From E. L. Mascall, Saraband: The Memoirs of E. L. Mascall,
Herefordshire, UK: 1992, 378-383. I have taken the liberty of
breaking up longer paragraphs into smaller units.
“. . . I have never thought of myself as an academic who found it
convenient to be in holy orders but as a priest who, to his
surprise, found himself called to exercise his priesthood in the
academic realm.”
Anthony Flood
May 18, 2011
Epilogue
Je te salue, heureuse et profitable Mort
Ronsard
Whatever this book may be, it is not an apologia pro vita mea,
for as I look back on my life the one thing that is clear is that I have
had very little say in designing it. There have been critical moments
when it was not at all obvious what I was meant to do next; but this was
not because I was faced with an embarrassing variety of alternatives
between which to choose but because, as far as I could see, nobody was
particularly anxious that I should do anything at all; and when the way
opened up again it turned out to be quite different from anything that I
had imagined.
When I got a fairly good degree in mathematics at Cambridge, I hoped for
an academic career, but not a single university post was offered me; and
three years of teaching in a school convinced me that I was not meant to
be a schoolmaster. When I became conscious of a call to the priesthood,
I took this as meaning that I should be engaged in parish work for the
rest of my working life; it was a complete surprise to be asked to
assist in the training of ordinands at Lincoln. And when that came to
an end, nothing could have seemed less likely than that I, whose sole
academic training had been in mathematics at Cambridge, should be
appointed to teach and research in theology at Oxford.
Truly, God moves in a mysterious way his won-ders to perform; but, while
I am only too conscious of the handicap which I have suffered through a
complete lack of the training which it had come to be assumed as proper
and necessary for a future theologian to receive, I also discovered that
the intellectual discipline in which I had been trained as a
mathematician gave me an approach and an instrument of which theology
was badly in need and which the accepted means of theological education
not only did little to supply but, where some faint traces of it
existed, could even do something to destroy.
Of course I did not see all this in a flash, but it gradually became
more and more evident to me that most of what was taught in the academic
faculties under the name of theology had little appeal or utility to
those who were called to the Church’s pastoral and evangelistic work.
There seemed, in short, to be a theological task for even as untrained
and unconven-tional a theologian as I, and I located it as lying in the
distinct but related areas of philosophical and of dogmatic theology.
The reception which my books have received suggests that I was not
mistaken. It should at least be clear that I have never thought of
myself as an academic who found it convenient to be in holy orders but
as a priest who, to his surprise, found himself called to exercise his
priesthood in the academic realm.
Does this imply that my freedom as a scholar has been cramped or stunted
by my religious commit-ment? Not in the least, if there is truth in the
adage that grace does not destroy nature but perfects it, for the
Christian theologian is not merely someone who has been trained in a
certain investigative method and then turned loose to practice it upon
the documents and institutions of Christianity; he is—or should
be—living and thinking and praying within a great tradition. To quote
some words from my inaugural lecture at King’s College, London, in 1962:
As I see it, the task of the Christian theologian is that of
theologising within the great historical Christian tradition;
theologizandum est in fide. Even when he feels constrained to
criticise adversely the contemporary expres-sions of the tradition, he
will be conscious that he is bringing out from the depths of the
tradition its latent and hitherto unrecognised contents; he is acting as
its organ and its ex-ponent. He will also offer his own contribution
for it to digest and assimilate if it can. Like the good householder he
will bring out of his trea-sure things new and old. But he will have no
other gospel than that which he has received.1
There are, of course, many questions to which I do not profess to know
the answers, about apparent contradictions between some elements in
traditional Christianity and what are described as the assured results
of modern scholarship; this does not seriously trouble me, as I have no
particular right to expect answers to all my questions in this life;
rather I am astonished to have been given answers to so many. What I am
not prepared to do is to jettison the accumulated wisdom of the
Christian ages in order to come to terms with what may well be a passing
phase of critical scholarship.2 And although estab-lishments
develop an infuriating capacity for blandly ignoring attacks that they
cannot refute, there are at last ominous signs that the relativism and
anti-supernaturalism which have dominated the study of Christian origins
for nearly a century are crumbling from within.3
Throughout my active lifetime, however, the Church, in all its branches,
has been subjected to a widespread and many-faced process of erosion, of
which its leaders have been largely unconscious and to which, even when
they have been conscious of it, they have often helplessly capitulated.
On the level of belief it consists of that relativistic view of truth
and that naturalistic view of religion to which I have just referred;
the extent to which it has gone is shown by the fact that, when recently
an Anglican priest in an academic post, outstripping his colleagues who
had denied the Trinity and the Incarnation, proposed to dispense with
the existence of God, no formal rejection of his position ensued.
On the practical level it is shown by the tendency to make decisions by
reference not to the teaching of Christ or the insights and traditions
of Christendom but to the pressures of contemporary secularised society;
the decision of the Episcopal Church in the U.S.A. about the ordination
of women and the attitudes of various Anglican churches about the
marriage of divorced persons are examples of this.
I sympathise deeply with my fellow Anglicans in the States in the
catastrophe which has all but destroyed their church, and the more so
because I believe they have simply been struck by the first wave of a
storm which is breaking upon the Church as a whole, namely that of a
radical relativism and naturalism. For the question which faces every
Christian body to day and which underlies all individual practical
issues is this: is the Christian religion something revealed by God in
Christ, which therefore demands our grateful obedience, or is it
something to be made up by ourselves to our own specification, according
to our own immediate desires? When we assent, as I am convinced we
must, to the first alternative, we must also insist that the second is
not only false but bogus, and that our true fulfilment and happiness is
not to be found by following our own whims but by giving ourselves to
God in Christ, who has given himself for us. For, once again, grace
does not destroy nature but fulfils it.
One bright feature in our present situation is the remarkable drawing
together not only of Christians of liberal and undogmatic outlook—there
is nothing surprising in that—but those of firm traditional allegiance,
in bodies that have historically often been at daggers drawn. I
recently discovered some quite prophetic remarks made as long ago as
1938 by an anonymous writer in the Quarterly Review of St Mary’s,
Graham Street, a church which had acquired some notoriety as one of the
more extreme centres of Anglo-Catholicism in London and certainly not
suspected of sympathy for Protestantism. The writer was reviewing the
Report entitled Doctrine in the Church of England, which had just
been published, after fifteen years of intensive work, by a very mixed
commission appointed by the two Archbishops in 1922. The reviewer
remarked that
one of the most curious features of the docu-ment [was] the way in which
Catholics, Evangelicals, and professed Modernists alike show[ed]
themselves as tarred with the same brush,” namely, that “the great
problem seemed to be to bring Christianity into step with the ‘march of
mind,’ instead of . . . to rescue it from the flight from reason in
which modern civilisation seems to be more and more involving itself . .
. All alike come to the study of doctrine with the same presupposi-tions,
and their naïve surprise at the measure of agreement they have found is
in the circumstances rather comic. What however is not comic but
pathetic,” [the reviewer con-tinued, and it is here that he became pro-phetic]
is that there does exist today, as perhaps never before, as basis upon
which Catholicism and Protestantism might find a point of departure for
agreement, namely a profound belief in revelation and the supernatural;
and this the Report hardly even considers.”4
Over forty years later those words have become strikingly true, in many
places and in many ways. The document Growing into Union,
produced in 1970 at the time of the Anglican-Methodist scheme is one
example; the close relations between the Conser-vative Evangelical5
theological college at Oak Hill and the Roman Catholic Benedictine
communities at Cockfosters is another; in the United States the movement
named “Pastoral Renewal,” based in Ann Arbor, Michigan, has brought
traditionally minded Catholics and Protestants together over a vast
area; and individual contacts are widespread. In all this the key-words
are “Revelation” and “the super-natural.”
There is of course plenty of theological liberalism about, and when
reading some recent professorial utterances I hear not so much
trumpet-calls for the world of the nineteen-eighties as echoes of the
Cambridge of the nineteen-twenties. This has been reinforced by Roman
Catholics, rejoicing in their post-conciliar freedom not always very
responsible; both by them and by the ecclesiastical authorities there
has been a tendency to repeat, though in a milder climate, the confusion
which so bedeviled the Modernist controversy at the beginning of the
century and to lump together the demand for a conscientiously exercised
freedom of academic research with a radical rejection of revelation and
the supernatural. This raises issues of tremendous practical importance
at the present day, but I cannot discuss them here.
If the task of the Christian theologian is what I have suggested, the
question inevitably arises not only whether it is being adequately
performed in our academic institutions—I have rather firmly main-tained
that it is not—but whether, as the nature of those institutions is
currently understood, it possibly can be. The very impressive Jesuit
thinker Fr. Bernard Lonergan has argued in his book Method in
Theology that a necessary moment in the training of the Christian
theologian is a costing and irrevocable conversion, which must take
place on the intel-lectual, the moral and the religious plane. His
authoritative interpreter Fr. Frederick Crowe, S.J., in his book The
Lonergan Enterprise presses the point home ruthlessly:
Do I allow questions of ultimate concern to invade my consciousness, or
do I brush them aside because they force me to take a stand on God?
With such questions we are being forced to the roots of our own living,
challenged to discover, declare, and, if need be, to abandon our horizon
in favour of a new one in which our knowing is transformed and our
values are transvalued. We are also abandoning the neutral position of
an observer, and entering another phase of study altogether.6
Fr. Crowe also insists that the required renewal of theology and
philosophy cannot come about through our existing academic institutions:
Can you even imagine, much less contemplate as a serious proposal,
inviting your university colleagues to a discussion and informing them
casually that the spirit of the meeting would be a prayerful one, and
that a good part of the input would be the self-revelations of your
interior spiritual life and theirs? . . . In any case there would be the
problem of a state-supported university in a secular state sponsoring
such activities. Still negatively, the average theological congress
will not be the vehicle for this theology—for the same reason that
applies to the university, and for the additional reason that the
average congress is described, with a degree of exaggeration but with a
grain of truth, too, as a dialogue of deaf persons. One goes there to
get off one’s chest the ideas that no one back home will listen to; no
one at the congress listens, either, but the speaker is not so acutely
aware of it.7
Fr. Crowe suggests that what is needed is a theological centre on the
model of the retreat-house:
A theological centre modeled on that would be a place of prayerful and
thoughtful quiet to which theologians could retire, not just for two
days or a week, but for forty days of retreat from offices and deans’
schedules and committee meetings on tenure. They could do theology
together in a contemplative mood. Nor would I exclude congresses of
shorter duration, provided they are not the “average” type I just
mentioned.8
This, it is stressed, still leaves the university with a vital
theological role:
In addition to providing the academic setting for critical scholarship,
the first phase and its tasks, as it has been doing for some centuries,
it will also be the ordinary vehicle for the interdisciplinary
discussions which are a part of systematics and communications. These
are discussions without which theology cannot mediate between a religion
and a cultural matrix.9
Whether there is any real prospect of a radical renewal of the
theological enterprise on these lines may indeed seem doubtful, as much
perhaps on temperamental as on material grounds. But for myself I can
only say this, that, while I am deeply sensible of the tolerance and
sympathy which I have received from the academic faculties in which I
have worked, the Christian Faith and the Christian Church have been the
source from which my inspiration as a theologian has been drawn. I have
used the phrase Theologizandum est in Fide, and I would now add
the words in Ecclesia, in Liturgia.
Finally, remembering that great master who declared shortly before the
end of his earthly pilgrimage that he could write no more because that
had been revealed to him compared with which all that he had written was
as a straw, I look to the day when, in the words of a possibly even
greater master, “all our activity will be Amen and Alleluya.”
Notes
1
Theology and History,
p. 17.
2
Thus, for example, the proposal to abandon St John’s Gospel as a source
of Christian teaching because of the theory that it is a gnostic fiction
is to my mind quite outrageous.
3
See, e.g., Patrick Henry, New Directions in New Testament Study,
1979.
4
St Mary’s Graham Street Quarterly Review,
Spring 1938, p. 41.
5
I must put in a word of protest against the frequent dismissal of
Conservative Evangelicals as “funda-mentalists,” in the pejorative-sense
of that flexible term. Some no doubt are, but others are as certainly
not.
6
The Lonergan Enterprise,
p. 57.
7
Ibid., p. 95.
8
Ibid
9
Ibid p. 96