 How the image of man as a unity of matter and spirit, body and soul, is useful in countering materialism, expressive individualism, and transhumanism.
You can read this article at my Substack newsletter, "Beauty-Goodness-Truth", or at Catholic World Report.  Every Christmas, I find my thoughts returning to a passage from Hans Urs von Balthasar’s book Heart of the World. In this passage, Balthasar reflects on the dilemma that confronted the Son of God when he came into the world as one of us:
And now there he stood, at the edge of their land. How was he to go over the border? In which language would they be able to understand his message? In what translation and disguise would his language find access to their ear? How must he conceal the radiance of eternity upon his face in order to encounter them without frightening them? But if he were to disguise himself and appear among them as one of them, then everything would be still more difficult. How could he then be told apart? How could he make them understand that he was someone else? How could he, clothed in flesh, demand from them a divine faith? O dangerous adventure, impossible undertaking! They will have to take offense at him. They will turn everything around. They will understand his sayings and discourses as a new morality and a plan to improve the world, and in his example they will see nothing but a teacher of religion. And when he raises the cloak a little and a ray from his Heart strikes them, they will be horrified and cry out “Blasphemy!” and they will pick up stones until he again conceals himself behind his mask. And last of all, in the name of world order and the fear of God, they will exterminate him for being a scandal (he seduces the people . . .) and will set him up as an example for all times to come. Let him either be a man like them or—remain a God! As Balthasar so eloquently describes, Jesus faced a daunting task in the incarnation: How could he present himself to the world in a way that would make it possible for people to believe that he was who he claimed to be—the divine Son of God sent by the Father to redeem the world, but also fully a human being, like the rest of us in all things but sin? And how could he do this in a way that would speak not only to the people of that time and place but also to all succeeding generations all around the world until the end of time? No matter how carefully Jesus strove to balance the revelation of his divinity and humanity, we fallen human beings have tended to misunderstand, misinterpret, or outright reject his claims regarding his identity and mission. Some people have denied Jesus’s genuine humanity, such as the Docetae, a heretical sect that taught that Jesus only “appeared” or “seemed” to be human. Others have doubted Jesus’s divinity, such as the Arians, who taught that Jesus was not fully divine—that the Son of God “came to be from things that were not” and was “from another substance” than that of the Father. Over the centuries since Jesus’s incarnation, there has, of course, been more debate about his divinity than his humanity. As a result, some people have asked, “Why didn’t Jesus just appear in such a striking way that his divinity could be more easily believed?” For one thing, some of those same people almost certainly would still have denied Jesus’s divinity even if he had appeared in a more dramatic fashion. No matter how astounding the signs and wonders Jesus performed—changing water into wine, feeding the multitude with only a few loaves and fish, healing numerous people (often by the sheer power of his word), raising the ruler’s daughter, raising the widow’s son, and raising Lazarus, just to name a few—the religious leaders of the time persisted in asking Jesus for signs, and many people still refused to believe in his divinity. Even his resurrection from the dead and ascension into heaven were not enough to convince some people. Jesus gave us enough signs to warrant belief in his claims regarding his identity and mission (John 20:30–31), but nonetheless some people refused to believe back then, and some continue to refuse today. But there is another, and more significant, answer to why Jesus did not simply overwhelm the people of ancient Palestine with an undeniable demonstration of the power and glory of his divinity. It’s the same as the answer to another—more general—question expressed down through the centuries regarding the Deus absconditus, the “hidden God” (see Isaiah 45:15): “If God exists, why doesn’t he make himself more visible? Why is he so hidden?” Yes, God absolutely could blast us, so to speak, with his divinity in such a way that we would be so overwhelmed as to have no choice but to admit that divinity. But as many of the Church Fathers pointed out, the God of love works by persuasion rather than force. Blaise Pascal agreed, noting that “perfect clarity [in God’s self-revelation to the world] would please reason but harm the will.” God does not want to overpower the free will that he gave us, the free will that enables us to choose whether to acknowledge his divinity and whether to say yes or no to his offer of an eternal share in the divine life and love (2 Pet. 1:4). Jesus took on human flesh in order to make the invisible God visible, so that we might know that God is love, and so that he might open the path to God for us. But he did not do so in such a way as to overpower our free will. God, out of the divine love, freely offers us a share in his life and love, and his desire is that we respond to his gift with a reciprocal love that is also freely given. Genuine love must be freely given and freely received. Love that is forced or coerced is not genuine love. God wants us to say yes to the divine love out of freedom, not because we’ve been completely overwhelmed by some divine epiphany or convinced of his existence and love beyond any possible doubt by some definitive rational proof. As Balthasar so concisely expressed this truth, “God, as love, wills to be found only by love.” [This article was originally published at Word on Fire.]  Love makes the seemingly impossible possible. Love carries within itself the power to create, the power to bring something into existence that did not exist before, the power to transform a potentiality into a reality.
You can read this article at my Substack newsletter, "Beauty-Goodness-Truth", or at Word on Fire.  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. |
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. 
Archives
September 2025
Categories
Header photo by Patrick Fore on Unsplash
© Richard Clements
|
RSS Feed