I'm a Christian at a community college in Michigan. When I registered for classes I thought I'd like the "Bible as Literature" course, but it didn't work out the way I expected. From the rude things the teacher has said, I think he must be an atheist.
The teacher made it a point of saying that this is not a religious class, and we should set our religious beliefs aside. I was okay with that because I hadn't intended to force my beliefs on anyone. I was even okay with him calling the Bible a "revelation myth" because I understood that the class isn't about whether it's true. But I did have a problem when he began claiming that the Bible isn't true and that evolution is. I'm not sure that I am well enough equipped to defend my faith against someone like him, and besides, I've been told by the teacher himself -- as well as friends who have taken his class -- that he is intolerant of Christians who voice discomfort about his comments.
I don't feel that I should have to take this kind of disrespect from a teacher. But here's what worries me. Would dropping this class show a lack of faith in God's ability to carry me through the experience?
Your letter is difficult to answer because you describe one problem, but you pose your question as though you have a different problem. The problem you describe is that your teacher simply rejects your religious views. The problem you imply is that he treats them with disrespect, perhaps even attacks them. Let's consider some of the possibilities about what you are actually facing.
Suppose he says, "This is not a religion class, and I expect you to put your religious views aside. Now, of course, the Bible is in error about many things." This is a double standard, so it would be appropriate for you to respond, "You said that you want all of us to set our religious views aside. But aren't you expressing a religious view about the Bible? Fair is fair; shouldn't that view be set aside too?"
Suppose he says, "People who believe the Bible are ignorant, and we won't take their views seriously in this class." This is disrespectful, so you should say something like "Sir, you said this is a class on literature, not religion. However, to call religious believers ignorant is to express a religious view, not a literary view. Not only that, it's insulting. I don't mean to be disrespectful, but how is insulting us part of teaching literature?"
Or suppose he says "Genesis isn't factual; evolution is." In this case the problem is that you don't yet know what he means! One thing that needs clearing up is what he is denying, so you might ask, "Sir, are you claiming that there isn't any Creator, or are you merely suggesting that the biblical account of Creation is something less than a technical description of how God did the job?" Another thing that needs clearing up is what he means by his terms, so you might ask, "Sir, what do you mean by evolution? Are you merely claiming that living things developed gradually, or are you making the very different claim that it happened by pure chance, without any guidance from the Creator?"
Remember that the issue isn't your feelings, but the teacher's lack of objectivity. If the only thing your friends could think of to "voice" to him was their "discomfort," no wonder he didn't take them seriously. Give him a reason to do so. Suppose you were a math teacher and the students "voiced their discomfort" about differential equations. Would you consider that a reason to skip that chapter?
We come at last to your question. Would dropping the course show lack of faith in God's ability to carry you through the experience? That would depend on why you dropped. Consider three possibilities.
1. If you dropped because you were afraid that your teacher's atheism might be right, then yes, that would show lack of faith.
2. If you dropped because you doubted whether such a bigoted teacher could teach you anything, then no, that wouldn't show lack of faith.
3. If you dropped because you just didn't want the hassle of learning how to challenge the professor's claims, then that wouldn't show lack of faith, but it would certainly show spiritual and intellectual laziness.
So how do I advise you? Examine your motives for wanting to drop!
Though in early adulthood I suffered strongly from acedia, the “oppressive sorrow which so weighs upon man’s mind that he wants to do nothing,” today I am almost always cheerful. This cheerfulness, a product of faith and hope, is not native to my temperament, since I am predisposed to a certain melancholy in which the sense of the fall of man and the feeling of things passing away are very strong. Unless he is careful, such a disposition can make a person a crashing bore, and some people would say that I am one.
However, dispositions are also gifts to be used, and if I lost mine, I would miss it. I tend to be more acutely aware than most people of how things go awry in our culture. Now and then, the memory of the many ways in which I have personally gone awry provides some small insight into the travails of others. I don’t object to the description of the world as a “vale of tears”; it seems to me refreshing, because honest. The acknowledgement of sin does not burden me. I would be burdened if there were no cure.
The note of joy has been much stronger in my life since becoming Catholic, largely because the Church takes suffering so seriously. When my wife and I were preparing to be received into the Church, we participated in the customary sequence of classes for converts. Catholics are just as interested in conversion stories as Evangelical Protestants, and one evening, during the break, we exchanged our tales with another couple in the class.
The husband had been a teacher in a Protestant seminary. The two of them told us that they first began to consider the Catholic Church after their son committed suicide. What turned their thoughts to Catholicism was neither his suicide, nor their grief for him, but the reaction of their friends to their grief.
It was not that their friends did not sorrow for them; they did. But to spare their feelings, their Protestant friends never mentioned their son at all. It was as though he had never existed. By contrast, their Catholic friends were not afraid to speak of him. The couple was consoled.
They began to wonder whether the Church understands something about suffering that their own tradition did not.
She does, and She starts teaching it early. A child in Catholic school who falls down and hurts his knee is comforted, of course, and encouraged to get back in the game. But he is also encouraged to offer up the pain to Christ, who suffered for us, so that he can be more like Him.
To the world in general, this is madness. Most people think victory over suffering comes from either ignoring it or defying it. Yet according to the Church, the victory over suffering requires embracing it. All Her thoughts of resurrection and rebirth begin with the bloodied Savior.
These seem to me to me tidings of joy.
“We are very apt to wish we had been born in the days of Christ, and in this way we excuse our misconduct, when conscience reproaches us. We say, that had we had the advantage of being with Christ, we should have had stronger motives, stronger restraints against sin.
“I answer, that so far from our sinful habits being reformed by the presence of Christ, the chance is, that those same habits would have hindered us from recognizing Him. We should not have known He was present; and if He had even told us who He was, we should not have believed Him. Nay, had we seen His miracles (incredible as it may seem), even they would not have made any lasting impression on us. Without going into this subject, consider only the possibility of Christ being close to us, even though He did no miracle, and our not knowing it; yet I believe this literally would have been the case with most men ....
“We think heaven must be a place of happiness to us, if we do but get there; but the great probability is, if we can judge by what goes on here below, that a bad man, if brought to heaven, would not know He was in heaven .... He would see nothing wonderful there.”
-- Blessed John Henry Newman,
Parochial and Plain Sermons,
Volume 4, Sermon 16
It sounds like an idea for a motion picture, doesn’t it? A historical melodrama. You could call it The Last Days of the Republic.
By the end of the twentieth century, it was already routine for federal agencies to implement their own agendas, irrespective of the instructions of Congress or the executive. Courts treated the federal Constitution like silly putty.
By the second decade of the twenty-first century, criminal prosecution of political opponents had become a tool of public policy. The consequences of losing an election might be greater than losing the election.
The top ranks of the IRS, the FBI, and the CIA had all been weaponized. A generation earlier, Mr. Nixon had tried this sort of thing with the IRS, but ultimately failed. The lesson drawn by his opponents was that one must make sure to succeed.
The weakness of the movie is that it is almost too crude for fiction. So protective of Mrs. Clinton are her investigators that Mr. Comey, cast as FBI director, drafts a letter exonerating her of security violations before the investigation even begins. So hostile to Mr. Trump are his investigators that Mr. Mueller, cast as Special Counsel, authorizes modes of collecting information from the GSO which even the politicized courts have consistently ruled both illegal and unethical.
Other cinematic flaws are that the story is convoluted, it relies on an implausibly high number of what Leninists used to call “useful idiots,” and none of the main characters are sympathetic.
Movies depend on suspension of disbelief, but that sort of thing can be taken only so far.
Can the Empire be routed? Can the Republic be saved? Like a Star Wars movie, the script ends with a cliffhanger.
Hollywood loves sequels. In real life, they are more difficult to pull off.
Sexual harassment is a filthy offense. However, it is impossible to restrain unless we acknowledge a standard of sexual morality.
To avoid conceding any such thing, workplaces have taken to defining sexual harassment as unwanted sexual attention toward another person. In other words, the point isn’t what one is actually doing, but how the other party receives it. It is entirely subjective.
Such a standard is unworkable, because the lecher cannot know whether his beastly attention is unwanted until he commits it. The rule merely encourages him to give it a try. If the other party is too intimidated to object, his behavior is not identifiable as harassment even then.
Suppose we define sexual harassment in the older way, as lewd attention toward another person. Whether attention is lewd does not depend on what the other party thinks of it.
Persisting in lewd behavior over the protests of the other person makes it still more despicable, of course. But it would have been despicable anyway.
Some thinkers who believe in natural law are uneasy with the language of natural rights. The reasons for this disquiet are understandable. Why? Because however firmly rights may be grounded in what is objectively just, grammatically speaking my rights seem to be subjective, just in the sense that they are “mine.”
Of course, the same is true of duties, yet, psychologically, there is a difference. “My” duties direct my attention outward, to the persons toward whom I owe them. By contrast, “my” rights direct my attention inward, toward myself.
This makes it very easy to view rights as though they were not really about objective moral realities, but “all about me” – about sheer self-assertion. The fear of these thinkers, then, is that talking too much about rights subtly influences us to accept a false view of rights.
To most natural law thinkers, however, it seems unreasonable that we should avoid the language of natural rights just because the idea is so badly abused. The reality of natural rights, properly understood, is a truth, knowable by reason. In this life, truth is always abused; there is no such thing as a non-abusable truth. Even liars know that in order to be persuasive, they must fit as much truth into their lies as possible.
Besides, rights and duties are correlated. If only we got into the habit of remembering the duties that our rights imply, it would go a long way toward making rights talk safer.
Instead of avoidance, then, a better strategy (though perhaps a risky one) would seem to be redemption: To reclaim the spoiled language of natural rights, to rescue the concept from its abusers, to uproot it from the theory of radical self-sovereignty and plant it again in the soil of natural law.
A student in one of my classes insisted one day that when Thomas Aquinas spoke of Divine law, he means “one’s own Divine law”: Torah for Jews, the Gospel for Christians, Shari’a for Muslims, Thelema for Wiccans, Sheilaism for Sheila, whatever it may be. She was quite offended by the suggestion that this was not what St. Thomas had in mind.
But it isn’t. What thinkers like St. Thomas mean by Divine law is whatever really is Divine law. Whether they are right about the authenticity of Christian Revelation is not a matter of indifference. If a purported Revelation is not really from God -- if it is merely a product of the human mind that imagines itself to be from God -- then it is wholly incapable of instructing us about matters that transcend what natural reason can work out for itself. It is worse than a harmless mistake; it is a blind guide.
Now the various purported Revelations -- contrary to popular belief, there aren’t many, for only a few of the world religions claim Divine Revelation in actual historical time -- cannot all be from God, because they say inconsistent things. There is no “your truth” and “my truth,” for whether we like it or not, we inhabit the same reality. What then is the Christian judgment? That both the Old Law, given to the chosen nation, and the New Law, given to the Church, are truly from God, the former being preparatory, the latter being its fulfillment. It follows that even if Shariʿa may include some good things -- even the pagans, who knew much less, knew some good things -- nevertheless it is a regression from that fulfillment, and it is not truly from God.
If it is really true that the truth about Revelation is simply a matter of fact -- like whether the nucleus of the atom really does contain protons, or whether gravity really is weaker than electromagnetism -- then there is no reason for anyone to be offended by this fact. Suppose we are at the buffet, and Gertrude is about to dip into the tuna salad. Felix says, “Better not. The last three people who ate it got sick.” Gertrude replies, “Stop judging me!” Is her response reasonable? Of course not, because the truth about the tuna salad is not about personal preferences; it is about how things stand in reality. Even if Felix is mistaken about the tuna salad, he has not offered Gertrude an insult. In fact, he has exercised concern for her. She needed to know that the tuna salad might be spoiled.
Someone might say, “The analogy with tuna salad is nonsense, because we cannot know anything about God.” Why not? If the agnostic says that religious truth is specially resistant to rational inquiry, he contradicts himself, for to know God’s rational unknowability would be to know something about Him. Indeed it would be to know a great deal about Him. First one would have to know that even if He exists, He is infinitely remote, because otherwise one could not be so sure that knowledge about Him were rationally inaccessible. Second one would have to know that even if He exists, He is unconcerned with human beings, because otherwise one would expect Him to have provided the means for humans to know Him. Finally one would have to know that even if He exists, He is completely unlike the biblical portrayal of Him, because in that portrayal He does care about us, and has already provided such means – not only through Revelation, but even, in part, through the order of creation itself. So, in the end, the so-called agnostic must claim to know quite a number of things about God just to prop up his claim to not knowing anything about God. The problem is that, on his assumptions, he cannot rationally justify any of these things.
The hypothetical someone may go on, “But even if we can know a good many things about God by rational inquiry, we cannot know what to make of purported Revelations.” But we can. In the first place we can say something negative; any purported Revelation that contradicts what reason can tell us must be false. For example, we must not believe a religion that denies the unity of God’s wisdom and goodness, any more than we may believe a religion that denies that two things equal to a third thing are equal to each other. Although these truths of reason are not articles of faith, they are “preambles” to the articles of faith, for as St. Thomas writes, “faith presupposes natural knowledge, even as grace presupposes nature, and perfection supposes something that can be perfected.”
In the second place, even about teachings to which we cannot employ philosophical reasoning, we can employ historical reasoning. For example, we can ask whether the original witnesses to God’s alleged revelatory deeds are credible.
In the third place, even in cases in which an alleged Revelation goes beyond the matters we could have figured out without it, even so we should expect it, if authentic, to provide deeper insight into these matters, so we can apply a test: Does it?
Finally, one can put the alleged Revelation to the test. St. Christian faith forbids “putting God to the test” in the sense of presumption, but in another sense, it encourages it. The psalmist implores, “taste and see that the Lord is good!” The Apostle Paul instructs, “Do not despise prophesying, but test everything; hold fast what is good.”
Suppose, then, that I live as though I believe the New Law. (The alternative is to live as though I don’t.) I ardently try to follow it; I live, pray, and worship as it directs; I rely utterly on the grace of Christ which is said to make this possible; I seek Him with all my heart; and I say to Him, “If You are real, you may have me” -- what happens?