CH 6
Untitled Document

CHAPTER SIX







BEYOND THE POLITICS OF RANCOR I



The Varieties of Personal Renovation





Two of the preceding chapters have ended with a reference to a poem by Gerard Manley Hopkins. It is more than mere symmetry that suggests that this chapter should begin with another of his poems, "Andromeda," since it was written during the year after the election of Leo XIII, and reflects Hopkins in a bleak visionary mood as well as, possibly, a mood prevalent among some European Catholics after the long reign of Pius IX. Andromeda represents the church, founded on the rock of Peter, still sacred but bearing the scars of the past: "Now Time's Andromeda on this rock rude, / With not her either beauty's equal or / Her injury's.... Time past she has been attempted and pursued / By many blows and banes." The poem then briefly becomes apocalyptic in its description of future "blows" that are almost catastrophic in their violence: "A wilder beast from West than all were, more / Rife in her wrongs, more lawless, and more lewd." ("Lewd" has the sense of vulgate ignorance, and the reference is probably to the ravages of "laicism"--laïcité cognate of "lewd"--then emerging in France, and much bemoaned as the real "heresy of heresies" both before and after the Modernist crisis.) (85) The poem concludes with a depiction of the Church during this in-between phase as it awaits "her Perseus," Christ: "All while her patience, morselled into pangs, / Mounts." There is no clear relationship to actual historical events save what can be gleaned from chronological coincidence; but the plain lesson is, as in "The Leaden Echo and the Golden Echo," patient perseverance in the face of personal or religious devastation. It is the lesson of Häring's "hope, after close inspection of the whole picture, for a new synthesis."

But in the nineteenth century a counsel of patience would not have satisfied either the unyielding papal party intent on enforcing the triumphalist might of ecclesiastical conformity and rigidity, or the schismatic Old Catholics embittered by the collapse of a church which they believed only their notion of conciliarism could salvage--and from whom little since has been

heard.(86) The historical upshot is simply that the ultramontanists of the nineteenth century begot in the twentieth, the neo-Montanists, who in turn have spawned querulous twins--like Girardian rivals. On the right the sanctimonious "First Thingers," e.g., McInerney and Neuhaus, and on the left, the vehement "last enders," e.g., Wills and Carroll: both extremes virulently impatient with the center.(87) The process has been sketched by Bernard Lonergan in less adversarial terms:(88)

There is bound to be formed a solid right that is determined to live in a world that no longer exists. There is bound to be formed a scattered left, captivated by now this now that new development, exploring now this and now that new possibility. But what will count is a perhaps not numerous center, big enough to be at home in both the old and the new, painstaking enough to work out one by one the transitions to be made, strong enough to refuse half-measures and insist on complete solutions even though it has to wait.





I

How the center reacts is brought out in the following historical "parable." Well over a century and a half ago, Abbé de Lamennais, traveling back from Rome where his democratic views had been condemned by the highest ecclesiastical authorities stopped in Munich to meet with a then relatively unknown priest-historian, Ignaz von Döllinger, whom we have encountered in the treatment of the first Vatican Council. De Lamennais then continued on to Paris and shortly after wrote Les Paroles d'un croyant, a book in which he described a satanic conclave assembled to uproot "religion, science, and thought," and to destroy "Christ Who has restored liberty to the world." The allegory was transparently antipapal and anticurial, and the book was condemned by Gregory XVI as being "tiny in size but immense in perversity," and its author, who had been offered a cardinal's biretta and characterized by one of Gregory's predecessors as "the last of the Fathers," was gradually "hounded out of the Church" to use Wilfrid Ward's phrase. (89)

Around this time a young Anglican cleric in a bitter polemic entitled, "The Fall of M.

De La Mennais," attacked the Abbé for seeming to "believe in the existence of certain indefeasible rights of man." And in an even more reactionary tone, the young Newman wrote: "Hence he is able to draw close to the democratical party of the day; in that very point in which they most resemble antichrist; and by a strange combination takes for the motto of his L'Avenir, 'Dieu et la Liberté'." Nearly half a century later this same cleric, who only gradually came to realize that de Lamennais had been doing "a service to religion," also planned on stopping in Munich on his way back from Rome where he had been raised to the cardinalate, and he too intended to meet with Dr. Döllinger. (90) Cardinal Newman hoped, among other things, to persuade to Döllinger accept the Vatican decrees. But Newman's intention, as we know, was never fulfilled, and like Döllinger de Lamennais before him, died an outcast from the Church. Both Döllinger and de Lamennais were men born out of due time. For if a doctrine of collegiality, such as that which Vatican II adumbrated, had been proclaimed in 1870 there would have been no "defection" by Döllinger. If the principle of freedom of conscience proclaimed at the Council had been tolerated by churchmen in the early nineteenth century, there would have been no tragedy of de Lamennais.

But there is a lesson even in de Lamennais' failure. His severest modern critic and one of the most learned religious analysts of that historical era is Alexander Dru who sees him as one of the terribles simplificateurs: "It should be remembered that no one reads de Lamennais unless they have to: there is no future in it. His philosophy is admittedly worthless, his theology non-existent, his spiritual writings painfully mediocre." But this strongly negative critique begins with the words: "What was wanting in the most powerful religious leader which France produced can be felt immediately at the mention of the names of Möhler, Baader, Newman, and Kierkegaard."(91) But with those representing the standard, few religious leaders of the century could meet it, much less exceed it. It was of de Lamennais among others that Acton was writing when (proleptic of our time) he wrote of French speculative theorists: "If one puts their thoughts into one's own [English] language, little remains."(92) But he had in mind specifically the Essay on Indifference, a de Maistrean "traditionalist" work, of admitted historical and theological irrelevance even a few decades after it was written. But it should be noted that contemporary humanists, such as Waldemar Gurian and Kenneth Rexroth, are much less critical than were Acton or Dru.

Notwithstanding de Lamennais' evident failings as a speculative thinker and, notwithstanding his occasionally erratic personal conduct--though we have learned to live with tempestuous popes--there is his undeniable sincerity and steadfastness in the service of the poor, qualities which even so detached an observer as Disraeli recognized.(93) Moreover, he does offer two, seemingly opposed, lessons in his life and works. First, he provides to present-day European and North American Catholicism, which is currently preoccupied with various notions of "reform" both radical and gradual, a kind of negative criterion; indeed, a model of what a genuine reformer in Europe and North America cannot be.

Quite simply his vision, unlike that, say, of Newman was too tied to his own historical era and circumstances. Thus he could see nothing save in the light of church and politics, of religion--in its strictly ecclesiastical sense--and society. Any such restriction, any such simplistic dichotomy has to erode the ground of solid reform. But the implications of this crude duality are more significant for twentieth-century European and North American Catholics than they were for de Lamennais' contemporaries. If, as in our time, all the evils of militarism, of patriarchal imperialism, of individual or group neurosis, of rampant sexual abuse, of racial hatred: or if (to use Rahner's ironic terms) in our time all the evils committed in the "name of good order, national pride, the good of the country,...theology and philosophy, beauty and symmetry--really everything on the face of the earth" are related to some alleged failing of the institutional church, we are victims of the same time-constricted distortions that led to the Mennasian lack of perspective; and without any of the exonerating factors that even today allow us to vindicate much of what de Lamennais stood for. (94) Geometry built Chartres. There is more to the renovation of European and North American society than any mere ecclesiastical system can proffer, and more to the degradation of that society than can be laid at the door of the churches (But de Lamennais does have a second and affirmative lesson for twentieth-century Catholicism that I will consider shortly.)

There are many morals to be drawn from this opening historical narrative, not the least of which is that the second Vatican Council should not be praised too extravagantly for having embraced the age of reason, for endorsing views, e.g., the decree on religious liberty, which have largely been commonplaces for over two centuries among the creators and heirs of the Enlightenment--even though (I note yet once again) the latter has been much disparaged by critical theorists and postmodernists. But the more immediately relevant lesson of this historical parable has to do with the manner in which de Lamennais, Döllinger, and Newman responded to the encroachments of an abusive ecclesiastical authority

No theme runs more constantly through Newman's Catholic years than that of the need for bringing sure truths into line with historical conditions--one of those conditions being in Newman's own time an indisposition on the part of Pio Nono and the ultramontanist party to accept even the surest of truths. Faced by the condemnation of some of his most deeply held Catholic convictions, Newman could have continued to press his claims. That he didn't was not a matter of expediency, was not a mere tactical maneuver, but was the result of a conviction that once he had borne his witness as vigorously as possible it was not for him to attempt to force circumstances, to attempt to bend the times to his own will: "...and that having said my say, time will decide for me, without my trouble, how far it was true, and how far not true."(95) It is generally and correctly assumed that Newman was one of the "kings of modern thought" Matthew Arnold referred to when he wrote in "Stanzas from the Grande Chartreuse:

Silent they are, though not content,

And wait to see the future come.

They have the grief man had of yore,

But they contend and cry no more.

The future would appear to have sided with Newman when he was named a cardinal a quarter of a century after Arnold wrote. But before explaining why it only appeared so, I want to turn briefly to the institution of the cardinalate itself. ;Ours is not the first epoch in the history of the church when even dedicated reformers have advocated the elimination of the office of cardinal. "We could do without cardinals altogether," says Bernard Häring in My Hope for the Church. But an office with a millennium of history is not lightly to be dissolved. Even though its official role has only been the election and occasional counseling of a pope, there remains a place for an institution that honors the highest order of Catholic temporal achievement-- particularly if that institution were open to lay persons (as it once was) as well as clerics of both genders (as it will no doubt be in the future). If nothing more, it represents the simple sociological phenomenon of rightful ambition fulfilled that was discussed at the end of the previous chapter. But it also has an important symbolic significance both in the church and in the larger world. In the nineteenth century if de Lamennais had been made a cardinal as Leo XII originally sought, or if Rosmini had been made one as was Pius IX's early intent, their history, and possibly that of the church and the political order, would have been drastically different. (96) In the twentieth century it seems certain that if Newman had not been raised to the cardinalate, he would have been condemned in the anti-Modernist purge of Pius X. After Vatican II, Patriarch Maximos IV, one of the leading progressive prelates at the council, and a vocal defender of the priority of the patriarchate over the cardinalate, shocked his brother patriarchs by accepting the purple. But what looked briefly like a betrayal of ancient tradition, resulted in his having a greater influence in the universal church.(97)

More recently there has proved to be no more effective means of repairing bruised reputations or recognizing admirable services than being raised to the cardinalate, as with de Lubac (whose original rejection led to the elevation of Daniélou), Congar, von Balthasar, and Dulles-or, it should be mentioned, as an effective means for submerging eminence abused, as with the purpurate "defrocking"of Billot for persistence in supporting the Action Française. As for papal elections, they will certainly at some point in the future be opened to representatives of major Catholic bodies whether lay or clerical as well as national and international.

And herein lies a lesson about the temporal record-Newman's "future"--which relates to the "personal" and that record as it relates to the "historical." Abbé Bremond in his early study of what he called "the psychology" of Newman regretted that Dr. Newman of Birmingham (98) had accepted the red hat and thus gone down in a blaze of scarlet. But for Newman personally it was the final "lifting of the cloud" that he believed had hovered over him since his conversion. So much for the personal record--which Bremond would be more cognizant of after his own scurrying to attain his "fauteuil," and thus seemingly to transcend time among the "forty immortals" of the French Academy. But in the record as it relates to the "historical," Newman was again under a cloud with Pius X, and oscillatingly tolerated and forborne under later popes, only to be finally rehabilitated under John Paul II. The paradox here is that "personal" time is closed and definitive, historical time is ever-changing like the church it measures. As Pius XII said of the latter: "The mystical body of Christ, like the members who constitute it, does not muffle itself in the abstract, outside the fluctuations of space and time."

Another lesson of that opening parable is its illustration of the fact that the "patience" extolled in Hopkins' sonnet or in Lonergan's observation is not a matter of supine acquiescence, but of creative tension between ecclesiastical authority and its critics and occasional victims. The nature of this tension is described by Cardinal Congar in his suppressed Vraie et fausse Réforme dans l'Eglise when he speaks of the two levels of fidelity: "Fidelity to the Christian reality may be a fidelity to the state actually attained, to the forms here and now established of this reality: in brief a fidelity to its present. It may also be a fidelity to its future, which is the equivalent of a fidelity to its principle." He then adds that "there is a communication, a continuity, and therefore a harmony" between these two fidelities. But a harmony that entails what is a dominant note in Baron von Hügel's work, a "friction," that in turn entails a struggle towards resolution.

II

If there is anything that our nineteenth-century forebears offer to the twentieth century, it is some noteworthy examples of how people under great personal pressure responded to ecclesiastical intransigence, how they parried its blows, temporized, feinted, struck back, or maintained silence; in sum, how they expressed in their actions the realization that the church not only exists in a given space and time, but that it is constituted by Congar's two levels of fidelity which demand a varying response at each level. Thus after Archbishop Ullathorne's suggestion to Newman bidding him give up the editorship of the Rambler, he published as we have seen his celebrated essay "On Consulting the Faithful in Matters of Doctrine." This was the advantageous moment to strike back, not at Ullathorne but at the curialists who in his own words had been making him "fight with a chain on my arm; it is like the Persians driven to fight under the lash."(99) At other times Newman published under pseudonyms, as would the Modernists; on other more provocative occasions he governed himself by the principle, "There are truths that are inexpedient," and remained silent with other "kings of modern thought."

One might learn similar lessons in the maintenance of the tension, the friction, between the two fidelities from the response to Roman exorbitance or obstinacy made by such a theologian-historian as Döllinger or by such a social reformer as de Lamennais. Döllinger himself told Ferdinand Gregorovius that he had written Janus anonymously in order not to sever himself from the Roman communion.(100) One may recall as well the "appeals to Rome" that flowed incessantly, in his own name, anonymously, or pseudonymously, from the pen of de Lamennais. It is not immobility to exercise restraint, to abide by the signs of the time, to have faith in history, to say as did Döllinger to Newman: "Is it at all prudent, advisable, to write...and to try to shake prejudices which seem so firmly rooted."(101) Such men as these did not "reject" the church, they were as noted in the previous chapter, hounded out of it. Up to his death, Döllinger protested himself a Roman Catholic, and de Lamennais, as Willfrid Ward accurately observed, finally broke only under the personal harassment of the bishops, and this after nearly a decade of incessant persecution.

Thus one rightly regards such figures as predecessors to be honored and imitated. Döllinger's Lectures on the Reunion of the Churches (London, 1872) is a primer of ecumenism for our time as for his own. One cannot but applaud de Lamennais for his stimulus to creative theology (102) (though no great theologian himself, as Dru rightly observed), and one should read the quotation that follows as the direct antecedent of Gaudium et Spes and the ancestral manifesto of liberation theology. In this passage, however much it bespeaks nineteenth-century Catholicism, or rather precisely because of its nineteenth-century origin and flavor, we see the second and now affirmative lesson that de Lamennais has for contemporary Catholicism. But it is not the Catholicism of the technologically and industrially advanced nations, but the Catholicism adapted to nations emerging from the depths of colonialism whether in Africa or Latin America; the Catholicism that in many cases has been both the cause and the partial cure of the malaise that liberation theology was intended to alleviate; and lastly, the Catholicism which has close affinities with that of nineteenth-century France as described by de Lamennais in Des Maux de l'Eglise et de Société: (103)

Our cause is that of Catholicism, that of the Church, inseparable in itself from the cause of society. To defend the Church and work to revivify its antiquated character, for too long a time enervated, is therefore to defend society and work for the salvation of people who everywhere today are so suffering....It is therefore the Church that it is necessary to scrutinize first, it is for its evils that it is necessary to strive to find a remedy for there are no evils that do not derive from hers.



A Segundo or a Boff could not have put it better.

And there may be a further lesson in terms of another easily dismissed prophet, haughty, unsympathetic, unintellectual, as he appeared to many contemporaries and to his first biographers, Cardinal Manning, who not only as we have seen drew nearer to Newman's position limiting the scope of papal primacy, (104) but also became the Catholic leader who reestablished--as Newman could not--Catholicism as a force in English public life. He was on royal commissions for housing and for educating the families of the poor; he influenced Rerum Novarum, and his support for organizing--or as we would say, "unionizing"-- workers was so vigorous that it led critics to denounce him as a "socialist." Lastly, he was a leader in temperance crusades--the latter dismissed by Newman ( "my brother of Birmingham," as Manning caustically referred to him) in a chilling comment to the effect that he did not know whether there were too many dram shops, or too few. (Newman rightly described himself as "living out of the world," since Gin Lane and Beer Alley were as much a part of mid-Victorian London as they had been a century before when Hogarth satirized them.)

Of the first three English cardinals since the restoration of the hierarchy, Wiseman, Manning, and Newman, it was Manning who touched the heart of the nation and who was commemorated by Francis Thompson in a then-celebrated poem, "To the Dead Cardinal of Westminster." As to the other two prelates, Cardinal Wiseman, brilliant, affable, and feckless, was mocked by Browning in "Bishop Blougram's Reply"--a poem almost as exaggerated as recent journalistic descriptions of Pio Nono; even as Newman's conversion was a stimulus to Browning's publishing "The Bishop Orders His tomb at St. Praxed's Church."

So the lesson of all these figures from a tradition which is clothed in variety is that to depict this church as one-dimensional in any sense--whether as hungry for domination over its members, (105) or as marked more by deceit and sin than by holiness and catholicity--is to fall victim to unmitigated narrow mindedness and narrow sightedness It is to squint at a heritage which for all its blemishes remains...? not that of a power-hungry dominatrix but rather that of a community so full and so polyvalent that any right-minded persons can find "places" in it that are comforting and comfortable; that, as used to be said, allow "comfortable access" to the ultimate; and a community so multifaceted that in it any right-minded persons can find models that are inspiring, endearing, enriching-- and of course occasionally mystifying and even exasperating. (106)

One understands, then, why Newman though indifferent to social issues (the year of the Essay on the Development of Christian Doctrine is the year of Engels' Conditions of the Working Class in England) could reverse his reactionary Anglican opinion of de Lamennais, and reading the signs of the time more clearly that Gregory XVI or Gregory's successor, could declare "Perhaps La Mennais will be a true prophet after all." (107) It is also why he could praise such social liberals as Montalembert and Lacordaire, and in the process describe both the drastic change time brings, and the significance of localized "space" in such a process of change. Writing as a Catholic, he said in the Apologia, "I do not think that it is possible for me to differ in any important matter from two men whom I so highly admire. In their general line of thought and conduct I enthusiastically concur, and consider them to be before their age." Then in a revisionary autobiographical twist--what Sean O'Faolain called "postcogitational" rumination- Newman, looking back on his Anglican days, bemusedly explains this seeming evolution in attitude:(108)

If I might presume to contrast Lacordaire and myself, I should say; that we had been both of us inconsistent; --he, a Catholic, in calling himself a Liberal; I, a Protestant, in being an Anti-liberal; and moreover, that the cause of this inconsistency had been in both cases one and the same. That is, we were both of us such good conservatives, as to take up with what we happened to find established in our respective countries, at the time when we came into active life. Toryism was the creed of Oxford. He inherited, and made the best of, the French Revolution.



One understands, too, why Newman in his declining years, though he was unsympathetic to Döllinger's position, wanted to minister to his spiritual needs. Both the cardinal and the outcasts, Döllinger and de Lamennais, were men who clung to the faith of the church and looked to history for their vindication.

Like so many in our own day, history has proved them prophets--much to the discomfiture of other augurs like J.-M. Paupert who wrote a few decades ago about "le Stalinisme pioduodécimal"--though from time to time the ascription did not seem too far from the mark. But like the anatomists of papal sin and deceit (and like post-Foucauldians with their accusation, "all power to the steeple"--the White Panthers?), Paupert proved another squinting seer. Humani Generis, the suppression of the Mission de France, the silencing of Jesuit and Dominican theologians (ominously known at the time as la grande purge) were foreseen by him as engendering disenchantment and defection. What was implicitly anticipated from the "purged" was the Roman Catholic counterpart of The God that Failed. (Well, that "god" did fail and the detritus still clutters the intellectual, and the real, landscape.) But the purged, silenced, suppressed, and sometimes exiled victims of Pius XII turned to prayer when forbidden to teach; to teaching "neutral" courses rather than theology (as earlier, Loisy was warned by Duchesne to "do" history, not theology); and if allowed to teach the latter, turning to less contemporaneous and thus less controversial areas, like historical studies in Scholasticism or Patristics; and finally to writing books hitherto unimagined by the authors themselves, and inconceivable to their faithful readers. (De Lubac writing on Proudhon was possibly understandable; but to write on Buddhism could only be compared to-what seems not only inconceivable but impossible--Solzhenitsyn writing a novel on New England rural life.) And for several, the vindication of history came, as it came for Newman, through elevation to the cardinalate; for several others, through elevation in petto, in the core of the faithful.



III

But even if the lesson appears to be that patience triumphs, again, it is not a neutral or utterly resigned capitulation. That being said, it must also be said that neither is it a blind acceptance of what history or fate offer. Not everything that presents itself crying out, as it were "Lord, Lord," is necessarily a providential opportunity. Hence the importance of Ignatian "discernment," discernment of the spirit as such and discernment of the spirit of the times. (To take an example out of the air, i.e., the internet, Hans Küng is not cousin germane to Matthew Fox.) Early in chapter one I criticized McInerny's book on Pius XII for being contradictory in its treatment of Maurras, and wrong about Maritain and Action Française. In the context of "discernment," I want to revisit both criticisms. The relevant paragraph in McInerny begins: "In France, the submission of Charles Maurras...brought the conflict with Action Française to an end." The same paragraph concludes with: "Maurras and many of his followers defied the condemnation for years before submitting to it." These two sentences bracket the discussion of Maritain. (It is of no importance here that Maurras' actual submission occurred after he had been sentenced to life imprisonment for siding with the Vichy fascists during the war--finally converting shortly before his death in 1952.) (109)

As I pointed out, McInerney failed to mention the influence of Maritain's spiritual director, Humbert Clérissac, an ardent advocate of Action Française during the years of Maritain's own conversion, and instead offered as reason why the movement "attracted many Catholics" including Maritain was that "it seemed to pit the tradition of French Catholicism against the secular and anti-clerical French government." Unmentioned is that other "tradition" of French Catholicism, antisemitism, particularly repugnant to Maritain whose wife was Jewish. Equally ignored is the "royalism" which was one of the cornerstones of Maurras' social edifice, and which one finds echoed in Clérissac's aphorism: "The Church stands out as an aristocracy, and through her Catholicity she canonizes the masses."(110) But the real issue has to do with discernment where one can glimpse, once again, the not always benign influence of Clérissac. In the Preface to the latter's only book (written before the first World War), Maritain quotes Clérissac, deferentially as one would expect of so generous a spirit, as offering advice that reflects not only blurred discernment but, in the end--and not withstanding the pious jargon in which it is couched--would lead to the "impractical purism" Maritain would elsewhere condemn.



The fact that a work is quite evidently useful for the good of souls is not sufficient reason for us to rush to carry it out. It is necessary that God should wish it for this precise moment (in that case there must be no delay); and God has His own time. It must first be desired, and be enriched and purified by that desire. It will be divine at this cost. And the man who will be charged with carrying it out will not perhaps be the one who has best understood it. We should beware of a human success that is too complete and too striking; it may conceal a curse. Let us not go faster than God. It is our emptiness and our thirst that He needs, not our plenitude.



In True Humanism Maritain criticizes "a fidelity to principles which are all the purer in being isolated from any connection with life and action, and enthroned like idols or like theorems."(111)

When Newman warned that the Catholicism of his age was "sinking into a sort of Novatianism, the heresy which the early church so strenuously resisted," he was indicting this same "purism"--Novatian was in fact the first heretic to call himself "catharist"--a purism that led to "shrinking into ourselves, narrowing the lines of communion, trembling at freedom of thought." (112)

But the young Maritain (like Maisie Ward's Young Mr. Newman on Montalembert) also seemed to be acting as conservatively as Père Clérissac would have wished. This is implicit in my reference earlier to the "genteel" remonstrations in Primauté du spirituel, of which the following are not atypical: "We should always remember that there is normally a presumption of right in favor of the superior"; (113) or, "The masses can in certain forms of polity appoint men to the task of watching over the public good, but, this appointment once made, sovereignty resides in them, not in the masses, and they hold it from on high, not from below." (114) Thus discernment varies with each unique occasion of place and time, with each understanding of the phenomena presented for judgment. And this, in Maritain's case would subsequently lead to his brilliant defenses, a kind of lyric philosophy of history, of democracy and human rights, only--as the dialectic and consequently the process of discernment shifted--in old age to adopt a stance that would, again, have pleased his early mentor. Like that great phenomenologist, Dietrich von Hildebrand, (115) Maritain too became staunchly conservative in the aftermath of Vatican II. But this also was a reversal that illustrates the inevitability of change even among the prophetic spirits of the age who manifest their variegated humanness in shifting allegiances as the spirit moves them.

To an Ignatian spirit of discernment can be added a Pascalian attente de Dieu, but not as it is often translated and even lived in the sense of a "waiting upon":(116) -- as though passive resignation were the goal, while opportunity, like some definitions of grace, was an arbitrarily given boon entirely independent of human agency. Attente de Dieu here has the sense of a response to being, of an Antwort to a Wort. This "attente" this openness to "what is" allows one to discern whether an action is to be done. It therefore can and must be related to the interior impulse of that action since, in Maritain's happy formulation, "action is the epiphany of being." And all of this means that the "interior life"--certainly a minimalist term--has to come into play in every reformist effort.

. Anyone reading the works of the major religious figures mentioned here, de Lamennais, Döllinger, Lacordaire, Newman, Wilfrid Ward, Ullathorne; and more particularly anyone reading the works of the Modernists and their heirs, including von Hügel, Tyrrell, Blondel, Huvelin, early Loisy, Bremond, Laberthonnière, Teilhard, and de Lubac-anyone reading such works cannot but be struck by their sense of living in and being part of major religious crises; nor can anyone not but be struck by their heightened sense of bringing the signs of the times--scientific, social, and psychological--to bear on their reading of all "texts" whether biblical, theological, or scientific; similarly one cannot but be struck by their intense intellectualism at once elevated and profound yet practical; and finally, by their heroic scholarly aspirations and their remarkable accomplishments. But even more than all that--and it is a shocking surprise to those habituated to conventional academicians--one cannot but be struck by their manifestly deep and authentic prayer life. (117)

In every case I am talking about a high spirituality for which the abused term "mysticism" may be too grandiose; but a spirituality that is so interiorized it seems to reflect--certainly not indifference but--a calm detachment from external achievements. Here, again, one invokes the pure-hearted reformist impulse in Newman's dictum: "And that having said my say, time will decide for me, without my trouble, how far it was true, and how far not." This is quite unlike perhaps (for who can judge?) the somewhat goal-oriented spirituality displayed by Lord Acton in a letter to Mary Gladstone: (118)

...we are not considering what will suit an untutored savage or an illiterate peasant woman who would never come to an end of the Imitation or the Serious Call. Her religion may be enough for heaven, without other study. Not so with a man living in the world, in constant friction with adversaries, in constant contemplation of religious changes, sensible of the power which is exerted by strange doctrines over minds more perfect, characters that are stronger, lives that are purer than his own. He is bound to know the reason why. First, because, if he does not, his faith runs a risk of sudden ruin. Secondly, for a reason which I cannot explain without saying what you may think bad psychology or bad dogma--I think that faith implies sincerity, that it is a gift, that does not dwell in dishonest minds. To be sincere a man must battle with the causes of error that beset every mind. He must pour constant streams of electric light into the deep recesses where prejudice dwells, and passion, hasty judgments and wilful blindness deem themselves unseen.

Admirable as this certainly is, and without getting into any discussion of those multiple grades, levels, scales of ascent to the sacred empyrean that have filled "manuals of perfection" from the time of the desert fathers, it nevertheless has a ring to it which is dissonant with what I am seeking to describe in several of the figures, particularly Newman, whom I mention above. Even taking into account that the latter had described himself as one "living out of the world," Acton's spirituality, appears practical and "instrumental," as the critical theorists use that term. And, of course, the unintentional touch of snobbisme does run counter to the piety of Maritain, "the peasant of the Garonne," or to that of the "Breton peasantry" (from whom Bremond was proudly descended), traditionally idealized as the model of devoutness and of living in harmony with the spirit of that unread Imitation (that de Lamennais definitively translated into French.).

Acton's faith sounds like a means to an end for "a man of the world" or like a therapeutic devisal for correcting historical misprision. Possibly Lord Acton might have profited from the advice the great spiritual director, Abbé Huvelin, gave to Baron von Hügel, that he should pray the rosary daily to help prevent his "interior life from losing touch with the devotion of the people." (119) Of course, it must be urged: would that we could all even come close to this Actonian spirituality-but that is not the issue here. The issue is the astonishing depths (particularly among the Modernists, their predecessors, and their heirs) of what can simply be defined--and one wants to be very plain here--as a living core of interiority, a core one discerns in the writings of such speculative thinkers and spiritual masters as Blondel, von Hügel, and Newman.



IV

Though this relationship of the intellectual to the spiritual life is difficult to define, it can be illustrated. Everyone knows--it is another of those telling passages--Newman's comment in the Essay in Aid of a Grammar of Assent on the fragmented lines in the Aeneid which are, historically, merely the result of Vergil's early death. But mortality has little to do with the foundational insight of Newman's observation on those "pathetic half lines, giving utterance, as the voice of Nature herself, to that pain and weariness, yet hope of better things which is the experience of her children in every time." It is not the echo of Vergil's death Newman hears; it is something in those lines that elicits a deeper understanding, a deeper sense of fragmented being. The connection between that deeper understanding and such heightened piety-- among people who have been, after all, academically defined as just another loosely affiliated group of "professional" intellectuals-- is made by Aquinas following Augustine when he associates the gift of knowledge with the Beatitude, "Blessed are they that weep" (S.T., II,-II, 9,2) This is certainly a most surprising if not a just plainly odd nexus; but it is made on the grounds that this gift empowers one to see more deeply the traces of being in the universe and awakens, unreflectively and unintendedly, a longing for wholeness through union with the ultimate. It is this unreflective and unthematized sigh from el profundo centro of the person's very selfness that constitutes the "spirituality" I am trying to show as displayed in the various figures invoked above.

Here two reservations must be entered: this consideration of the remarkable phenomenon of the most serious and even rarified intellectuals being so unreservedly pious must be as objectively detached as possible since few can speak as experienced or versed in these matters, and thus are well-advised to write, as here, only in the role of "analyst." Second, it must be said, as I suggested earlier, that within admittedly limited experience of other Christian bodies and religious institutions, and making allowance for the best of ecumenical intentions, it seems that among nineteenth- and twentieth-century religious scholars, it is primarily within such a body of Roman Catholics that one comes across such a depth of pietas. This judgment is quite possibly due to a narrow range of experience, and so is offered as nothing more that one reaction among others to a phenomenon that, nevertheless, strikes one as truly extraordinary. Freely admitted is the fact that this may be bias born of a whole gamut of possible limitations (however much one seeks to overcome them), just as the equally biased notion that pride and intellectuality go hand in hand may also merely indicate an unfortunate consequence of restricted experience.

That latter bias takes the form of the cliché which encapsulates the sentiment that practitioners of the Dominican, Sertillanges' La Vie Intellectuele ( a book almost as nugatory as Rilke's Letters to a Young Poet) are out of touch with reality and victims of self-infatuation. One may cite Fernand Hayward on Döllinger: "...a university professor of great learning, but also of excessive pride."(120) When Hayward--who could have used some Actonian piety-goes on to indulge in biographical ultramontanism by suggesting that Döllinger's opposition to the Council resulted from disappointment at not being invited, one again--as in my first chapter--wants to cry out with Newman to Kingsley, "Why, man, you are writing a romance!" In those same stereotyping circles the comparison is of the proud de Lamennais with the humble Lacordaire, the proud Loisy with the humble Laberthonnière,(121) or the comparison is of an Abbé Bremond with the snide fictional cliché of Bernanos's haughty and unbelieving Abbé Cenabre.

The reverse of the stereotype is nearer the truth. Döllinger offered mass daily--a contradiction of the priggish Cardinal Vaughan's post-1871 recollections.(122) Tyrrell kept trying to get permission to say mass after his suspension, (123) and as late as two years before his excommunication, even Loisy asked for the renewal of his permission to celebrate in his own home.(124) Von Hügel, author of two densely learned volumes on mystical experience, nourished his own spirituality on the relatively elementary writings of Jesuit popularizers of what Bremond commemorated in his Histoire du sentiment religieux en France (just as de Lamennais had devoted himself to translating an equally fundamental treatise of Louis de Blois). Von Hügel, the embodiment of Wissenschaft, exulted in such derivative and rudimentary remnants of what Bremond called "the French School" as de Caussade and Louis Lallement, and sent as a gift to Blondel a volume of the Ecole de Jésus Christ by "my beloved Père Grou"--all of whom (Jesuits or ex-Jesuits during the suppression of the Society) he hoped would help "minimize the unfortunate mental habit of thinking life and mystery are exhausted by the definitions of St. Thomas."(125)

Of course, it is not a matter of embracing popularizations or vulgarizations, but of avoiding the over-intellectualizing of all aspects of personal existence, of not becoming either a gradgrind or a casaubon. It was alleged by Walter Benjamin that Brecht kept on his desk a toy donkey with a sign which read, "I too must understand." And Wallace Stevens once dismissed the exotically plumaged birds of Audubon with the observation, "No back yard cheepers for that connoisseur." Well, the spiritual writers favored by von Hügel and Blondel-apart from Loisy, in many ways the two most deeply learned of the Modernists--would all fall into that category of keeping their roots planted in the common ground of the settled and tested. No vainglorious aspirations to soaring to the mystical (or ornithological) heights; no Oriental raptures or Latinate levitations, no Rhenish or Flemish apophatic ecstasies, no Bérullian élévations whether thematically or stylistically--indeed a spirituality more akin to the Imitation and the Serious Call, and more dependent on what Cuthbert Butler described in his Western Mysticism as "pre-Dionysian, pre-scholastic and non-philosophical [hence the contrast between the writings of Père Grou and the definitions of Aquinas], unaccompanied by psycho-physical concomitants."

But here again a caveat must be entered. The "spirituality" that Dom Butler was distinguishing as esoteric and even alien engendered its own reforms, and ultimately found its home in the larger tradition of Catholic prayer life. The only reason for stressing the antithesis of that spirituality here is that the conventional view of reformist efforts is their stemming from arrogant "intellectuals," from those who are out of touch with day-in and day-out existence--as though academics did not live in the pressures of the commonplace. The point of discussing in this context these nineteenth-century reformers is precisely to emphasize how their spiritual life was sustained and fostered not by other insular theoreticians, but by people whose roots were steeped in the universal heritage and life of the ecclesia. In another odd conjunction, to again bring up that poet who, like Blondel and Loisy, was viewed as among the most "cerebral" and "abstract" writers of his age--pejoratives by contemporary standards, as was also his designation as a "deathbed convert"--Wallace Stevens, on the lure of the scintilla Dei: " From whose being by starlight, on seacoast, / The innermost good of their seeking / Might come in the simplest of speech."

Clearly, the tradition is too rich to be reduced to a uniform sameness; and reform too complex to be achieved by a recipe or technique whether of simplicity and earthiness or of grandeur and majesty. Still, making due allowance for individual differences across the whole spectrum of possibilities, that prayer life and the reforms it engenders, will achieve most for humankind when they stem not from an abstract idea of the church, not from a notion of the church as mere object of historical research, but as Congar says from "the concrete reality and given situation of the church in the here and now."

That reality and that situation are rich and multifarious. Critics strumming a monochord and declaiming conspicuous and transitory components to be paramount in the church today, whether sinful deceit or historical antisemitism, have simply not lived enough, looked broadly enough, or been open enough to discern the polyphonic splendor of two millennia of Catholicity. Of course there are awesome flaws, flaws that the figures discussed here all sought to correct; but not out of rancor or resentment, not out of personal passion, and certainly not through distorted scholarship, but simply out of love for the tradition, out of devotion to what it represented at its purest. And another encouraging sign which I have mentioned twice, but particularly relevant to the twenty-first century, is the rehabilitation of Antonio Rosmini, another prophet born out of due time, and author of that exemplar of true reform, The Five Wounds of Holy Church. (126)





"Instead of aiming at being a world-wide power, we are

shrinking into ourselves, narrowing the lines of communication

and using the language of dismay and despair at the prospects

before us."

Cardinal Newman

 

85. The identity of the "beast" is controverted because west of the British Isles would suggest America, and so the allusion is alleged to be to everything from "suffragism" to the poetry of Walt Whitman--both rather unlikely candidates. Given Hopkins' penchant for obscure origins and the fact that the legendary site of Andromeda's enchainment was the coast of Ethiopia, anything west of that would qualify. Hopkins was, however, much concerned with governmental discrimination against the Catholics of France and Germany. Cf. Justus George Lawler, Hopkins Re-Constructed (New York, 1998), p. 69

86. Benjamin Jowett, that utterly worldly figure--and liberal heir to Newman's mantle as dominant personality at Oxford--said curtly when he realized the Old Catholic movement could exercise no effective power over events: "It has come to nothing." Letters of Benjamin Jowett, edited by Evelyn Abbott and Lewis Campbell (New York, 1899), p. 76.

87. Nevertheless--and adding to the mix of history and fable--it must be said that a church of patient griseldas is preferable to a potemkin church of papaloters (made up of anathematizing orthodox radicals) or a kronos church of papaphobists (made up of sappers cannibalizing the ranks in the name of "honesty").

88. Collection (New York, 1967), p. 267

89. But even here, Bernard Häring's "encouraging signs of the times" can be discerned. A few years after the condemnation of de Lamennais, Gregory XVI approved the Institute of Charity whose founder was another republican reformer, Antonio Rosmini, who would also be offered the cardinalate by Pius IX in the early "liberal" years of his reign. Cf. Charles Sylvain, Gregoire XVI (Paris, 1899), p. 193; Life and Letters of John Lingard, edited by Martin Haile and Edward Bonney (St. Louis, 1913), p. 226; Maisie Ward, The Wilfrid Wards and the Transition (New York, 1934), p. 317

90. John Henry Cardinal Newman, Essays Critical and Historical (London, 1891), p. 157; Wilfrid Ward, Life of John Henry Cardinal Newman (London, 1912), I, p. 484.

91. Erneuerung und Reaktion: Die Restauration in Frankreich 1800-1830 (Munich, 1966), p.134.

92. Letters of Lord Acton to Mary Gladstone (London, 1913), p. 164.

93. Lord Beaconsfield's Correspondence with His Sister (London, 1886), p. 208.

94. It is this nineteenth-century Mennasian error that Garry Wills appears to succumb to in expanding the ecclesiastical ban on the ordination of women to the all-encompassing factor that "keeps the whole ideological substructure" of anti-feminism alive. I say "appears" because Wills' ideological intent is to make Christianity, the church, and the papacy part of a grand conspiracy that is responsible for virtually every ill in society. He thus has less in common with de Lamennais than with fundamentalist preachers fulminating on late-night weekend television.

95. In Henry Parry Liddon, Life of Edward Bouverie Pusey (London, 1897), IV, pp. 106-107.

96. It is noteworthy that the year of de Lamennais' condemnation by the encyclical Mirari Vos (though he was not explicitly mentioned) is the year that Rosmini wrote The Five Wounds of Holy Church. He published it in 1846, the first year of the reign of Pius IX who he hoped would be the nominal head of a federation of Italian states, and who appeared to Rosmini so sympathetic to libertarian principles that he published two years later his Constitution according to Social Justice. After Pius' return from exile and his disenchantment with republicanism, both books were placed on the index; but after a lengthy investigation of his complete works, concluded in 1854, all censures were removed.

97. The office represents the worst form of that "priestly caste" and "medieval pageantry" which is decried by protesting "levelers"and which-as the saying goes-"drives them up the wall": but if it is the wall of the upper church at Assisi they will see there depicted by Giotto a tonsured St. Francis accompanied by friars preaching to a crowned and attentive Honorius III with his attendant cardinals: the scene representing that homeostatic balance between center and periphery which has been the leitmotiv of this book-and a "periphery" notably absent in another depiction in St. Paul's-Outside-the-Walls where this pope (albeit miniaturized) communicates directly with Christ.

98. We have, once again, more of that contemned human ambition publicly scorned (but privately sought) by purists: the "Dr." was Rome's chary compensation for Newman's Irish years, which he had expected would result in a miter.

99. Wilfrid Ward, Life, I, p. 588.

100. The Roman Journals of Ferdinand Gregorovius (London, 1911), p. 339.

101. Wilfrid Ward, Life, I, p. 493.

102. "In general one is not able to deny that the School of La Chênaie, not only by its example and its exhortations, but by the very questions that it raised, has been one of the factors, and perhaps the most effective at this time, of a renewal in theological speculation." Edgar Hocédez, Histoire de la Théologie au XIXe Siècle (Brussels, 1948), I, p. 123.

103. Oeuvres complètes de F. de La Mennais (Paris, 1836-1837), XII, pp. 201-202.

104. The reference in earlier chapters and again here is: Shane Leslie, Henry Edward Manning (New York, 1921), p. 295.

105. Those who might have thought Foucault as theorist of master narratives had gone the way of le grand bricoleur, Lévi-Strauss, into the dusty bin of history (much as Diamat went the way of Tiamat) may be surprised that among postmodernists of a "retro" orientation Foucault is still invoked, as two citations from a diligent researcher, Gary Lease, in the field of "religious studies" illustrate. The first relates--rather monitorially--to "theory," the second to its application to historical phenomena. "Religions thus become the most finely tuned examples of power structures [original italics], patterns of force and power which control human lives and dictate how they are to be conducted. Make no mistake about it--religions are about power, about the power to be given you and about the power which controls you" ("Odd Fellows"in the Politics of Religion, Hawthorne, N.Y., 1994, pp. 50-51). During the period of the Modernist crisis, and speaking of the reaction of Pius X and his Secretary of State "to the collapse of a Church State and the resultant decline in the political power and role of the Vatican," Lease observes that they decided "...to refocus the church's attention and energies upon the so-called inner forum.... If one cannot control the actions and policies of other countries and their governments, then one can at least control what their populations believe." (Catholicism Contending with Modernity, edited by Darrell Jodock, Cambridge, 2000, p. 48.) I have noted frequently in this and earlier chapters the vulnerability of specialists in "religious studies" to transient fads or mercurial cultural trends. It stems from the discipline itself having traditionally at least a tertiary focus on a deus ineffabilis, that is, a focus on a "topic" about which whatever is said is by definition merely analogous. (It was not Karl Barth, but Stéphane Mallarmé who wrote "Le Démon de l'analogie.") Add to this the trendiness to which the "soft" humanistic disciplines are subject and one has all the components of a field day for the harebrained--who, unfortunately, never seem to seek out postmodern neurologists or pathologists, much less trepanners. I redeem my earlier criticism of George Steiner by citing that same Edinburgh lecture on "the voluminous triviality of so much that is produced in humane letters, art history, musicology.... the jugglers' ingenuities of deconstruction and post-modernism. I have seen scientists stare, as at lunacy, at the central deconstructive axiom that 'there is nothing outside the text'."

106. It is worth noting the varying views these models had of one another. William George Ward, rhino-skinned ultramontanist, and friend of Tennyson who attended Maisie's christening, described Newman as "a powerful influence, perhaps unknown, to disloyalty to the Vicar of Christ, and to worldliness." Maisie Ward, The Wilfrid Wards and the Transition (New York, 1934), p. 11. Acton described Newman as "an ultramontane fanatic and genius." Ibid., p. 240; whereas Döllinger in a letter to The Times wrote of Newman: "...the most brilliant, and the most precious acquisition the Church of Rome has made since the Reformation" (Birmingham Oratory Collection, uncatalogued). Newman on Wiseman: "The only thing of course, which it is worth producing, is fruit--but with the Cardinal, immediate show is fruit, and conversions the sole fruit.... And further still, they must be splendid conversions of great men, noble men, learned men, not simply of the poor" (Ward, Life, I, p. 584). Manning of Newman: "Do you know what ruined that man? Temper! Temper!" Shane Leslie, Henry Edward Manning (New York, 1921), p. 273. Von Hügel on Newman: "I used to wonder in my intercourse with John Henry Newman, how one so good, and who had made so many sacrifices to God, could be so

depressing." Michael de la Bedoyere (The Life of Baron von Hügel, (London, 1952), p. 32.

107. Unpublished Letters of Matthew Arnold (New Haven, 1923), p. 60.

108. Apologia pro Vita Sua (London, 1902), p. 286.

109. It is difficult to determine whether McInerny is himself sympathetic to Maurras. There is his expression of admiration for Franco's fascists who were supported by Maurras, and the only previous reference to the leader of Action Française is a curiously neutral statement regarding Benedict XV's peace overtures in World War I: "Léon Bloy...called him Judas XV, while Charles Maurras of Action Française supported the papal peacemaking efforts." (The Defamation of Pius XII, p. 12) The definitive critique of Maurras is not Maritain's politically genteel Primauté du spirituel, but Julien Benda's contemporaneous all-out assault on Catholic clerical fascism, Trahison des clercs. A decade later, Maritain's "humanisme intégral" would represent his genuine response to Maurras' "réalisme intégral."

110. The Mystery of the Church (New York, 1937), p. 95.

111. (New York, 1938), p. 211.

112. Ward, Life, II, p. 127.

113. (New York, 1931), p. 30.

114. Ibid., p. 146 It should be noted, however, that even so conscientious a Catholic as Bernanos--though rejecting Maurras before the papal condemnation--only cleansed himself of the last vestiges of the Action Française when witnessing the thuggery of Franco's troops on Majorca during the Spanish civil war. While still a monarchist, his humanism and his passionate Christianity confronted Catholic terrorism, sanctioned by bishops and clergy, and left him bitter at the complicity of the church in the atrocities perpetrated by what he recognized would be a totalitarian regime. It is said that his memoir, Les Grands Cimitières sous la lune, in which he described these atrocities escaped the Index only at the insistence of Pius XI--whose successor as noted earlier would lift the sanctions on the Action Française. Another instance of Newman's "do/undo" dictum.

115. In Transformation in Christ one can see exemplified in actu exercito-as one cannot in Scheler on resentment or empathy, or Stein on sympathy, or Husserl himself on the key notion of "Lebenswelt"-what is of value in that latter notion particularly as it devolves into a "method" of analysis that successively and progressively reveals the home ground or concrete experience of virtuous life. Von Hildebrand's book does for spirituality what Merleau-Ponty's Phenomenology of Perception does for corporeality: articulates a new and fresh experience of what one had hitherto vaguely glimpsed or sensed about one's "inner" life (with von Hildebrand) or one's embodiedness (with Merleau-Ponty). There are those who believe Transformation in Christ is the most significant "pure" work of spirituality of the last century-- "pure" here meaning not trammeled by historical, philosophical, or even formal theological data.

116. The phrase evokes not the searching Demeter image of a Dorothy Day but the contradictory Persephone figure of a Simone Weil who seems to have been both a winsome seeker of the absolute and an erratically gnostic infatuate of the darkest fatalism. (Hence her unusual style of Jewish antisemitism.) It was Weil's disenchantment with the Spanish civil war that led her to turn from the totalitarian left as it had led Bernanos to turn from the totalitarian right. By an almost miraculous conjunction, she read Bernanos' memoir, embraced it as the work of a fellow idealist, and wrote him of what she viewed as their common bond in a letter which he preserved--but at her request never apparently answered. She went on to her "martyrdom"; Bernanos went into exile in South America where he continued to nurse his royalist sentiments ("totalitarianism is the offspring of democracy"), and after the war returned to France from Algeria where he had written Les Dialogues des Carmélites. He died in 1948-like Cardinal von Galen, a man of the right to the end.

117. It may not appear very "ecumenical" (and indeed it may stem from restricted knowledge or experience) to note that this quality is what seems to distinguish the Modernists from most other fin-de-siècle non-Catholic reformers. One might even venture to say that it is what distinguishes the great Catholic theologians of the twentieth century from most of their non-Catholic counterparts. Neither may it appear very "fraternal" to note, that in all the enormous output of the critics whom I am analyzing, there is virtually nothing whatever on the life of prayer, on meditation, contemplation, whatever. It is as though that long and splendid tradition of oraison had been replaced either by research, e.g., that nada is the différance between apophasis and negativa, or by exercises in assorted new age yogisms. This is true oddly enough even of those who had "Catholic training"--a significant phrase that will emerge later--in seminaries or other houses of religious formation.

118. Op. cit., p. 134.

119. De la Bedoyere, Life, p. 60.

120. The Vatican Council (Dublin, 1951), p. 49.

121. Typical would be the Irish bishop, MacHale, "recollecting" a meeting with de Lamennais in 1832: "Fortunately for M. De La Mennais he was then accompanied by two young friends who loved him much, but who loved truth and religion more." Ulrick J. Canon Bourke, The Life and Times of Most Rev. John MacHale (New York, 1883), p. 96. Similarly, "Laberthonniere never lost his faith and remained faithful to the Church, while Loisy was an apostate who often minimized, contaminated and defamed the subject of his criticism." Jean-Paul Gelinas, The Revival of Thomism under Leo XIII and the New Philosophies (Washington, 1959), p. 67. With reference to de Lamennais and Döllinger among others the Introduction speaks of, "The pride and sufficiency of certain minds had reached, in the middle of the past century, an extreme degree of blindness." And on Loisy from a more respectable historian: "A scholar and intellectual, proud and persistent, he had always found it very hard to bow his spirit to the daily devotional exercises required of a priest." E.E.Y. Hales, The Catholic Church in the Modern World (New York, 1958), p. 180.

122. Malcolm MacColl, Memoirs and Correspondence, ed., George W.E. Russell (London,

1914), p. 310. J.G. Snead-Cox, The Life of Cardinal Vaughan (St. Louis, 1911), I, p.64.

123. De La Bedoyere, Life, p. 202.

124. Alec R. Vidler, The Modernist Movement in the Roman Catholic Church (Cambridge,

1934), p. 139.

125. René Marlé, Au Coeur de la Crise Moderniste (Paris, 1960), p. 29.

126. Pope John Paul I wrote his thesis at the Gregorian University on Rosmini's doctrine of the origin of the human soul. There must be a literature on this, since it would be particularly useful to know whether the issue of origin relates to the rumor that as Bishop, Albino Luciani suggested to Paul VI that approval should be given for the use of anovulants.