A Parallel between Cassava Domestication and Liturgical Development

Cassava (manioc) root

A friend of mine was reading a book and sent me a passage from it, with the cryptic note: “Relevant to things you’re interested in.” The book is Joseph Henrich’s The Secret of Our Success: How Culture Is Driving Human Evolution, Domesticating Our Species, and Making Us Smarter, published by Princeton University Press in 2017. Another blog, The Scholar’s Stage, summarizes his approach as follows. (I assure you that this post will eventually arrive at a liturgical application!)

“Henrich advances the argument that brain-power alone is not enough to explain why humans are such a successful species. Humans, he argues, are not nearly as intelligent as we think they are. Remove them from the culture and environment they have learned to operate in and they fail quickly. His favorite example of this are European explorers who die in the middle of deserts, jungles, or arctic wastes even though thousands of generations of hunter-gatherers were able to survive and thrive in these same environments. If human success was due to our ability to problem solve, analyze, and rationally develop novel solutions to novel challenges, the explorers should have been fine. Their ghastly fates suggest that rationality may not be the key to human survival.

“If rational thought is not the key to our success, what is?

“To answer that, Henrich says, we should look at the cassava plant. Cassava, or manioc, is one of the most popular staple foods in the world. But there is a catch: if not prepared correctly, cassava will slowly poison you. Yet some populations eat it without a problem. How does this work?”

Now we turn to the words of Henrich himself:

“In the Americas, where manioc was first domesticated, societies who have relied on bitter varieties for thousands of years show no evidence of chronic cyanide poisoning. In the Colombian Amazon, for example, indigenous Tukanoans use a multistep, multiday processing technique that involves scraping, grating, and finally washing the roots in order to separate the fiber, starch, and liquid. Once separated, the liquid is boiled into a beverage, but the fiber and starch must then sit for two more days, when they can then be baked and eaten….

“Such processing techniques are crucial for living in many parts of Amazonia, where other crops are difficult to cultivate and often unproductive. However, despite their utility, one person would have a difficult time figuring out the detoxification technique. Consider the situation from the point of view of the children and adolescents who are learning the techniques. They would have rarely, if ever, seen anyone get cyanide poisoning, because the techniques work. And even if the processing was ineffective, such that cases of goiter (swollen necks) or neurological problems were common, it would still be hard to recognize the link between these chronic health issues and eating manioc. Most people would have eaten manioc for years with no apparent effects. Low cyanogenic varieties are typically boiled, but boiling alone is insufficient to prevent the chronic conditions for bitter varieties. Boiling does, however, remove or reduce the bitter taste and prevent the acute symptoms (e.g., diarrhea, stomach troubles, and vomiting).

“So, if one did the common-sense thing and just boiled the high-cyanogenic manioc, everything would seem fine. Since the multistep task of processing manioc is long, arduous, and boring, sticking with it is certainly non-intuitive. Tukanoan women spend about a quarter of their day detoxifying manioc, so this is a costly technique in the short term. Now consider what might result if a self-reliant Tukanoan mother decided to drop any seemingly unnecessary steps from the processing of her bitter manioc. She might critically examine the procedure handed down to her from earlier generations and conclude that the goal of the procedure is to remove the bitter taste. She might then experiment with alternative procedures by dropping some of the more labor-intensive or time-consuming steps. She’d find that with a shorter and much less labor-intensive process, she could remove the bitter taste. Adopting this easier protocol, she would have more time for other activities, like caring for her children. Of course, years or decades later her family would begin to develop the symptoms of chronic cyanide poisoning.

“Thus, the unwillingness of this mother to take on faith the practices handed down to her from earlier generations would result in sickness and early death for members of her family. Individual learning does not pay here, and intuitions are misleading. The problem is that the steps in this procedure are causally opaque—an individual cannot readily infer their functions, interrelationships, or importance. The causal opacity of many cultural adaptations had a big impact on our psychology.

Traditional cassava preparation

“Wait. Maybe I’m wrong about manioc processing. Perhaps it’s actually rather easy to individually figure out the detoxification steps for manioc? Fortunately, history has provided a test case. At the beginning of the seventeenth century, the Portuguese transported manioc from South America to West Africa for the first time. They did not, however, transport the age-old indigenous processing protocols or the underlying commitment to using those techniques. Because it is easy to plant and provides high yields in infertile or drought-prone areas, manioc spread rapidly across Africa and became a staple food for many populations. The processing techniques, however, were not readily or consistently regenerated. Even after hundreds of years, chronic cyanide poisoning remains a serious health problem in Africa. Detailed studies of local preparation techniques show that high levels of cyanide often remain and that many individuals carry low levels of cyanide in their blood or urine, which haven’t yet manifested in symptoms. In some places, there’s no processing at all, or sometimes the processing actually increases the cyanogenic content. On the positive side, some African groups have in fact culturally evolved effective processing techniques, but these techniques are spreading only slowly.

“The point here is that cultural evolution is often much smarter than we are. Operating over generations as individuals unconsciously attend to and learn from more successful, prestigious, and healthier members of their communities, this evolutionary process generates cultural adaptations. Though these complex repertoires appear well designed to meet local challenges, they are not primarily the products of individuals applying causal models, rational thinking, or cost-benefit analyses. Often, most or all of the people skilled in deploying such adaptive practices do not understand how or why they work, or even that they ‘do’ anything at all. Such complex adaptations can emerge precisely because natural selection has favored individuals who often place their faith in cultural inheritance—in the accumulated wisdom implicit in the practices and beliefs derived from their forbearers—over their own intuitions and personal experiences.”

Thus Henrich. It is difficult to read something like that and not think (mutatis mutandis) about the experience of the Catholic Church in the twentieth century. The application to the cultural inheritance of the traditional Latin liturgy is obvious, as well as the limitations of the application of pure reason to culture and ritual, which it cannot fully account for, and yet cannot do without. Consider a creative rewriting of Henrich:

“In the Catholic Church, where the Mass was first practiced, believers who have relied on the traditional inheritance for centuries show no evidence of heretical or irreligious poisoning. The Solemn High Mass, for example, is a complex, multistep process that takes many hours to complete. Despite their beauty and doctrinal content, however, one person would have a difficult time figuring out why everything is done this way, and certainly no person himself, or no committee of persons by themselves, could come up with it (or something better). The children who grow up with this inheritance simply learn it by attending, observing, praying, and, in many cases, serving, or singing, or joining in a procession, with reinforcing customs practiced at home. They would have rarely, if ever, seen anyone get heretical or irreligious poisoning, because the practices work. Although at times practices might be inferior, serious poisoning would have been rare, since the form of prayer removed or reduced the evils and prevented acute symptoms.

“So, if one did the common-sense thing and just followed the customs handed down, everything would seem fine. Since the multistep task of traditional Catholic liturgy is long, arduous, and at times repetitious, sticking with it might seem non-intuitive. Clergy spend about a quarter of their day praying the Mass and the breviary, so this is a costly technique in the short term. Now consider what might result if a self-reliant priest, or bishop, or pope, decided to drop any seemingly unnecessary steps from the daily round of prayer. He might critically examine the practices handed down to him from earlier generations and conclude that the goal of the procedure is to get everyone actively involved in a communal event. He might then experiment with alternative practices by dropping some of the more labor-intensive or time-consuming steps. He’d find that with a shorter and much less labor-intensive process, a similar appearance of religious activity could be maintained. Adopting this easier protocol, he would have more time for other activities, like counseling, social justice, cultural excursions, and golfing. Of course, years and decades later, his flock would develop the symptoms of chronic heretical and irreligious poisoning.

“Thus, the unwillingness of this father to take on faith the practices handed down to him from earlier generations would result in sickness and early death for members of his flock. Individual learning does not pay here, and personal intuitions are misleading. The problem is that the elements of traditional practices are causally opaque—an individual cannot readily infer their functions, interrelationships, or importance.

“Wait. Could I be wrong about the need to accept the practices handed down? Perhaps it’s actually easy to figure out the correct steps for liturgical prayer and any community can rediscover them on its own? Fortunately, history has provided a test case. After the complex form of liturgy was abandoned by the pope, the new form was spread around the world. What was not transported, however, were the age-old rubrics or the underlying commitment to following the Roman tradition. Because the new liturgy was easy to practice, it spread rapidly and became a staple for many communities. The spiritual yields, however, were not plentiful, and even after many decades, chronic heretical and irreligious poisoning remains a serious spiritual health problem in the Catholic Church on all continents. Detailed studies of particular churches (such as those in India) show that high levels of religious syncretism, eclecticism, and indifferentism remain and that many individuals carry them in their brains. On the positive side, some few groups have in fact developed effective prayer techniques (called “reform of the reform”), but they are spreading only slowly.

“The point here is that liturgical development is often much smarter than we are as isolated individuals or committees. Operating over generations as believers attend to and learn from more successful, prestigious, and healthier local churches, especially the Church of Rome, this process generates cultural adaptations and expectations (such as the connection between reverence and kneeling to receive the Eucharist on the tongue). Though these complex repertoires appear, upon close inspection, well designed to meet local challenges, they are not primarily the products of individuals applying causal models, rational thinking, or cost-benefit analyses. Often, the people who value and deploy such adaptive practices do not understand how or why they work. These complex adaptations emerge precisely because divine Providence guides individuals who place their faith in the cultural inheritance of the Church—in the accumulated wisdom implicit in the practices and beliefs derived from their forbears—over their own ideas and personal experiences.”

Unction from Above or Reasoning from Below? A Small Illustration of the Importance of Critical Texts

A youthful Aquinas looking for unction from above

One of my research interests (and spiritual interests) over the years has been to see how St. Thomas Aquinas is a mystic in the fullest sense of the word and how, nevertheless, he came to acquire his later reputation as a rationalist. This is a big topic, but not long ago I found a little detail that struck me as fascinating — and a reason why we need good editions of medieval texts. If ever the devil is in the details, one sees this in the realm of paleography and text editing.

In one of the saint’s earlier works, the commentary on Peter Lombard’s Sentences (or, in its Latin title, Scriptum super libros Sententiarum), Book IV, d. 15, q. 2, a. 4, qa. 1, we find Thomas talking about how to make good judgments with respect to giving alms, since there are so many particular circumstances that escape our knowledge. It’s not a bad question to ask in Lent, when we are continually reminded of the three great works of self-denial: prayer, fasting, and almsgiving. There is a modern mentality that discourages the kind of almsgiving our forefathers in the faith practiced, on the grounds that “we don’t know whether a poor man will use the money well.” While admittedly there are cases where one can judge from signs that a potential recipient of largesse is a fraud or an addict and that it would be prudent to buy him food rather than handing over money, it also has to be said that we can rarely, if ever, know for certain whether any alms we give will be well used, and that, if comprehensive evaluation of circumstances were a precondition for charitable works, none would ever get done. Still, our modern position at its best is likely to be that the almsgiver must be a man of solid good sense who, consulting his native reason, analyzes the situation in terms of probable human causes and effects, forms a rational judgment, and follows it — the very model of a modern major domo.

Coming back to St. Thomas, many editions print the following line in his response: Et hoc quidem sermone determinari non potest, quia de singularibus non est judicium; sed statur in hoc prudentiae arbitrio, et DISCRETIONIS, quae docet de omnibus. “And this can certainly not be determined in a word [i.e., a simple rule], for a [universal] judgment cannot be made about particulars; but the judgment to be relied upon in this is that of prudence, and of DISCRETION, which teaches about all things.” Ah, good old Whig Thomism!

But wait . . . according to the best manuscripts, what Thomas really wrote was: UNCTIONIS — that is, “the judgment to be relied upon is that of prudence and of the UNCTION that teaches about all things.” Now this is to say something quite different. Thomas is referring to 1 John 2:20 and 27: “But you have the unction from the Holy One . . . And you have no need that any man teach you; but as his unction teacheth you of all things.”

Later in the same passage he writes (in the faulty editions): singulares conditiones, quae attendendae sunt, sunt infinitae, et non cadunt sub arte. De his autem RATIO docet et prudentiae consilium. “Particular conditions that need to be attended to are infinite, and they do not fall within our scope. But REASON and the counsel of prudence teach us about these.” Sounds like classic Thomas, right? Always turning to reason. He might as well be the precursor of rationalism.

Yet, matching the earlier text, what he actually wrote was UNCTIO: “But the unction [of the Holy Spirit] and the counsel of prudence teach us about these.” For those who know St. Thomas’s writings, it comes as no surprise that he appeals here both to the natural faculty — the counsel and judgment of prudence, which is the virtue that perfects man's practical reason — and to the supernatural gift, the anointing of the Holy Spirit that distinguishes the Christian fully alive from the potential Christian or the fallen-away Christian. Nature and grace are united in the guidance of our actions: Thomas says et, not vel or aut. These two sentences are significant if only as a reminder to us that we are meant to be supple and mobile in the hands of God, able to be prompted, motivated, steered by Him in our acts of charity, and not, as it were, slaves to our sometimes narrow rationally-constructed criteria.

I think the same is true, mutatis mutandis, in the realm of liturgy. By our own lights there is plenty and more than enough we can learn about, evaluate, compare, critique, and propose, but in the end there is also the hidden influence of the Holy Spirit who, exercising at times a severe mercy, opens our myopic minds and our too easily satisfied hearts to the riches of the Church’s tradition, and leads us into them in ways we did not choose ahead of time — ways that surpass our understanding then and maybe even now, ways that continually challenge our reason to catch up and find some rational threads to weave together.

Looking back in my life, I can see decisive moments when my encounters with the beauty of authentic Catholic worship were an unction from above rather than results of prudential decisions — times when I was not expecting to be somewhere or to do some particular thing, and yet there I was, and the gift to see with new eyes or hear with new ears was given to one unworthy of it, by the hand of God’s mysterious mercy. Times when I was blindsided, knocked over, woken up, thanks to a certain person, event, book, piece of music that had gone through my soul like a sword and had left me feeling spent and refreshed, almost as if blood-letting had occurred and had worked.

Re-reading Thomas’s actual statements —

And this can certainly not be determined in a word, for a judgment cannot be made about particulars; but the judgment to be relied upon in this is that of prudence, and of the unction that teaches about all things. … Particular conditions that need to be attended to are infinite, and they do not fall within our scope. But unction and the counsel of prudence teach us about these.

— I am reminded again of how that which is noblest in man’s nature, his reason, can at the same time be pathetically weak in the face of complexity and difficulty; how this much-vaunted reason is, in and of itself, incapable of securing man’s ultimate end; and how the Holy Spirit comes to our aid, the Spirit by which we learn to remember, appreciate, and utilize all that we have received from the Lord.

This, then, is a little example of how careful one must be in selecting an edition of a medieval text, for different readings, especially when not carefully controlled by the editors and explained in adequate notes, can give us a very different doctrine and impression. Surely, Thomas is better for his unction, and we stand to gain a new appreciation of the intimate union between God and man that is necessary for perfectly moral behavior.

Is the Youth of Today Necessarily “Modern Man”?

One of many choirs at this year's Colloquium

Recently my son and I participated in the Sacred Music Colloquium XXV of the Church Music Association of America, held at Duquesne University in Pittsburgh. As with the Sacra Liturgia 2015 Conference, a large portion of the participants were young adults who love beautiful music that is obviously sacred in its stylistic qualities, cultural associations, and avowed liturgical purpose.

People from my generation (born in the 1970s) and younger know, without need for much explanation, that Gregorian chant, Renaissance polyphony, and post-Renaissance choral works of grand and intimate scale are the music of the Catholic liturgy.[1] Such music says “Catholic” the moment you hear it, which is why Hollywood always reaches for it when depicting anything Catholic. This vast repertoire, “a treasure of inestimable value, greater even than that of any other art” (Sacrosanctum Concilium 112) was written expressly for ecclesiastical ceremonies. At its best, it is not trying to compete with or emulate popular styles of music; it is not serving two masters; it is not a multi-purpose Swiss Army knife. It is church music, sacred music, pure and simple, and that is why it is so singularly effective and lovable. We admire what is pure and simple, because it fits its function to a T. It works. What isn’t broken doesn’t need to be fixed.

In connection with the Colloquium, I would like to develop an idea I’ve been thinking about ever since I read the following paragraph in the FIUV Position Paper n. 25, “The Extraordinary Form and Sub-Saharan Africa.”

This conflict between the traditional principles of African spirituality and Western cultural influence creates an unfamiliar context for many liturgical progressives, who have often explicitly seen their proposals as attempts to come to terms with the triumph of post-Enlightenment culture, a triumph which, in their view, can no longer be contested. However we might assess this project in the context of the developed world, the proposal to make concessions to Rationalism, for example, by excluding silence and complex ceremonial from the liturgy, or to make concessions to Romanticism, by promoting informality and spontaneity, take on very different appearance in the African context. There is a real danger of such tendencies assisting the neo-colonial attack on indigenous African spirituality.

This observation certainly seems like a persuasive argument in regard to Africa (or, for that matter, any non-Western society that has its own native religious traditions). But what intrigues me is the general claim that Rationalism and Romanticism — the two great counterforces of modernity, each an extreme reacting against the other — are the two slave-drivers behind the liturgical reform.[2]

Rationalism cracks the whip and shouts: “No silence! Everything must be SAID and UNDERSTOOD! No complexity! Stop all that intricate symbolic stuff! Stop all that lugubrious chanting! Modern man has no patience, no time, no ability, no need for it! It promotes an aristocracy of clerics! Let the light of objective reason shine!” But then Romanticism sneaks in, elbows an unsuspecting Rationalism aside, and, with a voice all the more poisonous for seeming friendly: “Relax! Go with the flow! You are too formal, uptight, rigid, and cerebral! Let go of the rubrics, find your inner child, feel it in your bones, be yourself! Everything’s about YOU, your feelings, your neediness — this is your moment!” Each struggles for supremacy; in a weird sort of way, they are codependent and collaborative. They stop at nothing to eviscerate the tradition that precedes them, until all that is left is a disembodied reason of empty structures and a derationalized self-indulgent sentimentalism.

Be that as it may, what we see at work in the liturgical reform is a peculiarly self-centered assumption that the preoccupations of modern Western man — rationalism and romanticism being characteristic -isms of an imbalanced worldview and an inadequate philosophy — are the preoccupations of all of humanity, including Africa and Asia and the poor of other countries, not to mention all generations. As a result, the new liturgy is going to be imposed on every nation, every people, every culture, and every generation, regardless of whether or not they meet the hyper-modern Eurocentric criteria on the basis of which it was designed. The absurdity of such an assumption is obvious, but it becomes even more obvious when one considers generational shifts.

It seems to me that just as there is a problem with assuming that African Catholics need the new Mass when the old Mass was and is, in fact, more suited to their culture, there is an analogous problem with assuming that today’s young Catholics, especially those who have been raised in a more traditional manner and homeschooled, automatically carry the same modernist or postmodernist burdens that the rest of Western society bears. Of course, we’re all moderns in a whole host of subtle and obvious ways, but since a good deal of the modern mentality is a flight from reality and a sort of self-invited neurosis, it seems distinctly possible — and my decades of experience as a student and then as an undergraduate and graduate-level teacher have confirmed this over and over — that young people today might actually be free of a lot of the existential baggage of their elders. The problems of the sixties and seventies are just not the same as our problems. And young faithful Catholics have not necessarily problematized their existence, or the concept of tradition, or the concept of authority, or the concept of the sacred and the mystical.

We are still struggling with the fallout of rationalism and romanticism, but we are not as naïvely optimistic about the power of human reason and of sincere feelings to lead us into an Edenic new world of human brotherhood. That strikes us as pretty vomitous, and we are looking for something a lot more serious, something real and realistic, which, paradoxically, we know will have to be something very different and, I would dare to say, transcendent. Otherwise it is fake; it is looking at a mirror and falling in love with our own image. We are looking for the original, the One from whom we come and to whom we are going.

At Sacra Liturgia 2015 and Colloquium XXV, one sees ample evidence that we are turning a corner. The rebels of yesteryear look embarrassingly old-fashioned, and the youth who still want to practice their Faith need more, desire more, and deserve more than the Church’s hierarchy has been willing (or even able?) to give them until now. And these young men and women are figuring out how to find their way back to the Tradition, in spite of all obstacles, detours, traps, and poor signage. This movement—this hunger for Catholic Tradition—cannot be stopped. But it can be somewhat delayed by obstructionists or actively promoted by shepherds who care for the eternal destiny of their sheep. I am reminded in this connection of a butler's speech from a P. G. Wodehouse novel:

It is my experience that opposition in matters of the ’eart is useless, feedin’, as it so to speak does, the flame. Young people, your lordship, if I may be pardoned for employing the expression in the present case, are naturally romantic and if you keep ’em away from a thing they sit and pity themselves and want it all the more. And in the end you may be sure they get it. There’s no way of stoppin’ them.[3]

Indeed: the traditional movement is not going away. Meanwhile, our shepherds stand to gain glory or shame, depending on how they react to this impetus of the Holy Spirit. Let us pray for them daily.


NOTES

[1] The CD Benedicta of the Monks of Norcia made it right to the top of the classical billboard, showing once again that the prayerful yearning for peace and transcendence expressed by Gregorian chant is not a passing fad but a constant need of our society. It would be helpful if prelates and pastors would pay attention to actual cultural trends like this one, instead of paying attention to what seemed to be trends several decades ago.

[2] The position paper states this explicitly elsewhere: “the Novus Ordo reflects the passage through European thinking of Rationalism and Romanticism.”

[3] P. G. Wodehouse, A Damsel in Distress, Collector's Wodehouse ed., p. 238.

Transcending Oppositions: Liturgy as the Synthesis of Faith and Reason

Philipp Rosemann argues that the very incompleteness of the Summa theologiae, which Saint Thomas could not bring himself to complete at the end of his life, should be taken as a sign, a gesture on the part of the Dominican preacher about the inadequacy of human language to capture the ultimate reality of the divine mysteries. (I have strong disagreements with how he fleshes out this thesis, but am sympathetic to something of the general idea.) Augustin Del Noce argues that rationalism and Christian philosophy differ not because the former is self-grounding and the latter demands a foundational act of faith, but rather, because the one expressly and honestly acknowledges its reliance on faith while the other naively or mendaciously fails to do so. Catherine Pickstock argues that the ancient Roman rite “purposefully” stumbles and struggles, wrestling with the angel of incomprehensible worship and unbloody sacrifice.

To put these together in reference to the liturgy, one might say that the ancient Roman Rite, in its swift simplicity and textured complexity alike, recognizes that all earthly worship must be, in some innocent and unintended way, imperfect and thus repeated (both within itself, built of blocks of repetition, and from day to day as the same sacrifice is represented ever anew until the end of the ages), at the same time recognizing that the sacrifice of Christ is perfect and all-sufficient, once for all, youthful as spring and abundant as summer. Like the Summa, the human act of liturgy is internally, that is to say, of its essence, incomplete, since it falls short of the heavenly Jerusalem’s eternal worship—but, again like the Summa, it is genuine knowledge, a triumphant ascent into the wisdom of the Cross.

In common with fideism, the liturgy prays “in order that there might be prayer”; it throws many prayers and chants into the air that the air might be filled with words as it is filled with clouds of incense, sweet-smelling and obscuring, luring while impeding. It stretches forth into the abyss, depth calling to depth in the dark night of faith. In common with rationalism, the liturgy knows that its prayer is rational through and through, an utterance of the Logos, heard for its righteousness; it knows that there is a fundamental soundness in the universe, which the liturgy expresses in its very dignity, stateliness, order, and beauty. In company with Christian philosophy, the liturgy transcends both fideism and rationalism; it is reason suffused with the utter abandonment of faith, faith anchored in truth and lifting the soul to truth.

The ancient Roman liturgy expressly (honestly) acknowledges its act of faith in the transcendent mystery of God. The new ordo risks turning worship into a communal act of gathering, a communal rationalism whereby man affirms what he already is and knows, instead of forcing upon him the weight of glory that demands the ascetical denial of the God’s-eye view, of adequacy, of any proportion between man and God, even while it paradoxically establishes the inner knowledge, the true proportion, which is none other than the one mediator between God and man, Christ Jesus, true God and true man, who not only knows all but, as the uncreated Word, is the infinite act of infinite knowledge. The liturgy brings man to God and to man himself—as yet unknown, destined to be broken and remade in the furnace of charity. The liturgy brings man to the edge of the abyss, where it is but one step, past the threshold of this life, to the beatific vision. For it is of the union of the soul with God by sanctifying grace that Pope Leo XIII wrote: “This wonderful union, which is properly called ‘indwelling,’ differ[s] only in degree or state from that with which God beatifies the saints in heaven” (Divinum Illud Munus 9).

The traditional liturgy establishes the link between God and man by focusing entirely on the God-man, reminding us of our nothingness, our incoherence apart from Him—the nihilism and fragmentation of fallen nature—and of our divine fullness and integrity in union with Him. In Christ Jesus we have access to the one and only knowledge that enlightens; as sinners, we are cut off from this light. That is why the ancient liturgy quavers between confession of sin and praise of God’s glory, between abasement and exaltation. Blessed Elizabeth of the Trinity begs of Jesus:

O Eternal Word, Word of my God, would that I might spend my life listening to you, would that I might be fully receptive to learn all from you; in all darkness, all loneliness, all weakness, may I ever keep my eyes fixed on you and abide under your great light; O my Beloved Star, fascinate me so that I may never be able to leave your radiance.

Is this not our experience, too, when we have plunged into the mysterious depths of the liturgy, tasted its otherworldly sweetness, become fascinated with its strange beauty, and then come face to face with our own darkness, loneliness, and weakness, our acedia, indolence, vanity, distraction, taste for things of the world... We say, with Elizabeth: “Keep my eyes fixed on you... make me abide under your great light... fascinate me so that I may never be able to leave your radiance.”

Rationalism and Individualism in Catholic Theology

There are many tendencies in modern thought that are fatal to genuine Catholic theology, but, as a follow-up to my last article, I would like to look at two in particular—rationalism and individualism—and comment on how their subtle influence can be seen in the way we approach the question of the role of the liturgy in a school of theology (and therefore, more broadly, in how any of us understands what theology is and how we should go about studying and teaching it).

The more obvious form of rationalism consists in approaching the doctrines of the Faith as if human reason were adequate to grasp, demonstrate, or explain them—or, perhaps, critique them, if one were unfortunate enough to mistake the darkness of human understanding for a deficiency in revealed truth. Even if one approaches the doctrines with a correct spirit of obedience, with the proper submission of intellect and will to God the revealer or to the Church as teacher, one may still fall into rationalism if one thinks, speaks, or acts as if theology is primarily about studying or arguing over the doctrines rather than assimilating them as food and drink—literally feasting on the mysteries, consuming them, being consumed and transformed by them.

Obviously, one cannot eat a physical book, but one can consume the Word of God in the Eucharistic banquet He spreads for us on the altar of sacrifice, and in this way, one can prepare for, accompany, and bring to perfection the intellectual work of the theologian by the liturgical opus Dei of the baptized Christian. In this perspective, theology is not an esoteric exercise of academic speculation but a special path for the living out of the baptismal call to perfection in charity—a contemplative and apostolic vocation for the building up of the Body of Christ.

This brings me to my next point: the danger of individualism. For many centuries, Western Christians—Catholics first, in the devotio moderna of the late Middle Ages, and then Protestants heavily influenced by that same movement, who in turn reinforced Catholic habits—have been tempted to adopt an individualist, subjectivist piety, a mentality that reduces the life of prayer to “Jesus and me.”

Now, while it is certainly true that there can be no fruitful Christian life without a personal, interior foundation in mental prayer, it is no less true that the highest expression of Christian prayer is social and corporate: the public worship of the Mystical Body of Christ in the Sacred Liturgy, both the Mass and the Divine Office, as well as the other sacramental rites. These are the channels through which our Savior pours out His divine life into all His members, in a way that foreshadows the life of the blessed in the New Jerusalem. Personal prayer has an intrinsic orientation to the prayer of the Church, which in turn waters and fertilizes the interior life; one without the other is incomplete and even runs the risk of distortion or desiccation. It is the same as the relationship between lectio divina and the normative proclamation of the Word in the liturgy: each calls for the other.

What does this have to do with a school of theology? Here there is a subtle danger. Imagine the Dean of a (conservative) Theology faculty speaking thus: “Why, of course, theology must be done on one’s knees; it demands a life of faith and prayer; its life-giving atmosphere is charity. We must undertake the life of study as something proceeding from and returning to the charity shed abroad in our hearts by the Holy Spirit.” All that is profoundly true; who could disagree? And yet these very sentiments could be taken in an individualistic way, as if all we really need are, in one hand, the Summa theologiae of St. Thomas, and in the other hand, St. Teresa’s Interior Castle or St. John’s Living Flame of Love. In other words, one might begin to see theology as something the individual does individually, rather than a gift nourished in the individual as a common good received from the Church, our Mother, most of all through communion with the sacred mysteries present in her divine liturgy.

If, therefore, theology is to be done on one’s knees, this means most of all kneeling at the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass—kneeling to receive the Word and be united ineffably to the Word. A school of theology must be gathered around the altar in worship of the Word-made-flesh. In this act of being-gathered by the Word and for the Word, the school actually comes into being as an image of the Church, to serve the Church with the intellectus fidei and the propaganda fidei, the listening that is followed by the preaching, teaching, working, witnessing.

If a school’s vision and daily life are not ordered to the sacred liturgy as its source and summit, something essential and fundamental will be missing. And, as my earlier comments suggest, we are speaking of the liturgy precisely as it coheres with, sustains, and expresses the Catholic theological vision itself, that is to say, inasmuch as it retains continuity with Tradition. Many theologians, emboldened by the luminous teaching of Joseph Ratzinger/Pope Benedict XVI, are admitting and grappling with the fact that we are living in the aftermath of a determined effort to introduce a momentous rupture, a sharp discontinuity, with that Tradition. The massive crisis afflicting the Church today is, at root, nothing other than a crisis of identity precipitated by an unprecedented interference and experimentation with her most holy and tradition-bearing possession, the Mass. This crisis of identity spills over into everything else: the crisis in missionary work, the crisis in ecumenism and interreligious dialogue, the crisis in relations with political entities, the crisis in Catholic education in general and theology in particular.

Let us work and pray so that our commitment to passing on sacred doctrine according to the mind of St. Thomas will be utterly consistent with our commitment to the way of life and prayer he himself led—the life that all Catholic teachers and students should desire to lead, according to the same saint’s example.