 Our desires are infinite because they are, at their deepest level, a desire for the infinite good, who is God. Nothing less than God will satisfy us.
You can read this article at my Substack newsletter, "Beauty-Goodness-Truth", or at Word on Fire.  Recently, I was reading Andrew Klavan’s book The Truth and Beauty when I ran across a passage in which Klavan criticized people who consider themselves to be “Christian atheists”:
There are those today who call themselves Christian atheists, who want the values of Christianity but can’t believe in the religion itself. They say, “Perform faith,” or, “Live as if God exists,” or, “Let us call ourselves Christians.” But they are buying into the premise of uncertainty and deconstructing the very absolute on which they want to depend. Klavan’s book is interesting and often insightful, but this criticism struck me as a bit harsh. “Christian” atheism is, of course, an oxymoron, but it is still vastly preferable to alternative forms of atheism, such as a militantly dogmatic atheism rooted in a materialist worldview that categorically denies the existence of objective good and evil. Indeed, numerous thinkers have argued in favor of the idea of living “as if” certain things were true (including the existence of God and of an absolute moral order), even if a person is not able to see or believe in those truths at the present moment. In a series of speeches Joseph Ratzinger gave prior to being elected pope in 2005 (speeches subsequently published as Christianity and the Crisis of Cultures), Ratzinger pointed to the effort by some Enlightenment thinkers to delineate the moral norms that would still be valid etsi Deus non daretur--even if God did not exist. Ratzinger noted that this project was driven in part by the fracturing of Christendom that had occurred during the Reformation and the resulting felt need to articulate a moral code upon which believers of various stripes and nonbelievers could all agree. At the time of the Enlightenment, people thought it possible to establish such a code because the broader culture was still pervaded by the morals that had been instilled in it by the Christian faith. But as Ratzinger correctly observed, such is not the case today. As the “Sea of Faith” has withdrawn farther and farther from the shores of Dover Beach, the possibility of a purely “secular” moral code has simultaneously receded, which is why Ratzinger contended that in contemporary society, we must reverse the axiom of the Enlightenment and say: Even one who does not succeed in finding the way of accepting God, should, nevertheless, seek to live and to direct his life “veluti si Deus daretur,” as if God existed. . . . In this way, no one is limited in his freedom, but all our affairs find the support and criterion of which they are in urgent need. Roger Scruton essentially agreed with Ratzinger. There has been some debate as to the nature of Scruton’s personal religious beliefs; Carl Trueman has commented that he is unsure “whether Scruton believed in God or whether he simply believed that God was a good idea.” But at a minimum, Scruton did, indeed, believe that God was a “good idea,” at least for the sake of providing a transcendent foundation for a moral code built around self-sacrifice and love. For those who find it difficult to act “as if” God existed, Scruton recommended an alternative: the path of high culture, which Scruton believed could teach us “to live as if our lives mattered eternally.” Hans Vaihinger constructed an entire philosophy around the idea of living “as if” certain beliefs were true, even if they are, in fact, not true (The Philosophy of “As If,” 1911). Vaihinger believed that life was irrational and that human beings therefore have to live by some “fictions” that make life livable. He viewed these “fictions” as nonrational solutions to problems he thought had no rational answers. But perhaps one of the earliest advocates of the idea of living “as if” was Blaise Pascal, with his famous wager. So why is it a good idea to live “as if” God existed, even if one currently finds it difficult to believe that God actually exists? For one thing, life tends to be chaotic, both for individual persons and for society as a whole, without a solid moral code to guide one’s actions. And it is, in fact, impossible to construct a code of moral absolutes without positing (at least hypothetically) the existence of a God who grounds the nature of objective goodness. This seems to be the major reason why some people are choosing to call themselves Christian atheists; they find it difficult to accept the supernatural claims of the Christian faith, but they see the personal and societal benefits of the Christian moral code. But beyond such pragmatic reasons, living “as if” God existed and “as if” the Christian faith were true can eventually lead one to see the actual truth of God’s existence and of the Christian faith. Hans Urs von Balthasar, among others, emphasized this experiential side of Christianity. One of the core claims of the Christian faith is, of course, that the essence of God, and therefore the essence of being itself, consists in self-giving, self-surrendering love. While acknowledging this truth can sometimes first be perceived as truth via an act of faith, Balthasar also noted that for some people, this truth can only be perceived “from the inside”—i.e., by first striving to live a life of self-giving love. Here’s a representative statement: Absolute fullness . . . does not consist of “having,” but of “being=giving.” It is in giving that one is and has. This cannot be explained in words—“I have yet many things to say to you, but you could not bear it now”—it can only be done, and be understood in the course of doing it. Some people find their way to God and to Christian faith via the beautiful or the true, but some find their way there via the good, which is one of the main reasons why “Christian atheism” is better than nothing(ness). This article was originally published at Word on Fire.  In Liquid Modernity and several subsequent books and articles, Zygmunt Bauman wrote extensively about the widespread changes taking place in contemporary society and the accelerating rate at which some of those changes are occurring. Numerous aspects of society seem to be in a state of continuous flux. This decline in societal stability is troubling in many ways, but perhaps one of its most concerning consequences is its detrimental effect on the ability of many adolescents and young adults to form a solid and stable sense of personal identity.
You can read this article at my Substack newsletter, "Beauty-Goodness-Truth", or at Word on Fire.  For several millennia, the human race has dreamt of a utopia, a perfect earthly society. But we’ve also contemplated the polar opposite of utopia in nightmarish visions of dystopias, of societies gone very wrong, including Lord of the World (1907), Brave New World (1932), 1984 (1949), Fahrenheit 451 (1953), Logan’s Run (1967), and The Children of Men (1992). During the last several decades, we’ve seen a significant increase in the number of dystopian novels and movies being produced, as well as an increase in the discussion of dystopian themes in works of nonfiction. This recent trend is reflected in an Ngram showing the frequency of use of the terms “dystopia” and “dystopian” in books over time. Usage of those terms started to rise in the mid-1970s, peaked in 2012, and has remained at or near that peak ever since.
Some commentators have suggested this heightened focus on dystopian themes is indicative of a widespread decline in hope for the building of a better world. But that is not necessarily the case. As Peter J. Leithart correctly pointed out in an article for First Things, descriptions of both utopia and dystopia can be viewed as part of the same project—i.e., that of envisioning a better society—either by highlighting characteristics we’d like to see in such a society or by warning us of some of the innumerable ways that societies can go off the rails. Also, people continue to talk a lot about utopian themes; in fact, we still make far more references to “utopia” and “utopian” than we do to “dystopia” and “dystopian.” Use of the words “utopia” and “utopian” peaked in the same year as the use of “dystopia” and “dystopian” (2012), and although references to “utopian” and “utopia” have decreased somewhat since then, those terms are still used five and six times more frequently, respectively, than are “dystopian” and “dystopia.” Apparently, hope springs eternal for a perfect earthly society brought about by human effort alone. But the truth is, this utopian dream is unattainable, for several reasons. One could, for example, point to fallen human nature’s tendency toward sin and evil, a tendency which sooner or later tends to corrupt and undermine all human societies from within, or else destroy them from without in the form of conquest by some other society. But even more fundamentally, there is the cold, hard reality of death. Even if human beings were able, somehow, to build one of their “ideal” societies, every member of that society will still eventually die, bringing the dream to an end. Hans Urs von Balthasar provided a blunt expression of this truth: “Secular hope has been truly broken; every moment it is concretely shattered at death. Beyond my death, there is no hope for me in the secular future. Is there any for others?” The answer, of course, is no. Admittedly, there are some people who are seeking to overcome human mortality through technological advancements, health practices, etc., but even if these so-called “transhumanists” were to succeed in their project to expand human capabilities and extend the length of our earthly lives indefinitely, does such an extension really sound all that appealing? We want more than just a finite increase in our capabilities and an endless prolongation of our current lives; we want an elevation of our lives, an infinite elevation of our lives. We want to live at a “higher pitch of existence,” to paraphrase Bishop Robert Barron. The ultimate object of our hope is not a finite life in some earthly utopia built by human hands; the ultimate object of our hope is to share in the greatest possible life: to share in the infinite, eternal life and love of God (2 Peter 1:4). Even atheists like Friedrich Nietzsche and Jean-Paul Sartre expressed some form of this deepest desire of the human heart. Nietzsche exclaimed that “all joy wants eternity, wants deep, wants deep eternity.” Sartre, in the same breath that he denied God, admitted his profound longing for God: “That God does not exist, I cannot deny. That my whole being cries out for God, I cannot forget.” Secular hope—hope that leaves God out of the picture, or denies God entirely—is ultimately doomed to disappointment. Christian hope is not. The Resurrection of Jesus Christ lies at the center of the Christian faith, and indeed at the center of human history, because his Resurrection broke through death, the ultimate barrier to human fulfillment, and opened up the path for us human beings to share in the divine life. And Christian hope doesn’t pass the world by or cast the world aside, as do some Eastern religions that deny the reality of the physical universe. God promises to transform the world and bring that transformed world with us into the divine life (Isaiah 65:17; Romans 8:20–22; Revelation 21:1–5). In the meantime, utopian dreams and dystopian warnings can still serve an important purpose. As Christians, we are called to do what we can to build a better society and a better world. We are called, as several of our recent popes (especially St. John Paul II) have emphasized, to help build a “civilization of love.” Reflecting on societal characteristics that would bring us closer to that goal and societal choices that would undermine that goal can help us with this task, but human effort alone will never fulfill our utopian visions. Only the final and total inbreaking of the kingdom of God, with the return of Jesus Christ, will bring about the ultimate “civilization of love,” when the world itself and all of the members of the Body of Christ are taken into the divine life of God. Nothing less will satisfy the human longing for the fullness of life. This article originally appeared at Word on Fire.  In one of his most famous lines, St. Augustine exclaims, “You have made us for yourself, O Lord, and our hearts are restless until they rest in you.” Hans Urs von Balthasar took St. Augustine’s profound insight and reflected upon it from a different perspective—God’s perspective. Addressing Jesus, and speaking for all human beings, Balthasar exclaims, “Your Heart is restless until it rests in me. Your Heart is restless until we rest in you, once time and eternity have become interfused.”
God yearns for us (see Song of Sol. 4:1–15; Hosea 2:14–20, 11:1–9; Luke 13:34–35, 19:41–42). God longs for us. God eagerly wills that each and every one of us might accept his offer of an eternal share in the divine life and love, so that we might be united with him forever. That is why Jesus knocks insistently at the door to our hearts (Rev. 3:20), but as Balthasar points out, we so often immerse ourselves in the stresses (and the distractions) of daily life that we fail to hear that knocking (or may even deliberately try to drown it out). The rest of this article can be read at my Substack, "Beauty-Goodness-Truth", or at Word on Fire.  Thomas Nagel, an American philosopher, once wrote a candid admission about both the nature and the source of his atheism: “It isn’t just that I don’t believe in God. It is that I hope there is no God! I don’t want there to be a God, I don’t want the universe to be like that. My guess is that this cosmic authority problem is not a rare condition.” He’s right about the “cosmic authority problem”—it’s not a rare condition. Nor is it a new condition. Since the very beginning (see Gen. 3:17), we humans have tended to rebel against the very idea of any “cosmic authority” to which (or, better said, to whom) we might be answerable for the choices we make in our lives. We don’t tend to like someone telling us what we should or shouldn’t do. We want to be our own ultimate authority; we want to be our own god, rather than admitting that there is a God to whom we are all accountable (see Rom. 14:10–12).
You can read the rest of this article at Rick's Substack newsletter "Beauty-Goodness-Truth" or at Word on Fire.  Darkness. Dust. Silence. Solitude. Passivity. Powerlessness. Joylessness. The deprivation of all strength and vitality. To be, but to “be” in such a condition as to be deprived of everything but being itself. To be, but to “be” as if one were not. Such are the descriptions of the realm of the dead (Sheol/Hades) in the Old Testament, and such was the realm to which Jesus went on Holy Saturday. During his earthly life, Jesus had been in solidarity with the living; on Holy Saturday, he entered into solidarity with the dead, so that he might forge a path for his fellow human beings out of the realm of death and into eternal life with God the Father.
Jesus descended into the farthest reaches of hell, so that even the sinner who tries to run as far away from God as possible will ultimately find himself running into the arms of Christ. Jesus endured the greatest possible separation from God so that he might bring as many sinners as possible back to God. St. Athanasius gave bold expression to this claim: The Lord has touched all parts of the creation . . . so that each might find the Logos everywhere, even the one who has strayed into the world of demons. May I suggest that each of us spend at least a little time on Holy Saturday reflecting on the beauty and depth of the divine love that would go to the farthest extremes of death and hell for our sake and for the sake of all of our fellow human beings? The more fully we allow ourselves to accompany Jesus in spirit on this most holy of all Saturdays, the more fully we can then rejoice in the annual celebration of our Lord’s (and therefore our) Easter passage from death into eternal life. You can read the rest of this article at Word on Fire.  Eric Liddell was the great Scottish runner who was one of two track and field athletes from the United Kingdom whose life stories were featured in the film, Chariots of Fire. Liddell managed to win a gold medal in the 1924 Paris Olympics despite switching from his strongest event to a different event at the last minute in order to avoid competing on a Sunday, which he felt would have violated his strong Christian beliefs. After winning the gold, Liddell became a national hero, and a plethora of prominent and potentially very lucrative career options opened up for him. But Liddell chose to forego all such opportunities in order to become a Christian missionary in China. He was captured in 1943, and he was kept in a Japanese internment camp until his death from brain cancer in February 1945. The last words Liddell uttered before dying were, “It’s complete surrender.”
This was a man who had sacrificed much that the world values in order to answer God’s call for him to serve as a Christian missionary. It therefore seems entirely fitting that his final words should refer to “complete surrender.” Liddell knew what lies at the heart of the Christian life and, indeed, at the heart of the divine life itself: self-surrendering, self-giving love. You can read the rest of this article here.  Much has been written about the global fertility crisis, but almost all of the solutions to this crisis that have been proposed thus far are unlikely to be effective. What is the solution?
This article can be found at crisismagazine.com/opinion/the-solution-to-the-global-fertility-crisis.  In a recent interview with Fox News, Vice-President JD Vance injected the concept of the ordo amoris (the right or proper ordering of one's love) into the national conversation regarding immigration policy. The proper ordering of love is to be based on the closeness of the connection between ourselves and the potential recipient of our love, defined in such terms as the closeness of the relationship of that person to ourselves and their physical proximity to us (i.e., love of God, then self, then spouse and children, then extended family, then the neighbors who live closest to us, then our community, then fellow citizens, and then the rest of the world), as Vance had at least partly articulated in his interview. The ordo amoris can be conceptualized as a series of concentric circles radiating outward from ourselves, beginning with loving God, who is, as Augustine put it, “closer to us than we are to ourselves,” and ending with loving the rest of the world outside our own country. In other words, the right ordering of love generally requires that we “love locally” first.
This article can be found at www.wordonfire.org/articles/first-love-locally-jd-vance-and-ordo-amoris/?queryID=bc74c7df429a6ebb0a5977293de945ea. |
Rick Clements, Ph.D.
Rick writes and speaks about topics related to the Catholic faith, with a particular focus on the ways in which a rediscovery of beauty, goodness, and truth can help to revitalize our lives and our culture. 
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