@ The Merry Frankster

## Frank Palmer Purcell I claim to be a Catholic American; even though I now follow the Russian Orthodox tradition, I do so in a small *sui juris* Church in communion with Rome, not Constantinople. When I was a little kid, knee high to a trilobite, some folks still had a problem with that, with being Catholic and American, I mean; Orthodoxy was beyond our horizon. My mother was one of those who had the problem. As long as I was a Catholic like my father (and her own mother, as a little girl in Ireland and on the lower East Side), I couldn't be a real American like her father, a bookbinder replaced by a machine, disowned by his family for marrying out of caste, who spent his days in the nearest tavern. "Pop" Palmer died at 78, and four years later I was born and named for him, or at least that was my mother's intention. The priest baptized me in Latin, as was the custom in those dark days, and pronounced "Frank" so that it sounded like the nickname ("Frenchy") of a (doubtless) dirty medieval Italian beggar baptized Giovanni. My early spirituality, to use a ten dollar word for a fifty cent thing, was more American than Franciscan. Emerson and Thoreau, Melville and Whitman spoke and still speak to me as no European voice can, and when I came to study philosophy in a serious way I found the Americans, Josiah Royce, Rufus Jones and Ernest Hocking, C. I. (not C. S.) Lewis and Brand (not Paul) Blanshard, speaking a language that was my own, though by then the professoriate resonated to other tonalities. Though I fell in love with Schopenhauer and Kierkegaard, as every teenager who meets them must, and inhaled the sweet incense and felt the calming breeze of the shrines of the East, as my generation did, and was introduced to the mysteries of Thomas Aquinas by the subtle writings of Jacques Maritain, as we should all be, when I came to take hold of the great tradition of Western theology in a personal way, I found the distinctly American perspectives of Paul Tillich and Richard (not Reinhold) Niebuhr most helpful. Back in 1963, in the New Jersey family television room, Joseph Campbell's urbane mythological sermons on Channel 13 (still a Newark station) touched something deep inside me an hour after Bishop Sheen's passionate exhortations on Channel 5 had left me (perhaps deplorably) cold. I would go up to my room and say my prayers after a fashion in time for the nightly racetrack bugle and exhilarating nostalgia of Arthur Fiedler's performance of the Bahnfrei Polka of Edouard Strauss, which introduced the nightly raconteurship of the incomparable Jean Shepherd, and, if I were still awake, the more outre world of Long John Nebel and his, ah, eccentric guests. You can't get more American than that. Or more New Jersey. As the child of a mixed marriage and a pupil of the public schools I was not warmly welcome in the Catholic ghetto. Still, in those years of the civil rights revolution and the Vietnam War, with the polarized positions of right and left equally abstract and inhumane, I found my take on national affairs reflecting the distinctly Catholic perspectives of Dorothy Day and Thomas Merton on the one hand and Frederick Wilhelmsen and Erik Maria, Ritter von Kuehnelt-­Leddihn on the other. And, though the writings of Rufus Jones, to which I even now frequently turn for inspiration, had led me to seek out a Quaker education, I found it was the Catholic scholars and pioneers of the spirit who were beginning the interreligious dialogue which was then and is now one of the pressing needs of humanity. In graduate school I became a devoted Americanist, that is, a scholar dedicated to using the tools of the historian of ideas to get some sense of what this place is all about, this gallimaufry of peoples who have somehow, in spite of all learned and astute prognostications, made themselves and each other into a kind of unity, a unity which it may take someone like the present [at the time of writing] Pope (and there isn't really anyone else very much like him) to discern. I do not speak of Joseph Ratzinger, Benedict XVI, as a theologian nor even as a philosopher, but I must note that in New York and Washington in 2008 he revealed himself as an historian of ideas of astonishing and exquisite discernment. By this I mean, among other things, of course, that he strongly confirmed the discoveries and intimations of my own forty years of brooding in and on America. I was fortunate indeed to turn up at Columbia University's Teachers College when Douglas Sloan was putting the finishing touches on his groundbreaking study of the Scottish Enlightenment as the great inspiration of the American colonists, especially the intellectual elite, in the age of the War of Independence. Sloan's insights would eventually be popularized, without their scholarly context and qualifications, in Garry Wills' bestselling *Inventing America*, and it is now taken for granted that our Founding Father Across the Sea was not John Locke, but the Ulster Scot Francis Hutcheson (1694-­1746). Indeed, the Evangelical position seems to be that it was Hutcheson who corrupted American civilization at the root, turning us from the Calvinist faith once delivered to Jonathan Edwards (himself a notorious Lockean, but never mind). In fact, Oxford University Press recently published a six hundred page tract to that effect, authored at Wheaton. Hutcheson, and the Scottish school of Common Sense which he inspired, held that all human beings, Pagan and Christian, Protestant and Catholic, share a basic ability to come to an understanding of certain fundamental truths, and can come to agreement upon these with the aid of reason. Calvinism, especially the neo­Calvinism which is the unquestioned (because unquestionable) paradigm of the Evangelical academy, holds that the elect have a unique and divinely sanctioned "world view" which stands in judgment of all others in all particulars. To these zealots the very idea that there can be any common human ground between believers and unbelievers is itself a damnable heresy. Still, it is the damnable heresy on which American society and civilization are built, and the Calvinism which so despises it is a near kin of those varieties of Islam that Benedict so boldly challenged at Regensburg in 2006. When the same Benedict addressed the United Nations a year and a half later, he pointed out how the principles of that august body, and the Universal Declaration of Human Rights whose anniversary he was commemorating, grew out of the Natural Law philosophy of CounterReformation Scholasticism, particularly as formulated by Francisco de Vitoria (1492?–1546). Needless to say, the "Scottish Philosophy" of a later age grew out of this tradition as well, and many of the American founders were directly familiar with Natural Law theory as expounded by Catholic ­­ and Protestant ­­ Scholastics. On the same visit Benedict made ample use of the language of sacred architecture, as if in conscious homage to the fact that he was honoring a country founded by Freemasons, who used that language to teach the conformity of right living to the law of nature and nature's God. If he was giving a Catholic interpretation to this symbolism, so did the Catholic Jacobites who were prominent in the Craft before the Masonic movement became identified with indifferentism, anticlericalism, and finally (at least on the Continent) atheism. It was striking indeed that to one steeped in American tradition it was the Pope of Rome of all people who was speaking our own language in a familiar tone, and the neo­Calvinist Evangelicals who jibbered and muttered in an outlandish and menacing jargon more Muslim than Christian. I sure wonder what Mommy would think. Natural Law. What is that to us today; what was it to me in what we call the Vietnam era? In 2008 the issue was torture, and a President of the United States who took pleasure in his presumed power to order it, to physically degrade his enemies, to morally degrade our own soldiers. I am proud that when Mr. Bush asked our military for advice on the subject, they replied that he has no such power, that such actions are contrary to our laws and the traditions of our armed services, and, moreover, ineffectual. (The latter point is an important indication that powerful men order torture not to accomplish anything, but to pleasure themselves.) And I am ashamed that he chose to take the advice of Israeli advisors, who hold to another morality, one going back to ancient Assyria, and profoundly alien to our own Christian civilization. In my youth the overriding issue was not torture, but terrorism. Not that torture didn't take place. At graduate school I knew a former naval officer who had interrogated captured Viet Minh and Viet Cong; the "extraordinary means" had been applied by our allies by the time he was introduced to his prisoners, and the specialists who had softened them up had already moved on or backed off. The issues before us then were atrocious acts of war against civilian populations in North and South Vietnam, in Laos and Cambodia, in Central and South America, even in Germany and Japan a generation before, not to mention the subversion and corruption of constitutional government in America by a regime that felt justified in using any means necessary to keep power away from the Communists and their sympathizers, the Democrats and liberal Republicans. Nor was such evil a monopoly of the so­called right. A young antiwar activist formerly associated with Martin Luther King even went so far as to criticize the sainted Che Guevara for not being enough of a terrorist to tear the peasantry away from their conformity to a "fascist" state. (Two generations later the man was advising George Bush.) In my undergraduate days I had been a loyal member of the conservative movement, back when the Intercollegiate Studies Institute was still called the Intercollegiate Society of Individualists, some members of the Students for a Democratic Society still honored democracy, and Murray Rothbard and Carl Ogelsby were moving "beyond left and right." If I got nothing more from the conservatives, and in fact I got a great deal more, it was an ever deepening admiration for Edmund Burke. Burke was prized by the cold warriors because his *Letters on a Regicide Peace* could be used to justify a war of extermination against the Soviet Union, the Peoples Republic of China, and any other people so temerarious as not join the alliance against these forces of absolute evil and subordinate their interests to those of the United States. A superficial reading, I need hardly remark. But Burke was not only the acute critic of the French Revolution who predicted the Terror from its earliest signs, he also was a tireless advocate for Irish freedom, particularly freedom of conscience, and a loyal ally of the American colonies in Parliament. But Burke's finest hour came at the end of his long career, when he boldly fought against the depredations of Warren Hastings and the British East India Company. Anyone who wants to know what natural law meant to the men of the Eighteenth Century, including those who liberated the American colonies and forged their political constitution can get a good sense of it from the eighth day (!) of his impeachment of Hastings before the House of Lords, which, I warn you, I have quoted before and shall no doubt quote again: > No man can lawfully govern himself according to his own will—much less can one person be governed by the will of another. We are all born in subjection—all born equally, high and low, governors and governed, in subjection to one great, immutable, preexistent law, prior to all our devices, and prior to all our contrivances, paramount to all our ideas and to all our sensations, antecedent to our very existence, by which we are knit and connected in the eternal frame of the universe, out of which we can not stir. This great law does not arise from our conventions or compacts; on the contrary, it gives to our conventions and compacts all the force and sanction they can have: it does not arise from our vain institutions. Every good gift is of God, all power is of God; and He who has given the power, and from whom alone it originates, will never suffer the exercise of it to be practised upon any less solid foundation than the power itself. If, then, all dominion of man over man is the effect of the divine disposition, it is bound by the eternal laws of Him that gave it, with which no human authority can dispense; neither he that exercises it, nor even those who are subject to it; and, if they were mad enough to make an express compact, that should release their magistrate from 5 his duty, and should declare their lives, liberties and properties, dependent upon, not rules and laws, but his mere capricious will, that covenant would be void. This arbitrary power is not to be had by conquest. Nor can any sovereign have it by succession; for no man can succeed to fraud, rapine, and violence. Those who give and those who receive arbitrary power are alike criminal; and there is no man but is bound to resist it to the best of his power, wherever it shall show its face to the world. Mr. Jefferson couldn't have put it better. Human rights are inalienable --­­ you can't give them away, and when they are taken away there is not only the right of rebellion, but the solemn duty to resist. The difficulty of natural law theory, of course, is in the details. Back in '68 Pope Paul VI had announced that artificial contraception was against the natural law, but this decision did not immediately commend itself to the common sense of many of those who were not subject to his religious authority. I don't mean he was wrong, or that he exceeded his authority, or even that his decision was inopportune. But when the Supreme Court, alarmed by the birthrate of blacks and an end to white domination of the nation and the world, soon mandated abortion on demand, it was all too easy to dismiss arguments in favor of the human being of the embryonic human as religious dogma rather than an honest attempt to think things through. Since then the concept of natural law is often dismissed by feminists and homosexualists (to use Mr. Vidal's eloquent term) as a mere excuse for oppression. It does seem to me, however, that the insistent denial of the very idea of human rights does nothing to advance the liberation of humanity or any part of it. But maybe that's just me. In any case, I don't think America was ever anything like the sort of Catholic nation that, say, Portugal was under the late Dr. Salazar, or is very likely to get there any time soon, despite the best wishes and even efforts of some of my friends. I do think that for a good part of our history a great many people in public life would have said that the words of Burke I have quoted express their most basic political convictions and sentiments as well as anyone ever could, and this puts America right at the center of the great tradition of Western civilization. And this was true long after old Europe had gone down other ways, the ways of the French revolution, the reaction against it, and the nationalism that synthesized the worst of both. To be sure, we have had nationalists here, and have them today, and have preached our crusades to end slavery, make the world safe for democracy, eradicate the evil empire of the moment, but there is, if not always a ringing and uncontested affirmation of civilized values, by which I mean the values of our civilization, at least a powerful nostalgia for them, and a sincere wish that one could believe in them with a good conscience, a good conscience which postmodernist deconstructionism denies us. A good conscience which Joseph Ratzinger Benedict XVI, who has suffered modernity as few of us have and thought more deeply about it, was offering us back. To be perfectly frank, it took the Catholic Church a good long time to recognize the Christian virtues of Enlightenment, even the Scottish one, and Revolution, even the American one. Better late than never. And despite the mantric invocation of John Courtney Murray, the Church in America has not always been on the side of the angels. The theology of the American Church has always been Jansenist, not Catholic, combining the worst of Pelagius and Calvin, making Boston Irish the kissing cousins of Cotton Mather. The American Church never permitted itself to be organized according to canon law because this would limit the despotism of prelates. The American Church refused to acknowledge the priesthood of Eastern Catholics ordained as married men, driving the Catholic Ruthenians into communion with the Patriarch of Moscow (the present Orthodox Church in America), and later blackmailing a bankrupt papacy into forbidding married priests throughout the Western hemisphere, driving a second group of Ruthenians into communion with the Ecumenical Patriarch of Constantinople (the present American Carpatho­Russian Orthodox Diocese). They American Cathholic Church wouldn't even allow American women to become real nuns, or foreign nuns to come to America without renouncing their vows. The vast majority of Catholic women called nuns are nothing of the sort, but religious sisters first organized as cheap labor at the beck and call of the clergy, and now loose cannons like the Papessas Mother Angelica and Sister Joan. Yes, one or two real abbeys for women were founded in the last century, but the American Church continues to hold the contemplative life in deepest contempt, even for women. Women religious lead the crusade against contemplative traditions, and now rail against the Church as an organ of worldly power from which they are unjustly excluded. Deprived of traditional spiritual direction, a lamentable number of priests "demythologized" the Faith while looking to worldly culture for a way of salvation. Many found it in the gospel of orgasm, and undertook to liberate the young men in their care by sharing the only joy they thought worth having, with results we see today. Catholic involvement in American public life has not been edifying either. The American bishops turned their backs on Benedict XV's attempt to end the slaughter in the trenches and refused to make any move to bring Woodrow Wilson over to the side of peace. As patriotic Americans, they in effect signed on to the WASP jihad to extirpate the Catholic powers of the Old World. A couple of generations later millions of Catholic schoolchildren were forced to write letters demanding that the Senate not censure that great American Joseph McCarthy, who was probably the Soviet Union's most valuable (presumably unwitting) asset in American public life, who had discredited all responsible criticism of Communism and its supporters by viciously slandering the United States Army, the Department of State, and the Protestant clergy as nests of traitors. Some years later Catholic activists succeeded in driving the voices of moderation out of the Republican Party, and the urban ethnic social conservatives out of the Democratic, and the forms of civility from the public square. Americans can be forgiven for not rushing to enlist in the nearest Roman Catholic parish. There are other conversions needed, perhaps beginning with American Catholics themselves. Back in the days of Reagan a fellow named Alan Bloom made an almost persuasive case that the American Mind was closed to the Great Tradition of Western Civilization, and needed to be reopened. Alas, Bloom was a Neoconservative, a follower of their guru Leo Strauss, and a teacher of a a number of shady operatives of the Program for the New American Century type, as Saul Bellow's last novel so amusingly portrays him. Bloom's Great Tradition was something cobbled together by Machiavelli and others out of the misunderstood shards of ancient paganism; thinkers and writers tainted by the Christian gospel remained under embargo. (Mortimer Adler was less fearful, more intellectually curious, but look where he ended up.) It took a Bavarian Pope to remind us that the basic principles of our cherished hopes of international organization and human rights, and indeed of the American founding itself, go back to the Iberian scholastics of the Catholic Reformation. ("Counter­Reformation" is misleadingly negative.) Benedict's reminder harmonized well with my own studies in the history of philosophy. I began some five decades ago with the riddle, the riddles, of Charles Sanders Peirce (1839­ - 1914), our own and only philosopher to be ranked with the likes of Aristotle and Kant. What was this Common Sense he went on and on about? (The Scottish Philosophy was studiously ignored in the academy; it still is.) As I said, I was lucky to find out. Now John Deely has been showing that any postmodern philosophy worthy of the name, one founded on semeiology rather than Cartesian (or empiricist) methodologism, needs to go back to Peirce and with Peirce back to the very beginnings of the theory of signification as we find them in John Poinsot (1589 ­ 1644). Poinsot, as it happens, is part of the same Iberian Renaissance to which Benedict has now called our attention. Indeed, under another name (John of St. Thomas) Poinsot inspired the neo Thomism of Jacques Maritain which undergirded the Christian Humanism of Paul VI and many other Fathers of the Second Vatican Council. (His treatise on **The Gifts of the Holy Spirit*, as interpreted by theologians often dismissed as too conservative, is behind the rather daring notion that all Christians are called to holiness in this life, and, indeed to the mystical path of acquired contemplation, and thus such more recent developments as Centering Prayer, the World Community for Christian Meditation, and the ommunion and Liberation movement. As if all this were not enough, Murray Rothbard, no Christian he, though personally excommunicated and anathematized by Ayn Rand for not repudiating his openly Christian wife, has argued that the Austrian School of Economics, the Old Liberalism of von Mises and Hayek, goes back not so much to Adam Smith (who missed a few points), as to the scholastic philosophers of Spain and Portugal in the early modern period. Mention Iberian philosophy to the American of average education and he will look at you as though you had spoken of Uzbek grand opera ­­ or (indeed) the Scottish Enlightenment. He might even tell you that Spanish ignorance, superstition, and bigotry are precisely what God sent Englishmen into the New World to stamp out: the *legenda negra*. Needless to say, this is not a view of history a good many newcomers to the United States are likely to tolerate with equanimity, and it is just as well that it isn't true. Once we retire that vulgar prejudice against Hispanidad we might just get a fair hearing for the work of Xavier Zubiri, the only European thinker of the last century who compares with Peirce for breadth of learning and depth of discernment ­­ as well as sheer unadulterated difficulty. If nothing else, the challenge of Catholicity invites Americans to break down the walls of the Anglo­Saxon ghetto, which do not serve us well now, if they ever did. But it may also provoke a new interest in our own Golden Age of (Protestant) theology. Let me set the stage for this with an extended quotation from Joseph Ratzinger's 1977 essay, "Is Faith Really Good News?" (Now translated in Principles of Catholic Theology: > Truth is not always comfortable for man, but it is only truth that makes him free and only freedom that brings him joy. Now, however, we must ask more precisely: What makes a man joyful? What robs him of joy? What puts him at odds with himself? What opens him to himself and to others? When we want to describe the most extreme form of being at odds with existence, we often say of an individual that he does not like himself. But whom or what is he to like who does not like himself? Something very importamt makes its appearance here: egoism, certainly, is natural to man and needs no encouragement; but this is not true of self­acceptance. The former must be overcome; the latter must be discovered, and it is assuredly one of the most dangerous errors of Christian teachers and moralists that they have all too often confused the two and, by exorcizing the affirmation of self, have enabled egoism to avenge such a betrayal by becoming all the more rampant ­­ this, ultimately, of what the French have labeled the maladie catholique: one who wants to live only on the supernatural level and to the exclusion of self will be, in the end, without a self but not, for that reason, selfless. (79) Reading this a day or two after Ratzinger's papification I couldn't help thinking of our own Paul Tillich, whose seminal sermon "You are Accepted" baptized the human potential movement (as it was called), whose *Courage to Be* is a perennial best seller even after half a century, whose *Systematic Theology* Martin Luther King had asked for in his Georgia prison cell, and I myself poured over eagerly as an Earlham undergraduate. Of course the problematic goes back to Kierkegaard's penetrating analysis of despair, and, indeed to Luther's experience of divine wrath and mercy. Now it is all very well to say we must accept our acceptance, somehow (mysticism? art?) so ground ourselves in the very Ground of Being as to powerfully affirm our being against the powers of nonbeing. But is it true? That is the question haunting Tillich, Martin Luther King, and modern American culture down to our own time, which Ratzinger, challenged by Nietzsche and Camus, dared to speak aloud: > We come now to the all­important question: Is it true, then, when someone says to me: "It is good that you exist"? Is it really good? Is it not possible that that person's love, which wills my existence, is just a tragic error? If the love that gives me courage to exist is not based on truth, then I must, in the end, come to curse the love that deceives me that maintains in existence something that were better destroyed. This dilemma could be 10 strikingly illustrated by reference to the interpretations of the contemporary experience of life in Sartre or Camus or in the attitudes of the new Left. Even without such evidence, it is obvious, however, that the apparently so simple act of liking myself, of being at one with myself, actually raises the question of the whole universe It raises the question of truth: Is it good that I exist? Is it good that anything at all exists? is the world good? How many persons today would dare to affirm this question from the heart ­­ to believe it is good that they exist? That is the source of the anxiety and despair that incessantly affect mankind. Love alone is of no avail. It serves no purpose if truth is not on its side. Only when truth and love are in harmony can man know joy. For it is truth that makes man free. (80) And the question of truth won't leave us alone. For Tillich the Christian faith was perhaps a true myth, but, perhaps true only the way that other myths are true. He tended to sacramentalize modern art, leftish politics, and sexual liberation; the president of Union Seminary had to remind him that it looked bad for their most eminent theologian not to go to church. The tragedy of attempting to make a religion of art, politics, or sex is obvious by now, and it as a sad circumstance that the leadership of the American Catholic Church were seminarians at a time when Catholic theology looked to the Protestants for validation, and Tillich was at the height of his prestige in the liberal denominations. The painful story of Tillich's sexual obsessions is now well known enough from his wife's two memoirs, Dr. King's escapades have stained the memory of the civil rights movement as much as his infatuation with the Soviet power, ­­ and the sexual scandals of the American Church are unspeakably worse, blighting the lives of tens (hundreds?) of thousands of children. That is something Benedict, on his recent visit, would not allow us to forget for even a moment. But at least he offers a remedy in that confrontation with the truth of our being which liberal theology, Catholic and Protestant (though perhaps not Orthodox),attempted to evade: > The content of the Christian evangelium reads: God finds man so important that he himself has suffered for man. The Cross, which was for Nietzche the most detestable expression of the negative character of the Christian religion, is in truth the center of the evangelium, the glad tidings: "It is good that you exist" ­­ No, "It is necessary that you exist." The Cross is the approbation of our existence, not in words, but in an act so completely radical that it caused God to become flesh and pierced this flesh to the quick; that, to God, it was worth the death of his incarnate Son. One who is so loved that the other identifies his life with this love and no longer desires to live if he is deprived of it; one who is loved even unto death ­­ such a one knows that he is truly loved. But if God so loves, then we are loved in truth. Then love is truth, and truth is love. Then life is worth living. This is the evangelium. (81) The whole idea of the Cross as God's affirmation of man will strike many an American as shocking, ludicrous even. It the ca­ross not the stock in trade of a thousand "evangelists" as the ultimate proof of our total depravity, the ultimate refutation of all aspirations for human freedom and dignity? Surely Nietzsche got that from his preacher father, though it is hard to find any such slander of humanity in either the written scriptures or the teaching of the Fathers of the Church (except for Augustine, and that on a bad day he later repented). I am happy to note that Ratzinger's point of view, scriptural, patristic, and Benedictine in every sense of the term is very close to what some in the Evangelical churches are calling "gracious Christianity," for that is what it is. That movement is still a prophetic minority in the churches and the academy, and we still need to come to terms with the main stream of American spirituality as represented, for better and worse, by Tillich. And Ratzinger, even in his early days as a professor, has given us the means to do just that. Not everything in the American theological mainstream, and not everything in Tillich, needs to be discarded wholesale. A follower of Ratiznger's good friend Don Liugi Giussani who studies Tillich's theology will find close analogies between Tillich's method of correlation and the principle of correspondence which Giussani urged on members of the Communion and Liberation movement he founded, a movement in which the Ratzinger Pope (to use the Catholic in­jargon) takes more than a passing interest ­­ he is said even now to take part in a weekly School of Community in which movement people use that method to explore the meaning of the Gospel in relation to their own day to day lives, and the meaning of their lives in relation to the Gospel, though his episcopal orders forbid his formal membership in the Fraternity. I do not mean to imply that Benedict is a follower of Giussani in matters of pure theology, but it seems clear that he recognizes Giussani's method as the best practical application of the theological principles both men learned from such masters of La Nouvelle Theologie as de Lubac, von Balthasar, and (with reservations) Rahner. But before I move away from the idea of correspondence, the method of correlation, I should mention that this became the life work of two American philosophers, Ira Progoff, with whom and with whose students I was privileged to do postdoctoral work, and Eugene Gendlin, both known as psychologists for the contributions they have made to psychology, who offer what I can only describe as means of spiritual direction. The few folks who remember Tillich today often contrast him with Reinhold Niebuhr, his colleague at Union, who inspired the Cold war mainstream much as Tillich inspired the New Left, and whom Don Gius was fond of quoting. But the man to rediscover is Reinhold's brother Richard, a theologian's theologian, that is, one whose writings were never taken up by the movers and shakers of middlebrow culture. His *Meaning of Revelation* shows the kind of emphasis the Catholic Church in Europe is coming around to, or coming back to, as it is very much in the spirit of the Fathers of the Church, the Eastern Fathers in particular. For many of us what may be most prophetic in his life work is his refusal of the temptation of neo­conservatism to which Reinhold gave in to his fame and profit. Reinhold ostentatiously resigned from the Fellowship of Reconciliation in the early '30s in righteous indignation that some Christians did not demand that the government do something (what?) about the Japanese in China. Richard, on the other hand, had no hope for the efficacy of political, economic, and military power exercised by the United States against Japan. Sensing that Western Christendom was going the way of old Rome, he thought that the best Christian response was that pioneered by St. Benedict, from whom of course among others the last pontiff took his name. For him the issue was not Japan against China, or the United States against Japan, but, to cite the title of a 1935 book to which he contributed, *The Church Against the World*. A few years later Dietrich von Hildebrand, in his villa in Florence, was giving the retreats later published as *Transformation in Christ* to Christian activists who intended to remain behind in Nazi Germany to keep the light of Christian civilization burning in that dark time, and Dietrich Bonhoeffer would take refuge with the Benedictines in his own effort to do the same. A few pages before the long passage I have quoted, Ratzinger's *Principles of Catholic Theology* gives a lengthy exegesis of Hildebrand's text as the model for Christian repentance. I can't help wondering if this forbidden book is one that his father had hidden around the house, as Evangelicals might have concealed Bonhoeffer's *Cost of Discipleship*. Discipleship and transformation are not matters of effortful striving, but the response to a calling which is a revelation. Richard ­­ is particularly enlightening on revelation as calling. He shows that it is not the communication of some kind of knowldege, however supernatural or esoteric, by possession of which we are justified, elevated from the companionship of our neighbors, saved from the world; that would be Gnosticism. Rather, revelation is participation in an ongoing event, a relationship with a person previously unknown, or at least unrecognized. Some words toward the end of *The Meaning of Revelation* put the matter thus: > Revelation means the moment in our history through which we know ourselves to be known from beginning to end, in which we are apprehended by the knower; it means the the self­disclosure of the judge. Revelation means that we find ourselves to be valued rather than valuing and that all our values are transvaluated by the activity of a universal valuer. When a price is put upon our heads, which is not our price, when the unfairness of all the fair prices we have placed on things is shown up, when the great riches of God reduce our wealth to poverty, that is revelation. When we find out that we are no longer thinking him, but that he first thought us, that is revelation. Revelation is the emergence of the person on whose external garments and body we had looked as objects of our masterful and curious understanding. Revelation means that in our common history the fate that lowers over us as persons in our communities reveals itself to be a person in community with us. What this means for us cannot be expressed in the impersonal ways of creeds or other propositions but only in responsive acts of a personal character. we acknowledge revelation by no third person proposition, such as that there is a God, but only in the direct confession of the heart, "Thou art my God."... From this point forward we must listen for the remembered voice in all the sounds that assail our ears, and look for the remembered activity in all the actions of the world upon us. The God who reveals himself in Jesus Christ is now trusted and known in the contemporary God, revealing himself in every event, but we do not understand how we could tract his working in these happenings if he did not make himself known to us through the memory of Jesus Christ; nor do we know how we should be able to interpret all the words we read as words of God save by the aid of this Rosetta stone. (80 -­ 81) Catholics who remember the discourses of the Pope Benedict will find the flavor of this passage very Benedictine ­­ in both senses of the term. Those who follow the way of Luigi Giussani find their spirit particularly familiar, for those of them who live in community, including the little band that managed Benedict's household and conduct the School of Community he attended, are known precisely as *Memores Domini*, those who strive to keep the Lord constantly in mind, and allow their own memory and mindfulness, personal and collective, painful and pleasing, on the surface of association or deeply hidden, to be transformed by their relationship with God in Christ, their participation in the ongoing incarnation of the Word of God: the God who is the author of our nature, and an incarnation that runs to meet the deepest desire of that nature with more that could have been imagined. What this means in the experience of living our life is well stated at the conclusion of Niebuhr's great work: > The God who reveals himself in Jesus Christ meets no unresponsive will but the living spirit of men in search of all good. And he fulfills our need. Here is the one for whose sake all life and every life is worth living, even lives that seem bereft of beauty, of truth and of goodness. The glimpse of his great glory in the face of Jesus Christ, its reflections in the darkened mirrors of the saints' adorations intimate a God who is good beyond all that is good and fair beyond all fairness. Yet the goodness that shines upon us through the moment of revelation is not the glory or the goodness we had expected in our thoughts about deity. The essential goodness of the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ is the simple everyday goodness of love ­­ the value which belongs to a person rather [than] the value we find in an idea or a pattern; it is the goodness which exists as pure activity. He fulfills our expectation of the intrinsic good and yet this adorable goodness differs from everything we had expected, and puts our expectations to shame. We sought a good to love and were found by a good that loved us. And therewith all our religious ambitions are brought low, all our desires to be ministers of God are humbled; he is our minister. By that revelation we are convicted of having corrupted our religious life through our unquenchable desire to keep ourselves with our love of our good in the center of the picture. Here is the goodness that empties itself, and makes itself of no reputation, a goodness that is all outgoing, reserving nothing for itself, yet having all things. So we must begin to rethink all our definitions of deity and convert all our worship and our prayers. Revelation is not the development and not the elimination of our natural religion; it is the revolution of the religious life. (98 -­ 99) But what does all this mean to one who stands outside the light of revelation, who relies on the reason of Western Civilization, the common sense of the founding Fathers? If believers and unbelievers are to take part in one community, what do we have to say to each other? This is the point of Benedict's challenge to the Muslim world, the question of what could make the libertine Doctor Franklin and the evangelical President Witherspoon active participants in the same foundational dialog. Niebuhr has an answer, and it is the same answer as Benedict: > The pure reason does not need to be limited in order that room be made for faith, but faith emancipates the pure reason from the necessity of defending and guarding the interests of selves, which are now found to be established and guarded, not by nature, but by the God of revelation whose garment nature is. (91 ­- 92) It is faith that liberates and, indeed, inspires us to invent, develop, explore, and test scientific understandings which would otherwise be too much for the vain imaginings of our all too human hearts: > To know the person is to lose all sense of shame because of kinship with the clod and the ape. The mind is freed to pursue its knowledge of the external world disinterestedly not by the conviction that nothing matters, but by the faith that nothing God has made is mean or unclean. Hence any failure of Christians to develop scientific knowledge of the world is not an indication of their loyalty to the revealed God but of their unbelief. (90 -­ 91) Seven going on eight decades after these words were published, ministers of "religion" are still attempting to prevent the teaching of ascertained facts of human biology in order to retain the authority of their own stupidly selectively literalistic reading of the Bible; some of the more advanced institutions of Evangelical learning defiantly profess a form of Calvinism in which some sort of theology remains the queen of the sciences in an unconstitutional monarchy, with no other discipline permitted its own proper autonomy and integrity; while in more numerous groves of Academus, even the Roman Catholic plantations, men and women of faith are quickly brushed off as obvious enemies of intellect. My own mother, as I have said already, doubted that you can be a good Catholic and a real American at the same time. Pope Benedict warned his flock that they will not be good Catholics until they are Americans to the extent of acknowledging the law of nature and of nations as developed by Victoria (among others, some of them Scots), and aspiring to live in local, regional national and international communities under that law, in which the freedom and dignity of the human person are given the first priority. On the other hand I do not see how we can be real Americans without realizing that the aspirations of 1776 and 1789 are grounded in that natural law, and grew up as the fruit of a civilization in which the reason of Greece and Rome reached full maturity in the care of Mother Church, a church whose members, including the hierarchy, were not always consistently faithful to it, calling forth reformations, enlightenments, and even revolutions. I think we must all be Catholic at least in the wider sense of loyalty to that civilization, and our best way may well be to reappropriate the riches of the golden age of American philosophy and theology, of which the work of H. Richard Niebuhr is a small but important part. Sources quoted: Edmund Burke, Impeachment of Warren Hastings before the House of Lords (numerous editions), eighth day. Joseph Ratzinger, *Principles of Catholic Theology*. San Fransisco: Ignatius, 1987. H. Richard Niebuhr, *The Meaning of Revelation* [1941]. Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2006. © FP Purcell