2025-04-14T05:07:20-05:00

Last updated on: April 14, 2025 at 5:07 am   By
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IoanBacivarov: Holy Week (Good Friday) Service, Cashin Church In Bucharest (2009): /Wikimedia Commons

In the Byzantine tradition, Lent is over. Holy Week is a time all unto its own.  The last day of Lent was the Friday before Palm Sunday. Then comes Lazarus Saturday, the celebration which commemorates when Jesus brought Lazarus back to life (which can be said to be a resuscitation, not a resurrection, because, in Christian theology, a resurrection is more than just coming back to life). Then comes Palm Sunday which leads us to Holy Week.

Holy week was not something I thought about when I was a Protestant. Because of this, because of the habits I formed in my youth, I have often found it difficult to connect with it and its various traditions. Yes, Palm Sunday and Good Friday were days that we remembered, and we might have realized there are many special events which took place between the two, but we did not really engage them in our worship services. We did not think about them during the week. It was only when I became a Byzantine that I found myself trying to connect myself to the events taking place during Holy Week. Certainly, an important way this is done is liturgically, with the various services the Byzantine tradition has during Holy Week, but it is not always easy to go to all those services. This is why I try to think about the events which are commemorated in my liturgical tradition, ponder them on my own so that I can better understand their meaning, both within the Gospel narrative, but also for my own spiritual development.  Sometimes, I find the best way to do this is by writing theological and spiritual essays, or by writing poetry, despite the fact I have relatively feeble poetic skills, because I find the poetic mindset is one which is extremely helpful for contemplation:

Riding triumphantly into the city, the cheers soon died
As he taught and preached and the powers sighed:
He proclaimed the way of love, the way of God,
Expecting everyone to transcend the grand façade.

With all its glory, Imperial Rome
Could not match his Shalom.
Peace he preached, blessed was he
Who emerged from the fig tree.

His feet were anointed with love,
Fit for the one who came from above:
Then he washed his disciples,
Ahead of the oncoming trials.

At the supper, he gave his all,
Before Judas went to his fall.
Finally, he was taken by soldiers,
With his cross on his shoulders.

His body was pierced, his blood was shed:
His heart burst, before he was found dead.
Coronated with death, the grave took him in:
As he undertook the burden of all our sin.

Holy Week is special; it is its own special, sacred time. This is why it is not to be seen as a part of Lent. We are meant to be drawn into the events, to participate in them, to see that there is something trans-historical involved in them so that we can truly find ourselves there with Christ and his disciples. The words sung during Holy Week have us act and react as if the events are happening right before us, as if we are a part of the events with Christ’s first followers. While I appreciate all of this, I find it extremely difficult to truly place myself into the events themselves. I keep looking at them in hindsight. This, I think, comes in part from my Protestant background, but I also think it comes in part from  my own personal nature. But, do you know what? I think this is alright. We all comes with our own spiritual needs, and though there are general norms offered by the church in its liturgical traditions, norms which will help most of the people, due to the way we are unique, we will not experience them in the same way, and so we will not all get the same experience out of them. What is important, as I learned a long time ago from C.S. Lewis, is that we try to appreciate the tradition, to see the beauty being offered, and to join in the best we can, for by doing that, we begin to transcend ourselves and show God our love. For, when we find something difficult to do but continue to do so out of love, our love is exercised and able to grow, and in that exercise, in the way we seek to grow in love, God will be pleased. Thus, we often can and should supplement the norms with our own private devotions, doing what we finds helps us the most to continue to reflect upon and engage for ourselves the events which took place in Holy Week:

Christ comes to us where we are at,
Even when we feel spiritually flat.
His passion opens up his heart,
Giving us what we need to restart.

Glorified on earth, and then denounced,
Let us listen to what has been announced:
We are never far from the kingdom of heaven,
We just need to be freed from the sinful leaven.

Christ’s life and death took place in time, but also takes place in eternity, because Christ is both human and divine. In his divinity, he is acting in and with one eternal action, making all that he does one eternal act. This is why we can and should  approach the various events in his life. Each one represents a facet of his eternal activity. If we find a way to join ourselves to them, we find a way to join ourselves not just to a historical event, but to eternity, and likewise, to the kingdom of God. They are distinct events in history, but in heaven, they all come together and are one.  We will find different events will suit us better than others, but all of them are important and bring particular qualities, particular apprehensions of Christ’s divine activity with them, apprehensions which the others do not bring with them. Some events, certainly, apprehend more than others, such as those connected to Holy Week, which is why major events receive greater notice and liturgical celebrations, while lesser events, provide us with lesser celebrations.  Thus, the church wisely tries to have us engage Holy Week, to find a way to be drawn into the events of Holy Week, because in doing so, the church is working to awaken us to the kingdom of God as it is found within us all.

 

* This Is Part LIV Of My Personal (Informal) Reflections And Speculations Series

 

 

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2025-03-17T03:08:40-05:00

Last updated on: March 17, 2025 at 3:08 am   By
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Tom Murphy VII: Eagle and Child Interior – One Of The Places The Inklings Would Meet / Wikimedia Commons

I cannot properly express how influential the Inklings have been on my life. Not only do I enjoy the works they wrote, I have found many of their ideas I have helped shape the way I think and write.  One significant notion of theirs that has had a lasting influence on me was the way they saw myth was to be valued, seen not as some sort of falsehood, but rather as a different way for transcendent truths to be expressed in human conventions. I was under ten when I began reading the fiction of J.R.R. Tolkien and C.S, Lewis, and a teen when I started reading their non-fiction and scholarly works. Next, I began reading what other Inklings wrote, starting with Charles Williams and Owen Barfield, and eventually,  the works of those who participated in the Inklings meetings, whether or not they were deemed official members,  including, but not limited to, the works of Warren (Warnie) Lewis, Adam Fox, Hugo Dyson, Lord David Cecil, Nevil Coghill, and finally, John Wain. John Wain was, at one point, a student of C.S. Lewis, but  he became much more, as he became a university professor, literary critic, poet, and author, and it was his love for literature which had him connect with the rest of the Inklings.  While Wain, like the others of the Inklings, believed in the importance of the literary tradition, his literary interests was quite different from most of the Inklings, as he was not interested in the fantastic or mythological stories as much as he was in realistic fiction, the type which he would write throughout his life. It was, in part, because of his different literary tastes, but also, his differing views on life in general (he considered the other Inklings to be too socially conservative), that he would often say he should not be considered an Inkling as much as an associate of theirs who often went to their meetings.  I, myself, disagree with him, for I think it is by being an associate, by being someone  who went to several of their meetings, he was one of the Inklings. The problem is he wanted to essentialize the group, similar to many of their  fans do, which then made him say he did not fit. But it is because he was different than the rest that I believe he was an important member of the group, the kind who could and did act like a foil to the rest, that is, as one of the challengers who helped the group as a whole become better than if everyone  followed the image which has needlessly been given to it (such as all of them being Christian, which was not the case).

I have been slowly reading through the works, especially the fiction of John Wain,  for many years.  While I was lucky and found some of his novels available at my local used bookstore a few years ago, which allowed me to begin my journey through his oeuvre, many of his works have taken me longer to locate and buy. Now, as I am more like Tolkien and Lewis, interested in mythic or fantastic tales, Wain’s novels, if they were written by someone else, would not be the kind which I would have bought and read. I am glad I did. Some of his novels are much better, much more interesting than others, but all of them have had something in them which held my interest. Often, it is not the characters, because, most of his characters represent a kind of person who does not seem to possess a strong moral center, and so, turn out being someone who does things which I find more than questionable, but contemptible (such as having adulterous affairs). Indeed, many times I get a sense that the main character might even be misogynistic, at least to a small degree, as they often treat women more of objects of their desire than anything else. It can difficult to get around that aspect of his novels, especially as I wonder how much of what goes in them reflects some aspect of Wain’s own character and life. But it is not the only thing which happens in his novels. There is much more going on in them than his character’s lustful desires and the way they seek to have them fulfilled, even if that often is a big part of the novel; rather, it is what happens in the rest of the novels, in the situation or context which leads to the protagonist’s romantic interests, where I find John Wain, and his novels, at their best.  For example, I just finished the second novel of his Oxford trilogy, Comedies. The trilogy is about the life of  Peter Leonard,  showing how he got into Oxford in the 1930s, the way he dealt with undergraduate life in Oxford (including his romantic dalliances which lead him to meet his wife), the way he became an Oxford Fellow (don) before the start of World  War II, the lead-up to World War II in Oxford, the way the war changed things, and finally, in the last book (which I have yet to read), what he is like at the end of his career.  The trilogy give great insight to the way things were like at Oxford, and, this is what makes the trilogy  quite fascinating, much more than the particular interests and desires of Peter  Leonard.  Comedies, for example, gives us a glimpse of how Hitler and Mussolini were perceived by the public before World War II began with some of the arguments the dons had concerning Hitler and Mussolini, with one promoting Mussolini by saying he was a man of peace, and anyone who wanted peace would support him, and if one did not, they must want war. The debates are very similar to the kind being had in the United States concerning Putin and Trump, and as such, are very apropos. We are also given a glimpse of the growing awareness that war with Germany was inevitable, with Peter Leonard befriending two Jewish exiles, scholars who had to settle and work at the Oxford University Press instead of teach, scholars who helped give him insight and actually made him concerned about the future of England. It is this element of the book, the representation of what was happening before the war (and  not what happened during the war, which takes up a good portion of the novel as well), which I appreciated the most, and is why I would recommend it to others; however, it is best to read  Where the Rivers Meet, the first book of the trilogy, before Comedies (even if Wain suggested one did not have to), because that is where we are properly introduced to Peter Leonard, his family, and the people he met which continue to have important roles in Comedies. Where the Rivers Meet’s most interesting element is the way it reveals the kind of life had in Oxford in the 1930s, a kind of life which was destroyed by the war, for good  (in some ways) and for ill (in others).

I truly find John Wain to be a necessary counterpoint to Tolkien and Lewis, making his voice an important voice in the Inklings. He, like them, was extremely interest in literature and its value, but unlike them, he represented a rather modern viewpoint, indeed, one which led him to be seen as one of the “Angry Young Men;” his beliefs and ideals were vastly different from Tolkien or Lewis, but again, it is those differences which help make John Wain important. They help make the Inklings into something more than what it is normally treated, as a group of Christian romanticists. One should not expect a Christian message from his works, nor the kinds of high fantasy one gets from Tolkien or Lewis. But what one should expect are interesting, modern situations, texts which highlight key elements of modern society, often the most problematic elements, doing so in a way which is just as tainted as modern society itself. I have only read the first two works of his Oxford Trilogy, and, because of the context, and what they highlight of a way of life which is now no more, I think they work as a great introduction to Wain and his works. Other novels of interest include Hurry On Down, a work which helps explain why Wain was known as one of the Angry Young Men,  for it is about a young man, after finishing his university degree, finding it difficult to make his way in the world, A Winter in The Hills, and The Pardoner’s Tale. Many would recommend his scholarly works, such as his Samuel Johnson: A Biography. He is, for the most part, a neglected figure who I do think should be read with the rest of the Inklings, but also, as a writer independent from them (which, to be sure, is likely why he tried to disclaim membership with the Inklings).

 

* This Is Part XLVIII Of My Personal Reflections And Speculations Series

 

 

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N.B.:  While I read comments to moderate them, I rarely respond to them. If I don’t respond to your comment directly, don’t assume I am unthankful for it. I appreciate it. But I want readers to feel free to ask questions, and hopefully, dialogue with each other. I have shared what I wanted to say, though some responses will get a brief reply by me, or, if I find it interesting and something I can engage fully, as the foundation for another post. I have had many posts inspired or improved upon thanks to my readers.

 

 

2025-02-14T03:17:40-05:00

Last updated on: February 14, 2025 at 3:17 am   By
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The William Blake Archive: Mercy And Truth Are Met Together / Wikimedia Commons

Mercy and justice go together. Mercy makes no sense without justice, because it is through justice and its expectations we understand why various actions need to be rejected and punished, while such punishment tells us where the potential for mercy will be needed. Without mercy, without an ability to help those who have done wrong to change and be forgiven, and even helped they seek to make restitution,  justice becomes legalistic and brutal, allowing no transformation, that is, it allow no possibility for someone to change for the better. Justice should be about the promotion not only of the good, but the greatest good, and the greatest good is found in the transformation of those who have done bad into those do good so that they can then add to the good found in the world. This is why pardons can make sense: if those who are being pardoned prove they have changed for the better, society would be better off welcoming them back so they can then contribute to the common good. Similarly, pardons are necessary when the  punishment is excessive, that is, they help rectify the harm done by an unjust judgment. Mercy, therefore, has a role in the justice process; justice is not executed merely at the time of judgment, but all that happens afterward. William of Auvergne used the way mercy works in relation to secular justice to help us better understand God’s mercy:

Now if someone were to say that for someone who confessed to one or more crimes there is no longer any room to say something in justification of his case; rather, he should only await the sentence of condemnation, I reply that even in secular courts for those who have confessed their guilt there is room for clemency, by which the punishments are lessened, or even for forgiveness or mercy, by which someone is at times completely pardoned. For it is not possible that it is true mercy which completely does away with justice or that it is true justice which totally excludes mercy.[1]

For, as William said in one of his many prayers to God, God’s judgments and punishments are given, not to be cruel, but to help those being judged:

“Moreover, such punishments can do nothing else in those whom they are except torment and torture them, but this by itself never pleases your goodness, Lord of mercy. For you do not take delight in the perdition of the living; it is, in fact, a mark of diabolic malice, namely, to love the punishments and torments of human beings.”[2]

God is love, but we can also say God is justice and God is mercy. All that God does, God is. However, when examining God’s activity some actions are far more fundamental than others. We can see that behind everything God does, God’s love is found, which is why it is far more appropriate to understand God under the mantle of love than any other action. When we represent God in the world, therefore, we should take love as the foundation of our actions, doing so in a way similar to God, working, therefore, for a just mercy applied to everyone.

Love, and the mercy which comes from it, serves hope, because it shows us that God’s response to us is able to change as a result of our own personal change. We can transcend all the evil we have done, and therefore, what we have done, thanks to grace. When we transcend the evil we have done, we will be able to look back and reflect upon those evils and look at them not as something we should despair, thinking they make it impossible for us to be saved, but rather, as proof that we can become better, leaving us hope that we can continue to transcend ourselves and become all that God wants us to be. This is why Fr. George Maloney says: “Were it not for our hope that God’s eternal mercy and love will help us to transform them, it would not be a healthy thing for us to dwell on our past sins.” [3] For, if  we were not offered mercy, if  there were no way for us to transcend what we have currently made ourselves out to be, what we have done will only lead us to despair.  We should, likewise, following the way God works with us, offer such mercy and grace to others. If we don’t do so, our own lack of mercy can adversely impact the transformation of those who need to become better,  which is what Tolkien mentioned in a letter to C.S. Lewis:

What happens when the culprit is genuinely repentant, but the sufferer is deeply resentful and withholds all ‘forgiveness’? It is a terrible thought, to deter anyone from running the risk of needlessly causing such an ‘evil’. Of course, the power of mercy is only delegated and is always exercised with or without cooperation by Higher Authority. But the joys and healing of cooperation must be lost?[4]

There is a sense of this in the interplay between Samwise and Gollum in the Lord of the Rings; Sam was right to question Gollum and Gollum’s loyalty but he did so in such a way that was, for most of his time with Gollum, quite unmerciful. Sam’s lack of mercy undermined Frodo’s work with Gollum, for Frodo, with his mercy, was having a positive influence on Gollum.  Nonetheless, Frodo’s mercy to Gollum helped Frodo when he needed a similar mercy, for the fact that he had failed in his mission and had begun to become like Gollum could have made it so that he would suffer the same fate of Gollum. But because of his embrace of mercy, he was able to understand mercy can be given to him, to accept it when it was offered, and not let despair destroy him (even if he would have to deal with his own failure throughout the  rest of his life).

Without mercy, reformation is impossible, and so, without mercy, we often make self-fulfilling prophecies concerning those we deny mercy. But if we look to ourselves, and the way we need mercy, we should see how it is mercy which, more than anything else, which gives us not only the hope, but the ability to become better. When we offer it to others, we are offering them   the chance to become better. Yes, we must exercise caution and not expect or accept instant transformation. What is important is that we should seek the kind of justice which is rehabilative and not punitive, for by doing so, we seek the greatest good, the kind which justice is meant to establish in the world. This is exactly how God acts with us, and it is how God acts, then it is how we should act, for by doing so, we live out the nature God gave us, one which is meant to reflect God’s ways in the world.

[1] William of Auvergne, Rhetorica divinia, seu ars oratoria eloquentiae divinae. Trans. Roland J Teske SJ (Walpole, MA: Peeters, 2013), 63.

[2] William of Auvergne, Rhetorica divinia, seu ars oratoria eloquentiae divinae, 89 [From an example of a prayer to God in the text].

[3] George A. Maloney, SJ, Your Sins Are Forgiven: Rediscovering the Sacrament of Reconciliation (New York: Alba House, 1994), 22.

[4] J.R.R. Tolkien, The Letters of J.R.R. Tolkien. Revised and Expanded Edition. Ed. Humphrey Carpenter and Christopher Tolkien (Broadway, NY: William Morrow, 2023), 182 [Letter 113 to C.S. Lewis].

 

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N.B.:  While I read comments to moderate them, I rarely respond to them. If I don’t respond to your comment directly, don’t assume I am unthankful for it. I appreciate it. But I want readers to feel free to ask questions, and hopefully, dialogue with each other. I have shared what I wanted to say, though some responses will get a brief reply by me, or, if I find it interesting and something I can engage fully, as the foundation for another post. I have had many posts inspired or improved upon thanks to my readers.

2025-02-06T03:07:53-05:00

Last updated on: February 6, 2025 at 3:07 am   By
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Photograph by Rama :God Creating The birds And The Fishes by Maerten de Vos / Wikimedia Commons

Often, I see people online asking what happens to their beloved pets when they die. They care about the fate of their pets thanks to the bond they have with them. This helps them know that something would be wrong for their pets to just vanish out of existence. They intuitively understand the problem inherent in annihilationism of any sort, even if it is a limited kind of annihilationism which relates to non-human forms of life.  Why would God create and bring them into existence, to establish some good, only to snuff it out for eternity? It does not make sense.

Many pet owners first wonder what happens to their pets when their pets are dying, or have just died.  They ask while in a time of grief.  It is for this reason terrible to see the way many come out of the woodwork to answer them, saying not only are their pets dead, but their existence has been entirely wiped.  To me, it seems that many who answer this way do so out of some sadistic desire to cause further grief; they seem to like to rub it in that someone’s beloved companion has been annihilated. Others, to be sure, seem to want to answer the question, using what they have learned from their theological studies, as can be seen in the way some (neo)-Thomists state that pets do not have immortal souls because they were not rational animals; of these, some try to be charitable about it, understanding the grief of those they are responding to, while others are completely indifferent to that grief, preferring to be dogmatic instead of pastoral.  My own answer is quite different. Not only do I understand the grief, and try to give the bereaved comfort, I point out, despite the way some try to answer the question, the Christian tradition offers only speculative answers to the question. That is, despite the way some try to be dogmatic and act as if their theological opinion is what must be believed, there is no definitive, dogmatic teaching on the matter. Some, like myself, believe there are reasons why we can hope (and even believe) that pets, as well as other animals, will have a place in the eschatological kingdom of God. My own view is that as all animals have souls  (which tradition states), and the nature of the soul is to give life, the nature of the soul is to be immortal, whether or not it is rational (which, to be sure, comes from the way many, like Plato, explained the immortality of the soul). I also say, despite what Thomas and others have thought, there is good reason to believe animals have various levels of rational cognition, suggesting that it is a bad assumption (filled with bias) which suggests otherwise. Finally, I point out, even if I were wrong on those accounts, we can, like C.S. Lewis, still trust in God, the God who will resurrect us at the end of time, to likewise restore life to all who have died, whether or not they have had immortal souls, meaning, we do not even have to know if they have immortal souls in order to hope that we will once again experience the joy of our pets and their existence in the eschaton.

Thus, every time I see the question asked, I want to say, we can hope and believe that all dogs (and cats, hamsters, fish, births, and all other forms of life, including non-animal life) have a place set for them in the eschatological kingdom of God. One of the major sources of my theological justification lies in the way Eastern theology (and also many in the  Western tradition) talk about the cosmic (universal) significance of Christ’s incarnation, birth, life, dead, resurrection and ascension into heaven. What he has done is share God’s grace and love not only to humanity, but to all creation – something which Paul himself suggests a few times in Scripture. God is love, and in that love, not only created the world we live in, but also gave to it the ability to produce life, and all life, has, in their own way (not just animals) some level of autonomy (it is, to be sure, a scale, with some having far greater levels of autonomy than  others). That autonomy, that freedom, gives every living thing, based upon its potentiality, to open or close themselves to God and receive some kind of grace (deifying grace) in return. Those who would deny this because of the vast difference between God and animals, or God and plants, or God and fungi, ignore that such an argument would undermine God’s relationship with us, for God is infinitely greater and different from all created being.

I often wonder why the Christian tradition, especially in the West, became agnostic, if not outright hostile, to the notion that animals have a place in the eschaton. Is it because animals are seen as being more materialistic than spiritual, and as such, some weird Gnostic influence lies behind this? Perhaps, especially if we consider the role Augustine has had on this issue; in his confrontation with Manichaeans and other Gnostics, he continues to follow their way of thinking, which easily has led him to sometimes go astray in his answers to them (similar to the way many contemporary Catholic apologists, who were once Protestant, often show their way of thinking remains Protestant instead of Catholic). To be sure, St. Augustine was a great thinker, and a great man, which is why his many foibles and mistakes, could and did lead to great troubles in the Christian tradition (as, for example, the way his writings helped suggest people the notion of double-predestination). Thus, as he was unable to completely distance himself from what he learned from the Manichaeans, I think this is what led him to hold a rather negative understanding of animals and their place in the Christian tradition. Manicheans had a relatively low view of animals, as they were seen as beings with little real spiritual nature to them; they were seen mostly as material beings, and, as matter to them was something which needed to be rejected and overcome, animals, being primarily material, were deemed relatively unimportant: whatever good was in them, whatever light was in them, they believed would be freed at their death, no longer having any connection to their historical existence. Augustine, then, took their negative view of animals without considering if it contradicted other beliefs he came to hold as a Catholic. He certainly ignored the greater philosophical (and religious) traditions which gave a greater understanding and appreciation of animals, if he did not outright ridicule them. Since Augustine became one of the greatest shapers of the Western theological tradition, that defect could and would continue after him.

While the arguments which can be made for and against the immortality of animals are many, and as such, would be interesting to explore, and it is something which I have done, here the only point I am trying to make is that there have been and continue to be many different answers given to those who ask about what happens when pets die. Christianity does not have  a definitive answer to give, though, for many, like myself, revelation, such as found in Scripture, is highly suggestive that God is as concerned with animals as with us, and that they will have a place in the kingdom of God.  Indeed, the more I consider what I have learned about God, the more I understand God’s role not only in the creation, but the preservation of the universe and all that exists. This mean, all life, indeed, all that has been brought into being, will be restored in the eschaton and have a place in the kingdom of God. I believe this the outcome of many of the things which God has revealed to us in and through the definitive revelation given to us by the God-man, Jesus Christ. We are told that death has no sting, that life is greater than death, and that in and through Christ, those who have died will be brought back to life. The theological discussions which explore the way Christ brings back the dead to life through his resurrection from the dead would prove faulty if the arguments given only hold true for humanity. Death would be victorious, its sting, real, if most forms of life were annihilated. This is not what I have come to see and believe about God. God is a God of the living, the God of all creatures; when the Psalms and Saints alike have animals praise God, do we not see that God has a relationship with them, that God is their God just as much as ours? How, having formed a relationship with them, can God just allow them to perish and  cease to exist for all eternity? How would  God remain a God of the living, when the vast amount of creatures which have been called to praise God, find themselves forever among the dead?

 

 

* This Is Part XLI Of My Personal Reflections And Speculations Series

 

 

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N.B.:  While I read comments to moderate them, I rarely respond to them. If I don’t respond to your comment directly, don’t assume I am unthankful for it. I appreciate it. But I want readers to feel free to ask questions, and hopefully, dialogue with each other. I have shared what I wanted to say, though some responses will get a brief reply by me, or, if I find it interesting and something I can engage fully, as the foundation for another post. I have had many posts inspired or improved upon thanks to my readers.

2025-01-31T03:09:26-05:00

Last updated on: January 31, 2025 at 3:09 am   By
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Lawrence OP: The Excellence Of St. Thomas Aquinas (With Aristotle, Serving As An Example Of Medieval Comparative Theology). Fresco From The Vatican Museum / flickr

There was a stage in my spiritual and theological development when I was influenced by fundamentalism, and with it, tended towards a puritan-like extreme; it began in middle school, and, to some degree, continued with me until my Freshman year in college. How it affected me changed over time. For example, I was a major fan of role-playing games, and in the horror genre, and owned many games and novels which I would eventually sell because I came to believe that they were tainted by evil. After I got beyond that stage, I would buy back many of the novels I sold, like the works of H.P. Lovecraft, but I would not do the same with the games I lost (as it would be much more difficult to do so). Despite this, I remained interested in science fiction and fantasy, especially the works of the Inklings. I was also interested in theology, and the history of Christianity. I was trying to understand the history of Protestantism, reading especially the works of Luther and Calvin (preferring Luther to Calvin), even as I found myself reading various philosophical classics (if and when I found a book at the local used bookstore which interested me, leading me to read works from Descartes, Pascal, and St. Thomas Aquinas, among many others). I also began reading patristics, starting with the Apostolic Fathers, and various works of St. Augustine (such as an abridged copy of the City of God). Because of my study, I was already beginning my journey that would lead me away from fundamentalism, although at the time I would have denied it (and shown considerable hostility towards Catholicism

It was my reading of the Inklings, especially C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkien, which allowed me to complete my move beyond fundamentalism. They introduced to me a more open-ended perspective due to their views on myth and how myth, in whatever culture or religious tradition it is found in, represented or taught truths which connected in various ways to the truth of the Gospel. That is, I learned how to consider the way religious traditions, through their myths, revealed truths which were fulfilled in Christ (or, as C.S. Lewis wrote, in Christ, myth became fact). This led me reconsider my understanding of other religious traditions, allowing me to see that the Holy Spirit has been inspiring humanity throughout the whole of human history. This perspective was reinforced as I continued to read Ante-Nicene apologists like St. Justin Martyr, St. Clement of Alexandria, and even Eusebius, as the pointed out how God prepared the world for the incarnation.  Justin suggested that many pagans who lived before Christ could be seen as serving Christ, and so be said to be pre-Christian Christian, affirming that they have something worthwhile for us to consider. St. Clement of Alexandria, among others, suggested philosophers could be seen as influenced by God, as they served pagans in a way the prophets served the people of Israel. Many others even suggested that the Sibyls could be seen to have been inspired by the Holy Spirit, making them prophets. Once I accepted this notion, I quickly desired to study what I could from many religious traditions, to see the rays of truth found in all religious traditions. This related to my academic study at the time, which was the field of Religious Studies; while I initially entered the program to focus exclusively on Christianity, I became interested in study many other religious traditions (leading me to take coursework in Hinduism and Sufism). I quickly saw how many of these rays of truths had not properly been studied by Christians, and if they did study them and take them on, Christian theology could further develop, similar to the way it did when Christian theology engaged Platonism during the patristic era, or Aristotle (and Jewish and Muslim theology) during the scholastic era.

While this perspective opened me up to study many other religious traditions, including Hinduism, it took me much longer to do so with Buddhism. I was not too familiar with Buddhist thought, however, I had been given the impression that it was a nihilistic tradition, and as such, I believed it denied the positive insight I found in other religious faiths.  It was only years later, when  I was working in Bloomington Indiana, that I would take the plunge into Buddhism and find a system of thought which enchanted me and had so much for me to learn from and engage than I could ever imagine. How did that happen? When I returned from a trip to Egypt, where I had visited Cairo, Alexandria, and Mt. Sinai, I learned that the Dalai Lama was going to be in town; though I was not interested in going to any of his public presentations, I knew that his brother lived in town and owned a restaurant, the Snow Lion. I decided to eat at the restaurant, especially as I heard it had good food. When my friend and I went to dine there, the restaurant  had a few books on Buddhism for sale. Seeing them, I began to think I had not yet given Buddhism the opportunity I had given other religious faiths, and it was time for me to do so.  I decided to pick up and read the Dalai Lama’s introduction to Tibetan Buddhism. When I read it, I discovered most of what I was led to believe about Buddhism was wrong; Buddhism was not nihilistic at all, indeed, nihilism was viewed as one of the grave errors that needed to be rejected. What was viewed as nihilism was its philosophical and religious engagement with the methodology that I had by that time come to study and learn in Christianity found in and with apophaticism (such as seen in the works of Pseudo-Dionysius). Once I realized this, it made me want to study and pursue the great thinkers of the Buddhist tradition, to learn how they engaged apophaticism, and what I could   learn from them, because it was clear, they took the methodology further, using it for all kinds of logical analysis, which Christian thinkers had yet to do. And yet, as I saw how vast Buddhism was as a religion, I knew I could not explore every tradition in depth, which is why I decided to take a few schools of thought and focus on them (while still taking time to read from other traditions, albeit in a more cursory manner). What I decided to engage were the basic discourses of the Buddha from the Pali Canon, the works coming out of the Yogācāra tradition (especially those associated with Asaṅga and Vasubandhu), and Zen.

Today, my understanding of world religions and their relationship with Christianity is much more complex than it was when I found myself initially interested in and open to studying them. I have read more from Christian history and those who promoted some form of engagement  with various philosophical and religious traditions, as, for example, Nicholas of Cusa’s De Pace Fidei. I have read the works of Marsilio Ficino, who especially was interested in “perennial philosophy” and its connection to Christian theology. I have studied Vladimir Solovyov and his attempt to explore the history of religion and connect it with God’s work with humanity.  I have studied many theologies of religion, many forms of comparative religious study, and found myself through them, drawn to the notion of comparative theology, finding that it embraces most what I want to do with my study of other religions. Comparative theology, when done right, expects a lot from its practitioner. It is does more than look at and compare some religious element from two or more religious traditions; it asks what a practitioner from a particular tradition can learn from that comparison, that is, how what they have learned should influence their own theological notions. It requires them, therefore, to start with comparison, making sure they study and understand the issue in question and how it relates first to the religions involved, from the perspective of the religious tradition. That is, there needs to be a proper understanding of the religions under discussion, which usually means, it will take years before one is ready to properly do a comparative analysis and make some sort of theological insight due to that comparison. If they do not do this, it is easy to lead to a false understanding of the religious traditions involved, and come to some sort of distorted conclusion. In relation to my theological work, I found myself especially engaging comparative theology connected Buddhism and Christianity (though, I would also engage Judaism, Islam, and Hinduism to a lesser degree). It was only by studying and understanding what Yogācāra means by the three Natures, or Mādhyamaka means about the middle way and the two truths, was I able to see what those notions entail and discern what about them can be used in my own Christian theological reflections. While some might suggest comparative theology leads to syncretism, and to be sure, that is a danger, comparative theology tries to undermine that by keeping in mind the distinctions, making sure they are not lost or forgotten when theological reflection emerges. Thus, now, in many of my writings, much of what I have learned (and still learn) from my study of other religions, especially Buddhism, is taken into consideration and used, hopefully to the benefit of my own theological thought. And if someone would complain, I would point out Christian theology has, from its inception, been engaging comparative theology, and theology would not have developed as we know if without Christians engaging non-Christian thought.

* This Is Part XXXIX Of My Personal Reflections And Speculations Series

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2024-12-19T08:47:15-05:00

Last updated on: December 19, 2024 at 8:47 am   By
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Jonas Stocker: Astronaut Meeting Another Form Of Intelligent Life / Wikimedia Commons

A Universe Filled with Wonders and Possibilities

When I was growing up, my father shared with me his love for reading, especially his love for reading science fiction and fantasy stories, which is why genre fiction remains my favorite kind of fiction to read. Similarly, my favorite type of film and television series has been, and continues to be, science fiction. Despite being disappointed in the way Doctor Who has become during the last several years, it has been, and remains, my favorite television series since I first started watching it around the age of nine or so (because I am able to separate its recent decline from its overall history). Star Trek, Babylon 5, The Prisoner, Blake’s 7, Stargate SG1, V, Alien Nation, Andromeda, Twilight Zone, The Outer Limits, and series like them, represent what I like most from television. It is likely my entertainment choices have influenced me in the way I think about the world, indeed, the universe around me, as I find myself believing that a universe our size is more likely than not to possess many forms of intelligent life (and not just those found on Earth). We might not ever encounter them, but on the other hand, it would not surprise me that, as we explore the universe, and learn more about it, we might find that what we think is impossible turns out to being possible, so I do not preclude the notion that such contact can ever be made.

From Science Fiction to Theology: A Journey of Belief

My interest in, and acceptance of, the probability that we live in a universe filled with various kinds of intelligent life has often led me to consider the theological implications involved with such a reality. I have found, unlike others, that it would offer no substantial change concerning my notions of God; indeed, it would seem to serve as affirmation of many things I believe. To be sure, I do recognize many theological opinions I have developed are speculative in nature, and as such, others could come to differing conclusions than I do. Only if we encounter such life, one way (directly), or indirectly (through encountering evidence of this existence, but never meeting with them), will such speculations be able to be examined and properly corrected. However, it seems likely to me, if we ever have such an encounter, what we learn will be able to fit in the general theological scheme I have established for myself.  Some might think, if there will be little to no chance to have my speculations tested, they end up being meaningless, but I disagree, as I think they still have us consider and explore our understanding of both God and creation, exploration which can end up having practical implications.

Now, one of the reasons why I believe other forms of intelligent life exists in the universe lies with what has been revealed to us about the nature of God.  God is love, and out of that love, created the universe. God, similarly, created the universe so that it can lead to the birth of subjects who can take in and receive that love and, in their own way, love God in return. With the size of the universe, it seems unlikely to me that God would make it so vast if God intended that there would be only one small planet on which creatures with the intellectual and spiritual capacity to love God back could be found.

Through my theological studies, I have learned that many, like Nicholas of Cusa, have held a similar view. While some have been led to think Christianity has a problem accepting the possibility of other forms of intelligent life in the universe, this is because one tradition, one that rejected that possibility, was emphasized in modern times. Christian history shows the topic has often been debated, and if we read through it, we will find eras in which the majority of Christian thinkers believed the universe was filled with life, and other eras in which the majority rejected such a notion.

Is God’s Love Limited to Earth Alone?

As I examined the reasons why some Christians denied the possibility of alien life, I found most of their arguments were rather superficial. Some, like fundamentalists, said Scripture would indicate if such life existed, because it would be important enough to mention; since Scripture did not do this, they say we must conclude such life does not exist. Similarly, many fundamentalists connected the possibility of such life existing in the universe with evolution, which they also denied. They said there must be something special about humanity, and they concluded that what made humanity special is that it was the only rational or intelligent form of life God created.  While I agree there is something special about humanity, I do not think it relates to our rational capacity; rather, it is because we were chosen, for reasons we can only speculate, to be the species which God used to enter into creation (by way of incarnation) and to do the work God saw was necessary to save us. I have come to think that the reason why God chose us for the incarnation is similar to the reason why God chose Abraham (and all of Israel) for a special relationship among the nations of the world (a relationship which did not preclude God having relationship with other nations); we might not be able to know it right now, but it is likely something we will learn in the eschaton.

A better objection to the potential of the universe being filled with all kinds of intelligent life is the question of their salvation. Those who make this kind of objection point out that the universe, creation, is fallen, so that all that is in it is contaminated by sin. This means, such forms of life, if they exist, would need to be saved. They ask how would that be done, since God became one of us, human, and not one of them? Would God have to have multiple incarnations, with each incarnation repeating what happened on Earth, that is, for God to enter creation multiple times in order to die and be resurrected again and again an again? They are right in thinking there would be something off with such a notion.  Now some, like C.S. Lewis, might answer this by saying it is possible other forms of life might not have experienced a fall from grace, so they do not need a savior. But I do not agree with this. I see the universe as fundamentally affected by sin, so all creation needs to be saved. My own answer to this question comes from the way many theologians, especially many patristic theologians, pointed out the work of Christ was not just for us, but for the whole creation, that his work was cosmic in nature so that all the universe can be and will be redeemed by his sacrifice on the cross and his resurrection from the dead.

Science Fiction Meets the Divine

Now, this is where an interesting question emerges. If God became one of us, human, and not some other species in the universe, and God offers salvation to all through us, how would other intelligent species have access so this truth and so be saved through Christ if they do not have access to us? This is where speculation really comes into play. We can, for example, talk about the way Christ could and did save those in the Americas even before Christian missionaries reached the Americas because Christ is the universal Logos, and many people can be related to and saved by Christ through their connection to him as the Logos. If we can accept this possibility, then it is easy to suggest all other forms of intelligent life in the universe can have some sort of relationship with Christ in accordance to his divine nature, in accordance to his identity as the Logos, and through that relationship, they will be able to receive the grace which he brought into the universe through his death and resurrection. But, truth be told, there seems to be something insufficient with this. It might represent a part of the answer, but it does seem to be lacking. This is why some others have suggested that the answer lies in the work of the Holy Spirit, that the Holy Spirit truly has been “abroad,” revealing all kinds of insight to the rest of the universe, allowing them to know things in ways which we cannot yet comprehend.

Would God Have Multiple Incarnations?

There is another possibility, one which I contemplate and consider from time to time, one which I find interesting, though also one which I have significant concern about, which is the notion that we could accept that God has had multiple incarnations in the universe. It is through studying St. Thomas Aquinas that I have taken this possibility seriously, even if I have all kinds of reservations about it. Thomas said there is nothing against the notion, in and of itself, for God to incarnate many times, taking on many different bodies, giving the Logos many different incarnations, each time, assuming a new nature, appearing at a new place in the universe. Having multiple incarnations does not mean God has to do the same thing in each of them. If this is the case, we would learn about those deeds either if and when we encounter those forms of life in which God became incarnate, or in the eschaton. Connected with this notion, the incarnate God would still be saving all of creation in and through the way God became human, and because of this, the cosmic work of Christ would allow God to incarnate without the need for each incarnation to come to the same end.  But it is likely, in each form, the incarnation would lead to the spiritualization of the bodily form which was assumed, which is exactly what happened with the human body in Christ’s resurrection from the dead. This would make it possible for all such incarnate bodies to come together and be one (even as it would allow us to encounter or see the incarnate God in a variety of ways, as suggested by C.S. Lewis’s Narnia series).

Faith in a Vast Universe

As it stands, the fact we live in a fallen universe, does not, in and of itself, undermine the possibility of a great variety of intelligent life in the universe. We can think of many ways for God to save all that exists in the universe in and through Jesus Christ. This means, there does not need to be multiple incarnations in order to deal with the fall; on the other hand, this does not mean there cannot be multiple incarnations. Personally, though I accept the possibility of multiple incarnations, until I see evidence for them, I will consider there is but one incarnation, and that there will be many ways in which that one incarnation would be made known throughout creation. Nonetheless, I find the notion of multiple incarnations intriguing, which is why it has led me to explore the concept in some of my writings, especially as I see it is a place where Christian dialogue with other religions can actually prove fruitful.

Until we have any contact with other forms of intelligent life in the universe, all we can do is speculate about them, their nature, and the way God is at work with them. The key is to do so with a Christian spirit, recognizing God is the giver of life, one who brings life to the universe out of love, and one who will find a way to deal with all life, even if we do not know how it is to be done.  We must stop trying to trap God with fundamentalistic, rigid ideologies, but rather, be open to God’s greatness is such that we can look at God’s work in and with creation with wonder. It is such wonder which has stayed with me ever since I was young and my father shared with me his love for science fiction and fantasy.

 

* This Is Part XXXI In The Personal Reflections And Speculations Series

 

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N.B.:  While I read comments to moderate them, I rarely respond to them. If I don’t respond to your comment directly, don’t assume I am unthankful for it. I appreciate it. But I want readers to feel free to ask questions, and hopefully, dialogue with each other. I have shared what I wanted to say, though some responses will get a brief reply by me, or, if I find it interesting and something I can engage fully, as the foundation for another post. I have had many posts inspired or improved upon thanks to my readers.

2024-10-09T02:15:10-05:00

Last updated on: October 9, 2024 at 2:15 am   By
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Maksim Sokolov: The School of Athens By Raphael / Wikimedia Commons

Throughout all my life, I have been drawn to theological pursuits. When I was an adolescent, and a Baptist, that meant reading Scripture, trying to understand what I read, and then taking that understanding and establishing my own systematic presentation of the faith. It was, to be sure, a rather limited and simplistic theological endeavor, and yet at the heart of it was a yearning for the truth. It is that yearning which has led me to pursue a wide range of philosophical, scientific, and theological texts, as I desire to apprehend more and more of the truth for myself, using what I apprehend to refine and develop my own theological understanding. Thus, even as a Baptist, I expanded my horizons by reading various classics of the Christian tradition, be it Protestant (C.S. Lewis, the Wesleys, and Martin Luther) or Catholic (St. Augustine, St. Thomas Aquinas, and Pascal). I quickly found myself interested in patristics, reading the Apostolic Fathers, and then, after them,  other writers from the first few centuries of church history. I took what I read seriously, and wrestled with it; by doing so I found my faith was developing, becoming more sophisticated, and, with some outside influences, it eventually helped me become a Byzantine Catholic.

To this day, I have an interest in over-arching systems of faith and knowledge, but there are significant differences between the system which I construct for myself now and the type of system which I used to construct. When I was younger, I wanted to create an exhaustive, and therefore, closed system, where everything could be derived from various first principles (those given to us by revelation, science, and logic). Now, I understand I cannot create such an exhaustive system; whatever system I establish needs to be open-ended, capable of incorporating more elements of truth within it, with each apprehension of the truth leading to the overall system changing, sometimes in surprising ways. Moreover, the kind of system I wanted to establish was an entirely rationalistic one; I thought I could and would produce new theological insights the same way mathematicians developed new mathematical equations. There is, to be sure, some truth in that. We can try to discern various implications which can be derived from what we already know our believe, using reason or logic as the means by which we do so.

Faith and reason do go together, but it is important to accept the limitations of human reason, realizing that there are elements of the faith which will transcend reason, which means, they cannot be proved or established, or properly engaged, by reason alone. Similarly, I learned that there will always be an apophatic caveat behind any positive theological statement, one which recognizes the limitations inherent in any and all human conventions. The absolute truth will transcend all attempts of comprehension, which includes all attempts to describe it in theological terms. I have fully embraced what apophatic theology teaches, recognizing, however,  apophatic theology does not deny us the possibility to engage theology and make positive statements about the truth; rather, it warns us not to assume too much out of such theological declarations. What is said in and through words will always be less than the absolute truth. The more we try to create a system based upon the words which we use to present theological truths, that is, the more we try to take what is stated and derive more truths from it, and ways in which those truths interconnect to establish a system, the more we will be engaging the truth on the level of conventions, with each derivative truth compounding the  problems associated with the attempt to translate the truth into words. That is, the deficiencies behind any theological assertion will increase the more we try to derive more truths from the conventions themselves.  This is why theology, and the systems theologians create, must not be read and studied and engaged the same way we engage mathematics. System building is always going to be a human construct, even if it is helped or inspired by the work of the Holy Spirit in the lives of those who make the systems. It can be and should be seen as an invaluable representation of the truth, but what is presented must always be understood as just that, a representation of the truth. When we study any system, any dogmatic declaration, any exploration of doctrine, we must discern the intended meaning behind such representations rather than being concerned about the words used to establish that meaning. That is, as Paul said, we should follow the spirit, not the letter, because when we look only at the letter, and become focused on the letter, we will lose touch with the truth which is not contained in the letter. And the more we get caught in the letter, and engage the letter in an extreme fashion, creating theological systems based upon a pure rationalistic engagement with the letter instead of the spirit, the systems we create will end up containing all kinds of self-contradictions which show why the system cannot be seen as anything but a pointer to a truth beyond it (this is why, when Scripture is read in this fashion, people will find all kinds of apparent self-contradictions in it).

This is where I am at in my own theological explorations: I continue to be interested in theological systems and building up my own system, one which is now expanding, and changing in and through such expansions. I build it recognizing what I am doing, that is building a conventional construct, a construct which can provide some insight to myself and to others, but also a construct which I recognize is limited and at best can point to but not comprehend the transcendent truth. There will be times, because of my development, that I will contradict myself. There will be other times where it might appear that I contradict myself, in reality, I do not, because what I say in one situation and context might appear to contradict what I say in another situation or context. Those who look to the letter, and not the spirit, of what I said, will find far more apparent contradictions in what I write than those who know they should look beyond the letter and truly discern the meaning of what I write. Those who follow the spirit of what I write will discern that my texts are intended to serve as pointers to the truth beyond them; when they do so, they will realize, instead of trying to put them together in some sort of compound synthesis, but instead use them as reference points for triangulating (as it were) the truth which is beyond what I can say or explain. To do this, context is very important, as perhaps can be seen in discussions I have concerning “self-love”: in some of them, I follow various spiritual writers who explain how “self-love” can be sinful, but in others, I point out that we must love ourselves and that it is when we hate ourselves we sin. Someone could say I contradict myself, however, if they looked at what I was saying was sinful about “self-love” they would see that is not the case; the “self-love” which is sinful is the kind which is used to have us consider ourselves better than others, so we should love ourselves more than others — that is, this kind of self-love associated with narcissism, pride, and or vainglory. This is far different from the kind of self-love which is healthy, indeed, the kind which we should have, the kind which sees everyone should be loved and shown dignity and respect, including ourselves.

There will be times when I will appear to contradict myself because dogmatic theology is riddled with paradoxes and antinomies. This, again, is because the absolute truth lies beyond our comprehension, , beyond the words we produce, and the systems which we establish based upon those words. To speak of the absolute truth will require us to engage it in a variety of ways, some which will appear to contradict other ways it is presented. Perhaps this is why dogmatic discussions of the Trinity can often have people fight each other when they are intending the same thing, such as found in many debates over the filioque. People understand their own system, their own word choice, but find it difficult to do so with other systems and the word choices used to create such other systems, especially if those other systems appear to use the same words but in ways which differ from the way they normally engage those words. If we accept this, if we accept all the qualifications which lie behind all positive theological declarations as designated by apophatic theology, we will better equipped to deal with such apparent contradictions and discern when they are real and when they are not.

Thus, when I look back at what I write and reflect on my theological journey, I can see elements which have remained with me ever since my youth; I can find elements I have gained from my studies which have led me to change my own theological system, sometimes to the point of  changing my mind concerning things I once believed. Nonetheless, I find I continue following the same basic principles, the same basic methodology, in all that I do, giving me a core which connects all I have believed and written about throughout all life. I continue to be interested in developing my own theological system, and even developing my own over-arching presentation of that system, but I find to do that, it is better to engage it in parts, to explore it in parts, for it is far easier to refine my thinking in this way than to revise the system as a whole. I have already developed one over-arching representation of that system, one based upon Sophiology, and it something I hope to one day finish editing and see if anyone is interested in publishing it. But, if I do, it must, at best, be seen as an outline of the overarching system which is in my thoughts, one which is trying to point to intuitions I have which exists in a form beyond the words I use to  describe it. Moreover, it is an outline written many years ago, and so at a point in time in which many things I have developed since then will not be found in it. Indeed, there are elements in it which I have already changed my mind about, but instead of removing them, I find it best to keep the work as it was intended, so that it can show us that we do not have to remain stuck in one formulation of the faith but that we can and will develop even after we write one down. I figure it is best to allow people into my own theological development instead of trying to hide it, so that others can and will be encouraged to do so as well, that is, to accept their own theological development and not be embarrassed by the changes it has taken throughout the years.

 

 

*Personal Reflections And Speculations

 

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2024-08-02T02:32:43-05:00

Last updated on: August 2, 2024 at 2:32 am   By
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Lawrence OP: Painting by Vittorio Carpaccio, conceived as a meditation on suffering, death, and resurrection. It hangs in the Metropolitan Museum of Art, NYC / flickr

By nature, if we are to use such a term for God, God is perfect. In accordance to that perfection, God is incapable of suffering. If God suffered, then, with such suffering,  there would be something less than perfect about God.  This is why there is nothing we can do to make God suffer. Indeed, God is eternal and in that eternity, unchangeable, and since God is by nature perfect and without suffering, there can be no change which would produce such suffering in God. Similarly, God is the source and foundation of all that is good, and in this way, as goodness is an eternal activity or uncreated energy of God, God can be said to be the Good. As suffering is evil, and God is the Good, there is no way God can suffer, for what God is, is good, and so suffering, if it were a part of God, would be good.

These, and other arguments, are used to explain why God  is said not to suffer; in relation to the divine nature, these arguments point us towards to the truth.  And yet, paradoxically, God is love, and in that love, God is not an absolute monad, but tri-personal. Each divine person represents that love to each other but also work together to establish a creation which they can and do love personally and collectively. Through their mutual and collective love for creation, each divine person, in their own way, looks to creation with compassion, sees what is happening in it, observes the suffering which has been brought to it because of sin, and seeks to restore the world back to its original integrity, one which is free from suffering. “You have heard of the steadfastness of Job, and you have seen the purpose of the Lord, how the Lord is compassionate and merciful” as James said (Jas. 5:11b RSV). But, as the word compassion means “to suffer together,” to talk about God’s compassion suggests there is a way which God “suffers with” those who are suffering, and in that regard, experiences suffering in and through them. This leads us to conclude there is a sense in which God can be said to suffer:

God is generous in His loving activities. He wishes to communicate Himself to mankind, to each of us, by his self-emptying love – a self-gift that moves to communion with His human creatures. But precisely because He is so immediately present and immanently inside each person, each creature, God can also “suffer.” He must also run the awesome risk of giving love and being rejected, at least by angels and human beings.[1]

We have come to a paradox where we conclude both God does not suffer, and yet, God can and will suffer with (and in) us. How is this possible? Recognizing this is a mystery which transcends our comprehension, we can leave it at that, however, we do not have to. We can seek to have a better understanding even as we accept that we will never be able to comprehend God. In doing so, we will find ourselves coming to apprehend more and more of the truth, and thorough such apprehensions, come to realize these antinomies deal with two different aspects of God. God is incapable of suffering because the divine nature is perfect and unchanging, but God is not just the divine nature, God is tri-personal, with each person interacting with each other and creation. It is in and through the divine persons God’s love is revealed, and so, in and through them we find God’s compassion being expressed. While, by nature, God can also be said to be love, the realization of that love is personal, and so, it is possible to consider God’s experience of suffering is personal, and not according to nature. If we look at it this way, we find the perfection and impassibility of the divine nature remains intact.

Through love, through the personal interactions with each other, and creation, we can perceive a pathos in God, a pathos which allows God to be compassionate and “pained” when creation suffers, especially when innocents are made to unjustly suffer at the hands of those who have power and authority in the world. This pathos is what motivated many of the prophets as they spoke out against social injustice, but it is also what is revealed to us in the incarnation.The God-man, Jesus, showed us this compassion, this love, this pathos in the way he showed love to those who were being mistreated, but also in the way he reacted to the death of his friend, Lazarus. Such suffering was personal, coming in and through the Logos’s human nature, but because the human nature is not other than the human nature of the divine Logos, God is shown to suffer in and through the suffering of the incarnate God-man (similar to the way God is born through the Virgin Mary).

In the incarnation, we find confirmation of what was indicated by the prophets: God has a pathos, a divine energy which comes from God’s divine nature and yet is distinct from it, so God in and through that pathos has compassion with creation, a compassion which allows God to suffer in and through creation. And in Jesus, the God-man, that pathos is united with creation itself. And, as James Cone explained, Jesus’s resurrection shows that God’s compassion, God’s pathos, is especially geared towards all who suffer injustice, seeking to help them, to lift them up, while also having those who have created such unjust suffering make restitution for what they have done:

The resurrection is God’s conquest of oppression and injustice, disclosing that the divine freedom revealed in Israel’s history is now available to all. The cross represents the particularity of divine suffering in Israel’s place. The resurrection is the universality of divine freedom for all who “labor and are heavy laden.” It is the actualization in history of Jesus’ eschatological vision that the last shall be first and  the first last. The resurrection means that God’s identity with the poor in Jesus is not limited to the particularity of his Jewishness but is applicable to all who fight on behalf of the liberation of humanity in this world. And the Risen Lord’s identification with the suffering poor today is just as real as was his presence with the outcasts in first-century Palestine. His presence with the poor today is not docetic; but like yesterday, today also he takes the pain of the poor upon himself and bears it for them.[2]

Suffering is an evil, but through compassion, those who willingly share in the suffering of others to help relieve them of such suffering, shows us that sometimes suffering can be transformed into a good, not because suffering is good, but because nothing is entirely evil, and the good contained in some evil act can be used to establish some greater good:

It is one of the mysteries of pain that it is, for the sufferer, an opportunity for good, a path of ascent however hard. But it remains an ‘evil’, and it must dismay any conscience to have caused it carelessly, or in excess, let alone wilfully.[3]

While suffering can be transformed and used for the good, we should always realize suffering is an evil which should never be desired. Suffering does not exist in the divine nature, in the absolute Good of God, because it is an evil. However, because the persons of God love us, each of them can, in their own way, embrace us in our suffering, and we can apprehend this in the way each of  them relate to us in and through the incarnation and the God-man’s suffering on the cross:

And in the incarnation we find the co-participation of all three hypostases, each in its own manner: The Father sends the Son, and this sending is an act of fatherly sacrificial love, the kenosis of the Father, who condemns to the cross the beloved Son, who takes on himself this feat on the cross. The feast of the Son is also the self-denying love of the Father who, in “sending” the Son, condemns his very Self to co-suffering and co-crucifixion, though in a manner different than the Son. Because there is the God-man’s passion on the cross, there is also the fatherly passion on the cross, the passion of co-suffering love, of fatherly self-crucifixion. We must understand the “sending” of the Son by the Father not as an act of authority, as a command, but rather as an act of agreement, initiative, origination, all of which are hypostatically proper to the Father. [4]

Each person of the Trinity share with us our  suffering, each in their own unique way. In their compassion, they take on our suffering and transform it, so that through it, some greater good can be established as the evil of suffering is brought to an end. Understanding this should help us take on the paradox of suffering and its relationship with God, to see there is a way for God to be free from suffering while still taking it on and experiencing suffering through compassionate love. Such compassion does not undermine the divine nature and its impassibility, but rather, shows us its transcendent perfection. When we understand the truth of this, we will also be able to better understand the distinction between the divine nature and God’s uncreated energies, as well as the difference between the persons of the Trinity. For it is only as an absolute monad without even relative distinctions that we find it impossible to perceive of a way to move beyond the paradox and accept both that God cannot suffer and yet, God, in God’s omnipotent love, can and does suffer with us.

[1] George Maloney, SJ, God’s Exploding Love (New York: Alba House. 1987), 118.

[2] James H. Cone, God Of The Oppressed (New York: Seabury Press 1975), 135.

[3] J.R.R. Tolkien, The Letters of J.R.R. Tolkien. Revised and Expanded Edition. Ed. Humphrey Carpenter and Christopher Tolkien (Broadway, NY: William Morrow, 2023), 180 [Letter 113 to C.S. Lewis].

[4] Sergius Bulgakov, “The Sophiology of Death ” in The Sophiology of Death. Essays on Eschatology: Personal, Political, Universal. Trans. Roberto J. De La Noval (Eugene, OR: Cascade Books, 2021), 125.

 

 

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N.B.:  While I read comments to moderate them, I rarely respond to them. If I don’t respond to your comment directly, don’t assume I am unthankful for it. I appreciate it. But I want readers to feel free to ask questions, and hopefully, dialogue with each other. I have shared what I wanted to say, though some responses will get a brief reply by me, or, if I find it interesting and something I can engage fully, as the foundation for another post. I have had many posts inspired or improved upon thanks to my readers.

2024-07-04T02:31:13-05:00

Last updated on: July 4, 2024 at 2:31 am   By
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Microbiz Mag: Man Writing / Wikimedia Commons

I’m an avid reader. I love to read (but, like most things, how great that love is waxes and wanes, as sometimes I read something which completely enchants me and I can’t wait to read more, and at other times, I find what I am reading not so exciting, making it difficult to reading, that is, when I think there is a good reason to do so).

I try to read at least an hour every day. I consider doing so to be similar to physical exercise, but instead of focusing on my body, I am engaging my mind. Some days I meet my goal, some days I read quite a bit more, and other days, when life gets in the way, I read much less I desire.

While I read a great variety of texts, there are some types which I read more often than others: theology, spirituality, philosophy, history, science fiction, fantasy, and important, influential works of world literature. I try to alternate what I read, especially if and when I find myself reading too much from a single author or genre, just as I alternate the physical exercise I do every day. This helps keep my mind sharp even as it makes sure I do not get stuck in my reading habits, ignoring texts which I would otherwise find invaluable or at least entertaining if I turned to them. Indeed, when I find my reading becomes repetitive, such as when I read too much from a given author or genre, I find my enthusiasm for reading begins to wane. That is when I need something radically different to read, something which, in its newness, helps revitalize my love for reading. After engaging such a novelty, I find it easier to engage the kinds of texts I normally read.

Writing my blog helps me integrate what I have read and learned to what I had previously come to know and understand; that is, I often use the texts I have most recently read as an inspiration for my writing, engaging what I read so that I can better understand and appreciate its significance for myself.  This is not to say everything I write about is based upon what I have most recently read: usually, one blog post a week reflects my current reading (if it is relevant), another post reflects the liturgical week and the readings used for the Sunday Divine Liturgy, another engages and reflects upon the news of the week, and then, the final post either deals with concerns I have seen being raised by Catholics during the week, or I try reflect upon the spirituality of the desert fathers and mothers, trying to find a way to make their wisdom and thought relevant today. In doing this, I write for my own benefit, but also, for the benefit of others, hoping that what comes about through my studies and reflections will help others just as much as it does myself.

I do not want my blog to only serve myself and my own particular idiosyncrasies. I try to make my blog a place where I can encounter others, and they can encounter me. I do not always respond to comments, but I read them, thinking about what they say and if there is something I should say in response, either in a comment, or in a future blog post. I try to use my blog as a place where I can engage others, and others engage me. For that to be possible, everyone needs to be honest. If I detect someone trying to simply debate, or worse, respond in some deceptive manner (such as trying to gaslight me or one of my readers), I disengage from that conversation. We should always be concerned about each other, showing  each other love and respect, treating each other as we would like to be treated. This includes being willing to open up and expose ourselves in some fashion or another, that is, to be willing to reveal our thoughts and beliefs, so that others can then respond to us in kind, and in doing so, we come to know, not just our thoughts and beliefs, but some of the hopes and dreams and of the people we engage. I want us to have a fruitful encounter with each other where we engage each other as persons and not as mere individuals who have no way to connect or help each other. But, if we are to help each other in this way, we should always make sure we are not being hypocrites, addressing others, telling them what to do without being critical with ourselves, which is why I constantly tell people, much of my writing is as much as for myself as others. It is my hope that my reflections can help us grow together; if this happens, or rather, when it happens, I believe my work has been successful, and when it does not, then I know there is more which needs to be said and done.

To help make this happen, when I read, I write down quotes which I find interesting and important. Some of them confirm what I already believe. Some of them complement and expand my thoughts. Some of them challenge them. Others represent ways authors I am reading, often authors I like or appreciate, go astray or err. The last type of quote is important because it helps me to be critically engaged with what I read, not taking what I read for granted. It reminds me that even those who are intelligent, full of knowledge and wisdom, are people with biases and prejudices which get in the way of their thinking.  Many of my favorite authors have made some great, indeed, grave mistakes, and yet, they are among my favorites because where they went right, they said and did something extraordinary, something which amazes me, and so something which influences me and my thoughts. And then, when I think about them and how they went astray, I know the same can and should be said about myself, that is, if the best among us can embrace some grave errs, it is likely I am doing so myself, in ways which I might not ever recognize.

To be sure, what I have written here might seem to suggest that my reading is done purely for study, or some utilitarian use. While that is often involved, it is not the whole of it. Much of my reading is done for the pleasure of it, that is, because I am entertained by what I read. I do not take notes on everything I read, especially if and when I find such notes would become repetitive, or worse, interfere with my enjoyment of the text in question. This is one of many reasons why I like to read fiction, especially genre fiction. It helps me read more for the sake of pleasure than for anything else. This is not to say such reading only serves meaningless entertainment, as, of course, the works not only entertain us, but they also makes us look at and examine the world in new ways. This is why I like to read the works of J.R.R. Tolkien, C.S. Lewis, Philip K. Dick, Frank Herbert, Ursula K. Le Guin, Shirley Jackson, and H.P. Lovecraft (and others like them): they knew how to write to entertain their audience, and yet, in and with that entertainment, there are many issues which are raised, issues which can and should be addressed by everyone, issues which often become addressed either directly or indirectly when I come to write for my blog. For, even when I am being entertained, my mind still asks questions, questions which ultimately will be reflected upon in what I write.

 

 

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N.B.:  While I read comments to moderate them, I rarely respond to them. If I don’t respond to your comment directly, don’t assume I am unthankful for it. I appreciate it. But I want readers to feel free to ask questions, and hopefully, dialogue with each other. I have shared what I wanted to say, though some responses will get a brief reply by me, or, if I find it interesting and something I can engage fully, as the foundation for another post. I have had many posts inspired or improved upon thanks to my readers.

 

2021-11-16T03:48:38-05:00

Last updated on: November 16, 2021 at 3:48 am   By

Araniart: The Elves Leave Middle-Earth / Wikimedia Commons

Tolkien, like his friend C.S. Lewis, contemplated the notion of “unfallen” beings living in a fallen universe. He thought that if they existed, even though they were not tainted by sin, they would still be affected by the fall. It was with this understanding that wrote concerning the Quendi, the Elves, in his writings:

The Quendi never “fell” in the sense that Men did.  Being “tainted” with the Shadow (as perhaps even the Valar in some degree were, with all things in “Arda Marred”) they could do wrong. But they never rejected Eru, or worshiped Melkor (or Sauron) either individually, or in groups, or as a whole people. Their lives, therefore, came under no general curse or diminishment, and their “life-span”, co-extensive with the remainder of the life of Arda, was unaltered – except only insofar as, with the very ageing of Arda itself, their primitive vigour of body steadily waned. [1]

Since the corruption of sin affected the world at large, all who are a part of the world would find themselves touched by it. Even unfallen beings could do wrong (and so fall into particular, but not universal, sin). More importantly, their connection with a world in which the fall took place would have an effect on their lives. The Quendi felt this in the way they were associated with their bodies; in youth, their bodies are strong and vigorous but as they aged, their spirit grew in strength and out of harmony with their body and all material being. Their bodies would grow weak and their spirit would grow strong. They would become more and more spirit like until, at last, they would seem to vanish from the world itself. They would have to exert themselves in order to engage their physical nature. They would always possess a material nature and a tie to the world at large, no matter how spiritualized they had become. Their fate was tied with the fate of the world. They would continue to live until the end of time, even if their presence would not be so readily perceived by others.  In this way, the sins of others tainted the world, and through their connection with the world, created a disharmony in their very being. It was not their own sin, but the sins of others which did this. They were established to be in and of the world. Their ultimate fate, however, was not known by them, because the fate of the world in the eschaton was not  known by them:

Another thing which distinguishes the living from the unliving is that the living employ Time in their realization. In other words it is part of their nature to ‘grow”, using such material as is needed or is available to them for their embodiment. So that a living pattern does not fully exist at any one moment of time (as do unliving patterns); but is complete only with the completion of its life. It cannot therefore rightly be seen instantly, and is only imperfectly envisages even with the help of memory. Only those who conceived its pattern and whose sight is not limited to the succession of time can, for instance, see the true shape of a tree. [2]

The completion of their life, unless it was unnaturally brought to an end (such as through violence) would be with the end of the world itself.  This is why their destiny could not and would not be known until the end of time. For they existed with the world, and their destiny was intricately tied to the destiny of the world, but the destiny of the world was full of unexpected surprises which only Eru (God) knew. Only those outside of time, only those who have already seen what happens in the end, would know their fate. This they and others often asked if they would perish when time came to an end, or if Eru, God, had some other destiny for them. This was a question which concerned them and though they had speculations and guesses, they could not provide any final, authoritative answer to the question.  Tolkien was interested in offering a way to explain the presence of the Elves in the past while acknowledging their general disappearance in the present.

In a slightly reformulated exploration from what was quoted above, Tolkien made it clear, sin was an issue; sin had corrupted the world and so those connected to the world, whether or not they were fallen beings, would feel the effects of such sin in their own lives

The Quendi never “fell” as a race – not in the sense in which they and Men find themselves believed that the Second Children had “fallen.” Being “tainted” with the Marring (which affected all the “flesh of Arda” from which their hröar was derived and were nourished), and having also come under the Shadow of Melkor before their Finding and rescue, they could individually do wrong. But they never (not even the wrong-doers) rejected Eru, not worshiped either Melkor or Sauron as a god – neither individually or as a whole people. [3]

What is interesting is the way Tolkien viewed the possibility of unfallen beings as being affected by sin. He believed individuals within an unfallen group could do wrong, they could sin, but whatever they did would not affect the group as a whole in the way original sins did with humanity. Thus, he thought that someone living in the world without sin could still feel the wounds of sin upon their lives, but if they did, it must not be asserted that they did so because they themselves were fallen creatures. This is an important observation and distinction which, if employed theologically, could offer insight into the various traditions surrounding Mary, the Theotokos.

Mary, through special grace, knew no sin in her life. This did not mean she would be free from the effects of sin in her life. Following Tolkien, we could say, because she lived in the world, a world touched by sin, she could and would suffer because sin continued to influence the world and what happened in it. Indeed, she shared with the rest of humanity the conditions put upon its historical existence as a result of the fall. This is why she could and would eventually die; her death was not due to any sin she committed, for she was without sin, but due to her ties with the rest of humanity; indeed, it would seem, from the way various theologians and saints have presented her death, in solidarity with the rest of humanity, she accepted death for herself even though she knew no sin. [4]

This is also why Jesus could also die without knowing sin. He took on human nature, which itself is good and pure, but he took it with the way history had formed and shaped it. He took on a role in human history, a history influenced by and shaped by the effects of sin upon the world. He came to be in solidarity with us all, to experience the effects of sin upon himself. He bore sin upon himself without knowing sin. “ He himself bore our sins in his body on the tree, that we might die to sin and live to righteousness. By his wounds you have been healed” (1 Ptr. 2:24 RSV). And thus, he who knew sin could “become sin” in the sense he took upon himself a human life and death and assumed for himself in his humanity the effects of sin upon himself. “For our sake he made him to be sin who knew no sin, so that in him we might become the righteousness of God” (2 Cor. 5:21 RSV). It was in this fashion that he could and would experience the full effects of sin – all the way unto death and into the realm of the dead, engaging all that was touched by sin in and through his own being;  then, having done so, he could and would reconfigure the world.

Even if we do not believe Elves, even if we understand all that Tolkien wrote was fiction, he tried to provide ways it could, in theory, be true and relate to the world which we lived in, indeed, to the Christian faith. This allowed him to pursue categories of being which we rarely consider. What exactly would be the experience of an unfallen being in the world. Could they suffer, could they die, could they, also, somehow deny their own goodness and sin? Lewis, of course, explored this theme in the Space Trilogy, but Tolkien did not think we needed to leave the Earth to raise these questions and consider the possibility of such a life existing here with us on the Earth. In doing so, he suggested that such unfallen creatures could and still would be affected by the taint of the “Shadow,” the taint of sin. Once humanity had fallen into sin, once the world was marred by the effects of sin, even sinless people (Mary and Jesus) could and would feel the effects of sin upon them even if they knew no sin themselves. They could and would die, despite their sinlessness. If Jesus, the God-man, could not do so, then there would have been no way for him to overcome death by death itself. Then sin and death would have had the final say. Thus, Tolkien was correct in making the observation that those without sin could and would still feel the effects of sin in their lives so long as they lived in a world marred by sin. Though death can be said to be one of the effects of the fall upon creation, this does not mean all who die are sinners, which is why Mary, though she died, did not die because of any sin on her part but rather because of her unity with the rest of humanity (and the world at large).

[1] J.R.R. Tolkien, “The Awakening of the Quendi,” in The Nature of Middle Earth. Ed. Carl F. Hostetter (Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 2021), 36.

[2] J.R.R. Tolkien, “Elvish Reincarnation,” in The Nature of Middle Earth. Ed. Carl F. Hostetter (Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 2021), 254.

[3] J.R.R. Tolkien, “Concerning the Quendi,” in The Nature of Middle Earth. Ed. Carl F. Hostetter (Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 2021), 88.

[4] While she knew no sin since birth, she still had to be open to grace, so that she could receive grace upon grace, to grow in grace. This is why it is said that at the annunciation, after her acceptance of what the angel had told her, the Hoy Spirit embraced her and gave her more, indeed, greater grace than she had before, making her ready to fulfill her role as the Theotokos. Thus, we are shown, the grace needed to be pure is less than the grace which is offered to all of us, for we are called to grow in grace, to become greater through grace than we are by nature, and when we do, we will find the Spirit overshadowing us as it did Mary and helping us give a spiritual birth to Christ in our lives.

 

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