Citizen of the World

by
Joyce Kilmer

No longer of Him be it said
"He hath no place to lay His head."

In every land a constant lamp
Flames by His small and mighty camp.

There is no strange and distant place
That is not gladdened by His face.

And every nation kneels to hail
The Splendour shining through Its veil.

Cloistered beside the shouting street,
Silent, He calls me to His feet.

Imprisoned for His love of me
He makes my spirit greatly free.

And through my lips that uttered sin
The King of Glory enters in.

Modernism and Jesus Christ

Third in a Series treating Modernism and Modern Thought
by
Fr. Joseph Bampton, S.J.

In our last lecture, we compared the Catholic presentment of Christianity with its Modernist presentment. We compared Christianity - as we Catholics know it - in some of its main features, one by one, with corresponding features in the Modernist system: the Catholic notion of revelation with the Modernist notion of revelation; Catholic faith with Modernist faith; the Catholic conceptions of the Church, of Church Authority, of Dogma, with Modernist conceptions of the same. And, putting the two side by side, was ever a more irreducible set of equations? And this was the upshot of the Modernists' attempt to reconcile Christianity with modern thought. Their mistake, as was pointed out, was this: while professing to bring Christianity into harmony with modern thought, what they were really doing was to try to harmonise Christianity with that particular phase of modern thought represented by Kant and his school of philosophy. They started with a philosophical assumption of Kant, an arbitrary assumption, and upon that proceeded to build up their system of Christianity, with the result that might have been foreseen. The result was something that was hardly recognisable as Christianity at all, something they frankly admitted to be not so much a reformation of Christianity as a "transformation," not a reform but a "revolution" (Tyrrell), something, in fact, which it was better to call at once a New Theology, which was what its most candid supporters did not hesitate to call it.

It will occur to us at once to ask what was the necessity for this new restatement of the old creed? Why this upsetting of old beliefs, and this shifting of old landmarks, to the disturbance of men's peace in believing? The answer of the Modernists will be: the advance of modern thought has rendered it necessary. Modern thought shows that Christianity cannot be maintained or defended on the old lines. We must remodel it to suit the mentality of the age. We must bring our Christianity up to date. For take Christianity, the Modernist proceeds, as explained in the good old-fashioned way in the last lecture. It was said to have originated in a revelation conveyed by word of mouth to mankind by the God-Man. That is the basis of the whole Christian system then expounded. Upon that basis you found your notions of revelation, faith, the Church, Church authority, dogma, as then stated. If that basis can be shown to be unsound, the whole Christian system, as you conceive it, comes to the ground. But it is unsound. A theory like this was all very well in mediaeval times, in the Dark Ages. But we know better now. Sounder methods of historical and scientific criticism prevail nowadays. The progress of modern thought has taught us that we have no intellectual knowledge of anything but phenomena, that our knowledge does not transcend the facts of experience. But the God-Man is not a fact of experience. Such a Being, then, is incapable of being known by us intellectually. Neither is a supernatural revelation, ascribed to such a Being, a fact of experience. Therefore such a revelation cannot be matter of intellectual knowledge. You do not know - the Modernist would say - from the nature of the case you cannot know intellectually anything about a God-Man, or a supernatural revelation imparted by Him. What, then, becomes of a Christianity founded upon the hypothesis that you can? Your basis is unsound. Reduce the facts as we know them to their proper proportions, and the facts are these:

It is true there existed a Jesus of Nazareth, a man, a prophet, if you like to call Him so, "mighty in word and work." We do not for a moment deny His existence, nor His exceptional holiness of life and purity of doctrine, nor His extraordinary natural powers. These things belong to the realm of phenomena; they are facts of experience, and therefore ascertainable by human knowledge. The facts of experience go to make up history. This Jesus of Nazareth is, then, an historical figure. The Jesus of history I know. But, when you claim supernatural powers for Him, when you speak of Him as possessing supernatural knowledge, as imparting a supernatural revelation, when you talk to me of a Being Who wrought miracles, that is, departures from the laws of nature, of which laws alone I have experience, you are speaking to me of things that transcend my experience, of things outside the realm of phenomena. To be true to my Kantian principles, I must say I have no intellectual knowledge of sucht hings. I simply don't know. But if you ask me how people have come to invest Him with this supernatural character of a God-Man, and claim to know Him thus, I have an explanation ready, and my explanation is this:

Let it be remembered, in the first place, that the Jesus of history alone is the object of our knowledge properly so-called. But, besides knowledge, I have, as already indicated, another faculty, the religious sentiment, which, in so far as it unites me with God, I call faith. Now Jesus of Nazareth may be the object not only of my intellectual knowledge, but also of my faith. As the object of my intellectual knowledge, He is a mere man, a wondrous man indeed, but still a man in the natural order, for knowledge can take cognisance of nothing else. Regarded thus, I call Him the Jesus of history. But, as the object of my faith, He assumes a different character. Faith recognises the Divine in Him, that divine immanence already mentioned as existing in all believers, but existing in Him in an exceptional degree. Faith gradually expands that divine element in Him, magnifies it, amplifies it, till it transfigures Him completely. Gradually, legends gather round about Him, divine powers are attributed to Him, until at last He is crowned with the aureola of divinity, deified (Loisy). Is He therefore God? Not to knowledge. Knowledge, remember, takes no cognisance of the supernatural, of the divine. But to faith, in a sense, He is God. He is God, not in fact, but in the belief of Christians. Christ the God-Man is a creation of faith. But, thus considered, He is to be carefully distinguished from the Jesus of history (Loisy).

Thus far the Modernist. And so we have the historical Jesus, a fact; and the Christ of faith - what are we to call Him? A fact? Yes, in a sense. Not an historical fact, not a fact of experience, but a fact of human consciousness. But what sort of a fact is that? A fact of human consciousness means something that some human consciousness feels or experiences or thinks to be true. If the God-Man Christ is only a fact of human consciousness, He is a Being Whom some men have thought to be God. But that does not make Him God. Facts of human consciousness may be theories, may be ideas. And so the God-Man Christ may be an idea. The Modernists do not hesitate to call Him so: "the Incorporation of an Idea." A fact of human consciousness may be a legend, a myth, and so the God-Man Christ may be a legend, a myth, to be treated with as much respect as other legends, other myths; as an Homeric myth, or a legend of King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table. And thus you have the Jesus of history, a fact, and the Christ of faith, a creation of the religious sentiment. The Modernists have done what St. John foretold men should do: "they have dissolved Jesus "(I John 4:3).

But, if this theory be true, what becomes of the Christian system of revelation? We said in our last lecture that the Christian revelation was external, delivered by Jesus Christ, the God-Man, teaching His doctrine by word of mouth to mankind. But Christ, the God-Man, as Modernists conceive Him, is not a Being outside us delivering a revelation from without. He is immanent in the Christian community, revealing Himself progressively to its faith. The Christ of faith does not speak word of mouth. The Christ of faith reveals Himself to the religious sentiment within. But it is certain that the immanent Christ, Christ within, never revealed in this manner the Church, its constitution, its authority, dogma, the whole Christian scheme of revelation, as Catholics understand it. No, of course not, the Modernist rejoins. "Faith in Christ never meant merely faith in a teacher and his doctrine, but an apprehension of His personality as revealing itself within us" (Tyrrell). But faith in Christ as a teacher, and in His doctrines, is the very basis of Catholic Christianity. On the Modernist showing, this basis is unsound. And, therefore, according to Modernists, the structure raised upon that basis is unsound. The Catholic conception of Christianity comes to the ground, together with the Catholic conception of Christ (Loisy). "The Catholic conception of Christ as God," the Modernists tell us, "conveys no more meaning to the mind than the proposition: Christ is X" (Tyrrell)

We asked at the beginning, why must the faith of the multitude be disturbed by these new doctrines? And we were told that this was necessary for the purpose of harmonising Christianity with the "latest results of criticism" (Tyrrell). For Modernism, we are told - and this is its official description - "is the effort to find a new theological synthesis consistent with the data of historico-critical research" (Tyrrell) Here in passing let me enter a protest against the glib use of such terms as "scientific" and "unscientific," "historical" and "unhistorical," "critical" and "uncritical," and the rest. Nowadays, if you want to damn an opponent's case beyond all hope of redemption, you have only to label it unscientific or unhistorical or uncritical. It is not necessary to have any clear idea of what these terms mean. They are useful to make an opponent look foolish and ignorant. And so we are told that Catholic Christianity is unscientific and unhistorical and uncritical, because it does not agree with the "latest results of criticism," and the "data of historico-critical research." And here we have got the "latest results of criticism," and the "data of historico-critical research." And what do they amount to? To this: that you cannot know anything but phenomena and the facts of experience. But that is what Kant taught nearly a hundred years ago, and something very like what the Sophists of ancient Greece taught two thousand years before him. Why not say at once that Modernism is the effort to find a new theological synthesis consistent with the philosophy of Kant? So it seems Catholic Christianity is unscientific and unhistorical and uncritical because it does not agree with Kant's theory of knowledge. Now we know where we stand. But was it worth while to disturb men's faith for the sake of telling us something that most people who knew anything about the subject knew already? "Ye senseless Galatians, who hath bewitched you?" St. Paul asked the Galatians (Galatians 3:1). If that question were put to the Modernists, "Who hath bewitched you?" the answer would have to be, "Immanuel Kant."

The mention of the Sophists of ancient Greece reminds me of two of the old Greek philosophers, Stilpo of Megara, and Crates of Thebes. Crates, meeting Stilpo one day in the street, asked him whether he believed that the gods really cared for man's worship. " Hush!" said Stilpo; "don't ask such questions in public, but in private." The Modernists might learn from that pagan philosopher a lesson of reticence and of consideration for the faith of others. If they wish to bemuse their own minds with sceptical speculation on the most sacred subjects, let them keep it to themselves, and to the privacy of their own studies. Let them leave the minds of others content in their belief.

It was said in our opening lecture that the chief thing to be feared in Modernism is its spirit. In this lecture we have seen what the spirit of Modernism is with reference to the character of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ, God the Son made man. St. John has condemned in advance that spirit in words which might have been expressly intended for the Modernists. Modernism, it has been shown, distinguishes between Jesus and Christ; the Jesus of history, and the Christ of faith. "Every spirit," St. John has said, " that dissolveth Jesus, is not of God" (I John 4:3). And again: "Who is a liar save him who denieth that Jesus is the Christ ? (I John 2:22). The spirit of Modernism, St. John would tell us, is a lying spirit. It is not of God.

A Solis Ortus Cardine

by
Caelius Sedulius

Gregorio code:

(c4)A(d) so(e')lis(f) or(gh)tus(d) cár(efwg)di(fe)ne(e.) (;) Ad(g) us(hj)que(j) ter(ji)ræ(hg) lí(hi)mi(i)tem(i.) (:) Chri(h)stum(hjk) ca(j)ná(ji)mus(hg) Prín(hih)ci(gf)pem(efw!gh.) (;) Na(d)tum(e') Ma(f)rí(h)a(hih)  Vír(gfg)gi(fe)ne(e.)

Madonna and Child (Marianne Stokes)

Madonna and Child
Marianne Stokes (1855-1927)

In the foreground, we see the Blessed Virgin, seated, clad in a simple yet finely woven white linen tunic. The horizontal hem of the modest neckline is faintly decorated with tiny black stitches. A royal blue mantle, equally fine, drapes her shoulders. Her long, gracile neck is exposed to us, fading seamlessly at the nape into her shiny, carefully combed auburn hair, which falls behind her, out of sight. Her delicately featured face is nearly in profile, her gentle gaze cast toward the ground. Her hazel eyes seem unfocused, as though she is lost in thought. Her ruby lips contrast with her flawless alabaster skin, indicating the fullness of her youth. The solid gold halo surrounding her head is interrupted only by that of the sleeping infant Christ she holds in her hands. His eyes closed, His hand placed under His cheek, He rests His head upon the Blessed Virgin's shoulder.

In the immediate background, we see a low white garden wall and part of a stone column. Beside the column and immediately behind the Blessed Virgin hangs a flat curtain of olive green cloth, through which can be seen part of the landscape. The curtain hangs undisturbed, indicating calm weather. To the left of the pair, we see a single stem bearing seven Easter lilies, five in full bloom, two yet to open. Just behind the lilies, perched upon the retaining wall, is a pale red but shiny apple.

In the distant background, we see a smattering of tall, thin cypress trees, receding into the distance as we approach a large body of water, probably the Sea of Galilee. On the edge of the sea we see the faint impression of a city - presumably Capernaum - with the walls of its buildings reflecting the light of the low-lying sun in warm, earthen tones. Behind the city's skyline stand pale blue mountains which fade into the clear afternoon sky.

Worldliness

Modern Wordling

by
Archbishop Alban Goodier, S.J.

In every language there are words which have a sense of staleness about them. As soon as we hear them, we tell ourselves, with a shrug of the shoulders, that we have heard them before, that we know all they mean, that those who use them are old-fashioned people, rather dull, and certainly unoriginal. We even go so far, in proof that these words have been worn threadbare, as to use them in some more flippant sense, giving them a kind of galvanized new life since their real life is gone. Thus we will tell our friends, with a touch of self-complacency, that we fear we are a bit of a heathen, or something of a loose fish, or we will use some other sorry title which, we hope, will be equally shocking and gallant.

One of these old-fashioned words is worldliness, and another its concomitant, worldling; to be called a worldling smacks of the unconventional, independent, generous, large-hearted, and suggests, on the whole, a rather agreeable sort of companion. When a man lays claim to the title he means us to understand that he knows a thing or two, that he has found experience at first hand, that he has not feared to drink of life at its sources or beneath the surface of the stream, that he sees more in the world, and in men and women, than the common run of mortals have seen, that he has tasted of the tree of knowledge of good and evil, and has found the fruit worth the venture. The worldling, so he tells his friends, can forgive all because he knows all. He has a kind word for every backslider, so long as they slide backward along the way of the world; he pities those who aim at being better, as having no more sense, and as acting out of ignorance, or he twits them for their moonshine ideas, or, if that cannot convert them, he condemns them as prigs, who presume to set themselves above their equals.

And yet there is something behind all this which makes complete deception impossible. The worldling is conscious, while he speaks, that all is not quite as he describes it; at the same time the looker-on, while he laughs and makes a show of approval, knows very well that there are other things beneath the surface. In other words, to be quite plain spoken, both are well aware that worldliness is a lie; a lie in the heart; that peculiarly loathsome kind of lie that is characteristic of a coward. The worldling may affect to be a happy man, he may set himself up as more human than his comrades; but he knows in his heart, without a doubt, that he is a traitor to his human nature, and a mean fellow. He knows that he acts against his right convictions, that he crushes them down beneath his heel, and that he sacrifices that within him which might have grown to something great, for a prize that is beneath contempt. If he did not know it would be different, then he would not be called a worldling, simply because his heart could not prove him a craven. The pig that swills in its trough, even the savage that eats and drinks himself stupid, these may not be called worldly, because they know no better; but the man who does know better, yet is content to swill, wallowing in what this world has to offer, be it gold, or rioting, or luxury, or even base ambition, such a man narrows his margin to that of any beast, is a traitor to the manhood that is in him, and when he affects to find in this the fulfillment of his life's desire, that downtrodden manhood still tells him that he lies. So mean a thing is worldliness, and so mean a creature is a worldling! He determines to be content with his immediate surroundings, and is irritated at the suspicion, approaching to a certainty, that there is something better, more worthy of a man's ambitions, in his reach. This he cannot in his heart deny; to do so in word and deed effects little, so he decides to ignore it, to treat it as if it were not, as one might decide to live content in a haunted house by ignoring the ghost that wandered through it. True, it is a cheap sort of victory; but it serves its purpose; for it turns real life into an elaborate make-believe, that gigantic sham of which so much of this life is made up, and which must be what it is, being built upon a lie.

Being that within, the worldling must adapt all that comes within his sphere to fit into the same perspective. He would like to estimate everything - right and truth, as well as coal and provender - by immediate weights and measures, by their present market value, by their conformity with existing regulations. Right is that which is according to the life he has decided to live, truth is truth in so far as it does not contradict his accepted postulate; and he protests, sometimes to bloody persecution, always with relentless hatred, against those who prefer less conventional scales of measurement. Such men he cannot leave alone, for they keep alive a memory which he hopes he might otherwise learn to forget. Or, again, he would have this life stand still; he would gladly settle down here for all eternity; but since that cannot be, he would at least pretend that it is, and let the end come unawares. So is the worldling a coward, for he has not the courage of his convictions; so is he a mean creature, for, not having the courage of his convictions, he must hide his cowardice by mean devices; so is he a liar, for only by a lie can he justify himself, whether to man without, or to that complaining, questioning voice which warns him of his treachery within.

Nor is this only the aspect of the worldling, considered in the light of the spiritual life; if, indeed, a distinction can be made between the spiritual and the real. Whatever he may say in a flippant mood, yet every man, the more he is a man, the more he scorns to be a worldling; apart from any sense of religion, the very human nature that is in him tells him he has ideals higher than those of the brute. He believes himself endowed with higher powers, made master of the world, for some other end than simply to live a brutish life in a rather more exquisite manner; indeed, here is the essence of that which he understands by character. For character stands for what is right; character slashes itself free from the bondage of its surroundings; character puts duty above convenience. Worldliness knows none of these things ; when unmasked, it is no more nor less than lack of character.

Still, these two are not strictly antithetical. One is but the denial of the other; it is not its opposite. For character is merely unworldly, and unworldly according to its grade. To discover the opposite, it must be remembered what worldliness rightly means. By worldliness we mean this-worldliness; and the opposite of this is the worldliness of another world. Other-worldliness introduces other standards, other ideals, and therefore other perspectives; it does not destroy or lessen the value of things of earth, it does but put them in another and more accurate relation. Other-worldliness begins by accepting the dictate of that inner voice which proclaims the more enduring truth, in opposition to the voice that bids us be contented with the present. It recognizes a broader reality than that which appears to the eyes, or is enjoyed by our other senses. It accepts the principle that a greater end must absorb a lesser, that a greater end ennobles a lesser, that therefore the greater and deeper life of man must absorb and give meaning to the surface life of his little day, and that he should himself, in his nature of man, be master of all that is included in his manhood.

This is the teaching of all wisdom, pagan or Christian, temporal or spiritual, ethical or religious; in whatever else they differ, they agree in condemning worldliness. To live for this world is to degrade our human nature; to live above this world is alone to live like a man. But to live above this world demands another world in which and for which we may live; and this demand is met, in part by a world of intellect, which some men fashion for themselves, in full only by that real other-world, in which we Christians believe. This is the key to the secret of the Saints. Whatever else they were, they were men; eccentric if you like, offensive if you like, fanatical and misguided, but tingling essences of human nature, humanity at its boiling-point. This mere unworldliness could never have produced much less life for this world. It was the acceptance, whole-hearted and unflinching, of the inner truth that made them, and the consequent realization of that other world in which they moved. For that world, accordingly, they lived; living for it, they took this life in their stride; its sweets were only relatively sweet, its barriers were too trifling to hinder them, and while smaller men peep at them to find reasons to condemn, they are staggered by the lives they lived.

Says St. John Chrysostom:

Nothing so wears out a man as to be sodden with the love of things earthly.

Initiation

by
Joseph Mary Plunkett

Our lips can only stammer, yet we chant
   high things of God. We do not hope to praise
   the splendour and the glory of His ways
but we will follow thee, his hierophant
   filling with secret canticles the days
   to shadow forth in symbols for their gaze
what crowns and thrones await His militant.

For all His beauty showered on the earth
   is summed in thee, O thou most perfect flower;
   His dew has filled thy chalice, and His power
blows forth the fragrance of thy mystic worth:

   White blossom of His Tree, behold the hour!
Fear not! Thy fruit is Love's most lovely birth.

Modernism and Catholicism

Second in a Series treating Modernism and Modern Thought
by
Fr. Joseph Bampton, S.J.

James Clerk Maxwell (1831-1879)

There is a striking passage in the life of a great scientist of our own country, Clerk Maxwell. He is known to many of you, I dare say, as a former distinguished Professor of Physics at Cambridge University, and as the great authority on electro-magnetism, and the originator of the electro-magnetic theory of light. He was a scientific man of the first rank, and at the same time a deeply religious man. In the year 1876, the then Anglican Bishop of Gloucester and Bristol - the well known Dr. Ellicott - had occasion to write to Maxwell upon the question of reconciling the teaching of science with the teaching of Genesis, and the answer given by Maxwell in substance amounted to this: People are fond of talking of the latest result of science, when what they mean is often a purely conjectural hypothesis. These hypotheses are constantly changing, and I advise you not to pin your interpretation of Genesis to a conjectural hypothesis of this kind, as the science of 1896 may not agree with the science of 1876. Maxwell's meaning was plain enough. The so-called latest result of science is often only a working theory, good for today, but liable to be rejected tomorrow in favour of one that works better. If the interpretation of Scripture is based upon a working theory of the moment, when that working theory has gone, what becomes of Scripture? Is that to go too? Scientific theories pass, but Holy Scripture remains. Let us be sure that the science we are trying to reconcile with faith is not merely some temporary scientific expedient. That is a caution Modernists would have done well to bear in mind. It might have deterred them from the attempt which we said in our last lecture is made by Modernism to reconcile Catholicism with Kant's theory of knowledge. That attempt we have now to consider.

We have seen something already of what Kant's teaching is. We may remind ourselves now of what Catholic teaching is. We shall then be in a better position to judge of this attempt to harmonise the two. In what I have to say I am not undertaking to prove the truth of the Catholic conception of Christianity; I propose to state it only, and, briefly stated, it comes to this.

It is a fact, an event of history, that God the Son took flesh of a virgin mother, and was made man, the God-Man, Whom we know as Jesus Christ. It is a fact that He first delivered His doctrine by word of mouth to His Apostles, and that they delivered it also by word of mouth to the body of believers. That is Revelation, as Catholics understand it. Revelation, then - observe we are speaking now not of private revelations, like those vouchsafed to prophets under the old law, or to saints under the new, but of public revelation - is something external. In its effect it is of course internal, enlightening the mind within. But in its origin it is from without, transmitted by oral communication from Christ, and from those commissioned to speak in Christ's name: "He that heareth you heareth me." So much as to Revelation.

In the next place, it is a fact that the believers in this Revelation were constituted by Christ Himself into a body which He called the Church. To that Church He gave a form of government which we call hierarchical, that is the sacred rule of the priesthood; a government not democratic, but hierarchical, with Peter and Peter's successors at its head, as supreme teachers of Christ's truth, and supreme rulers with the powers requisite to support their teaching. That is the Church, as Catholics understand it.

Once more, the doctrines which Christ revealed, either directly or through the Church, were in many cases truths superior to reason, beyond the power of reason to discover, and, when discovered by other means, beyond the power of reason to comprehend. It would not be difficult to show that, to believe such supernatural truths as they should be believed, with saving belief, supernatural aid is required. That supernatural aid we call the gift of Faith. Faith, then, is a supernatural gift of God for the acquisition of truth in the supernatural order, just as reason is a natural gift of God for the acquisition of truth in the natural order. That is Faith, as Catholics understand it.

Again, as these supernatural truths of Faith are proposed to me by the Church, if I am to believe at all, I must believe them on the word of God, of course, but on the word of God made known to me by the Church. For, if I want to know a truth, and cannot get to know it by the use of my own reason, and yet the truth is there, there is only one way in which it can be made known to me: somebody must tell me. And Christ has appointed the Church to tell me. But to believe because somebody tells me is to believe on authority. Hence the need of authority in matters of Faith. And that is Church Authority, as Catholics understand it.

Further, if the Church is to tell me these truths so that I may believe them, then the Church must speak plainly. For, if the Church is not clear in her statements, how am I to be clear in my belief? The Church must formulate her doctrine in language clear and definite and precise. And truths so formulated are what are termed Dogmas. That is Dogmatic teaching, as Catholics understand it.

Here we have clear notions upon such points as Revelation, the Church, Faith, Authority, Dogma. And, taken together, these constitute a summary, brief and incomplete, but correct so far as it goes, of Christianity, as Catholics understand it. This, then, is the Catholic conception of Christianity.

Now Modernism undertakes to reconcile Catholic Christianity with modern thought. Well and good. If Modernism is to do that, the Christianity just described is what it has got to reconcile with modern thought. Let us see how Modernism sets about it.

In the first place, the Modernist begins with a philosophical assumption which those who have followed the last lecture will have no difficulty in recognizing. That assumption is that all we know with intellectual knowledge is not reality, but only appearances. Phenomena we know - the Modernist says - but as to things, those we do not know, and cannot. That, as we saw in our last lecture, is the philosophy of Kant, pure and simple. And what follows from this, as was said then, is that we cannot know with intellectual knowledge God and the supernatural. So far the Modernist agrees with Kant. But he agrees with him also in saying that we have another means of reaching God and the supernatural. Kant calls that other means the Practical Reason. The Modernist prefers to call it the "Religious Sentiment", or "Religious Experience". And the Modernist argues in this wise: Man, he says, feels within himself instinctively the need of the Divine. That need of the Divine excites in him a corresponding sentiment, a sentiment described by one of the Modernists as "the ceaseless palpitation of the human soul panting for the Divine" (Buisson). That sentiment is the Religious Sentiment, and is God revealing himself to the soul of the man. Thus considered, that Religious Sentiment is Revelation. Further, the Religious Sentiment unites the soul with God, it is an "inward recognition of God, a response of spirit to spirit" (Tyrrell). Thus considered, the Religious Sentiment is Faith.

Here, then, we have Revelation and Faith, as Modernists understand them, and observe the contrast with the Catholic notions of Revelation and Faith, as just described. In the Catholic sense, Revelation is something external, something that comes to the soul from without, from the oral teaching of Christ and the Church, and Faith is acceptance of that Revelation. In the Modernist sense, Revelation is wholly internal, a psychological experience, and Faith is the soul's response to it. To the Catholic, Revelation is statement, and Faith is belief in the statement made. To the Modernist, Revelation and Faith are experience. To the Catholic, the content of Revelation, which is the object of Faith, is truth addressed to the intelligence. To the Modernist, it is truth addressed to the feelings, to the emotional faculty. That brings religion perilously near to Matthew Arnold's definition of religion: "Morality touched with emotion."

Again - the Modernist proceeds - God, thus apprehended by the religious sentiment, is indwelling, immanent in the soul, and this doctrine of God indwelling in the soul and apprehended as revealing Himself to the soul, not by means of any external teaching, but through the soul's inward experience, is the Modernist doctrine of Vital Immanence. Here we recognize Kant's influence again. It is true that theories of immanence are older than Kant. In one form or another, they are as old as philosophy itself, as old as the Stoics, at least. And there is a theory of immanence which is true. But Kant's was a false theory of immanence, and the Vital Immanence of the Modernists is derived from that.

We have seen what the Modernist understands by Revelation and Faith. They depend upon Vital Immanence, and are reducible to Religious Experience. Now, it is natural that a man should wish to give some account to himself of his religious experience, that he should wish to interpret it to himself, to translate his religious experience into words. And for this purpose his reason begins to work upon his religious sentiment. So the Modernist is able to say that his religion is not a mere matter of sentiment, but of reason as well. The Modernist then brings his reason to bear upon the religious sentiment, and tries to express in language his religious experience. He admits he can do so only in language very vague and indefinite, in terms quite inadequate to express his inner experience - in terms, in fact, little better than symbols of the religious experience within him, symbols that shift and change and need to be modified as his religious experience undergoes modification. These vague and variable statements are what Modernists call Dogma. They are "tentative and provisional formulas" (Tyrrell) Contrast this Dogma of the Modernists with Dogma as understood by the Catholic. To the Catholic, Dogma is something fixed, precise, something stable and immutable; to the Modernist, Dogma is a tentative and provisional formula.

But - the Modernist continues - to the man who believes, it is natural to wish not only to explain his faith to himself, but also to communicate it to others. The Modernist does so by means of the dogmas just described. These dogmas are the outcome of the religious experience of his individual conscience. By communicating these dogmas, he associates his individual conscience with the consciences of others, and this association of individual consciences forms the Collective Conscience. Here we have all the materials ready for the formation of a Church. For people who share in this Collective Conscience are bound together by a spiritual bond of union. It is natural for people so united in thought to form themselves into a society, and that society is the Church, as Modernists understand it, and a Church, with Church authority, for the authority of that Church is the authority of the collective over the individual conscience. That is what Modernists understand by the Church and Church authority. Contrast that with the Catholic conception of the same. The Catholic says the Church was established Christ. The Modernist says the Church is the product of the Collective Conscience. It is true he would add that this Collective Conscience was inspired by "the spirit of Christ living and developing in the life of the faithful collectively" (Tyrrell). Very well; let us put it that way. The Catholic says the Church is established by Christ directly. The Modernist says it is established by Christ indirectly at most, for it is established the Collective Conscience inspired by Christ, or by "faith in Christ" (Loisy). Again, the Catholic says Church authority is centred in the divinely appointed vicar of Christ, Peter and Peter's successors. The Modernist says it is centred in the Collective Conscience. Modernism does not hesitate to say "the entire Christian people is the true and immediate vicar of Christ" (Tyrrell). So the Church, it seems, is not hierarchical, the Church is democratic; democratic in its origin, for it is a product of the Collective Conscience, democratic in its constitution, for its authority is that of the Collective Conscience over the individual.

And thus Modernism has reached its goal. It set out to reconcile Catholicity with the spirit of the age, and it has done so with a vengeance. Democracy is the spirit of the age, and the Modernist has succeeded in reconciling the Church with democracy by proving to his own satisfaction that the Church is democratic in its origin, and democratic in its constitution. Modernism set out to reconcile Catholicity with modern thought, and it has done so after a fashion by interpreting Christianity in terms of Kant. It has adopted Kant's theory of knowledge, that we can know phenomena only. It has adopted Kant's theory of religion, that we cannot apprehend God intellectually, but only by some other method, whether you call it Practical Reason or Religious Experience matters little. And by such means it has succeeded in reconciling Catholicity with modern thought, but at what a cost! At the cost of identifying Catholicity with an unsound system of philosophy; at the cost of revolutionising the very notions of things so fundamental to Christianity as Revelation, Faith, the Church, Church Authority, Dogma; at the cost of turning Christianity topsy-turvy. Modernism is "another gospel which is not another." It is the Gospel according to Kant.