"It was by no means only yesterday that truth became embarrassing."
With those rather wry words, Jean Daniélou, S.J., opened his book,
Scandaleuse Vérité, published in English as
The Scandal of Truth
in August 1962. Daniélou, whose father was a Communist, was not taken
in by the starry-eyed optimism of the early Sixties; on the contrary, he
saw clearly that a humanism divorced from faith in Jesus Christ ends in
despair and ruin, for "while man may be destined for happiness, he has
been injured by sin, and can be healed only by the Cross."
And, in an introductory remark that is just as appropriate today as it was fifty years ago, he stated:
Above
all I want to say to young Christians that they should not allow
themselves to be over-awed by the false vestiges of modern-day
doctrines, whose murkiness masks the uprightness of eternal truth. The
shocking bankruptcy of Marxist optimism and of the philosophies of
despair as well has nothing about it that should impress them.
This, of course, was written before "Marxist optimism", in various
forms, set the Western skies aflame and sent shockwaves through campuses
and governments in the late Sixties, as the supposedly best and
brightest of a generation jumped off the crumbling cliff of Western
civilization into the murkiness of modern-day doctrines. Much has
changed in the years since, but the murkiness remains. Truth is still
embarrassing; worse, it is increasingly mocked and savaged as an affront
to "progress", "tolerance", and a hundred other empty buzz words
co-opted by the post-modern sophists who dominate popular culture,
media, and politics.
The Challenge of the Council
Two months after the publication of Daniélou's book—fifty years ago
today—the Second Vatican Council opened. In his opening address, Blessed John XXIII stated:
The major interest of the Ecumenical Council is this: that the sacred
heritage of Christian truth be safeguarded and expounded with greater
efficacy. That doctrine embraces the whole man, body and soul. It bids us
live as pilgrims here on earth, as we journey onwards towards our
heavenly homeland. ...
John XXIII has sometimes been criticized for an apparently naive
optimism. If the Pope's optimism is perceived as merely earthly or
pragmatic in nature, the critics are correct. But John XXIII was not
merely optimistic, but authentically hopeful, and the difference is
essential. The key here is in John XXIII's emphasis on living as
pilgrims, as people who, as he stated in the same address, "have a
twofold obligation: as citizens of earth, and as citizens of heaven."
Christians who live as if this world is all that matters fail their
divine vocation, while Christians who live as if this world matters not
all also fail their divine vocation, which is to be a disciple amidst
the dust and trials of this world. "The Christian optimism," wrote G. K. Chesterton in Orthodoxy, "is based on
the fact that we do not fit in to the world. ... The optimist's pleasure was prosaic, for it dwelt on
the naturalness of everything; the Christian pleasure was poetic, for it dwelt
on the unnaturalness of everything in the light of the supernatural."
This
light, John XXIII emphasized, is the light of divine revelation passed
down through the Church, in continuity with herself, if such a
qualification need be expressed (alas, it does):
What is needed at the present time is a new enthusiasm, a new joy and
serenity of mind in the unreserved acceptance by all of the entire
Christian faith, without forfeiting that accuracy and precision in its
presentation which characterized the proceedings of the Council of Trent
and the First Vatican Council. What is needed, and what everyone imbued
with a truly Christian, Catholic and apostolic spirit craves today, is
that this doctrine shall be more widely known, more deeply understood,
and more penetrating in its effects on men's moral lives. What is needed
is that this certain and immutable doctrine, to which the faithful owe
obedience, be studied afresh and reformulated in contemporary terms. For
this deposit of faith, or truths which are contained in our
time-honored teaching is one thing; the manner in which these truths are
set forth (with their meaning preserved intact) is something else.
Nearly twenty years ago, I was a young Evangelical Protestant who
had, by God's grace, survived a couple of crises of faith (one of them
while in Bible college), each of which forced me to confront, question,
and wrestle with the assumptions of my childhood faith. (Eventually, in
1997, I entered the Catholic Church; for more on that, see my April 2012
editorial, "On Fifteen Years a Catholic".)
At the heart of these crises—and I don't use the word "crises"
dramatically or loosely, just frankly—were two basic questions: Why do I exist? And does Jesus Christ provide the answers to that question and every question that follows?
These
questions have to do with truth and faith. The two, contrary to secular
dogmatism, are not in conflict, but are eternal companions, precisely
because man needs both to survive and be made whole, just as he needs
air and water to breath and live physically. Truth (also and often
called wisdom in Scripture) is of the very nature of the Creator, and
faith is the gift he grants his creatures, and both come together in the
Incarnation, which in its scandal of particularity provides,
paradoxically, the means to real solace and salvation for all people—not
just to those of a particular time, place, or culture. In the words of
John XXIII:
Because the whole of history and of life hinges on the person of Jesus Christ. Either men anchor themselves on Him and His Church, and thus enjoy the blessings of light and joy, right order and peace; or
they live their lives apart from Him; many positively oppose Him, and
deliberately exclude themselves from the Church. The result can only be
confusion in their lives, bitterness in their relations with one
another, and the savage threat of war.
In modern, enlightended parlance, John XXIII was a fundamentalist, a
zealot, and a narrow-minded absolutist. In truth, he was a hope-filled,
gracious Vicar of Christ whose deepest desire was that the Gospel be
proclaimed anew to a world that is so often and easily enamored with things
rather than Truth. It is here, I think, that John XXIII was especially
insightful, for it might be said (with a nod to Chesterton) that the
great conflict of the modern age is between things and the Thing—that is, the truth of Jesus Christ, the Gospel, and the Catholic Church:
The
Church has never been stinting in her admiration for the results of
man's inventive genius and scientific progress, which have so
revolutionized modern living. But neither has she been backward in
assessing these new developments at their true value. While keeping a
watchful eye on these things, she has constantly exhorted men to look
beyond such visible phenomena—to God, the source of all wisdom and
beauty. Her constant fear has been that man, who was commanded to
"subject the earth and rule it," should in the process forget that other
serious command: "The Lord thy God shalt thou worship, and Him only
shalt thou serve." Real progress must not be impeded by a passing
infatuation for transient things.
What are these transient things? They are nearly countless, from the
obvious to not so obvious: cars and houses, gadgets and trinkets, money,
entertainment and fame, sports and sex, science, the State, power and
politics, ideologies and programs. They are often good things, which are
turned into the Good; they are earthly things made sacred by
men who want the sacred without the sacrifice. And underneath this drive
for replacement—or, better, idolatry—is a false notion of freedom and a
disorted infatuation with autonomy.
The Rich Young Ruler and the Blind Man, Bartimaeus
Scripture, as always, is instructive on this critical subject. The
recent and forthcoming Sunday readings of the Gospels in the Western
Church are from the section in the Gospel of Mark focused on discipleship
(Mk 8:27-10:52), as Jesus makes his way up to Jerusalem to embrace the
Passion and the Cross. Along the way, he is met with challenges and
questions. In last Sunday's readings,
the test came from the scribes and Pharisees, who questioned Jesus
about marriage and divorce. Jesus, in turn, directed them back "to the
beginning", and flatly stated, "Therefore what God has joined together,
no human being must separate." In this coming Sunday's reading,
the rich young ruler indicates his love for the good, but is challenged
to recognize his lacking understanding of what the good involves:
complete trust in Christ and the rejection of anything (in his case,
riches) impeding that trust. And the following Sunday, James and John
approach Jesus with the startling demand, "Teacher, we want you to do
for us whatever we ask of you", only to learn how woefully they
underestimate the demands and meaning of true discipleship. Need it be
pointed out that similar challenges and questions face the Church today:
Why does the Church claim marriage to have specific characteristics and
a divine origin? Why does the Church reject socialism and criticize
capitalism? Why does the Church point to future glory when an earthly utopia seems within arm's reach (and has, for many centuries now!)?
In each of those accounts, the choice is made clear: follow Christ on
his terms, or reject him. That, in short, is the choice put to each of
us, and it is the choice we are commissioned to take into the world and
to those who once knew the Gospel, but have fallen away. This is the work of
the new evangelization, which Instrumentum Laboris states, "responds to a demand that the Church have the courage to rise to
the occasion in order to take bold steps in revitalizing her spiritual and
missionary vocation" (par 46).
In the final Gospel reading of October,
the blind man, Bartimaeus, calls out in faith from the roadside;
"Jesus, son of David, have pity on me." Many rebuked him; some sought to
silence him. But he persisted and was called by Jesus, through the
disciples, with this timeless exhortation: "Take courage; get up, Jesus
is calling you." He told Jesus that he wanted to see, even while his
spiritual sight was far more keen and perceptive than that of most
others. "Go your way", Jesus told him, "your faith has saved you." And
what was Bartimaeus's way? Was it back home? To the local mall? To the
next sporting event? No, it was to Jerusalem and the Cross: "Immediately
he received his sight and followed him on the way." True faith cannot
be separated from the Passion and death of Christ.
The Scandal of the Cross, Proclaimed
Yet this focus on the Cross is, as St. Paul told the Corinthians in
the opening of his first epistle to them, a scandal: "But we preach
Christ crucified, a stumbling block [scandalon]
to Jews and folly to Gentiles..." (1 Cor 1:23). The Cross cannot be
softened or spun or sentimentalized; any attempt to do so results in a
scandal of the other sort, which hinders the reception of truth or
destroys it altogether. Not evangelizing is not an option for the Church
and her children, no matter how "intolerant" and "close-minded" and
even "mean-spirited" it is deemed by world, as Lumen Gentium, Vatican II's great dogmatic constitution on the Church, makes abundantly clear:
The Church has received
this solemn mandate of Christ to proclaim the saving truth from the apostles and
must carry it out to the very ends of the earth. Wherefore she makes the
words of the Apostle her own: "Woe to me, if I do not preach the Gospel",
and continues unceasingly to send heralds of the Gospel until such time as the
infant churches are fully established and can themselves continue the work of
evangelizing. For the Church is compelled by the Holy Spirit to do her part that
God's plan may be fully realized, whereby He has constituted Christ as the
source of salvation for the whole world. By the proclamation of the Gospel she
prepares her hearers to receive and profess the faith. She gives them the
dispositions necessary for baptism, snatches them from the slavery of error and
of idols and incorporates them in Christ so that through charity they may grow
up into full maturity in Christ. Through her work, whatever good is in the minds
and hearts of men, whatever good lies latent in the religious practices and
cultures of diverse peoples, is not only saved from destruction but is also
cleansed, raised up and perfected unto the glory of God, the confusion of the
devil and the happiness of man. The obligation of spreading the faith is imposed
on every disciple of Christ, according to his state. (par 17)
Cardinal Daniélou, in The Scandal of Truth, writes that
"before thinking of giving the faith to others, we have to examine
ourselves to determine whether we have it ourselves." He points out that
"The faith is not something I adhere to because it is a world view that
pleases me. We do no pick out our faith as we pick out a hat. ... One
is a Catholic because he thinks Catholicism is true. And whether that
suits me or upsets me, pleases me or displeases me, puts me at ease or
makes me ill at ease, I am obliged to profess it—as true for myself and
for other people." This sobering thought is echoed in Lumen Gentium, which warns of the grave dangers faced by those Catholics who fail to continue on the way of Christ, all the way to the end:
He is not
saved, however, who, though part of the body of the Church, does not persevere
in charity. He remains indeed in the bosom of the Church, but, as it were, only
in a "bodily" manner and not "in his heart." All the
Church's children should remember that their exalted status is to be attributed
not to their own merits but to the special grace of Christ. If they fail
moreover to respond to that grace in thought, word and deed, not only shall they
not be saved but they will be the more severely judged. (par 14)
Much more could be said about the Year of Faith and the anniversary of Vaican II, and Catholic World Report
will be publishing a series of articles about both, beginning tomorrow
with a piece on the historical background to the Council. However, what
is most vital is that the Year of Faith be marked, not by embarrasment
or apathy but by both a deeper encounter with Jesus Christ and a renewed
ardor for proclaming the saving Gospel, which is timeless and ever new,
meant for all men and women, each of them created by God to know, love,
and serve him:
... The Year of Faith is an occasion to ensure that
the essential elements of the faith, professed by all believers over the
centuries, are re-stated and examined, always in a new manner, so as to bear
witness to the faith in a coherent way in an entirely different historical
situation from the past. The danger exists that the faith, which establishes a
life of communion with God and serves as a doorway into his Church, might not be
properly understood in its deepest sense, or not actually taken up and lived by
Christians as a means of transforming lives through the great gift of divine
sonship and fellowship in the Church. (IL, 94)