Dr. Paul Shields’ Opening Lecture for 2024-25

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by Dr. Paul K. Shields
Tutor
Thomas Aquinas College, New England
St. Vincent de Paul Lecture & Concert Series,
August 30, 2024

 

“On the Freedom of a Theologian”

 

Theology has always been the lifeblood of this college. In the vision of liberal education proposed by our founders, the study of theology forms the principal part — the part devoted to the teachings revealed by God and declared through Jesus Christ. This study requires docility to the teaching Church, from whom we receive this revelation; and it requires faith in Christ himself, for we aim at the freedom he promises, in accord with his words in the Gospel of John: “the truth will make you free” (Jn 8:32). Hence, all the courses at this college are taught under the light of Faith and ordered to the study of Sacred Theology, so that in seeking wisdom, we might attain that freedom which only Christ can give.

This is not to say the other parts of our program are dispensable, or merely subservient to theological study. Indeed, we devote a great deal to the other sciences, including four years to mathematics and to natural science and to philosophy. We hold that all of the sciences are worth knowing for their own sake, and together form an ordered whole. Each science has its own principles and methods, each presents its own demonstrations and truths not found in another; and all of them, in some way, are necessary for wisdom in its fullness. Hence, our program is fully integrated, and its full complement of courses aims to provide a good beginning in each major discipline.

But recognizing theology as primary, our founders designed the curriculum to have a theological architecture. It is so structured, that theology might inform the study of the other disciplines, and that these disciplines might serve theology as handmaidens. We see many examples of this. For instance, the study of Euclid provides a good beginning in mathematics. It also prepares the mind for more difficult sciences, including the study of St. Thomas’s Summa Theologiae. Again, our program studies the greatest works of literature ever written. We read Shakespeare, and Virgil and Homer, among others. Their well-crafted stories form the imagination, but also train the mind to read scripture more deeply. Again, in the De Anima Aristotle presents a philosophical account of the soul that contains many, many implications for Catholic theology. It illuminates the doctrine of the resurrection, the nature of the beatific vision, and the doctrine of the Trinity, to name a few. The sciences truly clarify theological doctrine and contribute to its development. Our curriculum helps us to make these sorts of theological connections for ourselves.

On the other hand, there is no official roadmap to our curriculum. It does not signal all the connections it intends us to make. Nor does it model how to integrate all our learning into a theological synthesis. This work is largely left up to the student. Yet it is precisely here, at this crucial point, that students can lose their way, or perhaps do not see the goal clearly to begin with. Our program has many moving parts; it can be hard to see the order and unity. One can get distracted by secondary matters mistaking them for essential, and often it is not the most essential courses that demand the most of our time. Therefore, it is important to consider the goal of Catholic liberal education and its relevance to theology.

Tonight, I wish to address this topic somewhat, though not by attempting a roadmap of our curriculum. To explain, piecemeal, the theological relevance of each course would be too tedious, and present too superficial a view, to be of much use. I propose a different approach, one counter-intuitive perhaps, but I think it will be useful. What I propose to do is to examine the life of a theologian. I do not mean theology; theology is a science. I mean to examine the life of a person in possession of that science, and to describe this life as concretely and as vividly as possible, so that in seeing it, we might strive for it, and God willing, attain this life for ourselves. The theologian, as I understand him here, is the wise man par excellence. It is his wisdom and his virtues above all, that we seek by our study. Without a clear view of the goal, how can one aspire to it? As Aristotle says, man is the most imitative of the animals; we naturally learn by imitation. How is a person to imitate what he cannot see? Here at the college, we are all students and disciples of Christ. We aim at that freedom which is born of divine wisdom. I maintain that this life of freedom is fully realized in the life of a theologian.

Now perhaps some of you are saying to yourselves: “Not so fast, Mr. Shields! This is not a seminary! We are not all to be priests and scholars. The degree is liberal arts, not theological studies. It would be foolish, if not presumptuous, to seek a life that God does not intend for all, or give all the graces for. You might be thinking, the last thing we need are TACers as self-identified theologians, patrolling sidewalks as authorities on Faith and Morals. It has been said, TAC stands for That Arrogant College. Soon we’ll be Those Arrogant Catholics!

I fear there is some truth in these objections. Certainly, no layman should regard himself as an ecclesiastical authority, since he is not. But I hope my lecture will address the main issues and clear up any misunderstandings. But to do this, we must know what a theologian is, and that’s what this lecture intends to show.

The talk is in three parts. First, I will consider the life of a theologian and aim to establish a definition of him. Second, I will consider a serious obstacle to this life and consider some solutions to it. Third, I will attempt to identify the virtues strictly necessary to a theologian, at least the principal virtues, to determine whether his life presupposes special graces, or whether it is normative for all.

 

Part I

Who is a theologian? If I asked you to define such a man or to define his life as a theologian, what would you say? How would you recognize him and distinguish him? From surveying the authors we study in our program, you might think the theologian is a scholar: a person with expert knowledge of the Christian Faith and knowledge of its traditions and writings. We call to mind St. Augustine and our patron St. Thomas Aquinas: both were distinguished masters of theology; both worked to expound and defend the Faith, and their theological writings reflect their scholarly achievements.

But this definition would seem to be too narrow. For example, what are we to make of St. Thérèse of Lisieux? Certainly, she was no scholar. As a cloistered Carmelite nun, she was largely isolated from the world. She died at age 24, without a university education, and she wrote but a single book, an autobiography. And yet, the Church recognizes her as a preeminent theologian. With St. Augustine and St. Thomas, St. Thérèse is a Doctor of the Church, even if her preeminence was hidden during her life.

Again, what are we to say about the Apostles, or generally, the biblical authors like St. John Evangelist, who was a fisherman, or St. Paul, a tentmaker by trade, who even employed his craft while ministering to Christian communities (see Acts 18:1–4)? Not all these men were learned, but all of them are accounted theologians. Their knowledge, preserved and handed on in scripture, is a foundation for theological reflection, and has been so for centuries. It is their written teachings that Christian theologians measure their minds by.

As these examples suggest, the life of a theologian has less to do with a person’s occupation or academic achievement. It has more to do with the knowledge he possesses — a knowledge of the Faith perhaps — but not necessarily a scholarly knowledge, however desirable this might be. It seems, then, that we might distinguish the theologian by his knowledge, and that his is primarily a life of the mind. It is an interior life. On this view, his life is more akin to a natural perfection, and to that extent, is of universal interest to us. But, because it is interior and hidden, this perfection is also difficult to see or investigate with exactitude.

Therefore, let me begin again. This time I will proceed more generally, by examining the meaning of the word, which incidentally is of Hellenistic origin. The Greeks used the word “theologian” to refer to their ancient poets, including Hesiod and Homer, for their poems speak of gods and stories of gods. Hence the Greek ho theológos has two parts: theos which means “God,” and logos, which means “speech” or “reason,” though sometimes “account.” A theologian therefore, is one who speaks about God and who reasons about God. You might even say: he speaks, because he reasons about God. Our speech reflects our reason; it is an exterior sign of an interior understanding. And it is by speech that reason naturally expresses itself. The theologian therefore speaks about the gods, because he knows something about them, or at least he appears to know.

Naturally, Christians adopted this term in referring to their own teachers, on the belief that Christians, more than pagans, have a true conception of God. Interestingly however, in Book 18 of The City of God, St. Augustine suggests a special likeness between the ancient biblical authors and the ancient Greek poets, and between their stories (18.37). Just as the Greek poems center on gods and their deeds among mortal men, so the focus of the biblical narratives is similar. As Homer speaks of Zeus and the favors he shows to some men, and the woes he sends to others, so in Genesis, we hear of the God of Abraham, and the favors he shows to him and his descendants, and the woes he sends to their enemies. Scripture also uses imagery and styles similar to those of the Greek poems. The difference between these stories, therefore, lies not in the ancient literary forms they adopt, or the themes or images they employ. It rests on the fact that the biblical stories are true. Scripture presents a true account. It speaks of the one true God — and not of a false pantheon of false gods. On this view, the author of scripture is more deserving of the name theologian, as his understanding is truer and more accurate than his pagan counterpart’s.

Accordingly, St. Augustine calls the biblical author the “true theologian” (Ibid.), and thus distinguishes him from a mere storyteller. Admittedly, these poets have a likeness to Augustine’s “true theologian,” given the similarity in their object and mode of speaking. Yet, being not true of God, the Greek stories are really just a “representation of human art and imagination” (Acts 17:29).

With St. Augustine, then, we distinguish the true theologian as one with true knowledge of God. He not only speaks of God, but speaks truly and of the true God. Therefore, one might initially define a theologian as one who truly knows, with God as the object of his knowledge.

But this is not a complete definition. For, we ask, what constitutes his object? Is God his sole interest, at the exclusion of all else? This is not true of Homer, who speaks also of peoples and places. His stories center on the affairs of men. Likewise the biblical narratives focus on the history of Israel. It is a long and turbulent history, covering the life of Abraham and his sojourning; it tells of Moses and his people, their bondage in Egypt, and their Exodus, including much about the laws of Moses. It speaks of the reign of king David, and Israel’s kingship after him to its decline and fall. Like the Homeric epics, the biblical narratives are replete with peoples and battles and rituals, some of which are quite strange and obscure, though all quite detailed.

The truth is, not all these things are equally important to the theologian. St. Thomas says “[the theologian] does not consider God and creatures equally, but God primarily and creatures only insofar as they relate to God as their principle and end” (Summa Theol. I, q.1, a.3, ad 1). To give a complete account of his subject, an author must bring in a host of other things, some more, and some less essential to his narrative. One might compare it to the work of a good painter, who also includes a foreground and background and other details that lend depth and perspective to his subject. Being an artist himself, the poet does likewise, describing the action of the principal agent but within its broader context, which gives it depth and perspective. For example, Homer describes not only Zeus’s deeds, but also his royal throne on Mount Olympus, and his royal chambers, and his royal clothing and chariot. Homer describes lands and landscapes, the peoples and places Zeus reigns over. He describes the gods who live with Zeus, including Zeus’s wife, Hera, and at length, to our amusement, even Zeus’s former love interests. All these things add depth and perspective to the story — at times even humor; but all of them serve the poet’s subject by completing the picture of his life and deeds. Though of secondary importance, these literary elements are not mere accessories. They are essential to the presentation of the subject, and therefore are essential to the poet’s object.

What I say of the poets is also true of the biblical authors, our true theologians. The peoples, places, and things appearing in the Old Testament are neither random, nor of mere historical interest. They all appear in their relation to God, completing the picture of his life and deeds. For instance, Genesis 1 recounts God’s work in creation. Here, God appears as the principal agent. Heaven and earth appear as his creatures, and they reflect his goodness and wisdom. Again, Genesis describes Abraham as a man of faith. His sojourning reveals much about Abraham, but reveals more about God, and God’s faithfulness to Abraham and his descendants after. Even the people of Israel, so central to the Old Testament, appear only in their relation to God, as his chosen people. Israel’s laws are God’s laws, and they reflect his justice. Israel’s priests and prophets are God’s too; they mediate his words and blessings. God’s actions toward Israel even reveal his inner life to some extent. The exodus shows God’s mercy and election, and his covenants reveal perhaps even his plan of redemption.

Like poets, these theologians unfold their stories within an intricate labyrinth of images centered on historical matters, which capture the human imagination. But above all, they lead us to understand God and his work. While not all the matters recounted are of equal importance, all still occupy a legitimate place within his object, completing his account of God. Hence, “[the theologian] does not consider God and creatures equally,” as St. Thomas says, “but God primarily and creatures only insofar as they relate to God as their principle and end” (Ibid.).

This gives us a glimpse into the interior life of the true theologian. For, insofar as their narratives reflect the understanding they possess, we see that the mind of the theologian is fixed primarily on God, as his principal object, and he also understands other matters as essential for a complete account. His knowledge forms an ordered whole, with God as the principal object.

Still, you might wonder how universal this account is. Does it apply to all theologians, as a true definition would require? Up to this point, I have limited my discussion to poets and the theologians who speak like them. You might think it is their poetic mode that renders the inclusion of secondary things necessary. What are we to say about other, more conventional theologians like St. Thomas Aquinas or St. John Damascene, who pursue their objects with scientific rigor? Is our account true of them also? What constitutes the object of their knowledge?

Those I am referring to as “conventional” theologians, strive to know God with all the conceptual clarity and exactness that human science can give its subjects. They make use of demonstration, and adopt a vocabulary more suited to it, which, being precise, tends to be more abstract than the biblical texts from which they draw. What is also noteworthy is the staggering range of topics these systematic theologians sometimes treat. They do not stop at God and an account of his attributes, but undertake a seemingly comprehensive treatment of the universe and its parts, including orders of angels and their ways of knowing, as well as the parts of the material world; including man, his natural faculties, especially his intellect and will. They even discuss practical matters, concepts proper to ethics, such as happiness, and virtue in its various types, both natural and supernatural, to name but a few topics. It seems there is hardly anything these theologians won’t talk about — or won’t stop talking about.

Their treatments appear comprehensive in scope, and in a way, more detailed than the biblical narratives. But since they do not have the same poetic mode, how is one to justify the inclusion of so many subjects in their scientific account of God? When they discuss such matters as human action or the essential natures of things, perhaps then, these systematic theologians are not speaking as theologians, but variously as ethicists, and philosophers and scientists. Alternately, if all these considerations are properly theological, what determines the parameters of his science, and how is it distinct from other sciences if it encompasses all their objects?

The answer lies in this: sciences are properly distinguished according to their formal objects, not simply their material objects. Take botany, for example. The botanist’s principal interest is in plants. Plant life is his principal subject. But he also studies other things. He studies the climate, as a condition for plant life; and he studies the soil, as a nutriment; he also studies insects and pests, because these impede the growth and health of plants; and so on. To know each of these things brings his science of plants to completion.

It is true, insects and bugs can be studied in their own right, in light of their own nature, and such is the subject for an entomologist. But botany considers them differently. Properly, he studies them in their relation to plants, and this formality limits his consideration. This difference in the formality of the object, is what properly distinguishes the botanist from the entomologist. You might say, materially, they study the same thing, but formally, it is different, because what defines their attention to the insects is different. And so properly, botany and entomology are different sciences. Likewise, with all the sciences. It is from the difference in their formal object that arise the proper differences among the sciences.

What I say of the botanist, is also true of the theologian. Like the botanist, the theologian seeks as far as possible, a complete and comprehensive account of his subject, in his case, God. As the botanist studies soil and climate, as related to plants, so the theologian considers everything in its relation to God. This is the formality under which he views each part of his science. However, God is unique among objects. He is the first and universal cause of all things. As such, there is literally nothing in the world, no subject of any science, that does not therefore fall under theologian’s consideration, at least potentially. For every creature and every cause, considered in any science, will in some way relate to God as its creator and as its first cause. No other science might study a thing in its connection to God, but theology does. And this formality is what differentiates its object.

To study things thus, in their relation to God, implies that formally the object is always God. Moreover, for the theologian, God must be known prior to, and known better than, the other things he considers. This priority is clear from the definitions he assigns to his subjects, for he defines happiness as a union with God, and sin as an impediment to God; and grace as a participation in God, and so on, always with God appearing in his definition. The pattern continues in his concepts of non-moral matters. He defines man as an image of God, and angels as messengers of God, and Israel as the people of God, generally, defining everything in terms of God as its principle or end. Since God is what is common in all his conceptions, and what is common is prior, therefore it follows that knowing God is prior to knowing anything else in the science of theology.

This is why in the scientific works like St. Thomas’s Summa Theologiae, God’s essence and attributes are treated first, then later his creatures, for the theologian intends to understand creation precisely in light of God as their cause. This is also why we call God a light, and say our knowledge of God illuminates our understanding of other things. Knowing him enables one to see other things. You might say, God can color a person’s view, and for the theologian, it colors everything he considers in his science. Therefore, God must be known first, in some way; and the better he is known as a cause, the better his creatures can be known. Therefore, it follows that God is the principal object to the systematic theologian, and not merely because he is of chief interest. It is because his knowledge of God illuminates his whole study as the formal object.

Therefore, it is not due to undisciplined extravagance that theologians pursue an ambitiously comprehensive account of things. This comprehensive scope of their inquiry naturally arises from the uniqueness of the object, for, we said, God is not a mere being, but the very first being — the universal cause of all. In considering things in relation to this cause, there is virtually nothing that escapes their object, just as nothing escapes God’s causality.

With a clearer view of his object, then, the interior life of the theologian comes more into focus, as does the definition we seek. From both his biblical and so-called systematic modes of proceeding, we see the theologian’s mind is firmly centered on God. He is the principal object, and at least in its scientific form, the scope is comprehensive, including matters theoretical and practical. Further, what he knows, is known in light of God. Since God is a common principle in all he knows, his understanding is coherent and unified. In a word, this understanding is a kind of wisdom. Let me explain this claim a little more.

Generally, wisdom is regarded as a knowledge of first causes. We tend to call a man wise who knows the first causes and understands all else through those causes, at least in a certain order of things. This is why we regard Euclid as a wise man in geometry, for he grasps its principles clearly, and understands all else in geometry through those principles. The marvelous order of his exposition reflects the clear order in his mind, and how marvelously clear it is. For the same reason, we call the prudent man a wise man. His actions reflect a sound judgment about the world and the principles underlying it. That’s why, come what may, he always acts in the right way and at the right time.

By the same reasoning, a theologian must be accounted wise. What he knows is the first cause of all things universally, and he understands all else through this cause, matters theoretical and practical. What more might a man desire to know? God is the highest object to be known. And his knowledge completes his understanding of all else, in their relation to the first cause. If any human knowledge deserves to be called wisdom, it is the theologian’s.

Having discussed at length now the object proper to the theologian, and what constitutes this object, and also, having recognized it as wisdom, we now return to the main question? Does our discussion of his object, complete the definition of a theologian? Specifically, if I defined a theologian as one who possesses a true knowledge, with God as its object, would my definition be complete? It would seem not at all. For are there not some with a true knowledge of God who yet care little for this knowledge, or even use it with contempt? Are there not some like the demons, who use their wisdom for insidious purposes? As St. James says, “even the demons [know God] — and shudder” (Jas 2:19). These creatures are more akin to mercenaries than to wise men. As we said at the outset, a theologian speaks truly of God, and with understanding. But a mercenary must in some way, betray or abandon what he knows. Such a man is not a theologian.

By contrast, for the theologian God is a cherished thought. He not only knows God, but rests in his knowledge and finds enjoyment in it. He abides in wisdom, and wisdom abides in him. This, then, would seem to be the universal difference which completes our definition: the theologian is one who knows God for its own sake. He regards it as an end for himself, and desires it accordingly. This implies a correct estimation of its value. He treasures his wisdom, and guards it, and when necessary, strives to perfect it within himself. To paraphrase Aristotle, the theologian strains every nerve to live in accord with his wisdom (N. Ethics 10.7). He contemplates it as far as possible, with continuous attention, and cultivates it by ardent study.

Therefore, let us define a theologian universally, as one who possesses a true knowledge, with God as its object, and for its own sake.

With our definition complete, now we can see the life of a theologian for what it truly is, and hopefully clear up any misconceptions about it. I wish to make four points.

First, his life is defined by knowledge. It is not defined by faith. It is in virtue of his knowing that he is a theologian, not in virtue of believing. Now, the theologian might believe certain things, indeed he might have to. As Christians, we hold many things on faith, for example, that God is a Trinity, that Christ became incarnate, that the scriptures are inspired, and so forth. As a principle of knowing, such a habit is a perfection compatible with a theologian; but inasmuch as faith does not see, it is an imperfection and falls short. That is why I say it is not with respect to his faith, as such, that we call a Christian a theologian, but with respect to that knowledge his faith brings him. I suppose a perfect theologian would be the one who sees God, comprehending him perfectly, should this be possible. However, perfect knowledge is not required by the definition, only that the knowledge be true and somehow well formed.

Second, the theologian’s knowledge must be true, with God as its object. However, a particular form or mode to this knowledge is not specified by the definition. His knowledge may be scientific in its mode, and while this is desirable, it does not exclude a more poetic grasp of God, as we see from the biblical authors. It’s not as though one mode is valid, and the other is not. We see a true knowledge of God admit of either modes, and others as well, including the lyrical poetry of St. John of the Cross, for example, or the psalms of David, which certainly display a theological form; and it leaves open other, higher mystical modes of knowing. It is a mistake to think that one of these forms of knowing God simply best, in every respect. While science brings a theologian conceptual clarity, in another way his poetic grasp of God is more concrete and certain, and often more rousingly vivid. Each mode has its own virtues and its own uses that together complete the theologian’s apprehension of God.

Third, the theologian possesses his knowledge as an end. He therefore strives to think of God continuously, and to speak of God whenever opportune. While he finds rest in knowing God, his rest is not placid inactivity. As I say, the theologian “strains every nerve” to realize this end within himself, through contemplation and an active interior life. With a mind fixed on God, he ponders his knowledge, and cultivates it, and refining it even through study; and if he should persevere, he will reap a rich harvest, in accord with the words of the psalmist: “his delight is in the law of the Lord, and on his law he meditates day and night. He is like a tree planted by streams of water, that yields its fruit in its season, and its leaf does not wither. In all that he does, he prospers” (Ps 1:1). With his mind fixed above, the theologian ever strives to ponder God and to see his divine presence in all things.

Fourth, we said, the theologian’s object is both theoretical and practical. Therefore, the theologian does not live in an ivory tower. Though his mind be elevated, his head is not in the clouds. His eyes are open to the world around him, because being practical, his wisdom has the ability to illuminate the particular circumstances of his life, come what may. It is true, this wisdom satisfies his desire to know as an end. But it is also addressed to the demands of the active life, manifesting happiness and the life of virtue and grace. The sublimity of his science, therefore, does not sever the theologian from, but unites him with, the sensible world around him. Satisfying him within, and informing his actions without, the theologian is truly free.

There are probably scores of men and women who have exemplified the life I have described, each in his own way, but none is worthier than the Blessed Virgin Mary. St. Luke describes her as a model theologian. He says, “Mary kept all these things, pondering them in her heart” (Lk 2:19). It appears, she remained in perpetual contemplation, finding God in all things, though also achieving this in an active life, as a wife and a mother. In Mary, we see the contemplative and active phases of a man’s life integrated by wisdom.

 

Part II

The life we have just defined and illustrated is not identified with any specific profession or trade. It requires a true knowledge of God, and a robust intellectual life, but being primarily interior, in principle it is not opposed to any specific state in life, though some might be more suitable than others.

Notwithstanding its universal desirability, this life of wisdom is also exceedingly difficult to attain, many would say, impossible. If I have shown anything tonight, it is that the life of a theologian is based on knowing God. But a man is not born knowing God. Should a man know God at all, he must learn from somewhere, or from someone, and this is exactly the problem, as I’ll now detail.

In himself, God is the most knowable and intelligible of all beings, but he does not appear so to us. In fact, of all things God is among the least knowable to us. This is because he is the first and universal cause of all things. Such a supreme being is infinite and immaterial, thus furthest removed from the material world we naturally know and sense. God is not a body, that we might see him with our eyes, or touch him with our hands (cf. 1 Jn 1:1). He is not an animal, that we might study his patterns of behavior in a natural habitat, the way Fabre studies his beloved insects. God is pure spirit. He is immaterial. He does not fall within man’s experience as a sensible object to be known. In one text St. Thomas remarks, very soberly, “there are many [people] who know nothing about God” (Lect. romana 3.1.1 ad 2).

As the First Vatican Council affirms, however, it is not impossible for a man to attain knowledge of God through the use of his natural reason (Dei Filius, Canon II.1). In fact, certain preeminent philosophers, Aristotle, have achieved this through studying the natural world. They proved that God exists as a first cause, that he is good, one, and eternal, and the like. Yet this philosophical knowledge has limitations, some quite serious. For one, it is based on abstruse metaphysical arguments, and demands more leisure and training than most people can manage. St. Thomas says “the truth about God as far as reason could discover them, is arrived at by only a few, and after a long time, and with the admixture of many errors” (Summa theol. I, q.1, a.1, c.). Nor can philosophy teach what God is, as if from it, a man could grasp the divine essence itself. Philosophy arrives at God through a study of his created effects, and these effects, falling infinitely short of their cause, do not make God’s essence fully known, even as a cause.

Even less do they reveal the secrets contained in God’s heart. Homer might narrate his inner thoughts as Zeus sits and ponders a solution to a cosmic dilemma, but who could read God’s mind just knowing his attributes? It would be like claiming you know someone simply because you saw their Facebook profile. You might discover a person’s political affiliation and favorite sports teams and ice cream flavors, but you would not be said to know him, the person himself. This requires spending time with him in personal conversation, sharing secrets of the heart. In a word, this knowledge requires friendship, and what philosopher can claim to be friends with his creator?

The obstacles barring a man from becoming a theologian are real and significant. It seems that what man stands most in need of is a mediator, capable of bringing the divine down to him. Specifically, he needs a mediator who can teach divine truths with certainty and clarity, but in a way accommodated to his natural mode of learning. Yet what mediator could make the invisible God, visible and accessible to man?

We find that our heavenly Father anticipated this problem, and in these latter days has provided a remedy in the Incarnation of his Son. By a singular grace beyond the merit of any creature, the Word became flesh, uniting himself to a human nature in the divine person of Jesus Christ. This man, Jesus, is fully God and fully man. For this reason, Christ is the mediator and as such, the perfect teacher. Though naturally, the knowledge of God is difficult to obtain and limited; through discipleship to Christ it is possible to become a theologian in the fullest sense.

In virtue of his divinity, Christ possesses a perfect knowledge of all things, theoretical and practical, including the secret thoughts of God. He is the truth itself (Jn 14:6), as he says. He is also called the “Wisdom of God” (1 Cor 1:24), and the Word, or Logos. Christ declares: “For this I was born, and for this I have come into the world, to bear witness to the truth. Every one who is of the truth hears my voice” (Jn 18:37). To know Christ, then, is already to know God, and to know Wisdom. Christ says, “Every one…who hears these words of mine and does them will be like a wise man who built his house upon rock” (Mt 7:24).

Further, in virtue of his humanity, Christ can accommodate our weak condition and natural mode of learning. Christ speaks in human words with a human voice; often using metaphors and parables. His concrete and vivid speech captures the imagination, while conveying hidden truths to those who have the ears to hear. Furthermore, Christ declares his teachings with power and clarity. According to Matthew, “the crowds were astonished at his teaching, for he taught them as one who had authority, and not as their scribes” (Mt 7:29).

It is not by words alone, but also by his actions that Christ completes his revelation. By hearing Jesus, silence the storms by his human voice, and by seeing him restore sight to the blind; and again, in witnessing Lazarus rise from the dead, the disciples received as far as possible, an empirical grasp of the divinity, in accord with a human mode of learning, through the senses. How a thing acts manifests what it is. So too, the miracles sensibly reveal the true nature of Christ, hidden within. In biblical terms, we can say that Christ revealed his glory; and his disciples beheld it.

Therefore, Christ established for his disciples a true way to wisdom, in contrast to the difficult path a philosopher must take if he resists Christ’s guidance. What Christ offers his disciples is the fullness of wisdom, free from any stain of error, with the greatest possible certainty about the highest things; in contrast to an abstruse path laden with an admixture of many errors. Again, Christ’s disciples are made proficient in the span of three years, in contrast to a much longer time required of a philosopher unaided by revelation. Again, even unlearned men, including fishermen, are invited into the company whom Christ calls his friends, in contrast to the elite few that philosophy can initiate. At the end of his public ministry, as though signaling its completion, Christ tells his disciples, “I no longer call you servants, for a servant does not know what his master is doing; but I have called you friends, for all that I have heard from my Father I have made known to you” (Jn 15:15). Therefore, Christian discipleship completely removes the obstacles that a man faces without God’s friendship.

 

Part III

Before closing, I have one more item to address briefly. What supernatural graces, if any, are presupposed to the life of a theologian? What specific virtues does he require? In answering this question, we will see what we first desired to know, namely, to what extent this life is available to all, and whether it is a special gift of God. But already the question has been simplified. If, as I argued in Part II, the best way to become a theologian is through discipleship to Christ, then, essentially the question becomes: what virtues are required to be a disciple of Christ? What conditions must one meet before he can take Christ as his teacher? An exhaustive enumeration may not be possible here, but I will focus on the supernatural virtues necessary, and the two I see as the principal ones.

The first, is the virtue of faith. This is contained in the very notion of discipleship. Every disciple, like every student, must have faith in his teacher. He must believe that the teacher already possesses the knowledge he seeks, and that the teacher can communicate his knowledge effectively. It is true, the disciple must be receptive to instruction; he must be docile and attentive. But more fundamentally, the disciple must believe from beginning and throughout, that his work will be profitable, that the teacher’s words, if well attended to, will ultimately yield him what he seeks. The success of his endeavor is not automatic, or guaranteed. Nor is every teacher as good as he appears to be. The disciple must believe that the teacher will give him what he seeks, and that, in the end, he will be well compensated for his pains.

Therefore faith is required of a disciple, but this is especially true of the disciple of Christ. This is because what Christ teaches is truly the revelation of God, though in human words. If a man is to grasp it at all, he must accept it as true on the authority of Christ, for it exceeds his reason, and a man cannot verify the truth for himself. To learn what Christ teaches, he must simply believe it, and for this, he must possess the theological virtue of faith, a supernatural grace given to a soul at baptism. By it, he assents to Christ’s words with the certainty that only Christ can give. 

Moreover, faith in Christ also entails faith in his Church. Entrusting his teachings to the care and ministry of his Church, Christ also invested it with the authority to judge in matters of revelation, so as to ensure that its truth be preserved undistorted, as far as possible, to the salvation of all. Christ tells his disciples in the Gospel of Luke: “He who hears you hears me, and he who rejects you rejects me” (Lk 10:16). Christ thus gives the Church the power to speak with his own authority, an authority further attested by the signs and miracles that accompanied the preaching of the early Church, as we see in The Acts of the Apostles. It follows that the disciple of Christ must be obedient to the Catholic Church and to the instruction she proposes. That includes the teachings of the Fathers and Doctors whom she has long declared to be her best theologians, including our patron St. Thomas, the Common Doctor, whose works more than any other, have been commended to our study.

But even more than these teachers, it includes the authors of Sacred Scripture, and not only because their writings have been declared free from error. Since the biblical authors are inspired witnesses of the divine things they saw, they are capable of revealing these realities in their fullness. This is especially true of the Evangelists. In recounting the life and deeds of Our Lord, the evangelists unite us with Christ himself, permitting us to walk with him, and to listen to his teaching and witness his miracles. Because of them, I am able to watch Christ heal the blind man; and with Thomas, place my hand in his resurrected side, or with John, recline on his breast at table — I can do all these things, vicariously, because these authors were made authoritative witnesses of the divine things they experienced. As a consequence, the scriptures are primary for the disciple of Christ, for this is where he meets his teacher. It is also for this reason that the Church says, quoting St. Jerome, that “ignorance of the Scriptures is ignorance of Christ” (Dei Verbum 6.25).

Because he is a disciple of Christ, therefore, the theologian is also a disciple to the Catholic Church and submits to her authoritative teachings, especially in the Sacred Scriptures. All this is contained in his faith. 

While faith is necessary to the theologian, faith alone is not sufficient. To embrace the Word of God, to persevere in understanding it, and to cling to it as an end, all presuppose love. We love what it is we know, and we love in the proportion that we know it. Since, however, what the theologian knows has a supernatural object, so his love for this object must likewise be supernatural. His love is none other than the theological virtue of charity, infused in our hearts at baptism.

I say that this virtue of charity is even more necessary to the theologian than his faith. This claim may seem counterintuitive. We are not accustomed to think of love as a cause of knowing, but vice versa, for we cannot love what we don’t know. Although love follows knowledge, nevertheless, in another way, our love, our will, is a principle of our knowing. Just as an object can draw our attention, attracting us to it, so we naturally tend to think of the things we love. We more readily call them to mind, or catch ourselves thinking of them. “Where your treasure is, so is your heart,” as Christ says (Mt 6:21). Likewise St. Augustine writes, “my love is my weight, and by it I am borne about wheresoever I am borne” (Confessions 13.9).

Love influences what I think about, and also, how I think about it. Our love tends to color our understanding of things. For example, consider the glutton. His will is dominated by his appetite for food. He not only thinks of eating and of how to satisfy his appetite, but also sees everything else in this light. He sees his car as a means to food, he sees his spare time as an occasion for eating, and sees his friends as company for his indulgence. His love effectively enslaves his mind, making it an instrument of vice. By contrast, the theologian maintains an elevated gaze. By raising his mind to God, he escapes the distorted perceptions caused by less pure loves. He sees all things through God, their true cause. While the glutton is enslaved by his love, the theologian is freed by his, able to see things for what they are, in the light of God. The freedom of a theologian thus arises from charity.

In conclusion, we are now equipped to answer the question we started with: Is it foolish or presumptuous to aspire to be a theologian? At this point, we can see the answer for what it is. Far from being foolish, this pursuit presents the surest path to wisdom, when undertaken as disciples to Christ. Nor is it presumptuous, for the supernatural graces it requires were already given to us at baptism, with the virtues of faith and charity. A student has only to cultivate these virtues through learning, aided by the sacramental life, and he will make a good beginning in the life of wisdom.

I think presumption is not the vice to be wary of; it is the danger of discouragement. Our program is rigorous; the temptation to slacken the reins is inevitable. I urge you students, study hard, keeping the goal in sight. If learning and discipleship can turn fishermen into theologians, then what is to hinder us, with all the riches of the Catholic intellectual tradition set before us? As I say, a Christian has only to persevere in this, holding fast to our object, and the freedom of a theologian will be his. As Christ says in the Gospel of John: “If you persevere in my word, you are truly my disciples, and you will know the truth, and the truth will make you free” (Jn 8:31–32).

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