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Blaise Pascal |
The Church established by Jesus is commissioned by Christ to faithfully pass on the doctrines of the faith. The number of cultures, ethnicities and languages in which this task is accomplished is overwhelming. Local cultures and varying degrees of orthodoxy ensure that each Catholic is educated in these doctrines in various ways using culturally meaningful metaphors and with varying degrees of thoroughness.
To a large extent my spiritual journey consists of seeking presentations of doctrine that provide me with a unique understanding or strike me as especially meaningful. That was the case when I read an article in the magazine First Things on Blaise Pascal. The article was one in a series highlighting one individual from each century of the last millennium who most significantly defined the last millennium. The following link is to the entire article.
( http://www.firstthings.com/article/1999/08/pascal-the-first-modern-christian)
The author of the article, Edward T. Oakes, outlines Pascal's presentation of Christ's incarnation in Pascal's collected musings entiltled Pensees. Pascal's way of explaining the Incarnation and how it can work in our lives refreshed my view of a doctrine that I confess to at least once a week, but one which I fail to reflect upon as deeply as I should.
In the article Oakes uses a term "iodine of hyperactivity". I don't know if it is his or Pascal's but my next post will expand on that concept. Oakes contrasts Pascal's thought (theological) against Descartes (reason) so you will see him mentioned.
from Oakes' article:
But Pascal is even more noticeably anti-Cartesian
in his concern for the Christian religion. Descartes famously loathed
theological disputes and avoided their entanglements whenever possible. Pascal,
as his acrimonious debates with the Jesuits attest, entered the fray of
theological infighting with startling gusto and vehemence. But what most of his
contemporaries, both friend and foe, failed during his lifetime to see about
his motivation emerged only after his death, when his younger sister gathered
together the shards and disjecta membra of his notes for a projected work of
apologetics and published them in the form we know today as the Pensées .
From this remarkable work [Pensees] we now
realize that Pascal saw himself, above all, as Christ’s apologete and defender
against Christianity’s rationalist scoffers. … No doubt Pascal always remained
heavily indebted to Descartes’ dualism of mind and matter, but in his
apologetics for Christianity he transforms Cartesian dualism into merely one
aspect of a much deeper and more central dualism: not between spirit and matter
but between God’s holiness and human misery, not between soul and body but
between God’s infinity and man’s sin. Christ came to heal these more agonizing
divisions -- divisions rooted not
in incompatible metaphysical essences but in the pathos of the enfleshed soul
trapped in sin. The Incarnation thus becomes a balm applied to man’s riven
soul, torn not so much between spirit and flesh as between despair and pride.
[The Christian religion] teaches men
both these truths: that there is a God of whom we are capable, and that a
corruption in our nature makes us unworthy of Him. It is equally important for
us to know both these points; for it is equally dangerous for man to know God
without knowing his own wretchedness, and to know his wretchedness without
knowing the Redeemer who can cure him of it. Knowledge of only one of these
points leads either to the arrogance of the philosophers, who have known God
and not their own wretchedness, or to the despair of the atheists, who know
their wretchedness without knowing the Redeemer.
We can see from these remarks that for Pascal
Descartes’ dualism is missing a crucial element: he has failed to provide an
analysis of the moral dangers to which the human spirit is prone precisely
because of its capacity for an infinite reach to the very ends of the universe.
Pascal openly affirms with Descartes that our capacity to know the universe
makes us masters, in some paradoxical sense, of the universe we conceive. But our
capacity to “grasp” the universe and transform it into a mental construct of
our knowing powers remains both paradox and pathos: we always accomplish these
acts of knowing as puny, pathetic, and vulnerable bodies, whose corruption
eventually leads to death.
This knowing mind, however, would rather remain
enamored of its cognitive powers than acknowledge that this knowing power is an
organic function of the brain. … Fearing the inevitable dissolution of its
powers, the mind hides from itself the reality of its own insignificance.
Second only to cognition itself, the most notable fact of the human mind lies
in its tendency to forget the realities of its corruption and death.
Hence the central temptation of man is always
pride. … For Pascal, pride is a deeply functional sin: it works to help us
forget. The mind shrinks from recognizing its status as a thinking reed by
hiding under a carapace of pride. Characteristically, Descartes failed to
notice this pathos; a missing element that, like the non-barking dog that
became the decisive clue in the Sherlock Holmes story, tells us why Cartesian
philosophy is more culprit than detective, more likely, that is, to lead us
astray than to bring us to the truth.
But despite a few stray remarks in the Pensées
that attack Descartes, Pascal’s intent there is not, fundamentally, polemical.
Throughout this fascinating book of almost random observations the reader soon
picks up the author’s driving motivation. Pascal above all wants to explain to
his post-Cartesian contemporaries how the pathos of human nature has its own
“balm in Gilead,” a healing ointment in Jesus Christ, who is the very divine
incarnation of these human oppositions. But of course Jesus Christ can only be
accepted as Christ (the “anointed one”) if one first admits that human nature
needs His healing balm. Christ’s coming on earth thus has the odd effect of
eliciting hate precisely because His presence in history will reopen wounds
that our distracted culture thought had been healed not by His balm but by the
iodine of hyperactivity.
No wonder, then, that modernity since the
Enlightenment has taken scandal in Jesus Christ. Even inside our own culture,
which is often called “post”“modern because of its self-image of being more
accommodating to local traditions and intercultural understanding than was
Enlightened modernity, Christianity still is made to feel something like the
bastard son who shows up uninvited at the annual family picnic. Inside all the
talk about multiculturalism, contemporary culture often balks at including
Christianity in its “gorgeous mosaic.” This uneasiness has sometimes been
dubbed the “ABC Rule,” meaning “anything but Christianity.” Undoubtedly Pascal
would amend that to mean “anyone but Christ,” for at root that is where the
scandal lies. Christianity’s scandal is not just itself (though it is that as
well, which is no doubt why the Pope wants the Church formally to repent of her
institutional sins); its real scandal is Jesus Christ. And He is the stumbling
block precisely because to accept Him is first of all to admit one’s
hopelessness without Him. Pride and life in Christ are inherently incompatible.