Tag: Thomas Aquinas

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Emotions and Moral Virtue

What is virtue?

When I ask that question among Christians, the conversation typically turns to shoulds and have to’s. Virtuous people do the things they are supposed to do. The job of parents and Church leaders is to make sure we do the things we are supposed to do. What is most needed in this view is moral clarity about the rules. The world is full of unvirtuous people because parents and the Church haven’t been teaching clearly enough. If only we have more clear and distinct ideas about morality, all will be well (can you hear the influence of Descartes here?).

When I ask similar questions about emotions as they relate to virtue, at best emotions are named as “neutral.” More often, they’re viewed as a threat or obstacle. We can’t trust our emotions. Morality requires us to subjugate and control them.

“Love is a choice, not a feeling,” I’ll hear Christians say. Or they will even misquote Thomas Aquinas (1225-1274) as teaching that “love is willing the good of another.”

Thomas does say something like that (Summa Theologiae I-II q. 26, a. 4). But he’s actually talking in that passage about love as a desire or an emotion, not yet love as a theological virtue.  He says that when we experience love as a desire, we want good for someone – whether ourselves or another. That desire for good may be rightly ordered or disordered. It is quite possible to want good things for others while trying to manage or control them (just look at the helicopter or Zamboni parents of my generation!).

Thomas actually sees these core human appetites as fundamentally good, and needing the direction and guidance of faith and reason. We desire pleasure and goodness; we are zealous for difficult goods. Often enough, that desire for pleasure is disordered, with a willingness to use or consume or manipulate. Often enough, our anger becomes a weapon used to harm ourselves or others.

I was blown away during my silent retreat last month. I spent much of the time praying with Matthew’s Gospel. In the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus teaches about anger and lust (Matthew 5:21-30). Occasionally, I glanced at the original Greek as well as the Latin Vulgate translation that was familiar to Thomas Aquinas. In the Vulgate, Jesus speaks of one who is angry (irascitur) or one who views another with lustful desire (ad concupiscendum). It was one of those “aha!” moments for me – this is where Thomas Aquinas gets his seemingly technical names for the “irascible appetite” and the “concupiscible appetite.” All humans have these two core appetites: a passionate zeal for righteousness and an eager desire for pleasure and delight. Fundamentally, these two inner drives of the human heart are VERY GOOD, even though, as Jesus teaches, they are in need of integration and re-ordering toward the Kingdom of God.

Thomas Aquinas uses the word “passions” to describe what we would call emotions. The word “passion” literally means something that happens to us. We passively experience it. The word “emotion” suggests an interior movement in our body as a reaction to what we are experiencing. Every emotion, in his view, is an expression of one or both of these core human appetites. True, these desires and emotions are often disordered because of the Fall – but so is our will!

Oh, how interesting it would be if Aristotle or Thomas Aquinas were alive today. They curiously and keenly observed human nature, without the benefit of contemporary neurological research. Today, I am convinced, they would be fascinated by our insights into the brain’s limbic system and prefrontal cortex. Thomas observed that humans have a “common sense” – a part of our brain that blends all of our sensory input into one unified impression. This is how neuroscientists today understand the thalamus (with the exception of the sense of smell). Thomas observed how humans can behave like hunted deer, who have an embodied memory causing them to flee at the sight of a human form. This is how neuroscientists today understand the amygdala. It’s our brain’s security system. Before any sensory input reaches our rational brain, it runs through the amygdala, which sometimes launches us into a fight, flight, or freeze response. These reactions happen automatically, within ¼ of a second. They are pre-rational.

I recall a decade ago, driving home from a Friday night football game. I suddenly sensed a large spider rappelling down an inch in front of my face. Somehow, I found my car pulled over to the curb and myself seated in the passenger seat in less than three seconds. Only then did my rational brain register the situation, with no small amount of astonishment at what I had just achieved. Imagine if it had been a bat! 

I find that so very many Christians (myself included) attempt to grow in “virtue” by no longer having emotional reactions. That approach is dishonoring of the inherent goodness of our bodies. It’s also impossible! First comes the reaction of our limbic brain. Only a few seconds later does it register in our prefrontal cortex – unless our reaction is so intense that we stay stuck in a trauma response. With time and training, our reactions can be received and redirected. But they still happen. Developmentally, this type of training takes years. It’s what is “supposed to” happen in childhood.

Virtue is not a matter of eliminating emotion, nor of subjugating or controlling it. The virtuous person habitually, calmly, and skillfully gives rational guidance and direction to emotions. That is where the prefrontal cortex comes in – the highest and most developed part of our brain. It allows us a calm noticing, which in turn allows what today is called “affect regulation.” Our emotions settle down when they feel the acceptance and calm rational presence of the prefrontal cortex. They are then willing to accept direction – just like a child who truly trusts her caregivers.

Classically, this is exactly what moral virtue is – giving calm rational guidance to our emotions so that they can be ordered toward the good. Our emotions will not authentically accept rational guidance if they are not first received with curiosity and kindness.

Here is where emotionally intelligent parenting comes in. Rather than shaming children for feeling how they feel, mature parents are able to receive the big emotions of their children. They show a curiosity and compassion for what is happening in the bodies and hearts of their children. They help them make sense of it all. Every time that happens, neural pathways are formed and reinforced.

At least 70% of the information in our nervous system flows from the bottom up – as sensory input coming from our body to our brain. When that information is received without judgment, then calm and consistent direction can be given.

Many of us literally lack the neural circuitry for virtue to happen. Sure, we can suppress or subjugate our emotional reactions. We can flog them with “shoulds.” We can exile them or lock them up. But that is not virtue. That is external compliance (perhaps even 90-95% of the time). It leaves us feeling unfree, or even living a double life.

Many people come to priests asking, “Why do I keep doing that???” I gently invite them to notice the tone of voice in their question. We can ask the same question with intense self-contempt or with childlike curiosity (or somewhere in between). Only when there is curiosity and kindness does virtue begin to be possible.

What does this mean? I would suggest that most of us Christians today are not yet in the realm of moral virtue. We have a lot of pre-moral work to do, kindly accepting and patiently integrating our emotions – all the things we needed to happen earlier in life, but did not (and probably have not for multiple generations in most of our families). When you are in survival mode, there is less space for curiosity and kindness.

That is why, when people ask me, “Where did you grow up?” I am barely joking when I respond, “Oh, I’m still growing up!” I am still coming to accept that daily reactions will happen inside of me – frequently and sometimes rather intensely. I am coming to appreciate that it is precisely my capacity to be impacted by others, to receive them vulnerably, and to be moved by their uniqueness and their beauty, that allows me to love them with honor and delight.

May we all become again like little children, allowing ourselves to be moved anew by goodness and beauty in the world around us, and especially in other humans. May we all receive the patient nurture and care that we always needed. Then it becomes possible to become truly mature and wholehearted in virtuous living.

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Saruman and Francis Bacon

“Knowledge is power.”

That, at least, is what English philosopher Francis Bacon claimed in 1597. We may have heard that quote as a child, and never thought to question it.

Most people don’t realize just how radically our culture shifted in the West in the 1500’s and 1600’s. In my last post, I mentioned the exaltation of doing over being. There are several other shifts worth noticing – “knowledge is power” being one of them.

One of my earliest encounters with Francis Bacon was while wanting to play a game with my younger brother Jake. We had unearthed an old backgammon board, and I couldn’t remember the rules. Google wouldn’t exist for nearly two decades, so we went to the encyclopedia to look up “backgammon.” When I exclaimed, “I found it!” Jake, in his usual comedic way, pointed to the picture of an Englishman in a frilled collar and asked if the game was called “Bacon, Francis.” For months, he would periodically ask if I wanted to play a game of “Bacon Francis.”

As it happens, the progression from the encyclopedia to internet search engines to artificial intelligence is a progressive development, gradual at first and now exponentially accelerating. Having so much information instantly accessible does indeed bring massive power. According to Tim “The Tool Man” Taylor on Home Improvement in the 1990’s, “more power” is what it’s all about. But if that’s really true, shouldn’t our joy in life be increasing exponentially along with the increase in “knowledge” and power? Clearly, our culture is missing something.

I remember three decades ago, arriving at the University of Saint Thomas, waiting in line by the dining hall, and reading a quote on the wall from T.S. Eliot’s The Wasteland:

Where is the wisdom we have lost in knowledge?
Where is the knowledge we have lost in information?

Bacon was bold, even arrogant. He is acclaimed for paving the way for modern scientific method. Those who are eager to bash the Middle Ages (without really knowing the Middle Ages) have depicted Bacon as one who sets science free from its primitive restrictions.

One of Bacon’s works is entitled the Novum Organum. To be sure, that work offers valuable insight into a scientific process of observation, hypothesis forming, and verification. But he is claiming, in effect, to be a newer and better Aristotle. Aristotle’s six logical works were collectively referred to by his disciples as the Organum – a “tool” or “instrument” used in pursuing knowledge. Bacon is offering a new and better tool – better because it pursues knowledge in a way that allows far more power.

I suppose we could excuse Bacon for claiming to be greater than Aristotle. Vizzini did the same thing in The Princess Bride. But Bacon also subtly compares himself to Jesus. The title of his unfinished work is the Instauratio Magna. It’s a reference to Ephesians 1:10, where Paul praises the Father’s eternal plan “to restore all things in Christ.” Bacon proposes a scientific approach that can restore “the empire of man over all things,” man’s primeval power over nature that was lost in the fall (cf. Genesis 1:26-28). Rather than accepting our powerlessness and entering into a relationship with a savior, we are invited to seize power by means of more information.

Don’t forget the context here. Francis Bacon was also a member of Parliament, and was Lord Chancellor of England in 1620 when the first colonists landed at Plymouth. His writings herald an era that also embraced the imperial subjugation, exploitation of indigenous peoples, and a newly flourishing slave trade. Knowledge is power.

I’ve always been a lover of J.R.R. Tolkien and C.S. Lewis. Their hearts were more at home in the Middle Ages. By no means did they uncritically or naively believe everything to be amazing then. Indeed, Tolkien’s Silmarillion tells more tales of folly and woe than of wisdom or triumph. No, what they preferred was the holistic view of God and humanity in the ancient and medieval mindset – compared to the distortions of the last 500 years, which these days seem to be unraveling all sense of meaning in our human existence.

Tolkien offers a contrast between the two great wizards, Gandalf and Saruman.

Gandalf embodies the classical and medieval approach to knowledge and wisdom. He is genuinely curious about all beings: elves, dwarves, hobbits, eagles, ents, etc. He is powerful, to be sure, but has no interest in exploitation. He desires that everyone flourish in their own proper environment. He shows honor and delight. If you read Aristotle (384-322 B.C.) or Thomas Aquinas (A.D. 1225-1274), you’ll discover an endless curiosity and eagerness to discover truth and goodness and beauty wherever it can be found. That is what “science” did in the ancient and medieval world. In Latin, scientia simply means “knowledge,” which was gained by curiously pursing the ultimate causes of what is observed here and now. Aristotle’s writings range from reflecting on the movement of the stars to the guts of animals to virtue and friendship to politics to the causes of being itself. A few of his conclusions or assumptions seem laughable today, but far less so when you consider the limited tools at his disposal.

Saruman, meanwhile, is an embodiment of “knowledge is power.” He uses his brilliance to manipulate, exploit, and subjugate. He nearly destroys Fangorn forest, fueling his factory, where he is also manipulating the genes of men and orcs to create a more powerful army. He obsesses with the rings of power. He overlooks the goodness and resiliency of the little people. Gandalf laments the folly of Saruman at the Council of Elrond when he declares, “He that breaks a thing to find out what it is has left the path of wisdom.”

Our age desperately needs a rediscovery of curiosity and kindness. I’m not saying that modern science is all bad. I certainly appreciate advances such as dentistry or toilet paper! But we’ve devalued the curious pursuit and discovery of truth and goodness and beauty – something you don’t have to teach to children; it’s already a desire of every human heart!

There is so much delight in seeking and finding. There’s even more delight in shared quests and shared discoveries. Such an attitude is at the core of Aristotle’s description of friendship. Best of all, there is wisdom, humility, and awe in discovering that there is still more to discover. The more we grow in wisdom, the more we know how little we know. Bacon would have struggled as a student of Socrates!

In the words of Bacon’s much wiser contemporary, William Shakespeare, “There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.” For a season, it was trendy to claim that Shakespeare didn’t really write Shakespeare – he was allegedly too uneducated to be so brilliant. The plays must have been written by someone like Francis Bacon, they said, who was so much more knowledgeable. Needless to say, I disagree.

Knowledge can indeed be turned into power. But to what end? Part of the problem is that modern philosophies also discarded any sense of purposefulness in nature. The only purpose is the one we impose upon nature by willing what we want. That is the spirit of Saruman, to be sure, but a departure from the path of Wisdom.

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“Mission” is a Way of Being

Greetings friends. It’s been a long time since I’ve shared any writing. A heartfelt thank you to those who have gently encouraged me to write! It brings out the best in me.

Just over a year ago, my diocese received a new bishop.  From the get-go, he has indicated a desire for our diocese “to pivot from maintenance to mission.” We began by extending that invitation to our priests, but are about to expand it to everyone in the diocese.

When you hear the word “mission,” what first enters you mind?

I find, both for myself and for others, our thoughts immediately race into tasks that we do. Historically, we recall the perilous voyages and arduous labors of Saint Paul or Saint Francis Xavier. In our present-day context, we think of all the problems needing fixing and how we can accomplish more. We form a task list and begin checking off boxes. We set measurable goals and objectives to ensure that we don’t “fail” in our mission.

It’s easy to miss the deeper truth: “mission” is a way of being, and we are already assured of victory. Mission begins with our shared identity in Christ, who is “from the Father” while abiding in perfect union with the Father.

In the Nicene Creed, these truths flash like fireworks. This very month, we celebrate the 1700th anniversary of the closing deliberations of the great Council of Nicea, which promulgated the first draft of the Creed we profess every Sunday.

Jesus Christ is “begotten, not made.” He is eternally in a relationship of equality with his Father, even though he is “from” the Father. He was not produced or achieved by the Father. He and his Father are one, in a relationship of mutual delight. The Holy Spirit is that eternal bond of love, that shared delight, that shared glory.

The bishops at Nicea borrowed philosophical terms like “consubstantial” (in Greek, homoousios) in order to express with greater precision what was always there in the Gospels. The bishop Arius and his followers were outraged at this new terminology, insisting that Jesus could not be from the Father unless “there was once when he was not.” They were not thinking of God as an abiding relationship. They were thinking in terms of before and after, greater than and less than.

The Arian heresy actually gained momentum following the Council of Nicea. Five decades later, Saint Jerome lamented the situation: “The whole world groaned, and was astonished to find itself Arian.” In 381, the bishops of the Church convened again, this time in Constantinople. They expanded the wording of the Creed, now drawing from the brilliant contributions of Gregory Nazianzen, Basil the Great, and Gregory of Nyssa – all of whom understood God as an eternal relationship.

It’s hard for us humans to imagine what eternal relationship is like. Even if God never created us or any universe at all, God would be just as good and just as great. “God is love” even without any creatures to love. And Jesus is eternally sent forth. “Mission” is his way of being in relationship.

“Mission” literally means “sending forth.” When we live in a state of felt threat and felt scarcity, we gravitate to a militaristic understanding of mission: important or powerful individuals send forth less important ones, who achieve objectives under obedience to orders. It’s a partial truth that obscures the larger reality.

Indeed, heresy causes the most damage when it is almost true. It’s more seductive that way.

In the fullness of time, the Father actually does send his Son on a rescue mission. Jesus enters this occupied world in stealth, born in an obscure town in the dead of night. Only social outcasts like the shepherds witness his birth. He lives a hidden life in Nazareth for three decades. But when he is baptized and anointed by the Holy Spirit, and audibly claimed as the Father’s beloved, the devil is clearly concerned. He tempts Jesus in the desert. He probes Jesus throughout the Gospels, seeking to unravel the identity of this divinely anointed man. Like Sauron in Lord of the Rings, the devil cannot fathom God’s actual plan. He cannot envision the eternal Son of God emptying himself and willingly sharing in all the suffering of every human. So the devil sadistically delights in the darkness of Good Friday, realizing – too late – that his kingdom has been overthrown and the human race has been rescued by the blood of the Lamb.

Yes, Jesus obediently “does” these things as one who is sent on a rescue mission. But as Thomas Aquinas (1225-1274) reminds us in his Eucharistic hymn (Verbum Supernum Prodiens), Jesus enters his Passion without ever leaving the Father’s bosom. Any earthly “doing” of Jesus flows from his secure identity as the eternally begotten Son of God. His mission is primarily his way of being, how he relates to the Father, how he relates to us, and how he invites us into relationship. Being “on mission” means abiding in abundant connection, which overflows into fruitful self-giving.

I know this core truth, but I so easily forget. I get sucked into survival mode and familiar feelings of scarcity. I feel the expectations from without and from within. I feel that old and familiar fear of failure – beneath which is an even deeper fear that no one will love me. It’s so easy in those moments to feel the suffocating pressure of “I don’t have time for that!” Then I flop back and forth between a pressurized doing and mindless escaping, neglecting what matters most, what would actually bring my relationships alive.

Writing is not what matters most for me, but it is truly good for me. It connects me with my emotions and needs, opening my imagination and childlike playfulness. It helps me abide. In this renewal project, I will bring more joy and creativity to my labors if I allow myself to abide and receive.

Part of the problem is that we in the West have been swimming in toxic waters for at least 500 years. The misguided exaltation of doing over being has become so normalized that we barely notice it. Little by little, it has infected not only our cultures but our churches as well, alluring us with its seductive power while robbing us of joy and peace.

The Gospel is indeed liberating “Good News.” As my bishop once preached, “It doesn’t depend on you – and it never has.” We get to share in the fullness of Christ, who always shares in the fullness of his Father. Secure in that love, we go into the world as Christ did, not with fear of failure or grasping for power, but with full confidence in the unshakable Love of the Kingdom. Mission is a way of being.

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Truth is Relational

Truth – what is Truth?

The question of Pontius Pilate echoes through the centuries. In the modern era, you tend to find one of two extremes: a relativism that denies the very possibility of finding the Truth, or fear-based clutching onto “truth” in a way that demands rigid clarity.

René Descartes (1596-1650) is famous for his “I think, therefore I am.” His modern approach to philosophy was utterly unlike Socrates, who invited those hungry for Wisdom to pursue Truth and Goodness and Beauty in a communal encounter. and dialogue. His enquiries often left more questions than answers – but at least they were beginning to ask the right questions. By contrast, Descartes isolated himself in his room and began his enquiry with doubt and denial. He could only accept as true that which he could grasp with mathematical certainty. He insisted on clear and distinct ideas. With that insistence, he could not even accept with certainty the reality of the fire in his fireplace or the chair beneath his body. But he could not doubt that he doubted. If he is thinking, he must exist. Notice the disconnect between mind and body!

In reading modern philosophers like Descartes, Hume, or Kant, I find their reasoning itself to be meticulous. It’s their starting points that are questionable! As human beings, we do not begin as isolated thinking individuals and then reason our way out to others and the world. We begin already existing in relationship!

I understood this point well enough a quarter century ago, when I studied philosophy. Now that I have plunged into trauma research and the findings of contemporary neuroscience, I see it even more clearly and distinctly: the human capacity to accept Truth, to grow, to change, and to mature is only possible within the context of secure relationship.

Any spouses who have been in a heated argument can appreciate this point. If the other person feels threatened, shamed, or unappreciated, it does not matter how clearly and distinctly you are making your brilliant point. Genuine receptivity is only possible if the other person feels safe and connected.

Indeed, Truth itself is relational. We are created in the image of a Triune God. “God is love” – that is to say, God eternally exists as a communion of persons. He has placed into the human heart a desire for Truth, Goodness, and Beauty. Little by little, we become more capable of receiving and being received into this infinite abundance.

We see this desire best in children who are curious and full of wonder – or in adults who are willing to become again like little children. Perhaps not all Fairy Tales are true, but it is not hard for little children to believe in them! For little ones, it is normal to abide in awe and wonder in the face of mysteries they do not fully comprehend. It is normal to be surprised and delighted by new unveilings of Truth or Goodness or Beauty.

Trauma responses are a different matter. When under threat – whether immediately or over a long stretch of time – our nervous system is hardwired to survive. If I am being chased by a grizzly bear or about to be hit by a Mack Truck, there is no time or space for curiosity and wonder – nor should there be. Surviving the threat becomes priority #1, and the full resources of my brain and body are immediately diverted for that purpose.

Unfortunately, though, individuals or collective groups (families, communities, or churches) can get locked in survival mode. You can tell it’s there when you hear the black-and-white thinking, the all-or-nothing. It’s us versus them, and other humans are all good or all bad. If you grew up in a family that was stuck a trauma response, you may be able to appreciate how hard it is for each of the children to be pushed into rigid roles rather than loved and cherished in their uniqueness. When an entire society gets stuck in a trauma response, the politics get polarized, with fear and shame at the core of the messaging. In those moments, the people are especially vulnerable to the rise of a dictator. In church life, when the outside environment feels threatening, it’s tempting to circle the wagons and grasp onto a rigid dogmatism – vilifying everyone outside the circle and insisting on a possessive grasp of true or false, good or evil.

Don’t get me wrong – I love Catholic Tradition and love Catholic dogma. It’s just that most people don’t understand what dogma really is! Dogmas are not rigid lists of propositions. Rather, they set the boundaries of the playground in which we can be like children, receptively connecting with the infinite mystery of God. But God is always greater.

Brilliant theologians and mystics like Thomas Aquinas (1225-1274) always understood this point. Thomas goes so far as to say that the essence of God remains utterly unknown to us (Summa Contra Gentiles III, c. 49). He describes a dogma (an “article of faith”) as “a perception of divine Truth tending towards that Truth” (Summa Theologiae II-II, q. 1, a. 6, sc). In other words, a dogma is not itself “the truth” but rather a sign that points beyond itself to a mystery that we do not master. Elsewhere he describes what happens when a human being makes an act of faith: “The act of faith does not terminate at the proposition but at the Reality itself” (Summa Theologiae II-II, q. 1, a. 2, ad 2). In other words, we enter into a relationship with the Truth, rather than grasping or controlling it.

Even when talking about natural human knowledge (of the real things in the world around us), Thomas tends to use the Latin verb communicat. There is a communication and a communion between knower and known. Even though the knower is active in pursuing Truth, she is ultimately receptive and passive – allowing herself to be changed by the Truth, rather than create it for herself. Being in communion with the Truth is different than mastering it, possessing it, owning it, etc. The former is vulnerable and receptive; the latter is self-protective and controlling.

I see it as no accident that it is precisely in the modern era (the last 500+ years) that many Christians have retreated into a rigid dogmatism. The 16th Century in the West was marked by an intense contempt and dominating human behaviors: the resurgence of the slave trade; exploitative colonizing of indigenous peoples; and vilifying, persecuting, or killing those perceived as religious or political enemies. Meanwhile, in the academy, philosophy and science shifted away from any sense of meaning and purpose and focused instead on the imposition of power. Francis Bacon’s famous “Knowledge is power” sounds benign, but marks an ominous shift. No longer is human reasoning an effort to enter into a relationship with Truth and Goodness and Beauty and to flourish in them together (think here of Gandalf in relation to the various races of Middle Earth). No, the goal now is to master, dominate, and subdue (think of Saruman’s factory and experiments at Isengard). The same held true in political philosophy, as seen in Machiavelli. No longer is politics focused on the common good, in which each and all can flourish, but rather it becomes a matter of getting “our people” in power so that they can cast down “those people.” Us versus them. Black and white. Trauma response.

As in Lord of the Rings, the normal temptation in the face of a dire threat is to put on the Ring of Power and cast down the enemy. Only the wise and courageous are able to see the folly in that strategy. It is incredibly hard to hold out a holy imagination for goodness and collective flourishing when feeling threatened or unsafe. It’s hard to retain an unshakable confidence in the Victory that is already assured in the Blood of the Lamb – and to remember that the entire human race is invited to the Wedding Feast.

Truth does not always bring mathematical certainty, nor does it need to. When a little child is safely held by a dad or mom who is both tender and strong, the dangers and chaos of the larger world lose their menacing force. If we are open to it, we get to be held by a Father who is infinitely greater than us. We are already in relationship with him. Jesus has reconciled us, connected us with the Father and with each other. In the Body of Christ, we have all that we need. It’s a living reality that we do not master or comprehend. We just keep growing into it as we walk this pilgrimage together. May each of us rediscover that childlike wonder and vulnerability and become receptive to the Truth that always transcends us.

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Certainty ≠ Truth

Certainty can be one of the greatest obstacles to Truth.

That claim may shock many Christians, who feel like they are clutching tenaciously to what little certainty remains in our tumultuous times. But certainty and Truth are not the same thing. When we demand or cling to certainty, our quest for Truth gets abandoned, and the Truth gets lost or distorted.

Have you ever had a moment of reckoning – a moment in which your tightly-held certainty was shattered upon the rock of reality?

My older sister never tires of reminding me of my own six-year-old clinging to certainty. My favorite show at the time was The Price is Right – only I insisted quite emphatically that it was called “Win a Car.” No amount of argumentation on her part could sway me. I had often viewed the latter half of the show at my grandparents’ house after kindergarten. I watched contestant after contestant win a car – or be foiled in the attempt.

And then came my reckoning. I passed by the television one summer morning, saw the flashing lights, and heard the familiar voice of Rod Roddy: “Here it comes! Television’s most exciting hour of fantastic prizes! The fabulous, sixty-minute PRICE IS RIGHT!”

Rod called down the first four contestants, and informed them that they were the first contestants on The Price is Right. And those same words appeared on the screen, tiny at first, but swelling until they filled the screen. I stood agape, stunned at my error. I had been so certain – so very certain.

Reality changes us – if we allow it to. Hopefully reality changes us not just once, but day after day. With childlike wonder, we discover new depths of the mystery. The more we know, the more we desire to know. Authentic growth in wisdom actually yields more wonder and more desire, not less. Those who are wise recognize how little they know and understand.

Such was the wisdom of Socrates in the face of his accusers. When he didn’t know something, he at least knew that he didn’t know. He was not puffed up with false certitude. Such was the wisdom of Thomas Aquinas, who stated that “an article of faith is a glimpse of divine Truth tending towards that Truth” (ST II-II, q. 1, a. 6, sc). Catching a glimpse of Truth is different than possessing it with certainty. Those who catch a glimpse of something they truly care about feel an ache to seek more.

In describing faith, Thomas reminds us that our faith does not point to the proposition, but to the reality itself (ST II-II, q. 1, a. 2, ad 2). And perhaps most shocking of all, Thomas asserts that our knowledge of God is a knowledge what he is not, but that what he is remains utterly unknown to us (SCG c. 3, 49, 9).

Thomas Aquinas is not a relativist, and neither am I. But he is even more a mystic than a theologian. He intuitively understands that God is infinite. The closer we get to him, the more painfully we realize the infinite gap between him and us – a gap bridged not by intellectual comprehension or certainty, but only in a communion of love in the new and eternal covenant.

Jesus Christ presents himself as the Way, the Truth, and the Life. He invites us to enter into a relationship with him and to follow him as disciples. Through faith, we become fellow members of his Body. We begin an ongoing journey of conversion, in which we become changed more and more into him. He invites us into communion with him and his Father. He prays that all that is his will be ours. He invites us as his bride into a one-flesh union with him. We are invited to grow into that union throughout our life.

Our demand for certainty comes from our insecure hearts. To feel insecure is one of the most difficult human experiences. The solution to not the “certainty” of Christian fundamentalism, but the intimacy of communion, and the security that is received in that relationship.

The Truth is not relative, but it IS relational. I love studying ancient and medieval philosophy, and find enormous wisdom there. That great legacy of Truth-seeking did not happen in a vacuum. It happened within the context of community. It is only within secure relationships, and in respectful dialogue with fellow humans, that we can pursue the Truth – never as isolated individuals, but as fellow children of God.

There are two opposite errors here: relativism and fundamentalism. Each in its own way refuses to surrender to reality. Relativism dogmatically asserts that there is no Truth. Those who cling to relativism ultimately refuse to allow reality to change them. They also ultimately refuse to give themselves over in a loving communion with the living God who holds all the answers to our ultimate questions.

But fundamentalism, too, is an enemy of Truth. It pretends to offer total certainty about “the truth” in a way that kills curiosity and wonder – the gifts of God that truly draw us into his Truth. There is a vulnerability and a playful engagement in the curiosity of a child. The “certainty” of fundamentalism exchanges a vulnerable relationship with the living God for an illusory sense of control.

The obsession with certainty has been particularly strong in the modern era (the last few centuries). It shows up in both Catholic and Protestant circles in some form of fundamentalism. We see this clinging to certainty it in the “once saved always saved” approach of some Protestants. We see it in an exaggerated emphasis on the inerrancy of Scripture or the infallibility of the pope. I believe in both of those doctrines as far as they go – but I find that most Christians seriously misunderstand or misrepresent them! Insofar as they point us to divine Truth, both are at the service of the living and enduring Word of God, who is a person inviting us into covenantal relationship with himself and his Father.

Through faith, we share in the dying and rising of Jesus. We are securely loved as God’s children, and are able to grow into maturity in Christ. With childlike wonder and curiosity, we can humbly acknowledge and keep surrendering to a Truth that is always larger than us. In the words of C.S. Lewis, “The further up and the further in you go, the bigger everything gets. The inside is larger than the outside.” May we never allow the temptation of certainty to hinder us from the great invitation of the eternal Bridegroom: “Come further up! Come further in!”

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The Law of Gift

“Man cannot fully find himself except through a sincere gift of himself.” So said Vatican II, in words that John Paul II often repeated. Many call this principle the “Law of Gift.”

But what is “a sincere gift of self,” and how is it actually possible?

I’ve been re-reading John Paul II’s Theology of the Body, now over 40 years old. Okay, I’ll admit – I never actually finished it the first time around, twenty-one years ago. I found some of his reflections tedious and confusing. I drifted into other distractions. But in so many ways, I wasn’t emotionally and spiritually ready to engage all that he was saying.

At the time, I was gung-ho about upright sexual morality. So in my reading of Theology of the Body (TOB), I was scavenging for ammunition.  I wanted “the Truth” so that I could fight the culture war, save marriages, and help young people stay pure. I was well-intended but misguided, because I was conveniently avoiding the brokenness within my own heart!

Even so, I was captivated by the beauty of TOB: the inherent goodness of our bodies; the God-given glory of sexuality, and the invitation to make a free, total, faithful, and fruitful gift of ourselves. I began preaching that message of self-gift.

Meanwhile, I prayed and toiled that I might somehow be strong enough or good enough to be self-giving in that way. I tended to one of two extremes. When I felt like I was “succeeding” in my sacrificial self-giving, I was puffed up with a sense of grandiosity. Then, inevitably, I would struggle or “fail” and would be flooded with shame and discouragement. In both cases, I was keeping parts of myself buried deep, where no one could see them (not even myself!).

In recent years, the Lord has been uncovering layer after layer in my heart, and showing me repeatedly that he desires ALL of me – not just the presentable parts. As that journey progresses, I think I understand more fully the stunningly beautiful invitation of John Paul II. Under the loving gaze of God the Father, with much protection and nurturing from Mary my heavenly mother, I am invited to grow as a whole person so that I can make a free and wholehearted gift of myself.

There are two sides to this beautiful teaching: integrity and self-gift.

When we hear “integrity,” we tend to think of following the rules or getting it right. But the word literally means “wholeness.” I cannot give all of myself if I am unwilling to take hold of all the pieces of my heart – much less to invite God or others close. It is only when I grow in wholeness that I can make a total gift of myself.

Just as there are two sides to the Law of Gift, so there are two common ways of deviating. The first is the one that I was committing for many decades, namely, “spiritual bypass.” We avoid going into the painful places of our own heart. Instead, we rush to “love” or “serve” others. We tell ourselves we are making a gift of ourselves. We tell ourselves we are sacrificing or (in Catholic lingo) “offering it up.” But in many cases, we are actually avoiding the Cross. We are resisting a full participation in the paschal mystery. We are unwilling (or perhaps not yet ready) to enter into the suffering and death of Jesus, to endure the hope of Holy Saturday, and to encounter the newness of the risen Jesus. He eagerly desires to go into those places of our heart with us, but some of us are not yet ready.

“Gift” is only gift if we give all the pieces. That is what integrity means. It means being authentically human – not just a spiritual or cerebral being, but also fully alive in our emotions, our imagination, and our desires. It means being EMBODIED!

Many Catholics talk about “Theology of the Body” – but prefer to keep the teachings only at a spiritual or moral level. Rather ironic, isn’t it, since its focus is the body?  I’ve often suggested that TOB is like a giant crate we’ve brought home from IKEA. It’s an amazing addition to our home – or will be, if we ever take all the pieces out of the box, much less engage in the hard work of assembly!

Meanwhile, in the broader culture, there have been amazing breakthroughs in neuroscience, in developmental psychology, and in trauma research. Trauma shows up in the body. Trauma is healed in the body. I am in awe of how well these findings connect both with the teachings of Thomas Aquinas and John Paul II. But Catholic have been SLOW to integrate and make connections.  We need to!

If we do not, the opposite error will prevail – that of personal “autonomy” or “independence.” In a well-meaning but misguided effort to reclaim the shattered pieces, many contemporary clinicians exalt the Self (with a capital “S”) as the be-all and end-all. It is well and good to become disentangled from abusers or to overturn oppressive structures. But our true human purpose is to make a gift of ourselves – to be the grain of wheat that falls to the ground and dies and bears much fruit.

And that brings us back to the original quote, which articulates the Law of Gift: “Man cannot fully find himself except through a sincere gift of himself.”

We are, at our core, relational beings – because we are created in the image and likeness of a relational God. We will never become who we are if we do not make a free, total, faithful, and fruitful gift of ourselves. But it is a “sincere” self-gift – one that requires authenticity and integrity. If we bypass the broken places, we will never become a whole person that way. Our “gift” will be far less fruitful, because our “yes” is not yet free and wholehearted.

May each of us grow in integrity and discover the ways God is truly inviting us to make a gift of ourselves!

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