Faith and Reason

It had been awhile since I read Pope John Paul II's encyclical on the relationship between faith and reason, Fides et Ratio (1998).  Praying my way through it again, I came across a series of passages sprinkled with pithy observations that I wanted to share.

While discussing each man's journey in search of the truth, the Pope writes that "all human beings desire to know, and truth is the proper object of this desire."  (FR, 25)  We reject falsity to the extent that we identify it, and feel rewarded when we discover truth.

"It is this that St. Augustine teaches when he writes: 'I have met many who want to deceive, but none who wanted to be deceived'." (FR, 25) Isn't that the truth?

Moreover, people seek a truth that is universal--true for all people and at all times--an absolute--something ultimate, which might serve as grounding to give meaning, an answer, to their search.  Every person anchors his existence in a truth recognized as final.

About the object of man's search he says "hypotheses may fascinate, but they do not satisfy." (FR, 27).  Consequently, he believes it "unthinkable that a search so deeply rooted in human nature would be completely vain and useless." (FR, 29)

Many people would dismiss that view, or at least profess to.  Some would even scoff at it.

One such daredevil was Aldous Huxley, who in referring to his generation of the 1920's and 30's wrote:

For myself, as, no doubt, for most of my contemporaries, the philosophy of meaninglessness was essentially an instrument of liberation.  The liberation we desired was simultaneously liberation from a certain political and economic system and liberation from a certain system of morality.  We objected to the morality because it interfered with our sexual freedom; we objected to the political and economic system because it was unjust.  The supporters of these systems claimed that in some way they embodied the meaning (a Christian meaning, they insisted) of the world.  There was an admirably simple method of confuting these people and at the same time justifying ourselves in our political and erotic revolt: we could deny that the world had any meaning whatsoever.  Similar tactics had been adopted during the eighteenth century and for the same reasons." Ends and Means (London: 1951), 273.

That passage and what follows in Huxley's text is an astonishing admission for its candor.  Then, as now, as always, the blithe assertion that there is no meaning--and, by implication, no truth--is rooted in libidinous libertinism, and rebellion.

As Lucifer might have said: "It would be meaningless to serve."

Despite my deep appreciation for "Brave New World," the reason that I've come around to John Paul II's way of seeing things, and rejected Huxley's, is that there is no sense to his position.  Like all Lefties, he undercuts the very ground he stands on.

If everything is meaningless, if there is no truthful meaning to things, what can he possibly mean by objecting to a political and economic system because it is "unjust."  What could a word like that mean without reference to a fixed truth about men and their relations?  Shouldn't he rather have said that it didn't suit his preferences, or that he personally found it distasteful.

Presumably, the plight of a starving urchin should lay no more claim on a person's morals  than his stomach can bear.  Huxley would even be left without a response--an intellectually grounded response--should one relish in such a spectacle.

Several things freed my mind from Leftist doggerel, including disillusionment with its intellectual dishonesty.  Any means to the end of upsetting the received order could be, and was, justified.

Deconstruction is a nihilist's apologetics.  Once he has leveled opposing beliefs by sophistical refutation, there is none matching his passion (nor anyone equally lacking in integrity) to submit his beliefs to his methods.

It takes courage to profess absolute truth in this intellectual milieu, and John Paul II had plenty of that.  Conversely, any coward can proclaim that "there is no truth," when he really means "except my truth, which you'll never get to question."

Alan Bloom called the condition of these cheerful prophets of meaninglessness "nihilism without the abyss."  Personally, I find their hypothesis fascinating, but disingenuous, and ultimately unsatisfying.

Lilies of the Field (1963)

No-family enjoyed another of its favorite movies this weekend, "Lilies of the Field" starring Sidney Poitier and Lilla Skalla.  

Poitier plays Homer Smith, a handyman drifter whose station wagon is his magic carpet and whose domain is the world.  Driving through Arizona, he stops for radiator water at a desolate farm in Arizona, which turns out to be the convent of a group of eastern European sisters.

Mother Superior (Maria), played by Skalla is a battle-axe nun in the pre-Vatican-II mold: extremely high on the faith and endurance scales; extremely low on the social grace and gratitude scales.  The nuns barely speak English.  

Homer's grand adventure begins when Mother Maria identifies him as the answer to her prayers.  She's asked for God to send her a strong man to build them a chapel.  His good nature and humor make him a perfect dupe.  But, for whom?  Mother Superior, or God?

You feel badly for Smith as he gets sucked into Mother Superiors schemes, and badly for  her (them) when he walks out or stands on his rights as a man owed his due.  They are made for each other; they need each other in providential ways; they do God's will through their struggles against each other's wills.

The movie's most famous artifact is the "Amen" song that too many Catholics have had to endure in too many churches for too many decades.  Nevertheless, it's fresh in this scene, which is more-or-less repeated, quite meaningfully, at the end.  This feeling-it Baptist shows these buttoned-up Romans a thing or two about sacred music.  And, they dig it.

In this scene, Smith, having come to grips with his aversions, insists on undertaking the project on his own despite others desire to help him.  His commitment drags them out of incredulity into Mother Superior's dreams, but he doesn't want to share the task with anyone.

This movie works for a number of reasons.  First, Poitier is a magical actor.  He could invoke more pathos with one facial expression than most contemporary actors can with 100 grunts and emotional conundrums.  Secondly, the interplay of Mother Maria, Smith, the nuns, and the Mexican town folk is precious.  Thirdly, it is a story of profound faith, mysterious providence, human frailty and divine strength.

A YouTube commenter left the following illuminating tidbit:

This movie was made is three weeks, with almost no budget, and no sets. The director saved money by casting himself in the part of "Mr. Ashton." Poitier agreed to do the project for no money, but a return on ticket sales. He won an Oscar for this performance, instead.

There's a character for every disposition in this film: the carefree soul who revels in his capability and freedom; the strong-willed autocrat who doesn't know the meaning of the words "give it up," "enough" or "thank you"; the pure and trusting souls who live in obedience and the grace of state; the pious and humble people for whom the souls of their children mean more than all the riches of the world; the skeptics whose grasp of the practical leaves little-to-nothing to reach towards heaven with; the fallen for whom things have not turned out as they bargained.  All are saved, just as we would hope for in reality.

For Noman's money, this is nearly a perfect film.  It makes you laugh, cry, squirm and, most importantly, contemplate the mysterious ways of God who writes prose with the leg of a table just to let everyone know who the author is.