In a society ever-growing in its urge for secularization—both culturally as well as religiously—the question of atheism versus theism is a timely one. Particularly, the question being asked by many philosophers and theologians alike is: "What does God contribute the nature of moral decision making?" or, put alternatively, "Is moral action possible for atheists, or is morality something peculiar to theists alone?"

A recent book, Is Goodness Without God Good Enough?, takes hold of this question from a variety of angles. Beginning with a famous 2001 debate between philosophers William Lane Craig and Paul Kurtz (who argue the theistic and atheistic positions respectively), the authors of the book have compiled a host of essays, which seek to ultimately discern 1) just what is at the heart of asking the question, "Is goodness without God good enough?," as well as 2) what the proper response to such a question would look like.

Throughout the book, Paul Kurtz's position seems to run as follows: in the course of human history, atheist have proven time and again to have demonstrated great moral rectitude and uprightness, despite their non-belief in God. Therefore, it is generally visible that belief in God is not a necessary condition for the exercise of moral action. On the other hand, Craig argues this: that although belief in God is not necessary for moral rectitude, God's existence alone suffices in making moral decisions truly moral. In other words, he supposes that God's perfect nature is the only true source of a moral code that is both objectively recognizable, as well as universally applicable. The two thinkers go back and forth, debating one another on these points, and trying to discern whether or not God is really essential for moral living.

Here's a spoiler: in the end, there still remains a great bit of obscurity. Craig addresses the meaning of the question, while Kurtz continually runs the end-around on his opponent, refuses to deal with the challenges leveled against his own position.

Nevertheless, the contributions made by the book's various essays, which critique the actual Craig-Kurtz debate, are quite noteworthy. Although, I would say, there isn't a great deal of substantial 'progress' that occurs in terms of answering the actual question of the debate, there are nonetheless some insightful perceptions about just what it means to talk about morality as strictly non-religious versus morality as inherently religious. This, I think, is a good thing, since the typical arguments taken up by atheists and theists alike, in such a situation, are unlikely to change much unless there is some alteration of the terms of engagement. (For a reasonable approximation of this sort of usual deadlock in a 'real world' scenario, visit Austin Cline's atheism blog at About.com.)

Although Is Goodness Without God Good Enough? doesn't settle for me much about the atheist-theist debate on the whole, it does make some notable observations which are helpful for anyone seeking to understand more fully the nature of the debate on morality, and how it relates (or does not relate) to religion. I would encourage those interested to read the book, which is a fairly easy read, and certainly serves as a helpful gateway into one of the most pressing problems of our era.

Over the break—and yes, I'm still getting 'breaks' at 23, hard to believe I know—but, over the break I've been trying to read a book by the famous Thomist, Jacques Maritain, called Creative Intuition in Art and Poetry. Assuming that most here haven't read it (including myself, except for the first chapters), I can't provide much of a detailed discussion or overview. But something he speaks of in the first chapter prompted me to ask a few questions, which I will present here.

The first chapter is a review of various forms of art—Oriental, Chinese, Greek and Western—comparing and contrasting them for their commitment to and portrayal of both "Things" and the "Self." Maritain's primary argument here seems to be that Eastern art, be it Muslim geometry, Buddhist mythology or Chinese iconography, all intends to portray the 'thing-in-itself' and speaks little of the 'self,' who creates the artwork. He contrasts this with ancient Hellenic art, wherein the human form becomes the object of beauty, but remains just that—a Thing—and not an actual extension of the artist-self. Finally, he attempts to show Christian art as the beginning of a form of self-expression that does more than simply focus on beauty in things; rather, it begins to show the beauty of the creator and the ideas which are put into a work of art from the subject end.

Here, I agree very much with Maritain. His representation and analysis of art from East to West seems quite correct, especially with regard to the religious incorporation involved in each form.

Maritain's final section of the chapter is devoted to modern and future art. Here, he makes a few claims which I'm not so sure I understand—at least not in the way he intends. "We are in the presence of an exceptionally great epoch," he says, "[which] comes from the fact that on the one hand never was painting so purely painting, and on the other hand never in painting was such poignant humanity united with such powerful penetration of visible things, through the simultaneous manifestation of the painter's creative Self and of the occult meanings grasped by him in reality." (28) Although he presents his case in eloquent fashion, I think his fundamental ideas are nonetheless up for debate—primarily the notion that modern art represents "pure" art, and that in this 'purity' arises the ultimate expression of self-manifesting creativity. Certainly, modern and contemporary art is unique, and it does speak from and toward a different level of self-involvement. There is something beautiful about abstraction and impression that is not found in realistic or iconic portrayals of reality; an involvement of Self, as Maritain would put it. But as for modern art indicating a true level of progress in the world of art, I think, is something altogether different.

I'll have to read more of the book before coming to a conclusion on this. But nevertheless Maritain does a brilliant thing in Creative Intuition in Art and Poetry, which delves into the problems of art and beauty with a penetrating and fruitful focus.

There is something funny about trying to be pertinent to today's world. On the one hand, you have the news: chock full of sad stories, cynicism, despair and harsh, cold 'reality.' On the other hand, you have fluff (or at least what the world and most people consider fluff): optimism, talk about how good life really is under all the harshness, etc. Neither is really appealing—at least to me. Sometimes I like to hear about the news, but a little goes a long way. Sometimes I need a pick-me-up, and a nice story with a good ending makes me feel better. But again, less is more as far as that goes.

What do people really want? False pessimism is bad; false optimism is perhaps even worse. Is it really possible to fall somewhere in between? Even more importantly, what are we called to see, as Christians, in a world that is at times unbearable and at times all too enticing?

G.K. Chesterton, in his wonderful book, Orthodoxy, writes of this proper Christian approach to life: he likens it to patriotism.

My acceptance of the universe is not optimism, it is more like patriotism. It is a matter of primary loyalty. The world is not a lodging-house at Brighton, which we are to leave because it is miserable. It is the fortress of our family, with the flag flying on the turret, and the more miserable it is the less we should leave it. The point is not that this world is too sad to love or too glad not to love; the point is that when you do love a thing, its gladness is a reason for loving it, and its sadness a reason for loving it more. All optimistic thoughts about England and all pessimistic thoughts about her are alike reasons for the English patriot. Similarly, optimism and pessimism are alike arguments for the cosmic patriot.

That final term—"cosmic patriotism"—is certainly a Chesterton special. In his typical way, he captures all the facets of a very multifaceted reality in a single, poignant phrase. We all know what a patriot is (or at least what one used to be, when the word meant something a little stronger). I assume that "cosmic" is an equally familiar term, although again one with a little baggage in contemporary society. When put together, though, Chesterton's "cosmic patriotism" makes perfect sense; it resonates in the heart of modern man. We must be devoted citizens and lovers of the universe we live in. The more miserable it is, as he says, the less we should want to leave it.

Chesterton had a keen eye for what made certain things resplendent with Christian beauty. Certainly, the cosmos is one of those things: ordered by the Logos and permeated by the logoi spermatikoi, it is the handiwork of God and the manifestation of his glory. Saint Irenaeus added to St. Justin Martyr's thought with the wise insight that Gloria Dei vivens homo ("The glory of God is a living man"). What is often forgotten of Irenaeus' statement, however, is the second part of the sentence: gloria autem hominis visio Dei ("The glory of man is the vision of God"). It is this vision of God in his creative majesty that Chesterton speaks to. It is to the divinely made universe, of which we are all beloved citizens, to which we are in turn called to be patriots. No matter how bad it sometimes seems, and no matter how enticing it can sometimes be, it is nothing other than God's love made known to us. "It is the fortress of our family, with the flag flying on the turret, and the more miserable it is the less we should leave it."

Recently, I've been getting more involved in the Communione e Liberazione group on campus. Part of the regular routine of the 'School of Community' factor has been reading the works of Msgr. Luigi Giussani, the movement's founder and theologian. Without a doubt, Giussani's writings always leave you with a nugget of truth to consider throughout the next week, until you come back for a little more.

This past week, the discussion came from a chapter, entitled "Obedience." The focus of this section—as much as we have talked about so far—has been the events surrounding Christ's multiplication of the loaves, and the subsequent call to eat his flesh and drink his blood. The two events, says Giussani, are not coincidental; they are, rather, providentially arranged so that after being nourished physically by the miracle of the loaves, the crowd finds itself hungering for more of the same. They seek out Jesus continually, until finally he is in a position to tell them something they need to hear. Something big.

"You follow me because I satisfied your hunger with bread, freely, but I offer you something else to eat; I give you my flesh to eat and my blood as drink. And he who eats of this bread and drinks of this blood will live forever." (Si Può Vivere Così, 136) The response to this invitation, a resounding disapproval. A few remain. "To whom else can we go? You have the words of eternal life," asks Peter. This part is well known.

But what occurs in the hearts of those disciples? What caused Peter to utter his words? It is this that Giussani focuses upon. "I don't understand this," he supposes Peter was thinking, "but if I go away from him, no one else can speak to me according to the desires of my heart." (138)

This idea of 'speaking to the heart' is absolutely pertinent to a discussion of obedience in the Christian sense. As Catholics, especially, we are called to an obedience to the truth as it is understood and taught by the Magisterium of the Church. This obedience, however, does not arise from some efficient causation—we are not compelled to obedience, for that would not be obedience but slavery. Neither is obedience appealing because it enables us to avoid punishment, since that is equally as unfree. Rather, obedience is appealing to the Christian precisely because it is a language aimed at the desires of the heart; it is the fitting response to the Lord's call to us that we should follow him and find eternal life and happiness in communion with his Son.

This causes me to wonder a few things. Namely, since human beings are quite obviously wired for happiness and goodness, why is it that we are so quick to act contrary to the desires of our heart? After all, it wasn't the case with Peter that the Lord introduced new desires to his being, but rather that he tapped into those already present. Assumably, the same would have been true for the crowd that left. Didn't Christ tap into their deepest desires as well? After all, he is God—he can do that! But why, then, did they so quickly leave him? No doubt they were scandalized, but why?

The answer, I think, arises from the same innately human locale as the desires of the heart. As human persons, we so often desire to construct our own conceptions of reality that we fail to see the ones planted within our very being as having any value. Often, we are so quick to put forth our own ideas of how things should fit together that we fail to see the coherence of the picture before our eyes. Even more, we fail to see that not only does the picture cohere with itself, but that it actually corresponds to reality as well!

This is exactly what Christ offers those to whom he gives his Body and Blood for food and drink. He speaks to the heart, completes the picture, and bestows a knowledge of reality so deep that it seems utterly scandalous. But, as Giussani presents to us, it is precisely because it seems so scandalous in the beginning that it is so truly fitting and magnificent in the end.

In anticipation of the feast of Pentecost, which will soon be upon us, something struck me in my reading that I thought would make for a good reflection. In his book, Christ Our Joy: The Theological Vision of Pope Benedict XVI, Msgr. Joseph Murphy submits a profound understanding of the role of the Holy Spirit in the lives of the Catholic faithful and in the mission of the Church; I am inclined to believe he is onto something here:

Rarely as in our time have people become so dramatically aware of how inaccessible others ultimately are and of how difficult it is to give oneself to another or understand the other in an enduring way.

Pentecost, says Ratzinger, is the response to this situation. The Spirit sheds light on the fundamental human question, “How can we reach one another?” More specifically, how is it possible to remain oneself and yet leave the prison of one’s solitude to encounter the other from within? The answer lies neither in a dissolution of self, after the manner of some of the Asiatic religions, nor in simple activism. Furthermore, the “I” and the “you” cannot be reconciled with each other if the “I” is not reconciled with itself.

The Christian answer is to be found in the Trinity, which is the highest unity. In the Trinity, the oppositeness of the “I” and the “you” is not taken away; instead, a mutual compenetration takes place in the Holy Spirit. (Murphy, pp. 153-4)

Really, this claim on the part of the author—and ultimately the Holy Father—is nothing more than a further articulation of the Catholic belief that man was created in the “image and likeness” of God. In other words, we were specifically designed to be Trinitarian in our relationship with others and with God himself. Just as God communicates himself to himself in the relation of divine persons (e.g. the Father to the Son and vice versa) without losing anything of himself in the process, the human person is hard-wired to do the same; that is, to realize the depth of ‘self’ in the auto-communication of that self to another (by acts of love).

This idea stands in stark contrast to modern philosophy’s notion of self-understanding, which consists in either the “dissolution” mentioned by Murphy as evidenced in eastern religions and Nietzschian nihilism, or the “simple activism” of the scientific positivist, who sees God as nothing more than the totality of material reality. Certainly in the history of his theological and philosophical pursuits, Pope Benedict has considered both of these extremes and weighed them in the balance of authentic and discernable truth. In the end, as the terms suggest, both extremes prove too extreme. For one convicted by a faith in God, who is Triune, a new reality emerges: “The relation of each divine person itself becomes the nature of that person.” In simpler terms, the very and complete giving of self, which defines each person of the Holy Trinity, also defines the human person who images the Trinity in his or her mode of existing. We are created for no other reason than to give ourselves completely to the other. The title of Msgr. Murphy’s book identifies well the result of such a self-donation: “Christ Our Joy.” In fact, true and lasting joy—as Benedict’s continuing theological work suggests—can only come from a deep and abiding relationship with Jesus Christ, joined to God the Father in the Holy Spirit.

When we think about what makes a person ‘sane,’ most would conclude that the distinction arises primarily from the person’s ability to reason, and to function properly within the context of mental exercises. The dictionary definition does not seem to provide for much more: it speaks of sanity as “1. (of a person) of sound mind; not mad or mentally ill / 2. reasonable; sensible.” “Sanity”—in these terms—simply equals the ability to reason logically…and who would disagree with such a fundamental definition?

One who certainly finds such an answer less-than-satisfying is the 20th century British author, G.K. Chesterton. In one of his most popular works, Orthodoxy, Chesterton writes precisely in contradiction to this popular definition: “Exactly what does breed insanity,” he says, “is reason.” And what evidence does he provide for this seemingly preposterous claim? “Poets do not go mad,” he continues, “but chess-players do. Mathematicians go mad, and cashiers; but creative artists very seldom.” In Chesterton’s understanding, there is something much more profound than the ability to reason, which ultimately allows the human person to remain within the realm of ‘sanity.’ All madmen, according to him, have “the combination of an expansive and exhaustive reason with a contracted common sense.” “The madman is not the man who has lost his reason. The madman is the man who has lost everything except his reason.”

At first glance, such a proposal seems ludicrous; how can we believe that sanity subsides in man’s creative and commonsensical capacity and not in his logical one? But Chesterton (very much in union with one of my favorite philosophers, Gabriel Marcel) states precisely why this is the case. “There is a notion adrift everywhere,” he writes, “that imagination, especially mystical imagination, is dangerous to man’s mental balance.” However it is precisely this mysticism, he continues, “that keeps man sane…The ordinary man has always been sane because the ordinary man has always been a mystic. He has permitted the twilight…He has always left himself free to doubt his gods; but (unlike the agnostic of today) free also to believe in them…The whole secret of mysticism is this: that man can understand everything by the help of what he does not understand. The morbid logician seeks to make everything lucid, and succeeds in making everything mysterious. The mystic allows one thing to be mysterious, and everything else becomes lucid.”

This insightful approach to reality coincides perfectly with Marcel’s problem/mystery distinction—i.e. that some human experiences are problematic while others are mysterious, and the difference between the two ought to be maintained and thoroughly appreciated in our understanding. In the end, man is a creature intended to remain as such; he is not a god, although he aspires to be in union with the True God—the Creator himself—and will only be fulfilled once he has attained such communion. Here, the significance of ‘mystery’ in our lives comes into perfect clarity. We simply cannot approach the mysterious existence and life of God from a completely logical point of view; that constitutes insanity. Instead, if we approach God with the faculties of human and common sense, we will find him much more quickly and clearly than if we had approached him strictly intellectually. God is more than Truth, he is also Beauty; he is certainly the convergence of logical truth, but at the same time the confluence of meaning and beauty in our human experience.

If we desire to be sane, holy Christians, we need look no further than our lives as they are: completely human and utterly permeated by the emotional, beautiful, painful and meaningful. If we learn to appreciate and love the fullness of humanity in which form we have been created, we will eventually learn to love the fullness of human redemption in Jesus Christ. Loving Christ is the goal. Being sane is the inevitable medium.

Just yesterday at the North American College, we seminarians had the privilege of hearing the Supreme Knight of the Knights of Columbus, Sir Carl Anderson, give a brief talk on his new book, A Civilization of Love: What Every Catholic Can Do to Transform the World. Although at first the title may seem a bit nondescript, Anderson's presentation of the book certainly caught my attention in a bold way. His effort to break open the dialogue among Catholics regarding the place of love in society is certainly a timely one, and one very much in line with Pope Benedict's effort as the Roman Pontiff.

The name of the book, as Anderson noted, stems directly from St. Augustine's magnum opus, the ever looked-to City of God. In this work, the eminent Augustine seeks to draw a comparison between the earthly city of Roman rule (which proved to be crumbling heavily at that point in history) and the heavenly city, present at least in its seminal stages within the framework of the Catholic Church. Whereas the ancient Father drew on the barbarian invasions from the north as an occasion of courageous resistance to decadent powers, Anderson utilizes the recent 9/11 attacks in the US to showcase a similar truth; namely, that it is in time of trial that we truly possess the ability to construct the Civilization of Love. "We are talking about a revolution of virtue," he said in a recent interview, "but of the theological virtues: faith, hope and love...And this is the message Benedict XVI has given us with his two encyclicals, Deus Caritas Est, on love, and Spe Salvi, on hope." In fact, in his presentation at the NAC, the Supreme Knight even likened Pope Benedict to his favorite theologian, St. Augustine, saying that the current pope's work resembles an Augustinian approach to this type of societal theology.

Although I haven't read the book yet, I would certainly endorse it. Carl Anderson's reputation as a solid Catholic teacher stretches beyond his time as Supreme Knight; he was formerly a professor at the John Paul II Institute on Family Life in Rome, as well as a delegated member of various Pontifical Commissions over the past decade. The message of the Knights of Columbus has always been that of a culture of life, and Anderson certainly supports this in his new work. In addition to supporting causes for life, the Knights are also avid supporters of religious and priestly vocations, and for this Sir Carl will receive, on behalf of the Knights, the Rectors Award at the North American College's annual Rector's Dinner tomorrow evening.

While walking home today, I decided to stop into the Vatican bookstore. I was just looking around and asked one of the store workers when Bishop Athanasius Schneider's new book, "Dominus Est," is coming out. Dominus est means, "It is the Lord," in Latin and is referring to the Gospel of John when Christ is recognized by John while Peter and John are fishing.

The book interests me, because the Liturgy interests me. It is about the posture and disposition of the one receiving Holy Communion and the practice of receiving Holy Communion on one's knees and on the tongue. This post is not an apologia for either of those practices, which remain the universal norm of the Church while Bishops and National Bishop's conferences are able to create other norms if they deem it pastorally expedient. Personally, I support and prefer the practice defended in this book, but I would like to limit myself to making a few brief comments on the orientation of the liturgy in general.

In the Catholic liturgy, there must always be a common orientation of all the assembly: versus Dominum, toward the Lord. Cardinal Ratzinger speaks of this at length in his book, "The Spirit of the Liturgy." The same Pope Benedict XVI spoke of this in his General Audience on St. Augustine a couple weeks ago, mentioning the practice of the priest in the early Church who proclaimed, "Conversus ad Dominum!" (Turn toward the Lord) after the homily, at which point the congregation would turn toward the East. This is the reason that Pope Benedict celebrated the Baptismal Mass in the Sistene Chapel "ad orientem," or toward the East, Christ our Lord, the rising Son that never sets. The orientation of our hearts toward the Lord is expressed in chant, gestures, movements and postures in Catholic Liturgy because human beings are not angels (pure spirit) or animals (flesh without a rational soul and will). We must express with our body, the movements and orientation of our heart. This is the context in which Archbishop Malcolm Ranjith, the Secretary for the Congregation for Divine Worship and the Discipline of the Sacraments, puts his argument forward with respect to receiving communion kneeling and on the tongue in his forward to this book.

I plan on buying the book from the Vatican bookstore sometime this week when it comes out, and I will try to put some posts up on the general arguments and themes. Whether we receive Holy Communion standing or kneeling right now (both of which are certainly viable options according to the Church), let us always prostrate our hearts in loving adoration before the God who is love. "This is a real presence which includes every dimension of who Jesus is: body and blood, human soul and divine person. The consecrated Eucharistic species are the Lord and therefore command our adoration. We do not adore ourselves, nor the ordained priest, nor the Bible, even though these are vehicles for Christ's spiritual presence; we do adore the Eucharist, this blessed sacrifice made really present sacramentally." (Francis Cardinal George, Archbishop of Chicago)

I am reading a book called "L'Europa di Benedetto nella Crisi delle Culture" (The Europe of Benedict - The Crisis of Cultures). I don't know if it is in English or not yet, but it has been fascinating so far. One thing that really hit me is a theme that Pope Benedict discusses almost verbatim in his new Encyclical, "Spe Salvi". The quote from the book is this, "Truly, the most grave danger of this moment stands exactly in this imbalance among scientific possibility and moral energy... when it is missing or it is not sufficient, the power that man has will always transform itself more into the power of destruction."

What exactly is the Holy Father trying to say here? In a nutshell he is saying that if we fail to advance in the art of being human, of acting well, at an equal pace with the art of technology, positive science, than destruction is a necessary outcome. We have only to cast our eyes back upon the past century to see what he means. The 20th century, coming off the industrial revolution and great technological hope, experienced two of the most brutal regimes in history; Communism and Nazism. Not only did these two regimes do untold harm and destroy millions of lives, but Europe was nearly leveled with two of the most devastating wars in history. People rightfully ask how all of this is possible when man is supposedly so much more enlightened in the age of technology, instant communication and conveniences that surpass anything the world has ever known.

How is it in a world where science has supposedly given us everything, that we have dropped atomic bombs and slaughtered millions of people in unspeakable ways? Our situation certainly is not improved at the present moment when at least nine countries in the world posses nuclear weapons that could effectively eliminate the human race.

I believe the Pope's analysis of our greatest threat is spot on. The question to be asked is, how do we increase the moral capacity of the technological man of the 21st century? How do we convince people that being is better than having? These are great questions and I think that the Holy Father has given another good start in the first Encyclical of his Pontificate, "God is Love". The title of one of Hans Urs Van Balthasar's most notable books is also telling: "Love Alone is Credible."

What are your thoughts on this and how do we justify hope in such a dreary world situation?

I think the Pope again comes to the rescue in "Spe Salvi" on two points. The first is a young Sundanese slave girl from Darfur in the 19th century. The second is the story of the early Christians who, after being plundered and robbed of all their property and possessions, had great joy. (Heb 10:34) I will write my next post on trying to figure out how we can have hope in a world that is often so depressing.

Sorry for not posting much recently. I just finished my move back into seminary, and we have been busy cleaning and planning for the coming year. To help with the accessibility of my posts, I want to provide a recap after I am done talking about each book that I review. I just finished a series of reflections on Fr. Thomas Dubay's book, Fire Within. You will have to wait in suspense for my next post to know the next book I will write about.