Monthly Archives: January 2010

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William of St. Thierry on Tasting God’s Gifts

The 12th-century monk, William of St. Thierry, wrote many short books on the spiritual life. Here’s from near the end of his “The Contemplation of God”:

I remain therefore in the place of my solitude, like the solitary evening primrose, having my lodging in the earth of salts; and drawing my breath of love, I open my mouth towards you, Lord, and I breathe spirit. And sometimes, Lord, while I am gaping toward you, eyes closed, you place something in me, in the mouth of the heart; but it, I have no right to know what it is. I certainly sense a flavour, so soft, so sweet, so comforting, that if it were left perfect in me, I would no longer go searching for anything else. But when I receive it, you do not let me figure out what it is—neither by sight, nor by a feeling of the soul, nor by a thought of the mind; when I receive it, I want to hold it and think about it, to judge its flavour; but quickly it passes. I surely swallow it, whatever it may be, in the hope of eternal life. Yet in thinking a long time about the virtue of its working, I hope to transfuse it through all the veins and marrow of my soul like some life-giving sap, in order to lose the flavour of all other affections, and no longer savour anything except it alone and forever; but it hastens to pass on.

Je me tiens donc dans la demeure de ma solitude, comme l’onagre solitaire, ayant mon logis en la terre des salines ; et aspirant le souffle de mon amour, j’ouvre la bouche vers toi, Seigneur, et j’aspire l’esprit. Et quelquefois, Seigneur, tandis que je suis comme béant vers toi, les yeux clos, tu me mets quelque chose dans la bouche du cœur ; mais cela, je n’ai pas licence de savoir ce que c’est. Sans doute, je sens une saveur, tellement douce, tellement suave, tellement réconfortante, que si elle se parfaisait en moi, je ne rechercherais plus rien outre. Mais quand je la reçois, tu ne me permets de discerner ce que c’est ni par une vision du corps, ni par un sens de l’âme, ni par une intelligence de l’esprit ; quand je la reçois, je la veux retenir et ruminer, et en juger la saveur ; mais aussitôt elle passe. Je la déglutis sans doute, quelle qu’elle puisse être, dans l’espoir de la vie éternelle. Mais en ruminant longtemps la vertu de son opération, je souhaiterais transfuser dans toutes les veines et toutes les moelles de mon âme comme quelque suc vital, pour perdre la saveur de toutes les autres affections, et ne plus savourer qu’elle seule et à jamais ; mais elle se hâte de passer. (La contemplation de Dieu, 115)

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Von Balthasar and the Reformation

Hans Urs von Balthasar, among the most influential Catholic theologians of the 20th century, unfolds in the early part of his trilogy a theology of Christian experience. Here the saints play a very interesting role as those who exemplify the Christian life which simply is the conformity to Christ’s form (von Balthasar’s first volume is entitled “Seeing the Form”). Between different saints, however, von Balthasar discerns different patterns of experiencing this path. Particularly interesting is his distinction between the experiences of the apostles Paul and John:

If we pass from Paul to John, who constitutes the second classical instance of a New Testament theology of experience, we leave a spiritual world which is impetuous and agitated almost in a violent sense and enter the calm of what “abides.” Paul’s fundamental experience is that of being snatched up by Christ’s dynamis [Greek, “power”] from one aeon and being transferred to the other. Paul overwhelms us because he has himself been overwhelmed. Damascus is a flash of lightning and remains such for the rest of the Apostle’s life. John, on the other hand, has been marked out ever since his first meeting with Jesus at the Jordan… To be sure, John too is one transported by love; but he is so profoundly at rest in this movement that, for him, it becomes the very presence of eternity… (The Glory of the Lord, vol. 1, 232-233)

In this light, it makes sense to see Paul speaking of the battle with the spiritual powers and authorities, the need for spiritual armour, the struggle with the sinful nature so central to his life (esp. Romans 7), and the bitter clashes with his opponents in the churches. From John, however, we are presented with a picture of calm repose, even at those moments in his gospel which in the others are full of agony. On the cross, Jesus’ life ends not with the dramatic cry as in Mark’s gospel (15:34), but with the composed, “It is finished” (19:30). Now, this difference should not be overplayed, but it is striking.

Striking especially in light of the historical circumstances that generated the Reformation. A certain monk, Martin Luther, of the Augustinian order—Augustine’s theology being strongly influenced by Paul—was greatly troubled over his sinfulness and lack of assurance. Luther was continuously plagued by Anfechtung, or “tempting attacks.” Only in reading the first chapter of Romans, with its teaching of justification by faith, did he find himself totally carried away, relieved, transported to a place of comfort and solace. The same sort of pattern is seen in Kierkegaard, perhaps the paradigmatic Protestant, who spoke similarly of Anfægtelse, or “spiritual trials.” (See the excellent article, “The Lightning and the Earthquake,” by Podmore.) This bloomed in Barth’s early dialectical theology of Krisis where Kierkegaard’s “infinite qualitative distance” between God and humanity is unfolded in all its purity.

This genealogy—Paul, Augustine, Luther, Kierkegaard, Barth—suggests a highly significant set of questions, again in light of von Balthasar’s earlier distinction between Pauline and Johannine types of Christian experience or spiritualities: Would the Reformation have occurred if Luther had been formed in a Johannine spirituality of eternal rest? If Luther had been, say, a Benedictine or Franciscan rather than an Augustinian monk? Would it have taken another avenue, perhaps waiting the 20 years for Calvin to begin it? Would it have ended with the Catholics and Reformers so violently opposed? Perhaps most interesting to me, and ecumenically significant: Can the history of the last 500 years between Protestants and Catholics be helpfully read as a history of spirituality? And will this reading allow us to come back to one another once again?

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Thomas Merton on World Peace

Inspired by Jamie Smith over at his reading blog, I’ve started into Thomas Merton’s The Seven Storey Mountain, the now-classic story of his conversion and entry into a Trappist monastery. Here’s a wonderful bit from his reflection on time spent in public school:

Is it any wonder that there can be no peace in a world where everything possible is done to guarantee that the youth of every nation will grow up absolutely without moral and religious discipline, and without the shadow of an interior life, or of that spirituality and charity and faith which alone can safeguard the treaties and agreements made by governments? [(Harcourt & Brace, 1948), 51.]

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Ephesians 1:1-14: Some Thoughts on Predestination

Yes, I really am wading into this debate. It is unfortunate “wading” in the pool is what is required, since for Paul, predestination is an ocean of grace:

Paul, an apostle of Christ Jesus through the will of God, to the saints who are in Ephesus, the faithful in Christ Jesus: grace to you and peace from God our father and the Lord Jesus Christ.

Blessed be the God and father of our Lord Jesus Christ, who blessed us with every spiritual blessing in the heavenly places in Christ, for he chose us in him before the foundation of the world to be saints and unblemished before his sight in love, having predestined us for adoption into him through Jesus Christ, according to the good favour of his will, for the praise of the glory of his grace which he graced us with in his beloved. In him we have redemption through his blood, the forgiveness of transgressions, according to the wealth of his grace which he caused to overflow into us, in all wisdom and understanding having made known to us what was the mystery of his will, according to his good favour which he purposed in him in the management of the fullness of time, to recapitulate all things in Christ, the things in heaven and the things on earth in him. We were also allotted [an inheritance] in him, having been predestined according to the purpose of him who carries out all things according to the intention of his will, for us to be to the praise of his glory those who are the first to hope in Christ. In him also we heard the word of truth, the gospel of your salvation, and having also believed in him we were sealed with the holy Spirit of promise, who is a first payment of our inheritance until the redemption of [God's] possession, for the praise of his glory.

This passage screams Exodus. The redemption of a people through blood—the lambs’ blood on the doorposts; the fullness of time—430 years since Abraham (Gal. 3:17); the first payment of an inheritance—the tabernacle in the desert; predestination of a people—the choosing of Israel (Ex. 19:4); ruler over all things in heaven and earth—God’s rule (Ex. 19:5); and the praise of his glory—a kingdom of priests (Ex. 19:6). This suggests Paul is deliberately evoking the Exodus, the central history of Israel’s faith, to say that in Christ (which appears constantly in this passage) a new Exodus has taken place.

But this means that in no way is Paul talking about the predestination of individuals, but about a people: the “saints,” the “faithful.” What has happened in Christ is that predestination opens up from Israel to the whole world, all things in heaven and on earth in him. Never was “I” chosen from the foundation of the world, but “he chose us in him.” He “predestined us” (v.5), “we were also allotted an inheritance” (v.11), and the holy Spirit is “our inheritance” (v.14). The central divide is not between these and those individuals, but between the Church and those outside it (in John, the “world”); just as before Christ the divide was between Jews and Gentiles. Others passages would need to be examined to establish this as well (something NT Wright has already done in many places), especially Romans 9-11, a passage massively important simply for what it handles: Israel and Church, predestination, law, covenant and justification. Maybe in a bit.

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Hauerwas on Obama’s Nobel Speech

Hauerwas writes a brief response to Obama’s speech here, where he enunciates once again the importance of maintaining our language about war. What, he asks, lets us know a war is a war? Particularly to proponents of “just war” theory, who list a number of criteria that make a war apparently “just,” Hauerwas asks what a war that fails to meet these criteria would be? Would one still call it war? For instance, one of the just war criteria is that it must be declared by legitimate authority. What if a guerrilla group or terrorist organization declared “war” on a certain country? Would one call this war? Another criterion is that the declared intention of a war must not be different than the actual intention. A country, that is, cannot declare a war looking for weapons of mass destruction, but actually be looking for oil. But then, if this is no longer a war, what is it? A point Hauerwas makes elsewhere, but only alludes to here in his reference to Cain and Abel, is that Christians ought to maintain our language of war as murder. If we fail to name war properly, that is, as murder, then we may lose the resources to see when the wool is being pulled over our eyes with the language of a “necessary war.” Because for those who live by the flesh and blood of one who would not take up arms, the one thing necessary is the peace that is given through the cross.