift, at the expense of our own ego. If we are unwilling to do that, then we choose hell, the despair of lost love, and God weeps for us. The suffering of hell is that of the mind and heart which has rejected love, and we get there by closing off love. Fear this hell! Fear it with every ounce of dread Dante stirs, for such suf-fering, such coldness of a complete void of love is far worse than burning and gnashing of teeth!

Heaven is the living experience of perfected beauty and perfected love. It is the fulfillment of our insatiable longing for beauty. There, our desires will be satisfied. The lesson Jesus teaches is that we must give up our selfishness in order to gain this reward. It is not such a strange command, since we all know that true love requires sacrificing our own desires to the desires of the beloved.

The most comforting thing is that God wants us with him in heaven and will do everything we allow to make it happen. God does not want us to suffer the pains of hell, and God is willing to do something about it! God is not aloof and distant, but challenges us to accept love every moment of every day. We make the mistake of viewing God as so big and powerful that he is beyond our sight and comprehension. But God is so big and powerful that he is present in the smallest of things, not only able but willing to walk with us at every moment.

Virgil, who guides the narrator through the darkest shadows, is the closest depiction of God in all of the Divine Comedy. But God is our Virgil, the hero with us on our journey.

In Christianity we have created a series of intercessors. Jesus is the first. We picture him, as in the Miltonian conversation, swaying God’s heart toward us. God is too distant for our imag-ination. Jesus is more accessible to our hearts. Viewing God as our personal hero is an utterly foreign idea to us. We rely on figures like Virgil to be our heroes. Yet even Jesus has become too distant, so we rely on more intercessors, such as Mary, and the Saints. We ask them to intercede for us. We even invoke personalities such as guardian angels to be our protectors, taking the personal role we cannot concede to God. It is too difficult for us to imagine God, to care enough to worry about our lowly lives. Why don’t we take away the barriers? God is close enough. God is our guide. The Saints can be beseeched to pray for us, just as we would ask our brothers and sisters to pray for us. But God is also here with us every minute. We are God’s beloved. God does not send others to mediate on our journey.

God appears to us every day, sometimes in the most unexpected ways. God does not leave the job of companionship to others. If we could only open our minds and hearts to God’s true nature we would see him with us every step of the way.

How does God prove this love? By not only walking with us, but by becoming one of us. In the beginning of Dante’s inferno, the heroic Virgil seeks out the narrator to lead him through the pits of hell. God did the same thing. As God incarnate, Jesus seeks us in our lowest moments, sharing in our suffering for the chance to lead us through. Jesus is our Virgil, come to us in our need to provide the guiding hand up from inferno.

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Part Two: Jesus — Our Virgil

5: Community

This is the final chapter in HUMANÆ DESIDERIÆ, a philosophical inquiry into human longing. The earlier chapters can be viewed here:

1: Perception & Reality
2: Human Desire
3: The Nature of Truth
4: Morality

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Morality is truly our path to lasting joy, through the good we do toward one another. Through the principles of community we see that by doing good for others, by extension, we are doing good for ourselves. Yet we do not always take seriously just how important the good of our community is to each one of us.

The community of the human race, as we have seen, is the primary thing that validates our own reality. Without the interaction of others, we lose a grasp on ourselves. We truly need one another on a very basic level. Humanity has a great fear of being alone. Other than death, this may be our greatest fear, and indeed, much of our fear of death is connected to the fear of loneliness. Since the beginning of our history we have sought one another in community.

Companionship has been vital to the survival of our race. From the intimate (marriage, family) to the local (clan, tribe, or in modern times, co-workers and groups of friends) to the national and finally global levels, we rely on one another for success, and we expect others to behave in predictable ways. Part of this network comes from our acceptance of moral law. The reality is that we need one another. Our lives are intertwined in a fantastic and beautiful framework. Think of how we count on the work that others do, even as they count on our own work. The community of our groups and cities and globe work so smoothly that we take it for granted. But if one chain is broken, chaos ensues, leading to strikes, riots, famine, and war.

From this perspective, our work—our participation in the community of our world, is perhaps our most basic act of love. By providing our talents to the community, we give a gift, and accept the gift of another. It is a simple exchange of love. On a personal level, companionship is one of our greatest comforts, and the loss of it is a dreadful fear. We value our families and friends, even our mere acquaintances so much and greatly bemoan their loss. If other people are this important to us, then it must be recognized that the good of the community equates directly to our own good. We recognized earlier that love is the greatest of all human desires. Ironically, it is one desire which we cannot possibly achieve on our own. Love necessitates another. And only by giving love do we begin to receive love. Thus, the ability to give, the inclination toward unselfishness is the only way to come into possession of our greatest desire.

Because of our great dependence on love, we are necessarily a community people. Community provides both accountability and the opportunity to love. My acts of love benefit the community, and the community has tremendous power to refresh and renew me. This is true at every level of relationship, from the intimate to the global. With a spouse or lover, love is never complete until both parties give equally of themselves to the other. In the offering of oneself, love can be fulfilled. In friendship, nobody will put up with a friend only interested in himself. One must offer friendship before it can be reciprocated. In the community, this trade takes the form of compassion. We are all in the community of humanity together. If one person suffers, the rest must recognize that fact with compassion. In many cases, the suffering of the unfortunate can be directly traced to the selfishness of the fortunate. In our compassion and in our charity, we should recognize that we could just as easily be on the other side of the relationship. There is a thin line between those who need charity and those who give it. And the forces that may hold us in the more prosperous place are extremely fickle.

If we resent giving charity now, when we are able, who will be there to help us when we are thrown into poverty or despair? Compassion and charity are two way streets, even though our place may often seem to be only on one side or the other. Our whole lives may be spent on only one side of the street, but we never know. Things can change quickly. If we have lived selfishly, who will have sympathy for us in our need? If we do not give charity when we are able, who will give us alms when we are compelled to beg?

In every sense, love must be given if it is to be received. With individuals, our love is reciprocated with companionship and comfort. In the larger community, love is displayed through charity and compassion.

If our longing is fulfilled by giving love, then equally important is being able to open ourselves up to receive the love of others. Our pride often makes us reluctant to accept the very love which we know will satisfy our longing. If we are not able to accept love when it is given to us, we are doing all the work without claiming the reward. Learning to accept charity, generosity, and love can be hard, but the reward is wonderful. In no other way can we come closer to fulfilling our transcendental desires here on earth. In no other way can we fully experience the beauty which we seek so fiercely, than in love. Love is communion— it cannot be experienced alone. It exists between friends, lovers, or even strangers who treat each other with goodness and charity. Love is void without another to share it.

An example of the necessary give and take of charity was when Jesus washed the feet of his friends. In the culture of that time, a teacher would never have done this for his disciples. Peter’s response of “Lord, you will never wash my feet!” is what we would expect them all to say. This would have really been quite a scandal. But Jesus did this for two specific reasons: first, to show them that to be great in love, one must offer loving service to others. Secondly, as he told Peter, you must be able to accept the love which is offered to you. “You call me Teacher and Lord,” he told them, “and you are right, for that is what I am. So if I, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also ought to wash one another’s feet. For I have set you an example, that you also should do as I have done to you.” (John 13: 13-15) Nor was even Judas, his betrayer, excluded from the love of foot-washing. If Jesus could do such a service for the one whom he knew would betray him to his death, should we not also be able to do such a service for one another? Community is truly the give and take—the two way street—of love, generosity and charity.

What does religion mean in the context of community? Religion offers us a community of people, sharing love, and holding one another accountable as they strive to follow a shared morality. Religion recognizes how the morality we discussed in the previous chapter benefit both the individual and the whole. Without the structure of religion, and the support of the community, it is easy for one to lose track of the moral code which this group has recognized as the method of achieving our transcendental desires. Accountability and community are the fundamental reasons for the importance of religion. It may be possible to follow the path of love and charity, and to point ourselves toward our divine aspirations without religion, but it is far more difficult.

Through the shared principles of morality within religion–and the greatest of all morals is love— religion has become a vessel of charity in the world. The very first Christian writer, St. Paul, identified charity as one of the pre-eminent tasks of the church as an institution. “As you excel in everything,” he told the Corinthians, “so we want you to excel also in this generous undertaking.” He commends the Macedonian church for “voluntarily giving according to their means, and even beyond their means.” (II Corin. 8:3,7). The church of the immediately succeeding centuries well understood the place of charitable works in the very validity of the church. During the persecution in the Third Century of Christians in Rome, Deacon Lawrence was ordered to hand over all the treasure of the church to the authorities. Lawrence distributed all the church’s funds to the poor and then presented the poor themselves as the real treasure of the church. (St. Ambrose: De officiis ministrorum. II, 28, 140)

In the first days of Christianity, charity was fundamental to life as a follower of Jesus. We are told that they lived for awhile in an ideal community, for “there was not a needy person among them, for as many as owned lands or houses sold them and brought the proceeds of what was sold. They laid it at the apostles’ feet, and it was distributed to each as any had need.” (Acts 4:34-35). Christianity has not changed so much since that time. Our community is larger, but we are still compelled to live with love and charity toward those who share this name. As the centuries have unfolded, organized charity has become one of the fundamental works of a church body. Thus did the Catholic Church establish the first hospitals and the first orphanages in the world. And today it takes a leading role in disaster relief, and the effort to ease hunger in the world.

Pope Benedict XVI, in Part II of his encyclical, Deus Caritas Est, gives strong and challenging support to those working in charitable organizations under the name of the Church, following the first example of the apostles, that “all who believed were together and had all things in common.” (Acts 2:44). By these words it is inconceivable to selfishly hold back charity from those in our community. His predecessor, Pope John Paul II makes a clear distinction between the work carried out by the community as a whole (charitable organizations), which involves “larger tasks, requiring cooperation and the use of technical means, [and] no less valuable–individual activity, especially by people who are better prepared for it in regard to the various kinds of human suffering which can only be alleviated in an individual or personal way.” (Salvifici Doloris, VII, 29). While a community (the church) has an intrinsic role in, to use John Paul’s definition, “the work of human solidarity,” we must each be equally prepared to give our love at a moment’s notice when it is called for, in the same way that we would hope for others to give it in our own time of need.

Love is the greatest desire of our hearts. Every person with whom we share the human condition is a potential vessel of love. We can unlock this love through a vigilance of compassion, readying ourselves for charity whenever and wherever the need arises.

But although love is our greatest human desire, a blessing we value even more than life itself, our search for it so often leaves us empty. Even if we are diligent in the love we give, vigilant in compassion, and generous with the charity we offer to those in need, we may not be reciprocated the love we desire. Without a hope for a life beyond, even these virtues can lead us to despair. But by believing in a God who created us out of love, we hope that our death will bring us into a perfect experience of love, and a perfect community which we will share with all the saints.

Yet even on earth, where the reward of virtue is unfairly skewed, love, charity and compassion are the closest answers we will find to achieving our transcendental desire. There truly is no substitute for the comfort and companionship of human love, and the camaraderie of a caring community. No other of our dreams and ambitions find satisfaction in as tangible a way as love. Without love, religion is vain. Without love, life is vain.

IN CONCLUSION

To conclude the present inquiry, we have seen that whether speaking in science or philosophy, we must continually remember that ultimately our discussion must relate to what is real. We know what is real through our perceptions and our interactions with those who share in the community of humanity. Through this knowledge, and through the scientific principles of evolution and physical symmetry, we can be sure that our transcendental desires such as hope and love, may also be treated as real. Thus it is not foolish to have a hope for something greater than our present experience.

We have looked at the relationship between faith and truth, understanding that the two must embrace one another, whether in religion, philosophy or science. Indeed, the present distancing of the three fields named is the work of recent times, and ideally, the three must be linked if any is to succeed. Faith is to truth what theory is to experiment. Our faithful search for truth leads us to believe that there is such a thing as absolute truth, whether or not we will find it in this life, and this knowledge leads us to believe in a moral law.

The efforts we have made to experience pleasure and beauty have left us unfulfilled. By breaking the morality we so often despise, we end up more despairing than before. Only by practicing morality, and entering into the communion of love, do we find satiation for our desire.

Whether morality is given only by religion, or is learned through culture and our observance of the long term good of the community, it cannot be argued that morality is good for humanity as a whole. And this necessitates our respect for community. On all levels of relationship, from the intimate to the global, the community of other human beings is vital to our success, and the closest we may come to achieving our transcendental desires in this life. Through love we see that the only way to gain our greatest desire, is first to give. This may be considered morality at its most basic level. The reciprocation of love is our closest experience to heaven on earth. Yet even human love so often disappoints, leading us to sorrow and despair. Thus, we are promised that our love will be reciprocated, that the life beyond holds a greater promise of love than we can possibly imagine. The answer to all our transcendental desires waits in the loving embrace of God.

4: Morality

This is the fourth of five chapters in HUMANÆ DESIDERIÆ, a philosophical inquiry into human longing.

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Our reflection now forces us to ask, if there is such a thing as truth, then is there a moral absolute? In today’s world, morality is often viewed as something promulgated by religion, and thus its concept, in word at least, is written off in favor of what is perceived as freedom. Yet only the utterly lawless and perverse actually dispense morality from their lives. Even void of religion, morality’s value to a social structure and good personal health is valued.

For this reason, as humanism spread through the western world, many feared what the reduction of religion would lead to. Voltaire, even after rejecting religion for himself, continued to encourage Christianity amongst his servants, fearing lest the loss of Christian morals would diminish their respect for his authority. Clearly, even Voltaire understood that humanism is intrinsically selfish, while Christianity, and by connection—religious morals, are intrinsically unselfish. It was well enough for Voltaire to believe in a selfish creed, but he recognized that social structure would not allow everyone to live selfishly.

In modern times, some scientists who have themselves rejected religion, admit fearing the results if the full extent of their teachings—that being the non-existence of God and by extension, all religious truth—is accepted by the masses. In a conversation recorded by Werner Heisenberg, he quotes another esteemed young physicist Wolfgang Pauli, who fears lest “Western culture come to the point at which the parables and images that religion has used up to now are no longer convincing, even for simple folk; and then, I fear, traditional morality will also very rapidly break down, and things will happen that are more frightful than anything we can yet imagine.” (Heisenberg: Physics & Beyond: Encounters & Conversations. 1969, p. 295). The fallacy shared by Voltaire and Pauli is that they advocate a different truth for the learned than for the masses. By such an admission something is necessarily lacking in the truth they profess. The Christian view of the world, by contrast, presents a truth valid for all walks of life, all social stations, and all levels of intellect.

An alternate view of morality would be that it is antecedent to religion: that religion developed in history as a method of containing the morality, the innate sense of right and wrong, which humanity has ingrained in the depths of our very being. By this view, even if we were to disband all religion, there would still be a sense of right and wrong within each of our hearts, preventing society from spiraling into chaos. This would no doubt prove comforting to Wolfgang Pauli.

Interestingly, this is not far off from what Judaism and Christianity profess. Religion, if you will, did not come into the world until the time of Abraham, yet God ingrained right and wrong into the first man and woman, and long before Abraham’s time deemed it necessary to punish those who strayed from it. And so we can all agree that religion did indeed come into the world as a tool for containing morality. The only difference is that the atheist believes it was done to regulate social behavior, while the religious believe it was handed down by God.

C. S. Lewis uses the ingrained moral sense as his primary argument for the truth of religion. The law of human nature, he rightly claims, appeals to an understood sense that it is right to do good to others, and wrong to do them harm—to put it even simpler, unselfishness is better than selfishness. (Mere Christianity, chap 1, 1943). This ingrained sense, argues Lewis, is proof of God’s hand in the makeup of every human being. Though this argument is intriguing, on its own it comes up short, for the unselfishness of doing what is right rather than wrong is vital for any functioning society. Anybody in a position of authority, whether a king, or even Voltaire with his servants, would have the motivation to promote this “law of human nature” as the just social order. When this order breaks down, so does society. In primitive social structures, morality could even have existed simply as a tool of survival, where humans knew their success depended on cultivating the companionship and respect of others. Thus it would be beneficial to do good to others, so as to gain the protection of the group in time of trial. As such, morality can be seen as much to be a learned law as an ingrained natural sense.

If the sense of right and wrong were a true law of nature, we would see its evidence in the smallest of children, but this is not the case. Indeed, a baby, though we do not blame it, is by nature the most selfish of creatures. It cries and scolds for what it wants and becomes indignant when it does not get its way. Even as it begins to grow, the child learns its first morality by desiring to avoid punishment. Only over the years do they learn to live by a principal of unselfishness for its own sake. If the child grew to adulthood completely uninfluenced by society and religion, would an unselfish morality ever be learned? By God’s mercy we may hope it would, but by the evidence of our observation, we cannot be sure that an unselfish nature would necessarily prevail. Previously I argued that the transcendental longing within us, that which strives for love, and an answer beyond this life, is ingrained within our makeup, thus necessitating its being treated as real. Though a sense of right and wrong often leads one in this same direction, it is more difficult to argue that it is written into our very makeup in the same way, based on our observation of children. Even children who know not right from wrong have a fantastic and transcendental imagination.

Even in society, where morality benefits the group as a whole, this law is not necessarily intuitive. The human will is naturally more disposed toward selfishness, seeking comfort and pleasure at the expense of others. The Bible gives us several examples of early humanity’s failure to incorporate morality. Before sending the flood, “The Lord saw that the wickedness of humankind was great in the earth, and that every inclination of the thoughts of their hearts was evil.” (Genesis 5:5) Later on, when he looked at the wicked cities of Sodom and Gomorrah, The Lord said “How very grave is their sin!” (Genesis 18:20) To Abraham, God gave religion, and from him it spread through the world, because God saw how humanity tended away from moral law without the structure of religion. So although, even free from religion, we can see how morality benefits society, history’s example shows that we are still more inclined toward selfishness unless a moral law is given. Religion provides this law.

Whether morality is an ingrained sense, a learned law, or a tool of survival, its value would be foolish to argue. However we believe it came into humanity, and whatever it might tell us about God, the simpler reality is that over time, doing good will have a better result for the individual and the society than doing ill. Even the most selfishly oriented individual, if wise with foresight, can see that some unselfishness must be incorporated in his actions if he is ever to achieve his selfish goals. If an individual never exercises right toward his fellows, his subsequent isolation will torture all his selfish intent.

Modern society values freedom more than anything else. Morality is often seen as an obstruction to freedom, religion as an enemy of pleasure. But truly what religion is attempting to convey is that morality, while restricting some freedoms in the short term, prevents one from becoming a slave to pleasure later on. Further, the individual freedoms, and individual quests for pleasure that we have come to value, has caused much of the pain and chaos of the world. Truly, we cannot all achieve a complete and equal freedom. If I wish to be free from work, yet still live in society, another person will necessarily need to work harder. If I wish always to be free from hunger, another person will be hungry. Morality is a code of action designed to put the good of others ahead of the good of ourselves. Thus, morality is not a concept which can be discussed in an individual vacuum, but requires others besides ourselves to make it complete. Morality deals with a community, and our knowledge that the good of the community is by extension the good of ourselves. To steal is good for me, but bad for the community. I avoid the immoral act of theft because I know that the break-down in social order and trust, resulting from my action will be a net negative on me as well. Similarly, my laziness forces another to work harder, and my greed takes double the blessing I need rather than sharing with one who has none. These actions are detrimental to the community as a whole.

We must always keep in mind as we seek a life of freedom and pleasure, that there are those whose freedom and pleasure is restricted. More often than not, it is the selfishness that hoards all the good we can for ourselves, and are loath to share it with those who have less, which places this restriction upon the blessings of others. There is so much good in our world, so much to give pleasure in full to everyone, but by those who are able hoarding it from those who cannot gain it, either through power and might, or simply by selfishness, we pervert the good of the world. Freedom and pleasure can become an addiction to us, where the more we have, the more we desire, never gaining contentment, and only further isolating those who have not from those who have.

We have come into a culture that attempts to move on from morality by claiming that freedom is the greatest value to be achieved. People now behave in depraved and abominable ways, justifying it by claiming it is their “right” and their “freedom” to do whatever gives them pleasure. In primitive and oppressive societies the strong have freedom and the weak have none. Yet modern culture has created, on a smaller scale, the same dichotomy. Unless freedom is enjoined with other principals, it becomes meaningless, and what the capable call freedom, the weak call oppression.

Morality is often looked upon as a restriction, but that is to miss its essence. Truly, morality is a guide to greater freedom, greater enjoyment of life, and greater love. Immoral deeds, those things which go against our understood natural moral law, may bring pleasure in the short term, but leave us sadly unfulfilled after the deed is done. Think how the pleasure of food, when leading to the immoral behavior of gluttony, brings far more displeasure through loss of health and energy than the pleasure of the taste brought in the beginning. Or think of how immoral sexual acts complicate our lives and relationships, and can also prove detrimental to our health in ways which sex housed in pure and moral love do not. Momentary experiences of pleasure so often lead to despair in the consequences.

God did not give us moral law to test us, but because he loves us and knows with his perfect foresight, how much happier we will be in the future if we practice morality now. Morality is a law of love. In the words of St. Augustine, “all of God’s commandments are embraced in love.” (Enchiridion. 121). Moral law gives two gifts: the gift from God to us with the ordered method for our own happiness, health, and peace, and the gift from us to our neighbors to think of their good before our own.

Let us now return to the question which opened this chapter: does our understanding that truth is real lead us to the necessity of a moral absolute? Can our transcendental desires which, if incorporated into the symmetry of existence, lead us to a knowledge of right and wrong? And if we accept morality, must we also accept a religious creed? What an honest examination of freedom and pleasure shows us is that morality is even more basic than religious structure itself. Biblical history shows us the same thing, that morality was established in the world prior to religion. Religion gives a framework for morality. But it gives something else as well. It answers the question of why. Why is it good to be unselfish? Why is it good to be loving and charitable? Why is virtue to be admired? Religious morality is the road map to the achievement of our transcendental desires. We can see how unselfishness toward our neighbor today can benefit us tomorrow. In Christianity, we are told how it can be true on a much larger scale.

The greatest pleasure we can possibly hope for is love. As we have already seen, love is more important to us than life itself. In Christianity we are told that our God not only loves us, but in fact is love! By practicing unselfish morality, we are acting with love toward others. Even in a purely atheistic society, it is easy to see how giving love is the only way to get love. Yet by believing in a God who is love, we are assured that the reward for our present love and compassion for one another will be to share in a great heaven of love.

We have looked at how morality benefits not only the community, but us by extension. Why, then, are we so intent on our selfish desires?

So much of our immorality comes from an insatiable desire within each one of us for beauty. It is not enough for us to see beauty in the world, appreciate it, and enjoy our place in it. We feel the need to grasp it, to own it, and fulfill it with what we know as pleasure. Much of the pain in the world comes through this selfish pursuit for beauty and pleasure by some, at the expense of others. Pleasure is a manifestation of the beauty and love of the world through experience. Pleasure is a wonderful thing, and it is well for us to desire it. Yet our perversion of it throughout the ages has given pleasure a bad name. We have come to misinterpret both the meaning of pleasure and our desire for it. The world is so beautiful it would be absurd to suggest that we are not meant to appreciate it. The danger is that we might become so addicted to our pleasure that we seek it even at the expense of those around us. It is in the over-indulgence of pleasure, and in our obstinate quest for it that we, in selfishness and disdain for the good of others, pervert the beauty of the world.

We are meant to enjoy the things which give pleasure to our hearts and bodies. The joy that is brought from well-earned pleasure is a wonderful blessing, but we only feel the reward if we also seek to share that joy with others. As long as we seek the good of others along with ourselves, pleasure will never become corrupt. This is living by the moral law discussed earlier. Invariably, the good of the whole will also be good for me. Some religious leaders have given up their own pleasures for the sake of their ministry, often thinking that sacrificing all pleasure is the truest path to righteousness. But personal gratification need not be forsaken, only subordinated to the gratification of others. If we are only thinking of ourselves, then our desire for excesses can bring great harm both to the community, and by extension, to ourselves.

All of our pleasure and desire springs from our love for good and beautiful things. But when we seek to possess the beauty around us rather than just appreciating it, we allow our desire to overwhelm us, and it kills the beauty we loved. In everything we must keep mindful that beauty is a gift from God, not just to us individually, but to all. Thus, we would do well to share with those around us. Quoting again the venerable Bishop of Hippo, “All the good that you love is from the Creator, but unjustly is it loved if God be forsaken for it!” (St. Augustine: Confessions, IV, 18) Let us strive to enjoy the gifts of the world without letting our addiction for their beauty take hold.

Addictions are usually thought of in terms of substance abuses. Once the addict has tasted a little, they desire more and more, and will never be content, no matter how much of it they have. But even if we do not struggle with such vices as drugs and alcohol, we should honestly face our addictions for the pleasures of beauty, experience, possessions, even acclaim and success. Few of us can deny having felt the addictive influence of all of these. These are the desires of our senses. The longing for more… never feeling content… this is the addiction. Have you ever eaten food for which you had no hunger, only because it was there? Or have you bought something you did not need, because you saw it and suddenly wanted it? Or have you found someone attractive and suddenly felt an intense desire to know them sexually? What are such longings if not addictions?

Such desires drive us constantly to be fulfilled, when it is really only the quest itself that brings us any glimpse of happiness. The pleasure fades as soon as the experience is over. Thomas Merton wrote, “The earthly desires men cherish are shadows. There is no true happiness in fulfilling them. Why then do we continue to pursue joys without substance? Because the pursuit itself has become our only substitute for joy. Unable to rest in anything we achieve, we determine to forget our discontent in a ceaseless quest for new satisfaction. In the pursuit, desire itself becomes our chief satisfaction.” (The Ascent to Truth, 1951)

How then, can we hope to fulfill our desire for pleasure, and the acute human longing for beauty and love, if not in these ways?

For the answer we must look at another type of desire which we all have felt. We are so addicted to our selfish desires that we forget the joy we get from unselfishness, and even the desire we have for the joy it brings. Have you ever labored to prepare the perfect gift for a loved one, or given such a gift to a child at Christmas? How eagerly you anticipated the look of joy on their faces! Think of a time when you may have brightened the life of a person in despair, be it from poverty, age, weakness of body or depression of mind. The smile returned from such a person is a joy unparalleled by the fulfillment of any selfish desire. The practice of charity and compassion is one of the greatest experiences of the world’s beauty.

Morality may sometimes seem difficult, but the reward is great. If indeed moral law was given to us by God, then we should trust that God knew what was best for us, and that our greatest pleasure comes from following the very law under which we reluctantly chafe.

3: The Nature of Truth

This is the third of five chapter in HUMANÆ DESIDERIÆ, a philosophical inquiry into human longing. In the first chapter we looked at what is real, and in the second chapter we investigated how our desires fit into that reality. This led us to the idea of faith. In this chapter we shall look further into faith, and the nature of truth.

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At the end of the last chapter, we addressed the argument that faith is a positivistic view of life. Another argument that is often made against faith is that it is used to avoid truth, specifically the types of truth which can be factually documented, and that faith is used to make leaps across gulfs in knowledge which further study might be able to bridge. Again, one hears also the objection of positivism, that faith allows one to establish the conclusion they are hoping for, and then declare that faith guided them to that “truth” even in the face of hard evidence against it.

Most often, such objections are raised when either real truth, or real faith has already been compromised. At their pinnacle of meaning, truth and faith must go hand in hand. In religion, faith is to truth, what theory is to experiment in science. We can have one of two opinions on truth. Either it is something within the ability of human thought and speculation to completely and fully unravel. Or it is something which we are incapable of ever knowing completely, however close we think we may come. If we hold the latter view, then faith must be part of the equation. Faith is not a substitute for truth, or a bandage we put on truth, but the glue that holds truth together. If one uses their idea of faith to stubbornly hold onto the conclusion they hoped for, then their faith is not real. It is no better than opinion. Opinions should no more be called faith than they should be called true.

The search for truth has inspired and frustrated humanity since history began. Philosophy has grown and changed through the ages, but the questions are the same as they have always been. How are we to know what is true? The clue is in our desires: those transcendental longings which point us beyond our own life. And this, as pointed out at the end of the previous chapter, brings us back to faith. Faith is the beginning of our being able to experience the satisfaction of our desires, including, our desire for truth. This desire, this quest for truth is one of those inexplicable tendencies of humanity which must make sense, must have an answer, and must be treated every bit as real as our flesh and bones. If we listen to our desires, listen to our faith, the truth of our existence becomes plain. Returning to the question of what is real, to each of us, we ourselves are the most real and the best arbiter of truth. To this point, St. Augustine admonishes the philosophers “not to wander far and wide but return into yourself. Deep within humanity dwells the truth.” (De Vera Religione, 39)

In the current culture of the world, the search for truth has become less of a virtuous quest and more of a personal experience, in which truth for one person may not be truth for another. Such a thing as absolute truth is no longer sought, and often not even considered possible. What’s more, these modern philosophers label those who make claims of absolute truth as intolerant, self-righteous, and even downright naïve. The questions of philosophy are no different than the questions grappled over by the ancient philosophers of Greece, but while Plato and Aristotle sought answers (often unsuccessfully) today’s philosophy considers the questions themselves as the beauty of the philosophical practice. The questions are more revered than the answers. Holding to this pattern, when a viable answer is proposed, it is dismissed as unknowable or unproveable. The problem with this is that by denying the possibility of truthful answers, the questions themselves become meaningless, and the entire practice of philosophy is rendered useless.

Speaking of philosophy, Aristotle says “Knowledge and understanding have always something else as their object, and themselves are only the way. Further, if thinking and being thought are different, in respect of which does goodness belong to thought?” (Metaphysics, 1076)

The focus on questions rather than answers, on thinking rather than being thought, is a new pattern for philosophy. When Christianity sprang upon the world, it engaged in dialogue with philosophy. When the Apostle Paul went to Athens he argued for the Christian answer to the questions of the Epicureans and Stoics (Acts 17:18). St. Augustine hammered out Christian dogma from a reason steeped in Greek and Roman thought. St. Thomas Aquinas reinvented the teachings of Aristotle from a perspective of Christianity, simultaneously engaging in dialogue with the great thinkers of Judaism and Islam, who had at the time far surpassed the Christian teachers in knowledge of philosophy and science. Christianity gained strong footing in the medieval world because it offered an answer to the questions which had troubled humanity from the beginning of time. In all these eras, the Christian fathers joined scientists on the cusp of knowledge, eagerly looking to unlock the secrets of the world as clues toward understanding the language of God. There was never a dispute between the ideas of philosophy and reason. Indeed, they were considered indispensable to each other, and faith (religion) was tightly woven between.

But the Age of Enlightenment seemed to change all of that. In the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, the three practices gradually drifted apart until now, they are considered wholly independent fields of study. Science no longer has much use for philosophy, and philosophy certainly has no use for faith. In response, Christians try to prove all aspects of their faith with science and reason, while scientists fight to disprove it. Both reactions are silly and futile. Yet the world no longer has a place for a student of all three fields. Their value, as relating to the others, is vehemently denied.

How did this come about, and why? That is a difficult question. Part of it comes with the advancement in learning which occurred during the Renaissance. As humans began to think they could find all the answers through science, they squeezed out the responsibility that comes from religion. Yet while scientific knowledge has made huge strides toward understanding our world, five centuries have not been enough time to answer the key questions of existence. But instead of returning to religion as the giver of those answers, modern philosophy embraces something of an agnostic nihilism, preferring to believe that nothing can be known, rather than taking an answer that brings with it responsibility.

This being said, much of the blame also rests with the Church. Rather than embracing scientific knowledge as it had done in the past, during the Renaissance the church stifled it. Continually, over the last half millennium, as one scientist after another explains a new facet to the workings of the universe, the Church blindly declares the discoveries to be false. The fear comes from the attempt by humanism to use new scientific discoveries to explain away the need for a creator. Rather than addressing this challenge head on, the Church takes its aim at science. The Church should eagerly support the work of science, yearning for greater knowledge of our creator. The search for truth is always a worthy pursuit, and one which the Christian, the philosopher, and the scientist should be happy to share.

But instead, in the face of insurmountable scientific evidence, many Christians refuse to acknowledge the facts of science, clinging to an idea of the world which was born in the middle ages and is not even based on scripture. Ironically, it is most closely related to the scientific knowledge of the time. Christians have become a laughing stock for what they perceive as faith, when instead it is ignorance. Because of their bravado in linking their ignorance to their religion, the world now also perceives this as faith, and this perception has become a detriment both to faith and, cripplingly, to philosophy.

Just as many Christians refuse to acknowledge the answers which science gives to their questions, so today’s philosophers ignore the answers provided by religion. What is it about the modern thinker that allows him to ask “What does it mean?” without expecting or even legitimately desiring an answer? If there were no answer to such a question it would cast doubt on whether our very existence was real. Just as humanity’s transcendental desires, so deeply rooted in our make-up, must be considered real, so too must our quest for truth be considered real.

In his encyclical letter on faith and reason, Pope John Paul II considered it “unthinkable that a search so deeply rooted in human nature would be completely vain and useless. The capacity to search for truth and to pose questions itself implies the rudiments of a response. Human beings would not even begin to search for something of which they knew nothing or which they thought was wholly beyond them. Only the sense that they can arrive at an answer leads them to take the first step.” (Fides et Ratio, 29) In the same way that scientists who believe a theory are not swayed by set-back in experimentation, so philosophers must hold steadily to their search for truth.

Our search for truth is actually tied into our life-long desires. These human longings cannot be satisfactorily explained unless they point to something real. Thus I would argue that absolute truth is real, and whether or not the complete realm of it can be known by the human mind, there are aspects of it which can be known and which would be foolish to deny. Many of these facets of absolute truth are proven to us by science and reason, yet many more are given to us by faith.

Without a perception of truth, philosophy loses its traction. Without employing the wisdom of philosophy and faith, the truth of science will be incomplete. And without acknowledging the accomplishments of science and philosophy, the truth of faith will be naïve. The church should lead the way by admitting its past failures in the arena of truth and embracing modern science as the paint brush of God. The church has attempted to reconcile these fields, even if thus far, only half-heartedly. Notably at the First Vatican Council in 1869, when the church attempted both to address current modernist challenges and heal some of the wounds of the reformation. The Cardinals addressed the union of faith and reason. “Even if faith is superior to reason,” they wrote, “there can never be a true divergence between faith and reason, since the same God who reveals the mysteries and bestows the gift of faith has also placed in the human spirit the light of reason. This God could not deny himself, nor could the truth ever contradict the truth.” (Vatican I, Dei Filius IV) If reconciliation can be made between the three fields–science, philosophy and faith–each will be benefited, and the world will become a much wiser place.

2: Human Desire

This is the second of five chapter in HUMANÆ DESIDERIÆ, a philosophical inquiry into the true nature of human longing.

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We have established that humanity’s longing for something more must be treated as real. One could go so far as to argue that it is the defining characteristic of our race. Let us take a moment to explore the nature of this longing.

We have an insatiable desire for more—more money, more things, more joy, more knowledge, more love, more life. It is not in human nature to ever be entirely content. No matter how much anyone has, they want more. This tendency should not only be viewed on the negative side of the spectrum. Certainly, greed is a terrible thing which causes great evil, but the desire for more can also lead people to greater love, greater goodness, greater compassion, etc. Ultimately, this human desire is built into each and every one of us. It is up to us whether we will turn it to good or to ill. The main similarity we find in all our longings is that we are never content. Our greatest longings, even in finding intermediate satiation, are never fully satisfied. We soon discover that the answers to our desires cannot be found in this life. This can lead us to one of two courses. We can give up, either in despair or a contented cynicism, or we can look to an answer beyond this life, beyond this present perception of reality.

In humanity’s most acute desire, which is love, we see the proof that the latter answer is not in vain. Countless men and women, both religious and completely unreligious, have treated love as more important than life. A parent will eagerly give his or her life to save their child. A soldier will stand to the death to protect his homeland. Centuries of tragic drama has glorified the ideal of love which transcends death. These examples have nothing to do with a religious belief in an after-life, but speak of the reality that to forsake love is worse by far than death. Yet what love, however precious, has ever given a full, unwanting contentment? This desire, which promises our greatest reward, still more often than not fails to satisfy. Yet it is through love that we get our closest glimpse at that realm to which all our desires point—a realm which waits beyond this life.

Surely, the vast majority of our desires are ultimately hopeless. Our childhood dreams seldom come true, the experiences we lust after often give no reward, even our greatest passions often leave us discontented. Those of us who seemingly mount the greatest heights are the least content. If this life cannot fulfill these longings, shouldn’t we have learned to give them up by now? Would not a few generations have been enough to set us on a more practical course: following our animal friends on a quest for the very achievable rewards of survival, sustenance, pleasure and comfort? Yet instead we spurn such logical rewards on a quest for more abstract things such as glory, love and righteousness. These abstractions we value more than life itself. What fool-hardy beings we have become! Are we really the most intelligent animal? If this life is all there is, and our desires are only our imagination, our abstract goals of virtue and love nothing but a wild misplacement of value, then we have nothing to brag about to the practical ant, whose life is surely better spent than ours. Our divine longing, and by divine I am simply referring to that which is beyond this life, is what separates us from the animals. If it is a false longing, then it is a detriment, a theatre in which the animals’ practicality has tooled them better for their existence than we.

Why would such a desire, which without an answer would be nothing but misery, be written into our very natures? Is it a cruel trick of evolution that humanity developed into someone who could long for something they could never have? Are we so utterly stupid that we willingly give up life for a hope which does not exist, for an ideal of love which is nothing but a joke? Does the beautiful symmetry of nature, while containing the answers to all the mysteries of physics, laugh at the desire which motivated us to unravel those laws? Does physical symmetry stop short of encompassing the laws of the human soul? Human beings are smart. Our intuitions are often accurate. Our desires are customarily for things tangible and real. Could we have gotten this one thing so wrong? Could we be so stupid that three quarters or more of our race believe an unfounded myth?

What cruelty it would be if love is only a thing of this short life. That our great hope, which we never fully grasp in this life, and which for some, eludes them altogether, could be only a phantom myth—this would be the cruelest world imaginable. Nor would it be consistent with the world we know, which despite its shortcomings has given us wonder, beauty, pleasure, excitement, life. How then, could its’ greatest gift—love, which we value more than our life and all the wonders of the world, be a joke?

Human evolution has consistently brought us to higher points of being, whether it is in our physical makeup—such as the development of locking knees that permitted us to walk upright, or the development of opposable thumbs, allowing us to grasp tools—or through our increasing mental capacity, which eventually allowed us to reason and plan. We have not taken any major visible steps backward in evolution. The homo sapien has advanced to greater ability and maturity throughout our existence. At some juncture in this development, a transition occurred, an evolutionary step, “mutation” if you must, which was just as dramatic as the development in knee or thumb. This step was the advent of our longing for such things as virtue, goodness and love—desires which found no acceptable answer in the human experience, but for which we tirelessly strive. Why would this tendency to long for something outside of this life have developed in us and survived through the millennia? We see no such desire in animals; it is a strictly human tendency.

Evolution does not work that way. If a trait develops which is not beneficial to the species, it is weeded out. Such a universal human tendency would not have been able to spread throughout our race unless there was some validity to it. And back to the idea of symmetry—if all the scientific laws are somehow interconnected, in a manner which shows the necessity of each and every observed behavior, then could such symmetry not be applied to humanity? We can see how well the systems within our body work: our cells and organs, circulatory and nervous systems. It makes sense to suppose that we also contain such symmetrical operations, and if so, then our desires and longings, which guide so many of our actions, must be included in the equation.

Those who wish to reason away from belief in any deity should approach their rejection of God along with a rejection for any desire which transcends this life, including love, fame, virtue, honor, and even the innocent dreams of childhood. For when we believe in God we are simply believing in a love which answers the longing that earthly love has failed. God has promised us the satisfaction of each of our abstract desires. If someone wishes to refute the existence of God, they should first refute the validity of humanity’s innate, transcendental longing, which even the atheist shares.

What despair, if failed earthly love, failed earthly glory, and hollow earthly pleasure are all to which our longings take us! All the accomplishments of humanity would be in vain. We would have been better off pursuing animalistic desires of survival and comfort.

In the first chapter we discussed the idea of reality, stating that any philosophy or theology must reference reality if it is to be considered valid. Surely this transcendental desire must either be the ultimate mirage, a big joke of the human mind, or else be the most real thing of all our experiences, for if there is indeed another existence which follows this one, then that one must be more real even than this. Thus does the Apostle state: “what can be seen is temporary, but what cannot be seen is eternal.” (II Corin. 4:18) There can be no in between. Either our transcendental desires are a figment of our collective imaginations, an evolutionary “blip” which destines a terrible human misconception, and should all be discarded, or else it points toward something true—something so real it surpasses even the visible reality of our world.

Yes, love is real. And it does transcend death. Our lifelong hope, which lives through the worst of our hardships, will not be in vain.

Once we have placed our belief in that for which we hope, even if it is something not immediately perceptible, and make the claim that this hope is real, we have made a profession of faith. We cannot show through logical discourse that our desires find their answer in a realm beyond this life, but through the logic I have laid out, we begin to see that it is probable, and that is the point at which we must take a “leap of faith.” Faith is not a cliché of religion, but simply the assurance that love and life are transcendental, that the intrinsic longing of human nature is not void, but has an answer which waits for us in another life. Finally, faith is the patience to wait for that answer.

The beauty of faith is that it allows us to enjoy the desires which otherwise would be a drudgery. Without faith our desires lead us to the window through which we strain to behold the object of our longing, and despair that we cannot. Our side of the window is a prison. But faith brings us to the window with eyes eager to behold the promised reward. Our desires, both exercised and suppressed, give us a taste of the goodness which awaits us. Faith provides a sampling of the transcendental realm for which we long. Faith is already the beginning of the experience of the afterlife. (Catech. 163)

There are two commonly used definitions of faith which should be clarified. In a certain context, the word “faith” is used almost in exchange with the word “religion.” When someone speaks of their faith, they may simply mean the particular religion they have chosen to follow. But this is not how I am using the word. By faith I mean the conscious and trusting belief in things not seen or proven. Faith is not only a function of religion, but is likewise a necessary tool of science. Scientists must have faith in a theory until experimentation can prove the expected results. As theoretical physics reaches further and further into unknown arenas of space and time, faith becomes more vital in giving theories weight. There is a horizon to our current scientific ability, limiting how far, how small, and how short of measurements in spacetime we can probe, yet through what we have been able to observe, we make confident predictions about the realms beyond. This is faith as used in science.

Faith gives us confidence in our hopes and dreams. It is our comfort for the desires which are never fulfilled in this life, and allows us to believe even when no hope can be gleaned from commonly observable facts. Finally, faith leads us to an assurance in absolute truth, even pertaining to realms beyond our ability to see. Facts on their own will always lead us into frustration when seeking truth, but faith, based on fact can transcend those facts and guide us to truth.

It has been argued that faith, as presented in religion, is a positivistic approach to life—that in going beyond what can be proven, and having hopeful faith in a benevolent creator and a life based on love, we have decided what we want to believe and then formed our arguments accordingly. There is an aspect of truth to this accusation, and while not denying it, I also wish to embrace it. For the God of the Christian is a God who is good beyond our imagination. If we betake to believe in such a God at all, we have already expressed a stance of positivism, viz., having faith because we want to believe. Yet I would turn back the argument upon those who say there is no God because it cannot be proven. For it equally cannot be proven that there is no creator. Just as the Christian believes because they want a God of love, so the atheist rejects God because they want to believe in humanity’s glory. The atheist takes just as positivistic a stance as the theist. Nobody will ever believe something they do not want to believe in. Inquiry and evidence can always be arranged to fit the opinion.

But faith must go beyond what can be known through inquiry. Even science employs faith when speaking in theory, antecedent to experiment. Thus does Cardinal Newman identify faith as “an act of the intellect, opening a way for inquiry, comparison and inference, that is, for science in religion.” (Development of Christian Doctrine. Chap. VII, 1, 4). Even St. Thomas Aquinas, one of the greatest of all theologians in his arguments for God’s existence and law, makes no apology for supplementing inquiry with faith in speaking of the divine. “It is necessary for man to receive as articles of faith not only the things which are above reason, but even those that for their certainty may be known by reason. For human reason is very deficient in things divine.” (Summa Theologiæ).

We have seen that the rules of nature and evolution support the idea that our hope and longing must be considered real. Thus, that our transcendental desire has led us to have faith in a love greater than that which we now know, should not be cause for shame. Rather, we should embrace faith as the promise of our desire.

1: Perception & Reality

This is the first of five chapter in HUMANÆ DESIDERIÆ, a philosophical inquiry into the true nature of human longing. I will post one chapter each Tuesday for the next five weeks.

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Life is unbelievable. Every detail of existence, when probed, seems beyond comprehension, too exotic to take seriously, too beautiful to really believe. Yet it is here. We are. This incredible fact demands to be pondered, and on it, humanity has pondered throughout its history. Life is not intuitive. While some are satisfied to live their lives without asking why or how, the philosophers among us cannot let these questions rest.

Humanity is always on a quest for greater knowledge, our desire spurred by these most basic questions: Who are we? Why are we here? What does it mean? Unfortunately, as our knowledge continues to grow, so do our questions. This can be seen so clearly in the scientific fields, where the answer to one question, sometimes thought to be the final path to these basic questions, opens up not only new questions, but new fields of science. This is absolutely clear when one reviews the history of physics in the twentieth and early twenty-first century, as physicists seek a “final theory,” the so-called “theory of everything,” which would be the Holy Grail of scientific discovery. Albert Einstein spent the last thirty years of his life unsuccessfully seeking this unified theory, and dozens of the world’s top physicists have continued his search.

Humanity, with our infinite questions, is forever shackled by our finite knowledge. The very finite idea of a “theory of everything” is a comfort to us, in that it cases our questions in a graspable goal. Yet by making the answer finite, we have limited it. Thus, if our epistemological history has taught us anything, it is the absurdity of the idea of a “final theory,” after which there will be no more questions. I certainly share the hope of modern physicists that one day (and soon!) we will find a way to explain in one theory, the four forces of nature, and to unite the concepts of general relativity with quantum mechanics—this is usually what is meant by the “theory of everything.” But this answer will by no means end our questions. I would warrant to guess that such an answer will burst open an entirely new field of physics, replete with a host of new paths of inquiry and theory, just as Max Planck, by “answering” the question of heat waves, opened up the field of quantum mechanics, with more questions than he could ever have imagined.

Our questioning will never end. The more answers we find, the more questions we will ask. Karl Rahner compares knowledge to “a small island in a vast sea that has not been traveled. It is a floating island, and it might be more familiar to us than the sea, but ultimately it is borne by the sea and only because it is can we be borne by it.” The sea he calls mystery. (Foundations of Christian Faith. Into: 3) Any “theory of everything” may turn out only to be valid for everything on the island.

We are now brought to the point of asking what is, and is not, real. Indeed, this is where our inquiry must begin. As philosophers, we often lose touch with everyday reality. If a philosophy stretches out of the realm of human experience and thought, it becomes essentially a philosophy of nothing. Nor are scientists free from this accusation, much as they may insist that they deal only with the truly real. But as theoretical physics attempts to probe reality on a smaller and smaller scale, and things suddenly seem to become very bizarre, the question must be asked, as some top physicists even have, whether distance scales that small even can be considered to exist. Ultimately, philosophy, science, and certainly religion, must provide answers to the questions of everyday life (relationships, health of one’s body and soul, the structure and well-being of the world, etc.) if they are to be considered at all valid. Sometimes, in all three of these fields, the utter depths must be probed in order to gain an understand of reality. I am hardly one to shy away from probing to the depths. Yet it is when we have probed to the point that we are no longer seeking to understand reality, but a strange new theoretical world of our own creation, when we know we have gone too far. And so at each point of our inquiry, we should be able to ask whether it concerns what is truly real; if we cannot honestly answer “yes,” then it is time to redirect our course. Philosophy must keep itself firmly pointed toward reality.

Philosophy is natural, and necessary to us. A philosopher cannot bear to live without inquiry, and is perpetually fascinated and tormented by the most basic questions of existence: Who are we? Why are we here? What does it mean? Yet an equal or greater number of those who share the human condition feel no need to inquire into these questions. Oftentimes the philosophers (with whom I include any who seek answers to the questions above) wonder and marvel at what they consider the simple thought of the masses. But this simplicity, which is more in touch with reality than we are, is not only valid. There is truly a majesty to those who do not inquire. Theirs is the truth, in that they live what is real without the burden of needing to probe its depths. They already understand.

What is real? At what juncture does science or philosophy usher us round a corner where reality is no more? Obviously, this could be a hotly contested question. Some would argue that it is only the depths which are real, and what we see, the everyday life we perceive, is the mirage. Some theologians claim that the heavenly, blessed life to which we are aspiring is reality, and our lives on earth are nothing but a stage on which our greater destinies are played. This existence, they say, has meaning only in context with the next.

There is an old adage that says, “Perception is Reality.” And there is vital truth to this phrase. The depths of existence have meaning only in the context of what we perceive. In the current study, reality shall be treated as that which we perceive. As science breaks the world down into ever minuter fractions, the ingredients of the world only make sense as applied to the whole. Similarly, religion makes sense only in regard to the presently perceived reality. The depths of inquiry must be understood in their context of seeking answers to the questions we face in every day life.

Of all that is real, most real of all is the relationships we have with others who share this existence. Based on the premise that perception is reality, my relationships prove my own existence. Without others who perceive me, I run the risk of becoming confused by my own perceptions, where dream and reality become unclear. But the attention of others validates my own perceptions.

The entire world and life itself is a miracle. But greatest of all is the miracle of love: that human hearts may bond in companionship and bliss. If anything should be treated as real, it is this. Even the reality of self is dulled without shared human contact. Without another to justify my place, I would begin to doubt my own reality. All religion, and all science only make sense in the context of the bonding human hearts, what I shall refer to hereafter as community. The assurance of a loving smile, or the comfort of a warm embrace, are the truest of the human experiences. It is the human bond that makes life worth living, assuring us that this is not a dream, or a mirage, but the greatest reality imaginable. Love is real, based on our perceptions and interactions with one another. If it is real at all, then it must be treated as such, both with in philosophy and science.

Now in regards to religion, since indeed that is the primary focus of this exploration. Some may have already questioned my statement that religion makes sense only in regard to the present perception. But think of the full spectrum of human perception, including and beyond that of community. It does not only involve flesh and blood, matter, and the senses. It also involves emotions such as hope, fear, anger, love. All of these feelings are imminently real, and religion addresses them in ways that science cannot. Even if science identifies a chemical reaction in your brain which causes love, how real is that based on our present definition. It is a clue as to the inner workings of reality, but the love you feel is already real based on your perception. Science may be able to tell you how, but it cannot tell you why.

Let us focus on the emotion of hope. Humanity has a very real longing for meaning, for something which is more powerful than this present life. At first sight, human existence looks to be completely meaningless. If suffering behaves randomly, as it appears to, if our desires can find no satisfactory gratification, and if we have no hope for a great equalizing afterlife, then the most basic questions of the meaning of life grovel for answers. (John Paul II: Fides et Ratio. 26) But instead, hope drives us in almost everything we do. If we believe in a religion, it drives us to adhere to sometimes uncomfortable creeds. If we do not believe in a religion, it haunts us as a dark unknown. Morality trumps selfishness in human behavior exclusively due to this longing, which makes us fear the consequences of ill behavior. Based on our definition of reality, hope, along with love, must be considered real.

We have looked briefly at the idea in science of a “final theory” or a “theory of everything.” This search has arisen out of a grand symmetry which has been observed in the universe. It has not yet been proven that the world is physically symmetric, but most physicists agree that there is truth to the idea that all the laws of nature are somehow interconnected, and that all the forces of nature work together in a way that essentially has to work. Albert Einstein saw in the universe the necessity of logical simplicity, such that he doubted God could have made the universe in any other way than what it is. Any study of science will eventually convince the student that the universe has an incredibly grand order. Everything that we perceive as real works together in an intricate framework that is beautiful beyond anything we could imagine.

How does this fit into the concepts of hope and love, along with our human longing for meaning and something beyond this present? Well, as these emotions are indeed real, if there is a physical symmetry to the universe, then these emotions, must fit into that symmetry. An empty answer to the desire of humanity would be inconsistent with the beauty, order and elegance of the universe. Whether we see emotions as something contained in a soul separate in essence from the human body, or as something triggered by chemical reactions in the brain, these feelings are as real as the matter which makes up our bodies. The same scientific and philosophical laws should apply to both physical and emotional reality. And if emotions of the heart and soul can be combined into this physical symmetry which science is striving to prove, then the questions of humanity must necessarily point to an answer which is more than an illusion, ergo, an answer which is real.

Can that answer be given by what we call God? If so, then God must also be real, not in an intangible sense, as a distant supremity outside this universe, but real by our present definition. God must be so close that we can touch him, feel him, and interact with him in a manner consistent with the reality we perceive.

Let me summarize the preceding argument. If our perception is indeed reality, as opposed to being an illusion shone by something entirely else, then our emotions must be treated as equally real, including the emotion of hope, which is the human longing for something which transcends this perceived reality. Further, if science can succeed to show that the laws of the universe are physical symmetric, than the human longing must be included in this symmetry, necessitating an answer which is greater than nothing.

SCIENCE SHOWS OUR CREATOR

In this treatise I wish to point out how the progression of scientific discovery leads us to realize that we are created beings, and how the more we learn about the workings of the world, the more clear it becomes that there is an orchestrator behind it. Christians and scientists have always pitted themselves against one another, and I believe this is quite foolish. The Christian should embrace science as the language of God, and the scientist should learn to see the beautiful hand of love in every detail of our world.

Over the last half millennium, as one scientist after another explains a new facet to the workings of the universe, people point to the new discovery and declare that we are getting closer to explaining away the need for a Creator. Meanwhile, the Christian world reacts negatively to each discovery, blindly declaring it false. The most obvious example of our time is Darwin, but it started long ago. Galileo was imprisoned and excommunicated for his teachings on the universe. Newton was written off by Christianity as well for his discoveries of matter and gravity.Yet each scientific discovery suggests to me a new aspect of the love with which this world was created. It baffles me that Christians work so hard to argue proven scientific theory when it only shows God to be more wonderful and majestic by understanding the tools with which God worked! Those confident in their faith in God have no need to fear science. Science is the language of God. The more layers of science we uncover, the more we learn about the complexity and marvel of creation!The amazing thing to me is that each discovery, especially of the 150 years since Darwin, seems to get us to the verge of finishing the work, proving where we come from, and then… suddenly, the answer is a whole new question, opening up a new field of science! Copernicus raised scandal by suggesting that the earth was not the center of the universe, but rotated around the sun. But now we know that both earth and sun are speeding away from a central point in the universe, a center which Copernicus never imagined! How much grander the placements and orbits of the stars means now that we know about the Big Bang!The church feared Copernicus’ discoveries because it seemed to diminish the importance of humanity’s creation. Yet how much more loving is it to know that we are surrounded by a universe vastly beyond our comprehension or ability to explore? It may reduce humanity’s pride to think of ourselves as only a tiny speck in the universe, but it certainly does not reduce creation’s love. Or take Newton’s physics and laws of matter. As matter was dissected into smaller and smaller parts, leading us to learn about atoms, protons, electrons, and photons, science seemed close to the answer. What were the building blocks for all of matter? Then the discoveries of the early twentieth century led us to learn that matter is as much energy and wave as it is particle, with a complexity and mystery vaster than what we had ever dreamed. Newton was turned on his apple-bruised head! The world of Quantum Physics, while providing an answer to one problem, opened up fields of new questions. When we answer those, who knows what new fields will be opened!Does it reduce the value of creation or God’s awesomeness to know that matter is not what we once thought it was? Rather, we should marvel anew at the beauty that is at work in every smallest bit of matter. The building blocks of the world are not dead weight, but vibrant, living energy. How better could God infuse himself into each tiniest particle of the universe? 

What about Darwin’s theory?  Does it really reduce God to think of the process of evolution as having taken a long time? In 1859 when “Origin of Species” was published, biology was thought to be fairly simple. But biology has come a long way since then. We now know the magnificent complexity of micro-biology, and the functioning beauty of the living cell. The scientific world has sought to fit these discoveries into Darwin’s theory of mutation over many generations, and the Christians have sought to disprove it all! In reality, neither approach can work.

When Darwin first put forth his theory of mutation through multiple generation, cells were seen as little more than small packets of slime. But biologists such as Louis Pasteur, Camillo Golgi and others taught us the complexities of micro biology, and the magnificent beauty of the living, working cell. The scientific world has sought to fit these discoveries into Darwin’s theory, and the Christians have sought to disprove it all. Both efforts are terribly naïve.

So how does a cell work? What makes it so fascinating and beautiful? Within a cell are hundreds of proteins, each designed for specific functions. All of them combine to make the cell behave in such a way that your organ or limb then behaves in the way you expect it to. Let us look at one example of what happens within a cell, this example within the nerve cell of a finger after touching a hot surface, as described by Professor Gerald Schroeder in the sixth chapter of his book, The Hidden Face of God, published in 2002 by Simon & Schuster:

 

 

You’ve touched something too hot for comfort. The heat stimulates the sensitive endings of the nerve, inducing it to rapidly send the message to its target receivers, in this case the spinal cord. The signal, a cascade of ions, travels from the receiving dentrite, past the cell body, and on toward the axonlike extension. At this point the action potential is generated that, as a wave, transmits the signal the length of the axon to the synaptic terminals at its end. Since the axon terminal does not actually attach to the target neuron’s dendrite… the nerve has the electrical action potential within the axon stimulate the release of chemical neurotransmitters into the synaptic gap. The electrical signal has become a chemical signal. These neurotransmitters have been “conveniently” stored in organelles called Golgi apparatus near the axon’s terminals. The Golgi package the neurotransmitters at their point of manufacture in the cell body and then, with the help of motor proteins, transport them and other essential molecules from within the cell body, down the axon, to the location of use near the cell membrane. The Golgi, upon command, release the neurotransmitter into the synapse, where it diffuses across the opening, attaches to the target dendrite, and in doing so triggers a secondary neural signal to start on its way… The trip from the cell body where the Golgi and neurotransmitter are made to axon terminal can be up to a meter distant, [and would take] about two days when traveling via motor protein… [But] when called into action, the Golgi move within a millisecond. The Golgi fuses with the inner surface of the axon synaptic membrane, and then, in a process known as exocytosis, bursts through on the outside, into the synaptic gap.

 

I know this is a bit complex. But that is the point. When I think of this process I visualize something that looks more like a big factory than my own little nerve cell. It is stunning to think of it all taking place each time my fingers strike the key on which I am writing. It all occurs within a split second. And consider that a million such processes are being carried out by the cells of your body right now. Your cells are actively breaking down nutrients into ATP, using that energy to build various proteins, just like the Golgi and motor proteins described above, so that they will be ready for action as soon as they are needed.

Think of all the instances, just in this one process described, when small parts of your cells seem to act with knowledge and intelligence in performing their tasks. The design is so intricate. If it was not created with knowledge, then knowledge must have been written into the system. In other words, the laws of science pre-destined intelligent life. Yet to say that such complexity is written into the laws of the universe would be just as amazing as the complexity we observe. Who gave the Golgi, the axons, the neorotransmitters in your finger their knowledge? If it was the laws of science, then how did the laws of science acquire its knowledge?

I would advise everyone who thinks that their bodies could have come about by chance to really make a full examination into the world of molecular biology. I would highly recommend Schroeder’s book which I quoted above. The ingenuity of it is absolutely stunning!

How carefully God ordered everything in our bodies. For a human being to engineer the complexity of a single cell would be an invention unsurpassed by any other. To think of even one cell coming about by pure chance defies logic.

The more I learn about the inner workings of my body the more I am stunned by its order and complexity. Little of this complexity was known when Darwin suggested that varying species came about by random mutations. Much of it was not even known when Richard Dawkins, one of the last century’s primary proponents of random evolution, first argued that it all came about by chance.

 

Find the most complicated machine, or appliance in your house. Examine it for awhile, then think about the possibility of someone who knows nothing about it taking its parts, laying them on the floor, stirring and arranging them in a variety of ways, heating and cooling the solder at random, and eventually the machine comes to be in its present, not only functional, but well designed and beautiful form. This exercise, of course, is ridiculous! Fifteen billion years would not suffice for it to work. Yet this is not far off from Dawkins’ model of random evolution! And your body is a million times more complicated than the appliance.

 

But maybe it did all come about by chance. Maybe the elements were pre-disposed to combine in such ways to make this complexity happen. Before you confess to such a theory, remember that we are bound by the laws of our world. If there is no power that is outside of and greater than our world, then we must imagine such things coming about in the world as we understand it to operate. And where in the world, in nature, do you find any example of complexity arriving out of chaos? Where has it ever been shown that elements could spontaneously manifest into complex forms? When left alone, nature decays, rather than creates. The only example we see in nature of the opposite is from a parent to a child.

 

But does the theory of random evolution demand it to happen any more than once?
Darwin stated that given enough time a species can beget a vastly different species through mutations and generations of intermediate varieties. Darwin’s theory is widely supported by the fossil record for the evolution within a particular genome (dogs evolving into other types of dogs), within families (an ape evolving into a man), but nowhere do we find evidence of one phyla giving rise to another (a sponge evolving into a fish). This latter type of evolution is purely speculative.
Darwin theorized that it could happen, given enough time.

 

But in the years since, notably in the work of Elso Barghoorn during the 1970s, and through the analysis of the Burgess fossils in the 1980s, it was proven that life forms developed over a rather short period of time. The first single-celled organisms came to be between 3.5 and 4 billion years ago, and more complex organisms came into existence about 530 million years ago. This period, when multi-celled life begins to appear in the fossil record, is known as the Cambrian Age. The ideal conditions on earth at this time gave rise to every additional phyla (animal group) that has survived to the present day. Some phyla died off in the ensuing Ordovician Ice Age, and the rest have come to represent all the species we know today. This huge diversification of life has come to be known as the “Cambrian Explosion.” The climates were warm, wet and mild, and ocean currents moved freely, baring the significant build up of ice formations. The Cambrian Age only lasted 53 million years, a “blink of an eye” in geological terms, yet all the complexity of multi-celled organisms came into being at this time.

 

These discoveries prove that the chance manifestation of complexity which we see nowhere else in the natural world did not just need to happen once. It needed to happen numerous times within this “short” period. The type of progeny which Darwin describes relies on a much longer stretch of time.

 

So, knowing that time was too short for all the new phyla in the Cambrian Age to have come from a common ancestor, could these species have come to be without the benefit of a parent: the kind of chance manifestation of complexity which Richard Dawkins claims could develop naturally? This would require cells to form and combine on their own. Think again of the experiment with the household appliance, and the forces of nature being the maker attempting to put the parts together. Let us just look at the possibility of one single protein evolving on its own (not to mention a whole cell!).

 

The average protein consists of 288 amino acids, of which 12 are different types of amino acids. The absence, addition, or replacement of a single amino acid in the structure of the protein will ruin it. Every amino acid has to be in the right place and in the right order. Now 288 amino acids could be arranged in a number of ways approximating ten to the three hundredth power. Since we know that only the exact amino acid chain is viable, the chances of creating these viable proteins are approximately one in ten to the three hundredth power. Furthermore, one protein cannot survive in nature on its own, without a cellular structure to protect it from outside forces. The human body contains an estimated 100,000 proteins. Even given an ideal setting, with a rapidly evaporating amino acid concentrated Cambrian pool, the chances of even one viable protein forming by accident is microscopic! (Schroeder: “Rationality vs. Randomness,” 2000)

I wonder how discouraged Dawkins, or other “neo-evolutionists” who argue that chance brought it all about would be if they tried to put together a mathematical probability equation for their theory. The scientists who pay more attention to mathematics realize how unlikely it is for ten to the three hundredth power to occur a hundred thousand times! Then think that it has to happen in all the new phyla that came about during this period, and that it only has 53 million years to complete the work. There is no way to make a mathematical case for this theory.

 

Rather, the details prove the careful work of the God who created us. The beauty of science is to begin to understand the language with which our Creator works and to see in even more detail the marvel of it all.

 

Surrounding all these details of biological evolution is the over-arching reality that existence is balanced on a preverbal knife-edge. On a micro level (species), one cell, or even protein altered could kill an organism; at its onset, that alteration would have precluded the species from having ever existed. On an intermediate level (earth), a slight atmospheric or temporal alteration would wipe out life on this planet; and with all the evolution that has occurred over the last fifteen billion years, it is hard to imagine the atmosphere would not have even briefly been altered in a deadly way. On a macro level (universe), if we believe in the standard model big bang theory (which the expansion of the universe and stretching of time strongly suggests), if conditions were such that the “bang” propelled things even a micro-degree faster, the solar systems would have burned themselves up as soon as they formed; if it had been a micro-degree slower, the gravitational forces would have crushed the systems before they had the remotest chance to form. This slim balance of life does not suggest randomness but order. Where in life or our experiences do we see any evidence of order arising out of chaos? Science fits so perfectly to existence. How can something so precise be utterly random?

 

Most amazing of all if the simple fact that existence is, the To Be, or Sum of life—the emergence of something from nothing. The marvel is not how well the laws of science fit existence but that there is an existence to fit it to.

 

Even if we claim that science had laws which forced the precision and urged matter toward complexity and life, how did the laws of science arise? That presents us another puzzle just as unsolvable as the first.  Just as any find work of human hands, be it a building, a work of art, a symphony of music point us to the genius of their maker, so the world points us to the genius of our maker. We spend so much time analyzing the effects. Shouldn’t we follow the advice of St. Thomas Aquinas and take more of an interest in the cause? All things being came to be from another. All things in motion were put in motion by another. (Summa Theologiae: An Deus Sit) At the beginning there must necessarily be a force that is outside the laws of science which force these causes and effects.

 

We find it very difficult to admit to the existence of the divine because it is so outside our realm of thought. Our laws of science can only explain so much, but they cannot get us beyond the hump into the metaphysical realm. And so we keep trying to explain away God with the science he created. God does not fit into the scientific method. The scientific method makes the claim to truth being the simple facts that we can observe. In Latin, Verum est Factum. There is no room for mystery, or for a set of rules beyond the reach of our measurements.

 

I have tried to present these theories to some scientists who write the whole thing off before they even consider my arguments because it does not adhere to the scientific method. It is not a theory which can be tested and proved.

 

Yet does science always even fit the scientific method?

For the answer, let us leave biology and take a closer look into the field of quantum physics. There we will find how the scientific method has led us astray, and perhaps an answer to how we must approach our queries into the divine.

At the onset of the twentieth century the entire study of physics was turned upside down, mostly by the work of Max Planck and Albert Einstein, who discovered the fact that Newton’s laws, which work very well when applied to large particles of matter (let us call them macro particles), break down when applied to a single atom (quantum particles). This brought about the study of quantum physics. Let us look at the surprising results that we achieve from experiments with quantum particles.You may be familiar with what is known as the “Two Slit Experiment.” Due to restrictions on the space of this post, I am unable to provide visual examples, but I will attempt to describe the effect as best I can. In the experiment, Atoms are fired one at a time at a screen with two slits cut vertically from each other. There is another screen set on the other side to pick up the interference pattern. Now if light were shown against the slits we would expect the interference pattern to show up as a series of fuzzy lines because of the wave quality of the light. The astonishing thing is that atoms, shot one at a time at first seem to be hitting the far screen in a random pattern, but after many have been fired, they begin to show the same sort of interference pattern as the light. The end result of this experiment is one of the proofs that quantum particles, though they leave the test gun and are recorded on the far screen as localized particles, actually behave as waves and seem to go through both slits at once. What scientists have come to believe about both light and the components of atoms is that both behave as particles and waves simultaneously.  The particle aspect is the localized actualization of a potential created by the wave. Thus, we can never be completely sure where we will find the quantum particle at any point in measurement.Needless to say, scientists have attempted to observe this phenomenon at work. But something very strange happens when they do this. If any sort of detector is placed near the first screen to “watch” the atom going through the slits, the interference pattern disappears, and the atoms appear in two groupings on the other side, as we would expect if we were sending macro particles through instead. The simple act of watching causes the atom to behave as a particle throughout the test, and never as a wave. This has confounded physicists for decades.The act of detecting the quantum particle actually changes its nature. This is unavoidable, because if we were to shine a single photon of light at an atom, the photon would interact with the atom, changing its behavior, in some cases even its atomic makeup. Remember that the photon, just like the atom, has the properties of both a particle and a wave. The photon becomes entangled with the atom. For this reason, in our observation of quantum particles, we are never able to know everything about both their location and their movement at any time. Einstein theorized with his 1935 Gedanken Versuch that we can observe the atom’s particle nature or its wave nature with near complete accuracy at any time, but not both. Thus, we encounter a failure in our ability to predict the behavior of an atom. We can determine the probability of an atom’s location or velocity, but we cannot pinpoint it for sure.Yet, even understanding that the measuring system, by means of entanglement, alters the behavior of the quantum particle, nearly a century later we do not know why it causes the interference pattern (seemingly the entire wave aspect) to disappear. We cannot explain what goes on behind the so called quantum curtain. Niels Bohr argued that it was useless to theorize what happened in the absence of a measuring device, since the only way we can learn anything about quantum behavior is if we accept the interaction it has with the measuring device; the observer is central to the behavior of the atom, photon, or electron. This is a simplistic summary of the Copenhagen  Interpretation, spearheaded by Bohr. It is pretty much saying that if a tree falls in the forest and no one is around, it does not make a sound! I am not so quick to give up, and I expect that time will lead us to further discoveries in our ability to measure the quantum system, but Bohr’s interpretation does lead us to the heart of the problem. We, the observer, our measuring device, even the very surroundings we are giving to the experiment, are soundly entrenched in the macro plane. We are subject to classical Newtonian laws of physics. Meanwhile, the tiny quantum particle we are playing with is obeying different laws altogether. When we attempt to measure it, we are subjecting it to laws it was never meant to obey, and terminology by which it was never meant to be described. We cannot understand how anything can behave simultaneously as a particle and a wave, nor can our measuring systems, and thus have we inadvertently forced the quantum particle into a macro world. The only way we could truly measure the quantum particle would be with quantum measuring systems and a truly quantum observer. Obviously this is impossible, and so for now we must be content to accept that the truth is a mystery. Verum est Mysterium. It is there. We must believe it. But for now, we cannot see it. The scientific method gives us no help when observing quantum particles.The two important conclusions we are forced to draw from our observations of quantum particles is, A: we cannot be sure that the rules we know for one system will apply to another system and, B: truth is sometimes more than the facts, even in science. 

Do you see the similarities we face when discussing the realm of the divine? God is in a metaphysical realm while we try to observe him with physical laws. It is impossible. God made the rules, yet put us in a different system, subject to different rules. Similarly, since we and all matter are made up of millions of quantum particles, we could say that the quantum particles “made” the classical, Newtonian laws with which we then attempt to view the quantum world. We do not understand how an atom can be both wave and particle, yet the truth is that we, who do not understand, would not exist if this were not so! Similarly we do not understand God, the metaphysical realm, or what happens to us after death. We cannot fit God into our understanding just as we cannot fit a quantum particle into the observance of a macro system.

Every new discovery in science has shown us a closer look at the image of our Creator, and the great loving care with which it was all crafted. Our selfishness attempts to explain away the need for the genius behind it, but all of nature, all of science confess the creative energy and the tremendous love with which we and all the gifts we share were made. Science was written by God, not vice versa. God is shown by the laws he created, yet if he could be explained by those laws, he would no longer be God. That God does not fit into our rules is not an argument that there is no God, but rather an argument that there is! 

JESUS OF NAZARETH – MAN OR GOD?

In recent years, much has been suggested that attempts to disprove the divinity of Jesus. People are comfortable viewing him as a historical figure, a wise teacher perhaps, but God? It is no longer vogue to suggest that this man was indeed divine, even for Christians. The notion does not fit easily into our modern consciousnesses.

Was he only a man, born through natural procreation, dying by crucifixion, whose profound teachings inspired the following movement of Christianity, or was he in fact, while being man, also God incarnate, the only begotten son of God, who, though dying by crucifixion, also rose from the dead? Let us examine both view-points from their historical perspectives and how they appear today, looking into the progression of human thought at both points in history. I will then reference what the gospel writers have to say on the subject and their authority (or lack thereof) as historical scribes. And finally, what do our conclusions mean in our lives. 

DEVELOPMENT OF CHRISTOLOGY 

How did our Christology come about? At the time of Jesus’ life, the questions more regarded his mission than his divinity. Though his disciples did not understand during his lifetime, after his death they grasped that his salvation was spiritual rather than political. If they did not believe this then they would necessarily have viewed his death as a failure and ceased to follow him. Yet they did follow him, even unto martyrdom. What inspired these men and women to sacrifice their entire lives for the legacy of a dead man… a legacy which differed strongly from the one they expected during his life? In the years following Jesus’ death, years which saw the rapid growth of Christianity even under extreme persecution, it became necessary for Christians to discuss and eventually agree on what Jesus’ life really meant and who he really was. Two opposing viewpoints were in play: divine Christology, which saw Jesus as God incarnate, sent as a redeemer to the world, and the view that Jesus was either a very righteous man, or a lesser form of God, but that the redemption was in the message. The word was from God, but not as John’s gospel so succinctly puts it “The word was God.” Does it really matter?  Must one believe that Jesus was and is redeemer through his death in order to believe in the redemption of his message?

The answer seemed to be put to rest at the Councils of Nicea and  Chalcedon. Jesus was declared to be Christ, God incarnate. The relationship between Father and Son was described as homoousios, which translates as “one in being,” (Karl Rahner: Lexicon for Theology & Church), and that was that for about thirteen hundred years.Now let us not be naïve to suppose that this dogma arose free from a political agenda, or that any of the gospel writers were writing unbiased history. John, the last gospel, is most often discussed with regards to its political agenda, written in response to the gnostics and others who were promoting an almost Buddhist view in the late first century: that Jesus had managed to achieve a god-like state through his goodness, and that by following his example, we could do the same. We will look more closely at the gospel of John and the circumstances of its authorship later on. But the three synoptic gospels were no less written to make certain claims to their audiences. Mark, and Matthew were written primarily to be read by the Jewish community, so they attempted above all to show Jesus as the Messiah, or “Son of Man,” to use the term of the Jewish prophets. They wished to show that in spite of his death (whether or not he rose), his redemption was real. His resurrection provided the proof. The Jews at the time were not concerned with divinity in their Messiah, so much as his authority and power.This being said, the synoptic gospels do make specific claims to Jesus as the son of God in a way that is unique to him. The conception accounts in Matthew and Luke certainly do this, and all four gospel writers recount his baptism with a voice from heaven saying “This is my beloved son.” Mark, the first gospel writer, opens in his very first sentence by naming Jesus as the son of God. This was not a common term in Judaism. Nobody was referred to as a son of God in this manner. Perhaps most convincing of all is the descriptions given of Jesus prayer language, in which he calls God Abba. This would be like us saying Daddy. This type of dialogue was unheard of in Jewish culture. These examples are not meant to be a proof for Jesus’ divinity, but to point out that if we are to accept any of the gospel writers’ words, we must realize that they all viewed him as The Son of God.Around the time the first gospel was being written, Paul the evangelist opened up the entire Mediterranean and near East to Jesus’ message so that by the time John wrote his gospel, he was concerned with a much broader audience than only the Jewish world. He was writing to those learned in Greek and Roman thought as his audience for whom the terms “Messiah” and “Son of Man” would have no meaning or be misunderstood (as they are widely misunderstood today). Some have said that John’s gospel “Hellenized” Jesus, by using images of divine lineage.Yet it is Matthew and Luke, not John, who give Jesus his mythical quality with their accounts of the angel appearing to Mary. The Hellenization, if you will, had already taken place before John.Yet we must keep in mind that the learned world had by this time moved away from the mythology of ancient
Greece. Those stories had faded into the realm of folk tales. The learned world was more interested in Aristotle than Zeus. We were the determiners, governed by the laws of mathematics and science, of our own effects. And wisdom was to recognize how. Everyone could be like unto a God through learning and goodness. A mortal Jesus fit very nicely in this mold, for it professed a beautiful message of love without requiring belief in the seemingly unbelievable. Jesus’ Godship, the Virgin birth, and the resurrection were seen as myth. By using the phrase “God’s only begotten son,” John boldly challenges Aristotle with the very language of Hellenistic mythology, saying that there can be divinity in the modern world and God can come in direct contact with man.

Recently, other books written at the time have come more to light, known as the “Gnostic Writings.” Most popular of these is the Gospel of Thomas. Elaine Pagels’ celebrated book “Beyond Belief” looks into the political environment at the time, and alleges that John and Thomas wrote their gospels in conflict with one another. The church, she suggests, chose John’s book over Thomas’, and that has affected our view of Jesus ever since, but had Thomas’ book been accepted instead, we would have viewed the other three gospels in a completely different light. (chap 2. 2003) The problem with this theory is that John’s gospel is consistent in spirit with the three synoptics, it simply goes further in some areas and with some claims. It is well written, cohesive, and the speech of Jesus in chapters 13 through 18 contains some of the most profound theology ever written. Also, the crucifixion account gives us more detail than any of the others. Thomas’ book, conversely, presents a Jesus that is not always consistent with the earlier gospels, his book is not cohesively written, and some of the sayings attributed to Jesus do not make sense with the things we know about him. The choice not to include Thomas’ gospel in the canon was not so much political, but because it did not meet the literary standard of the New Testament.The leaders of the church took hold of Johannian theology and declared any view of Jesus other than his divinity to be heresy. Thomas’ book was lost to us for centuries. Yet, interestingly enough, this theology of “son of God,” and “King over the world,” though countering Aristotle, actually fit in well with the long standing Roman assertion that King and God were the same. Perhaps this was why Nero feared Christians so much, or why Pilate wrote “King of the Jews” on the cross as Jesus’ execution sentence. The Priests of Jerusalem objected strongly to this placard, knowing its significance in the Roman world. When Constantine converted, Jesus’ kingship was essential. With it, the hierarchy and political states of the church were established in Constantinople and Rome. 

THE SCIENTIFIC METHOD: VERUM EST FACTUM

 But Aristotle would not stay quietly in his grave forever. With the Renaissance came new ideas of how humanity interacted with the world and themselves. Galileo and Newton explained the mysteries of the universe and matter. The age of enlightenment dawned as such revolutionary thinkers as Voltaire and Descartes suggested that humanity controlled its own way to the divine.
Newton’s groundbreaking research in physics led us to believe that everything could be known through mathematics and science. Darwin helped us to understand our own origins and the history of the world. By the end of the nineteenth century, humanity believed the statement of eighteenth century Italian philosopher Giambattista Vico: Verum quia Factum: truth is the facts we have made.We have come to live by the scientific method, proving truth by observation of multiple experiments and the facts produced thereby. To paraphrase Vico: Verum est Factum  (Truth is Fact). Through the scientific method we have come to an age where we do not believe in miracles, or mysteries, only in what is observable. The philosophy today is actually markedly similar to the philosophy of the Graeco-Roman world at John’s time.

Our problem here is that, as Pope Benedict XVI points out, we are unable to apply the scientific method to history. (Ratzinger: “Introduction to Christianity,” part II, I, C, 1968)  There is no way to reproduce the facts to make them truth. We must choose to rely on the word of those who lived through the events of the past… or not. Ever since the age of enlightenment history has been under much greater scrutiny, and in a large part for good reason. After all, history is always written by the winners: winners of war, and winners of thought. Certainly John’s gospel represents the “winning” idea. Much of our recent skepticism about history has helped us to better decipher the events of the past, but it has also allowed us to “pick-and-choose” which historical authors we believe, and which we disregard. It has become popular, even respectable to challenge formerly accepted history with new perspectives. Surely for any text written so long ago as those in question, cases can be made against their authenticity. But our modern mind is sometimes quicker to believe a new theory on minimal evidence, then the old theory whose evidence, though not without fault, remains strong.The authors of scripture come under the strongest scrutiny. But if only age were the question, why do we not question the validity of Plato and Socrates, or Seneca and Cicero? Certainly it is impossible to prove via the scientific method that John, Luke, Mark and the other Biblical authors actually witnessed the events of which they wrote, but the historical evidence for the validity of these texts (not necessarily the truth of their content, just the actuality of their historical context) is clear. We can trace an unbroken lineage from our time directly back to the time these documents were written. Of the four gospels, John is the one most often argued to have different authorship. But if you read the gospel, the author has to be John, or someone attempting to attribute the work to John. (This is the only way to interpret the use of the “Beloved Disciple” designation. It has to be someone from within Jesus’ inner circle of friends, evidenced by language which is too specific to come from anyone other than an eye witness. Obviously, John’s name gives the book authority, coming from an original disciple. But any of the other male disciples who might have written it would have had the same authority, so they would have put their own name on it. Which leaves us to wonder if it was written by one of Jesus female disciples, such as Mary Magdalene, which has been suggested. (Who next! Francis Bacon?) First of all, she did not have access to the education it would have taken to write this book, and though it is clear any female author would have had motivation to give the work a male name, it would have been a very difficult forgery to pull off in the late first century, for John, among others, was still around, and would have protested. We have, through contemporary writers, evidence of John living in
Ephesus after the time of Paul’s death. In the second century, some sixty or seventy years after the book was supposed to be written, multiple independent sources, among them Theophilos of Antioch and Irenaeus of Lyons, make reference to John the son of Zebedee as the author of the fourth gospel. The fragments we have found of these and other second century authors were not closely related, suggesting a common tradition that must have preceded them by some time, likely a generation or two, judging by the length of time it took texts to be reproduced and travel at that time. This would put the tradition of Johannine authorship back to the beginning of the second century, very shortly after the time John was living in Ephesus. (Daniel B. Wallace, Th.M.,Ph.D: “The Gospel of John: Introduction, Argument, Outline,” 2005) This is the same type of evidence we use to determine validity in all realms of the field of history. As I said earlier, today’s historians gain more popularity by suggesting alternative interpretations. Certainly, revisionist history has in many cases opened our eyes to new truths. But in this case, the historical evidence against Johannine authorship pales compared to evidence for it. There is no way to categorically prove history, but based on internal and external evidence, the most reasonable conclusion is that John the son of Zebedee wrote the fourth gospel.But even if we accept the historical validity of John and the other New Testament books, we are certainly free to disagree with the opinions of the authors. So in this age Christians are free to point out John’s agenda for his take on Christology and, when discussing Paul’s teachings about the cross, point out that Paul did not actually know Jesus, and that nowhere in the three synoptic gospels does Jesus declare himself unequivocally to be God. In our age of Verum est Factum it would certainly be easier to embrace a view of Jesus as a great teacher, a moral pioneer, whose message of love can indeed redeem humanity. The incarnation, virgin birth, and resurrection do not fit the scientific method at all. It is hard to believe these mysteries today. 

 THE MEANING OF PENTECOST: VERUM EST MYSTERIUM

But what has become of the scientific method and the philosophy of Verum est Factum? Has science really eliminated mystery?If modern science has taught us anything, it is that we cannot always trust formulae as simple as the scientific method. Quantum physics has especially opened our eyes to the fact that the rules for one practice or system do not necessarily apply to another. When our experimentation falls short, we need to have faith that the truth is there beneath our abilities to test it, based on what we see played out in the world we know. But the scientific method does not answer the questions of quantum mechanics, just as it fails to answer the questions of history. In Quantum theory, the problems arise when attempting to apply the laws which work very well for a macro world to a quantum system. In the same way, we cannot measure the metaphysical realm with the laws of the physical realm. The truth remains a mystery. Verum est Mysterium. We do not understand how Jesus can be simultaneously both God and man, yet that mystery is central to the Christian faith. It is futile to try to test the history of Jesus with the scientific method.The Christology of John and the early councils takes us one step further and says Mysterium est Factum! (Mystery is Fact). In other words, we must have faith in what cannot be seen. Any modern physicist would agree with this statement.

Let us return now to the period of the early Christian church and try to really determine whether or not Jesus was divine. The significant event which establishes it is the resurrection, and the significant event which promulgated it is Pentecost. Pentecost can be looked at one of two, and only two, ways. Before this meeting in an upper room a few weeks after Jesus’ purported ascension, his followers seemed to understand very little about how to continue and spread his message. Luke’s book of Acts tells us that this group was divinely inspired by the Holy Spirit to go and preach Jesus’ message, his resurrection, even the glory of his death. They then did this, many even to their own martyrdom. The other way to view Pentecost is that they gathered there in the upper room, mourning Jesus’ death and wanting to continue his message. So they either invented or convinced themselves to believe a resurrection that had been staged by Peter, John and Mary Magdalene, and agreed one and all to stick to this story, for the sake of Jesus’ message, even unto death. John was so emphatic in his gospel of Jesus divinity because he was in on the hoax. Pentecost has to mean one of these two scenarios. There is no in between that makes any historical sense at all.

Now the problem with the latter scenario is that it falls out of line with what the disciples all thought Jesus’ mission was during his lifetime—to liberate Israel from Rome. Yes, his message was powerful, but they did not understand it at the time. Perhaps as years went by they would have understood, and begun to preach it, but in the few short weeks between crucifixion and Pentecost, they would have felt let down and disheartened by the death of their leader. This would have surely trumped all comprehension of the message. If you look at all the other great moral teachers of the world, it took a long time after their deaths before their movements really began to take hold. Since many years had passed, myth became intertwined with the message. The difference with Jesus is that it took weeks, not decades and centuries! This is really much more astonishing than we often realize. The only way this shift in understanding could have occurred so quickly was through an event as profound, unbelievable and inspiring as the resurrection.Furthermore, if it was a hoax, at all in doubt, some of the group would have deserted the cause, at least faded into the background. It would be sheer madness to lay down your life for a message you had made up, for no visible gain If Peter made up the eyewitness report he gave to Mark of the empty tomb and risen Jesus, would he have been willing to be nailed upside down to a cross for that story? What could give Peter, who denied Jesus before his death, the strength to die for him except an event as powerful as the resurrection? Perhaps we could dismiss one man as a lunatic, but there was also Andrew, who died on an X-shaped cross in Greece, James who was beheaded by Herod Agrippa, Philip, who was also crucified in Asia, Bartholomew, who was skinned alive in Albanapolis, and Simon and Jude, who were both martyred in Persia. All of them died because they preached the message of Jesus and declared him to be the way of salvation.People do not go to their deaths for lies. If it had been made up, someone would have at least had a deathbed admission, but no one from that upper room did. Some might think that any such admission would have been covered up by the early church, but remember that the church had no political authority until the fourth century. The Jewish and Roman authority would have made sure to spread any rumor of a Christian hoax.

We must also examine Jesus himself. Why would he have chosen crucifixion unless he felt it was his purpose, and what meaning can his death have unless he is something more than only man? And make no mistake, he chose to be crucified. When he was praying at Gethsemane the night before and the soldiers came to arrest him, he could have escaped. The back-side of the Mount of Olives leads away from Jerusalem, into the desert. Jesus was familiar with the desert and knew how to survive in it. A mob coming up the hill with lanterns and torches, as John’s gospel describes them, would have been seen while they were still climbing the hill. Jesus and his three friends would have had plenty of time to retreat down the other side of the hill and escape. Later, when Pilate questioned him, he could have defended himself, but he remained silent. Pilate wanted to acquit him. This attitude would have been pure madness unless his words were true, that to die was his redemptive purpose. “Verily I say unto you, unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains just a single grain; but if it dies it bears much fruit.” (John 12:24) Likewise his message of salvation, through himself, would be absurd and vain unless he had a special authority on which to speak. He consistently references his authority as coming from the Father. We must believe that his authority was real, if we are to believe anything he said.  A thorough reading of each gospel text makes us realize that we cannot simply take his moral teachings and forget about the rest of the things he said and did. If his words were not true, he must have been both a psychopath and a brilliant weaver of deceit. A normal man of the remarkable morality we attribute to Jesus would not say these types of things. C.S. Lewis says “we must make our choice. You can shut him up for a fool, you can spit at him and kill him as a demon; or you can fall at his feet and call him Lord and God. But let us not come with any nonsense about his being a great human teacher. He has not left that open to us. He did not intend to.” (“Mere Christianity,” book 1, chap 3, 1943) Truly, what lunatic could single handedly turn world morality on its heel?

There is one other option we may consider: that Jesus of Nazareth is a folk character. That Mark, Peter, Paul, Luke, John, etc. came up with these remarkable moral teachings, perhaps at a gathering such as Pentecost, and invented the story and the person of Jesus (perhaps a real man who had been recently crucified), in order to give their teachings some credibility. Thus, the mythic quality of his life makes some sense. Again, however, we must look at the motivations these people would have had to suffer unto death for a new message that had been invented. Why would the Roman and Jewish leaders have feared the movement, which talked about a king that was already dead, unless said king had already stirred things up before his death? The words of Jesus written by the gospel authors are too fantastic to be invented and followed. They could have couched the message in something much easier if the whole thing were invented. Why point the entire religion toward this man if he were only a myth. It would be an inconsistent message. If you look at any of the other religious leaders whose messages are similar to Jesus, they point their followers away from themselves. This is necessary for their salvific messages to carry any weight. Peter himself attempted to dispel this idea in his second letter when he wrote: “We did not follow cleverly devised myths when we made known to you the power and coming of our Lord Jesus Christ, but we had been eyewitnesses of his majesty.” (Second Peter, 1:16) The fact that a man named Jesus was crucified by Pilate, and that he wrote “King of the Jews” above his cross is known through historical sources unattached to the Christian writers. Furthermore, we would have had much more argument amongst the early Christians on the real meaning of their religion, especially if they constructed something as fantastic as the “Only begotten son of God.” The minor disputes of Peter and Paul, or John and Thomas are small compared to what they would have been if Jesus had not existed. The idea that Jesus was a myth is more historically implausible than the notion of a Pentecost hoax. 

DIVINE: MYSTERIUM EST FACTUM   So the alternative is to believe that the resurrection really occurred, and this means Jesus was divine. Surely, what mortal could perform such a trick? If he had the power to rise from the dead, then his power was from God. And if his power was from God, we cannot suppose that he was mistaken about his relationship with God—the relationship of son to father, in a unique, intimate way (John 3:16, Mark 1:11, 14:36, Matthew 16:16, etc.). Yet the meaning of his incarnation and resurrection was not immediately understood by his followers. Instead, they preached on his message and followed his example of good deeds. Only through Paul, and then John, did the meaning of the cross begin to take hold in Christian theology, and it should be noted that the Christian leaders took a long time and great argument before they accepted the teachings of Paul. Rather, the man who really gave us our Christianity as we know it, was John. Even though Paul wrote his letters first, without the acceptance of John’s gospel, I am not sure Paul’s writings ever would have been accepted in the Christian canon.From the very beginning and throughout both his gospel and his three letters, John points to Christ’s divinity and the redemptive quality of the cross. Some literalists, Christians who hold to a version of verum est factum, focus on the other three gospels and dub John a “mystic.” But John is as much a literalist as any historian of the time. Look at his detailed eye-witness account of the crucifixion. Yes, he had an agenda, but it was in regards to a man he had personally known, and whose mother he cared for. This is another point which gives John his authority. A short time after Pentecost, John disappears from the scene for awhile, for he took Mary, Jesus mother into his home and cared for her (John 19:27). He does not reappear on the scene until many years later, presumably after Mary’s time on earth has ended. But consider the implications of John’s declaring Jesus divinity, having Mary in his house! Who would know better than her what special qualities Jesus had? We have no better authority on Christology than his own mother, and if John was considering or even already working on his gospel while she was alive, they must have discussed it. If Jesus was not God then John lied, and if John lied we have little on which to base what we think we know about Jesus.

But even so, what motivation would John have had to lie, first at Pentecost in his resurrection account, and later in his gospel, after years of one on one conversations with the Blessed Virgin Mary herself? Why re-emerge on the Christian scene years later with his controversial book if he did not believe it? After all the earlier martyrdoms, he had to know he was risking his life by publishing his work. There was nothing personally to be gained. It was not like today, when lucrative publishing contracts await controversial books. Furthermore, from a purely secular approach, John shows himself to be the most virtuous of the twelve male disciples. When Jesus, his friend, is going to be executed, only John stays with him till the end. And Jesus’ final commission to him (which he gives simply as a dying man to a loyal friend, not as God), to care for his mother, is met with acceptance and joy, though it removed John from the action of the early church after the first few chapters of Acts, a scene in which John no doubt would have loved to be a part. There is no evidence of duplicity or deceit in John’s life (some self-righteousness, we must admit, but not deceit, and always loyalty). It is difficult to imagine him intentionally writing falsehoods about Jesus, his dear friend.To sum this all up, if we believe the message Jesus’ followers spread in the time shortly after his death, then we must accept the validity of the gospel authors, based on the same type of historical evidence with which we have gathered all the other world history we know. If we accept these writings then we must believe that Jesus rose from the dead, and if we believe that he rose from the dead, then we must believe the authors when they describe him as the son of God. Our reluctance to accept this comes from our modern reliance on the scientific method, which has been promulgated by the age of enlightenment, but as we have seen in such fields as quantum physics, the laws (factum) which we apply to the world as we know it do not always work to describe the world we cannot see (quantum). Similarly, God cannot be governed by the laws of science he created. Knowing this, why should it surprise us that God could incarnate as a human being?

So if it is all true, that Jesus, as God incarnate died as a redemptive gesture and rose from the dead, what does this really mean for us? Jesus told us that salvation is through him, and if we are to follow him, we are to do as he commanded. This, simply broken down, means to love God and one another. God’s unending love is waiting for us, and whenever we give love to those around us, especially those who are difficult to love, we are in turn giving our love to God. This is the heart of Jesus’ message. By believing what his disciples have told us, by sharing in the spirit of truth that came upon them at Pentecost, we believe not only in the Jesus who is God, but the God who suffered not to become man, and by so doing, proved his phenomenal love.