The theologian Herman Bavinck, in his little book, The Certainty of Faith
, commented on
Roman Catholic piety from his Dutch Reformed perspective. Of course general
statements like this are always dangerous since life is messier than our
theoretical categories and so something will be missed in the process. On the
other hand, this formulation rings somewhat true to me, based on friendships
with Catholics over the decades, on the sad Protestant tendency to be
dismissive of all things Catholic, and on what tends to be a foundational
issue, at least on a popular level, separating the two.
, commented on
Roman Catholic piety from his Dutch Reformed perspective. Of course general
statements like this are always dangerous since life is messier than our
theoretical categories and so something will be missed in the process. On the
other hand, this formulation rings somewhat true to me, based on friendships
with Catholics over the decades, on the sad Protestant tendency to be
dismissive of all things Catholic, and on what tends to be a foundational
issue, at least on a popular level, separating the two.
Anyway, first Bavinck’s comments and then a couple questions
I’d love people to comment on.
In Catholicism there
are always two kinds of Christians: those who occasionally go to confession and
mass, observe the required fasts and for the rest live quite a superficial,
carefree life, trusting in the church for their salvation; and those who are
dissatisfied with such externalities and attempt to live a purely religious
life through mysticism and asceticism, in separation from the world and denial
of the flesh, thus to come before the face of God.
Far be it from us to
immediately denounce the latter with the protestant judgment that since such piety
issues from a false principle—righteousness by works—it is therefore worthless
to God. For no matter how much truth that judgment may contain, before we utter
it we must remind ourselves that the Catholic righteousness by good works is
vastly preferable to a protestant righteousness by good doctrine. At least
righteousness by good works benefits one’s neighbor, whereas righteousness by
good doctrine only produces lovelessness and pride. Furthermore, we must not
blind ourselves to the tremendous faith, genuine repentance, complete surrender
and the fervent love for God and neighbor evident in the lives and work of many
Catholic Christians. The Christian life is so rich that it develops to its full
glory not just in a single form or within the walls of one church.
Nevertheless, Catholic
piety, even in its best form, is different in character from that of
Protestantism. It always remains unfree, unemancipated, formal legalistic.
Complete inner certainty of faith is lacking. It always leaves room for the question:
Have I done enough, and what else should I do? (p. 36-37)
Now, three questions that I’d love to see answered in
comments on this post:
1. Roman Catholic readers (past or present)—do you find this
description rings true in your experience? How did/do you address the
uncertainty provoked by “the question: Have I done enough, and what else should
I do?”
2. Protestant readers (past for present)—do you find that
your pilgrimage of faith also “always leaves room for the question: Have I done
enough, and what else should I do?” How did/do you address the uncertainty?
3. Roman Catholic and Protestant readers—to what extent do
you find Bavinck’s statement helpful/unhelpful? Why? Can you discuss such
issues with charity, humility, and civility?
Source: The Certainty of
Faith by Herman Bavinck (Paideia Press, 1980) 97 pages. A free copy of Bavinck's book (pdf format) is available here. Thanks to Steve Froehlich for the Bavinck quote.
by Herman Bavinck (Paideia Press, 1980) 97 pages. A free copy of Bavinck's book (pdf format) is available here. Thanks to Steve Froehlich for the Bavinck quote.
“You must ruthlessly eliminate hurry from your life,”
philosopher Dallas Willard
notes, “for hurry is the great enemy of spiritual
life in our world today.”
notes, “for hurry is the great enemy of spiritual
life in our world today.”
By that measure I’m in trouble.
In the days since I read that Willard quote (in an email
from The Trinity Forum), I’ve been trying to figure out the source of our
impulse to hurry. Some of it comes from habit, I suspect—hurry long enough and
it becomes a way of living that’s hard to change. We may not even notice that
we hurry, though your tendency to blow through life seems pretty obvious to me.
I suspect some of it comes from our world. We get used to things happening
quickly, begin to think it is our right not to have to wait, and hurry to get
everything in efficiently. Advances in technology mean we can be more places,
do more things, communicate with more people in shorter periods of time, and
soon our expectations require we hurry to live up to all that potential.
And if you are a Christian you are busy the one morning each
week (Sunday) when secular friends can sleep in, hang out at a coffee shop,
leisurely read the newspaper, eat a scone, and sip a latte. And at church we
often hear appeals to do some task, join some group, read some book or the Bible
more, attend some meeting, fill some need, go on some mission trip, help with
some potluck. We hurry to church and leave having a more hurried week.
So, I wonder just how we can possibly eliminate hurry from
our lives?
My conversations with young adults convinces me that
contrary to the expectations of secular thinkers, the postmodern generations
tends to yearn for spirituality. They desire to embrace mystery, an expression
of awe that is both alive and ancient, meaning that transcends space and time,
and a sense of the divine. It is a good yearning, an expression of bearing
God’s likeness in their very being.
I am struck by the fact that this postmodern yearning
parallels an emphasis in the fundamentalist Christian group in which I was
raised. Though I never heard them acknowledge it, this group had been shaped by
a movement known as Pietism. Pietism
was a movement of spiritual renewal that began in Lutheran churches in 17th
century Germany. It said that true religion was more than mere belief, liturgy,
and duty, and would properly express itself in a growing personal relationship
with God as Father in the heart of the believer. Spiritual disciplines like
prayer and Scripture reading would warm the affections for God, allow the
Christian to hear his voice and love his presence. Given the dead orthodoxy of
the church at the time, Pietism was a needed corrective.
Over time, however, the pietistic emphasis in my
fundamentalist background took on some accretions that still plague evangelical
Protestants today. The first is a tendency to downplay belief, liturgy, and
duty as if they are somehow problematic in themselves. Not true—all three are
to be vibrant and lovely expressions of faith according to the Scriptures. The
second is the conviction that if a believer is not filled with warm affections,
and sense of God’s presence something must be wrong. Slowly personal experience
and feelings become a standard by which to measure spirituality. That, of
course, leads to a growing feeling of guilt that only complicates matters
further. In taking this step, a good emphasis had morphed into a legalism that
is utterly destructive of grace.
Spiritual dryness, if
that is [God’s] will at the moment, is as much to be loved and obeyed as
spiritual fervor… It takes repeated aridity… to bring home to us that our own
so precious feelings contribute nothing to our salvation; that, in fact, they
generally stand in the way of our perfection. Spiritual dryness can finally
lead us, after much pouting, actually to give thanks that it is not because we
see God that we have joy. It is because he sees us.
Source: Gale D.
Webbe in The Night and Nothing
.
.
In Image, a superb journal for those interested in faith and the arts, poet Luci Shaw interviews theologian Eugene Peterson. A brief excerpt:
Luci Shaw: You have often warned us against our culture’s information overload—the overstimulation that comes with exposure to multiple media. As a public person, how have you avoided it yourself?
Eugene Peterson: It’s a conscious decision. I hesitate to say this, because everybody is different, but in my life I need a lot of silence. We don’t have a television. I don’t use the Internet. If I were doing a different kind of work, a different kind of life, I would use all those things. My children do, and if I need to know something I call them up, which I’m not embarrassed to do. It’s not a matter of a puritanical keeping myself free of the world. It’s just what I need.
Everybody needs to be cautious about their use of technology. One of the most important writers today is Albert Borgmann, who analyzes technology and how devastating it can be to human relations. He’s a Christian. He’s not against technology; he uses email.
I think Christians need to be very cautious about the culture. This is not a God-fearing, life-reverencing culture. We live in a pluralistic, spiritual, religious world where anything goes. We’ve got a revelation to protect; we’ve got a way of life to pursue. We need to be as clear and as accurate—and relaxed—as we can. I don’t think we need to be nervous and uptight and cautious in the way we live, but we need to be discerning, and then relax and have fun.
LS: This may be an audacious question, but what spiritual disciplines do you observe?
EP: I read scripture slowly. I pray. I worship. I once tried to coin a new word, scriptureprayer. This is a conversation. There is something to the Zen Buddhist discipline of emptying the mind, but that’s only part of it. We’ve received the word, and we’ve got to listen. There’s someone to listen to.
A caveat about the disciplines: I’m uneasy about the word discipline. It’s a useful word, which Richard Foster has brought back into the Protestant vocabulary. But in practice it often encourages people to take charge of their own spirituality. When you practice a discipline, you’re doing something. There’s not much relaxation. There’s not much letting go. Some people say to me, “You’re such a disciplined person.” I ran marathons for twenty years, but it wasn’t a discipline. I loved it. I wasn’t trying to accomplish anything. I have the same feeling about reading scripture, prayer, worship.
I was talking just this last week to a retired businessman. He led Bible studies for most of his life, but at some point he realized that he wasn’t getting it inside of him. He went to his pastor for advice, but his pastor couldn’t really help. So on his own, without any direction, he developed a system of lectio divina, almost exactly the way the books tell you how. He compiled huge notebooks of meditation and reflection on scripture. He told me he’d been doing this for ten years, that he’d wake up at five-thirty in the morning and he couldn’t wait to start. It wasn’t a discipline. It simply got inside of him.
Maybe discipline has become a cliché. Maybe there are new ways to talk about it. Maybe we’re right on the edge of that.
Source: a conversation between Luci Shaw and Eugene Peterson in Image: a journal of art, faith, & mystery (issue #62) pp. 72-73.