Last Words

[Note: I interrupt my ongoing explorations into today's Christian origins to record my thoughts about other works encountered along the way.]

Jacques Monod was a brilliant microbiologist, one who was present at the very beginning of the explorations that led to the discovery of the role that genes play in the development and evolution of life. Along with his coworkers, he was awarded the Nobel Prize in 1965 for physiology / medicine on account of their elaboration of the mechanisms by which genes are either expressed or repressed in the course of an organism's development.

As detailed in this biography, he was a fierce partisan during the years of the Vichy government's betrayal of France, and played a leading role in the forces of the Resistance movement -- at considerable risk to his own life.

The same book chronicles his lifelong friendship with another Resistance supporter, the Algerian-born Albert Camus, who clandestinely inspired his countrymen through his uplifting editorials published, despite numerous Nazi attempts at suppression, in an underground journal of the French resistance during World War II, called Combat.

Camus and Monod shared in common a philosophy of resistance during a period of of unparalleled oppression. A great number of their colleagues suffered torture and death at the hands of the Nazis, who practiced extreme means of repression based largely upon arbitrary and anonymous sources of information. The Nazis would presume that anyone caught in a compromised situation was deserving of punishment -- mostly summary execution. That stance in return produced a fatalism in the forces of the Resistance that led them to take extreme risks, despite the individual costs to their lives.

Having lived through these arbitrary horrors of invasion, resistance and retaliation at first hand, Monod and Camus came to espouse a philosophy which derived from the existentialism of Jean-Paul Sartre, but which added an element of heroic resistance to the indifferent forces of evil which the latter's philosophy neither explained nor judged. Camus expressed it in this fashion in an editorial he wrote for the underground newspaper Combat on the eve of the day that the Germans surrendered Paris to the invading Allied forces:

Nothing is given to mankind, and what little men can conquer must be paid for with unjust deaths. But man's grandeur lies elsewhere, in his decision to rise above his condition. And if his condition is unjust, he has only one way to overcome it, which is to be just himself. Our truth tonight [August 24, 1944], the truth that hovers in the August sky, is in fact man's consolation. What gives our heart peace, as it gave peace to our dead comrades, is that we can say before the impending victory, without scolding and without pressing any claim of our own, 'We did what had to be done.'

Despite their agreed condemnation of the evils generated by Hitler's Nazism, neither Camus nor Monod had any recourse to Christianity in the responses they undertook. For both of them, life was the product of chance forces that happened to result in reproductive success, without any need for the intervention of a divine mover. As the random outcome of an indeterminate beginning, life had no inherent claim to happiness -- still less any immunity against the forces of evil, which were just as random. Life came by chance alone into the universe in which it found itself, and it was likewise all alone in dealing with whatever it encountered.

Monod's signature work, called (in English) Chance and Necessity, summed up his philosophy: life began on earth by random assembly, over time, of its essential components. Once those were in place, life progressed by the preordained laws of physics, i.e., by necessity. In the face of such an inhuman origin, humans themselves had no claim to any special status. The best they could do was to live out their allotted times in vigorous affirmance of the good that they could manage to discover and enjoy, and in equally determined resistance to the evil that inevitably they would encounter along the way.

Life, in short, for both Camus and Monod, was a one-shot experience, which in the end amounted to nothing other than what the individual could manage to salvage from it through heroic acts of resistance to evil, and support and affirmation of anything that was good. If the situation called for self-sacrifice, so be it, but there was no hope of any reward beyond; to believe that was to subscribe to fairy tales.

There is thus an inherent self-contradiction in the existentialist philosophy as lived by both Camus and Sartre. Noble, self-sacrificing deeds are to be praised and admired, but only by one's fellow humans, who will soon pass out of existence -- along with any human memory of those noble deeds. So why admire them, if in the end they will count for nothing? For Camus and (probably also, although not expressly) for Monod, this was the great paradox of existence: life counted for nothing, except what the individual made of it -- and even then, no matter what the individual did, it still came to nothing.

As Camus said of a character in his novel The Stranger, Meursault laid his "heart open to the benign indifference of the universe." Likewise, the eternally tormented Sisyphus (in The Myth of Sisyphus) was one to whom "this universe without a master seems . . . neither sterile nor futile."  And for Monod, despite our existence in a world enlightened by the discoveries of science, there is no outside source of meanings or values: "[man] alone creates, determines and shapes them."

All his professional life, Jacques Monod worked at the Pasteur Institute in Paris, and his great achievements reflected back on that noble institution, founded by the great Louis Pasteur himself. Toward the end of his life, he assumed its directorship, and strove to advance the goals he believed that Pasteur embodied, as he laid them out in a speech celebrating Pasteur's 150th birthday in 1973:

Where does genius come from? Often we are contented with attributing it to a unique, exceptional, and mysterious resource of mind. On the contrary, in the case of Pasteur, we see clearly that the power of his genius comes from multiple sources . . . . He was ambitious and dominating and would be satisfied only with real and complete victories.  He was rigorous and demanding toward himself. At the same time he would spare no efforts to be severe and disciplined.

Monod could have applied these same words to some of his colleagues in the French Resistance. They definitely defined his outlook on life, and led to his lifelong friendship with Camus.

What is missing in all this description of the lives of Monod and Camus is any element of the Catholic religion, which was omnipresent in France before the Second World War, but whose respect and prestige suffered greatly as a result of the tribulations to which the French were subjected during the Nazi occupation and collaboration, thanks to the betrayal of the country by its most respected leaders. Both Camus and Monod were staunchly agnostic, if not atheist, and their wartime experiences with Nazi brutality served only to strengthen their resistance to religion of any kind.  For Monod, the scientist who believed that all life resulted from chance, God was an entirely unnecessary hypothesis.

The result was that both Camus and Monod developed their philosophies as limited to what man could accomplish alone. God was neither a help nor a comfort in all the afflictions they went through in the 1940s. Rather, He was a useless fabrication handed down by earlier generations -- a fantasy in which no rational person of their age could put any trust. Indeed, the very brutality of the war itself was evidence against the existence of a benign Creator God, who could allow such bestiality to occur.

Albert Camus died in an unfortunate automobile accident on his way back to Paris in January 1960. No one witnessed his death, which was instantaneous. But Jacques Monod, following the death of his wife and lifelong love Odette from cancer in 1972, died himself in a hospital in Cannes in May 1976, with his brother and cardiologist in attendance. The author of Brave Genius interviewed those to whom Monod's brother related his last words, and reported:

Philo [Monod's brother] heard his brother say very faintly between breaths, "Odette . . . Pasteur . . ." Then, after a pause, Monod said "Je cherche à comprendre" ("I am trying to understand"), and never regained consciousness.

I have looked up a number of accounts of Monod's death on the Internet, of which this one is typical. Significantly, while all recount his statement "I am trying to understand", none of the online accounts mentions his addressing two of the most important individuals in his life just before he uttered those last words. Considered in context, they amount to a touching description of one who was taken by pleasant surprise to learn just what one encounters after death.

Odette and Jacques Monod married in 1938; she bore him two sons, and they were married for 34 years. She was Jewish, and he had to hide her from the Germans under a disguised identity; while away on Resistance business, he wrote to her almost every day.

Louis Pasteur, on the other hand, had died in 1895, fifteen years before Monod was born. Yet Monod's lifelong association with the Pasteur Institute, and his succession to its directorship, is a sufficient basis upon which to surmise that he closely identified with that archetypal figure of French science.

It is thus tellingly significant that as the proudly agnostic Monod drew his last breaths, he appeared to be comforted (indeed, welcomed?) by two of the figures most important to him, who had preceded him in death.

The book Brave Genius was a stimulating account of two intertwined lives that rose above the desultory circumstances into which they were born. I was thus pained to read how Monod and Camus each prided himself on his reliance on nothing more substantial than puny, solitary man, and did his level best to make do with that restricted philosophy. Notwithstanding their own imposed self-handicap, they led heroic lives, in which each was prepared to sacrifice all so that the Resistance to which they belonged could survive to fight the evil forces that occupied their country.

I am hopeful that the account of Monod's last moments evidences a greater reality than either of them ever suspected or imagined while alive, but to which instinctively they gave their unknowing best here on earth.

From Doubt to Certainty: Luther's Transformation

Despite all the tumult and clamor, the year 2017 did not mark the "500th anniversary" of the Reformation movement begun by Martin Luther. At most, it marked the 500th year after Luther sent off his Ninety-five Theses to the Archbishop of Mainz, to protest the manner in which indulgences were being offered and awarded under that eminence's authority.

(As Richard Rex shows in the opening pages of his recent work, The Making of Martin Luther, the notorious incident of Luther's nailing the theses to the wooden doors of the Castle Church at Wittenberg on All Hallows' Eve of 1517 is in all probability a myth that was loosely fabricated, just after Luther died, by his colleague Philipp Melanchthon. Its vividness has gripped the popular imagination ever since, but it never happened in that way in 1517. Instead of posting them publicly, Luther quietly mailed his theses, and a fawning covering letter, to Archbishop Albrecht of Mainz, who in due course referred them to the local university for advice. They did not see print, translation (from Latin into German), and wider circulation until January 1518.)

As noted, the Ninety-five Theses were directed against the offer and award of indulgences, which in Luther's case had been authorized by Pope Leo X and (in his territory) Archbishop Albrecht for contributions made toward the cost of building the massive edifice that would become St. Peter's Basilica in Rome. Ironically, Luther's own sovereign, the Elector Frederick, did not authorize them in his territory of Wittenberg, due to the fact that he already enjoyed a steady stream of pilgrims coming to view the huge collection of saints' relics he had amassed over the years, and did not want to contribute in any way to a lessening of that trade.

Indulgences had developed in the Middle Ages as a means of remitting the temporal penalties due on account of a Christian's sins committed after baptism (which wiped the slate clean as of that point, so to speak, but could do nothing about a Christian's subsequent falls from grace). These penalties were imposed as part of the Catholic rite of penance, and in the Middle Ages involved harsh fasting and mortification of the flesh.

At the beginning of the second millennium, indulgences were offered as an inducement to undertake the perilous pilgrimage to Jerusalem (whether as a Crusader or otherwise), from which many did not return. Later, they expanded to cover still other charitable acts, and could be applied by the living to shorten the time in Purgatory of those already dead. The notion of their being "sold" derived from their use to pay the cost of building St. Peter's -- technically, the money went in as a "contribution", and the indulgence was granted in order to induce the contribution. The Catholic Church still offers indulgences today for certain penitential acts and attendance at special masses.

Thus, it is fascinating to note that in 1517, Martin Luther's chief complaint about transactions in indulgences was that the faithful were being deceived into believing that they could "purchase" an assured salvation, simply by acquiring enough indulgences. Take a look at these selections from Luther's 95:

23. If remission of all penalties whatsoever could be granted to anyone at all, certainly it would be granted only to the most perfect, that is, to very few.

24. For this reason most people are necessarily deceived by that indiscriminate and high-sounding promise of release from penalty.

27. They preach only human doctrines who say that as soon as the money clinks into the money chest, the soul flies out of purgatory.

30. No one is sure of the integrity of his own contrition, much less of having received plenary remission.

32. Those who believe that they can be certain of their salvation because they have indulgence letters will be eternally damned, together with their teachers.

33. Men must especially be on guard against those who say that the pope's pardons are that inestimable gift of God by which man is reconciled to him.

Luther thus was railing against the notion that a sinner's salvation could be assured, i.e., made certain in this life, by acquiring enough indulgences. As he added, in his cover letter to Archbishop Albrecht:

For a human being does not attain security about salvation through any episcopal function, since a person does not even become secure through the infused grace of God. But instead the Apostle [Paul] orders us constantly to “work out our salvation in fear and trembling.” “It is hard for the righteous to be saved.” Furthermore, “the way is [so] narrow that leads to life,” that the Lord through the prophets Amos and Zechariah calls those who will be saved “a brand plucked from the fire.” The Lord, too, announces the difficulty of salvation everywhere. How then can the [indulgence preachers] make the people secure and unafraid through those false tales and promises linked to indulgences...?  

When most people speak of Luther's "Reformation", they refer to the promulgation of his doctrine of "justification through faith alone." Again, however, it is necessary to observe (again, as shown superbly in chapter 4 of Prof. Rex's book linked above) that Luther knew nothing of any such doctrine in 1517. Its first glimmerings appear in his writings in 1518. And it is in the uncovering of Luther's development of that doctrine that the real truths behind the Reformation emerge.

Note, first of all, the paradox in Luther's doctrine compared to his criticism of indulgences. If one can be saved by faith alone, then there is a path to assured salvation in this life by the believer's making certain of his genuine (and repentant) faith in Jesus Christ. Nothing more, according to Luther, is required.

Yet not even the Pope himself, again according to Luther (see above), could assure anyone in this world of salvation by the Pope's plenary power (the keys given to Peter by Christ -- see Mt. 16:19) to remit sins here on earth.

Thus Luther went from criticizing a "get-out-of-jail-free" card offered by the pope for contributions to offering one of his own, which required nothing more than the believer's sincere confession of faith -- and all this in the space of one year. What happened to cause such a "revolution"?

The details are carefully and painstakingly compiled in chapter 4 of Professor Rex's book. In general, Luther by 1517 had become an extremely insecure and anxious Augustine monk, for whom no amount of self-mortification, fasting, or other harsh penances performed to restore him to grace after confession could prevent him from sinning again (and needing to go through penance once more). A redoubling of his efforts left him exhausted and just as depressed and uncertain as before; his confessor encouraged him to let go of his guilt and "love God."

Then, at some point in the Lenten season of 1518, Luther had his famous revelation ("in cloaca" -- presumably, while sitting in the privy) based on his re-reading of Romans 1:17: ". . . [T]he just [righteous] one shall gain life [be preserved] because of his faithfulness" (quoting Hab. 2:4). He then developed his famous doctrine out of the following syllogism:

A. Christ Himself promised that "the one who believes and is baptized will be saved, but the one who does not believe will be condemned" (Mt. 16:15).

B. Christ's promises are as certain as certain can be, because He is God.

C. Therefore, the only thing a sinner needs to be certain of enjoying the fruits of Christ's promise is an abiding faith in Him.

From this point forward, Luther insisted that to doubt this doctrine was to disbelieve in Christ, and in the certainty of His promise, so that the very act of doubting would prevent the faithful believer from achieving salvation. For example, before his transformation, Luther in his Lectures on Romans  (1515-16) had cited the traditional text against the certainty of knowing salvation here on earth, Eccles. 9:1, and had acknowledged Aquinas' conclusion that in accordance with this text, "no one can know whether they possess justifying grace" (Summa Theologiae, 1a 2ae q. 112, art. 5).

But in 1518, he wrote, in his lectures on Hebrews (comment on Heb. 9:24):

[One must] treat with the utmost caution the opinion of those who apply this text [Eccles. 9:1] ... to the circumstances of the present moment so as to make people uncertain about the mercy of God and faith in salvation. For this is to overthrow completely Christ and His faith. 

According to Luther, before Christ came and made his promise as stated in Mt. 16:15, the sinner could abide only in the ambiguous uncertainty afforded by the Preacher in Ecclesiastes 9:1, and hence was doomed to be always in doubt. But after Christ's appearance on earth, there could no longer be any basis for uncertainty on the part of the believer, since Christ (corroborated by Paul) had promised salvation to everyone who believed in Him. Any such uncertainty made one unworthy of confessing his sins (uncertainty meant the Christian had doubt as to whether his confession and the priest's absolution could effectively operate to remit his sins), and thus disabled the doubting sinner from being the recipient of God's grace through his faith in Christ, as promised by Christ Himself.

For Luther after 1518, faith in Jesus Christ alone made certain the sinner's justification (being declared righteous before God), while any doubt that one could be so justified constituted a betrayal of Christ's solemn promise, and hence was a form of blasphemy. (There is much more detail on this point in ch. 4 of Prof. Rex's book; see also his own "95 Theses", posted here.) This severe, but very bright, line placed Luther on a collision course with the Church in which he both received and taught his faith. And when it led inevitably (due to Luther's intractability, and proclivity for hurling invective at his opponents, both Catholics and otherwise) to his excommunication from the Catholic Church, it sealed the fate both of that Church and of the millions who ever since have trusted Luther to show the way to salvation.

There is much more to be said about Luther's doctrine of salvation through faith alone. Notice, for example, that Christ in Mt. 16:15 made faith in Him a necessary, but not expressly a sufficient, criterion for the sinner to be saved. Christ affirmed was that it was essential for a sinner to place his belief (trust) in Christ to be saved -- so much is undeniable -- but He nowhere asserted that a sinner could be saved on the basis of his trusting faith alone. (Compare John 3:16, as well as numerous other passages in Paul, to the same effect.)

It was Luther -- seeking any plausible way out of his depression and anxiety over what he could do to be saved -- who read the word "sola" (alone) into the text of Matthew. In doing so, he transformed a necessary condition for salvation into an ostensibly sufficient one, and changed the course of religious history ever since. For who can be the judge (in this life) of sola fide in a believer, but that believer himself?

And thereon hangs another entire chapter of the Lutheran "Reformation". In order to put that chapter into context, it will first be necessary to examine a question which has been the topic of much recent scholarship: namely, whose faith is it that is a criterion for salvation according to St. Paul? Did St. Paul teach that it was the faith of the sinner in Christ that operated to save him, or did he mean that it was Christ's faithfulness to God's will that established the necessary precursor to everyone's salvation? That will be the topic I will take up in my next post.

Reformations and Transformations

A new year calls for a reassessment of one's direction. If it is -- nay, if it even appears -- unsatisfactory, the first month of the new year is the time to change it.

As readers here may have gathered, my enthusiasm for the topics formerly covered on this blog has waned markedly. The reason is also, I trust, equally apparent: this Curmudgeon finds no Schadenfreude in the decline of the West in general, or of America and her mainstream churches in particular. The road to perdition has been so well traveled over the centuries that chronicling its latest lost wayfarers engenders nothing new under the sun, no new lessons to instruct, no new dangers to warn against, and no new means of slowing or countering the decline. People who are fallen continue to fall, regardless, and there is nothing uplifting to observing (or reporting) man's never-ending attempts to replace, or to do without, God.

Indeed, to focus on man's efforts to "progress" is to look through the wrong end of the telescope. The concept itself is an illusion: thus an ant that crawls around and around on a giant sphere might be imagined to be driven by the notion that it is making "progress", i.e., getting somewhere. From the ant's limited grasp of the situation, it has indeed gone at one stage from point A to point B on the surface of the sphere. What it is incapable of perceiving, from its surface-bound perspective, is that both A and B are nothing more than points on a great circle that returns always to the point of "beginning", wherever that might be said to be.

Similarly, man with all his scientific instruments extends his reach through the physical universe farther and farther every year, but what he sees is what his instruments feed back to him -- which is something very dim at first. Then as the details grow sharper, he finally realizes that what is being reflected is the image of his own face, staring back at him from a mirror. Until he can enlarge his perspective to encompass the idea of things which he cannot see directly, he can discover, no matter how far he "sees," only himself.

For the new year, therefore, I resolve no longer to dwell upon (or complain about) events, institutions and people who illustrate, serve, or advocate that we (mankind) can do it all by ourselves. Such a misguided notion blinds us to the necessary humility occasioned by a proper and due respect for the unarguable (and highly uncomfortable, to many) realization that we are not here alone.

To the contrary: we are (and will be held) accountable to our Creator -- because the only alternative is to conclude that God's only son was either a liar or a madman, that his horrific death upon the cross was just another pointless act of man's unspeakable cruelty to man, and that all worship of the divine  is in vain. Those who have read my previous posts on the evidence that history and science offer in support of a divine Creator know that I reject that alternative as far more unlikely than the probability that Jesus was exactly who he said he was.

I speak as one who has been left behind by what I used to think of as a church to which I belonged, but which now I can no longer recognize. Its actions over the past forty years, as catalogued on this site, have become more and more un-Christian, to the point of suing innocent vestry members in court for punitive damages, worshipping Mammon more than Christ, and embracing abortion as a "holy sacrament." Most recently, it has adopted rites of same-sex "marriage" that openly and unashamedly liken such a relationship to that between Christ and his church. The rites have been provisional until now, but soon will become official and then later mandatory -- an episcopally sanctioned blasphemy that renders the denomination's entire purpose and function in this world null and void.

Looking back, I know how we got here: by focusing on man's needs and inclinations to the exclusion of God. Thus was it ever in the Church's history. Yet as G. K. Chesterton observed in The Everlasting Man (an ironic title, if ever there was one):

Christendom has had a series of revolutions and in each one of them Christianity has died. Christianity has died many times and risen again; for it had a God who knew the way out of the grave. But the first extraordinary fact which marks this history is this: that Europe has been turned upside down over and over again; and that at the end of each of these revolutions the same religion has again been found on top. The Faith is always converting the age, not as an old religion but as a new religion.

This passage places the emphasis on where I want to be over the coming year: taking courage from the resiliency of God's church, and not carping on the shortcomings of man's attempts to replace it. As I continue my search for a way to worship Him as I was taught so long ago, I have undertaken a study of where things went wrong, and why. Since this is the 500th anniversary of the start of the various Protestant Reformations, I began my study with Martin Luther's break with the church in which he grew up, and have branched out, forwards and backwards in history, from there.

I have no inkling, as yet, where this study will bring me out. But I think I could do worse on this blog than share with readers what I am learning as I make my way through it. At the very least, it promises fare that is more healthy and appetizing than what daily assaults each of us in the various media.

With the next post, therefore, we will start to try to understand the steps that led a theretofore faithful (but insecure) Augustinian friar to conclude that the Church in which he had both learned and taught had become one in which he could no longer discern a secure path to salvation.