About that famous Léon Bloy quote

From my “Sent” folder. The friends I sent this email to have yet to supply an answer. Perhaps a reader or Google ultra-sleuth or Catholic scholar of French literature can?

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I've got a question for y'all. You know the famous Léon Bloy quote, almost always rendered this way in English:

The only real sadness, the only real failure, the only great tragedy in life, is not to become a saint.

It's rarely attributed to a text, but when it is, it's to La Femme Pauvre. In English, the last line evokes the famous quote, but it's much briefer, at least in translation. So I found a French text online. Here's the French (all caps original):

Il n'y a qu'une tristesse, lui a-t-elle dit, la dernière fois, c'est de N'ÊTRE PAS DES SAINTS.

If you Google French versions of the Bloy quote, it comes up with all kinds of riffs:

Il n'y a qu'une tristesse, c'est de ne pas être un saint.

Il n'y a qu'un seul motif de tristesse, ne pas être un saint

Il n'y a qu'une tristesse au monde, c'est ne pas être un saint

La seule tristesse, c'est de ne pas être un saint

Il n'y a qu'un seul malheur : ne pas être un saint.

La plus grande tragédie est de ne pas être un saint.

So the question is: Did Bloy say (in print or at some public event) the larger form of the quote? Or has it somehow expanded over time in a generously paraphrased version? One of the French (Canadian) sources I consulted (which had the 'la plus grande tragédie' version) referred to the Maritains (who converted under Bloy's influence, no?) hearing Bloy say a version of the famous quote, an experience that had a lasting impact on them. So perhaps it's something Bloy wrote or spoke regularly, in essays and speeches and not just the novel, in which case the popular English version is not inaccurate?

Any help at all on this would be much appreciated. I'd love to know the truth about this English rendition.

(As a postscript, there's a parallel quote in the English translation of Bernanos' Diary of a Country Priest, so I looked up the French. I've bolded the relevant echo below. It's much less of a verbal echo in French than in the English, loosely rendered by Pamela Morris shortly after the novel’s original publication.)

Détrompez-vous, lui dis-je, je suis le serviteur d’un maître puissant, et comme prêtre, je ne puis absoudre qu’en son nom. La charité n’est pas ce que le monde imagine, et si vous voulez bien réfléchir à ce que vous avez appris jadis, vous conviendrez avec moi qu’il est un temps pour la miséricorde, un temps pour la justice et que le seul irréparable malheur est de se trouver un jour sans repentir devant la Face qui pardonne.

What Christian parents hope for their children

Not wealth or health. Not success. Not intelligence or skill or talent. Not safety per se. Not freedom from suffering. Not a long life for its own sake. Not goodness, considered as a moral achievement. Not even happiness, in the popular sense.

No, each of these things is secondary. Naturally, every Christian parent prays for all or most of them. But they’re not primary. What’s primary, what a Christian parent hopes above all as most important for his children, is that they know Christ. And knowing Christ, apart from having priority, cuts against those secondary desires in two important respects.

The first is this. To know Christ is not to have it all together. Far from it. To know Christ is to know that, far from having it all, one has nothing. Having it all is the illusion from which Christ delivers us. There is no one righteous, not one. Like our children, we sometimes imagine the world is divided between good and bad people. But those aren’t the basic Christian categories. The basic Christian category for human beings is sinner, and we all belong to it. The aim of the Christian life isn’t to avoid being Peter, the betrayer of Christ; Paul, the persecutor of Christ; Thomas, the doubter of Christ. For we are all, every one of us, Peter and Paul and Thomas. The aim instead is to be the Peter and Paul and Thomas we already are on the far side of Christ—on the far side of seeing and recognizing Christ for who he is: the lover of our souls, the One who forgives seventy times seven, the grace of God incarnate. The aim is to know Christ, as the One who sees us for who we are and forgives us as the sinners we are. Kichijiro, in the novel Silence, is not the paradigmatic “bad” Christian. He’s the paradigmatic Christian full stop. His perpetual failure is ours. We are all Kichijiro: believing, confessing, failing, betraying, and in sincere contrition falling prostrate before the Lord, begging mercy once again. And receiving it.

That is the shape of the Christian life. That, therefore, is what a Christian parent hopes for her children. She knows in advance that the shape of human life is failure, so she doesn’t kid herself that her children might escape such a fate. What she prays for instead is that her children’s inevitable failure might be cruciform, that is, formed and defined by the cross of Christ. For when our failures are united to his, then his triumph becomes ours. Per crucem ad lucem. Only by darkness, light; only by death, life; only by the cross—by suffering, shame, rejection, and humiliation—comes resurrection life, which is the life of God: eternal life.

This is the second element of knowing Christ. To know Christ is to follow Christ, taking up our crosses in his wake. For the way of Christ is the way of the cross. To follow him is to be conformed to his image, to the pattern of his life, death, and resurrection. Far from the path of passivity or unrighteousness, this is the path of holiness. What it means, in a word, to follow the Christ, the Anointed One, is to become holy as he is holy. It is to become a saint.

As Léon Bloy famously remarked, “The only real sadness, the only real failure, the only great tragedy in life, is not to become a saint.” Few of us, alas, become saints in this life, though all the baptized are bound for it, here or in the life of the world to come. But what does it mean to be a saint?

The answer to that question is found in the lives of the saints. And as C. S. Lewis wrote, “How monotonously alike all the great tyrants and conquerors have been; how gloriously different are the saints.” Their fundamental differences doesn’t mean there is no commonality, however. The commonality is their proximity to Christ: their having been seized, captured, and won by Christ and for Christ to serve his will alone. What he wants, they want; what he does, they do; what he commands, they obey. The heart of the saint is the prayer of St. Augustine: “Command what you will, and will what you command.” A saint, therefore, is someone whose total life and being are utterly transparent to the desires and actions of the Lord.

The thing about the Lord’s will, though, is that it, too, is not primarily interested in wealth, health, success, intelligence, skill, talent, safety, long life, mortal righteousness, earthly happiness, or freedom from suffering. To be a saint, as the lives of the saints suggest, is as a rule to be asked to relinquish or avoid such things. For the crown of sainthood is martyrdom, and all saints are called to be martyrs in one form or another. A saint is likely, as a result, to be marked not by worldly signs of flourishing but, instead, by ostracism, loneliness, pain, mockery, ill health, poverty, neither spouse nor children, a brief life, and, on the part of the wider society, either befuddled neglect or outright repudiation. I might as well be describing St. Paul, after all. Or Jesus.

And that’s the point. To raise children to be Christians is to raise them to follow Christ; to raise them to follow Christ is to unclench one’s parental fists, entrusting them to the Lord’s care, with the full knowledge that the Lord may lead them to where he himself was led: Gethsemane, Golgotha, a garden tomb. The reason why a parent might even consider this is, on one hand, because we know what follows that sequence: an empty tomb. And, on the other hand, because Jesus says that even in this world, even in this life, the only true life is following his way, wherever it may lead. Resurrection life looks like cruciform life even before one arrives in Jerusalem.

“I came that they may have life, and may have it abundantly.” As parents, we either take Jesus at his word or we don’t. If we do, our prayers and hopes for our children will look wildly, even scandalously different than our neighbors’. If we don’t, then of all people we are most to be pitied. If Jesus can’t be trusted, we should let our children know as soon as possible, and quit all this church business for good.

Narnia’s saints

Does Narnia have saints? It occurred to me, as I was listening to The Last Battle this morning, that the function of the children in the stories (minus The Horse and His Boy) is analogous to the function of the saints in devotional and liturgical prayer in catholic traditions. There is no question that Aslan alone is King and Lord, but by his will the sons of Adam and the daughters of Eve are sent as ministering servants to the beasts and people of Narnia. Not only that, but more than once they are called. Caspian blows Susan’s horn to call them for help. And while captured and alone, King Tirian bellows aloud—following a prayer addressed directly to Aslan—a prayer to the children of old who once aided Narnia long ago. Indeed this latter petition for the children’s intercession comes after Tirian recalling to mind the old stories he was raised on, having been well versed as a child in a kind of common Narnian hagiography of Peter and Lucy and Digory and Polly and the rest. And more or less the moment he begs their intercession, under Aslan, he is brought to them in our world, and moments later (for him: a week later for them) Jill and Eustace arrive to help.

That description is quite similar to catholic teaching and practice regarding the saints. They are alive with God in heaven (read: another world); they once lived in our world and we tell and retell stories of their words and deeds (read: tales of the fabled children who came to Narnia’s aid in times of great need); they have no power of themselves but by God’s grace hear the petitions of the church militant and intercede for them before the heavenly throne (read: the children being called or summoned to Narnia); and occasionally through their intercession the Lord works some miracle or wonder in answer to a believer’s prayer and as a sign of the saint’s patronage or protection (read: the children appearing in Narnia and defeating the White Witch or coming to Caspian’s aid or sailing to the end of the world or rescuing Prince Rilian from his enchantment). If this account makes the role of the saints, and therefore of the children in Lewis’s stories, akin to that of the angels, that is because it is. At least according to sacred tradition.

I vaguely recall Lewis half-punting the question of the saints’ intercession in his book on prayer, or perhaps in a separate essay. I’ll have to run down the reference, but I believe he affirms the saints’ intercession on principle, but not wanting to be divisive he allows the legitimacy of Protestant worries about superstitious and abuse. In any case, though, I’d be shocked if he were dead-set opposed to the practice. And even if he were, he’s rendered the practice in an intelligible and quite beautiful narrative form in the children of the Chronicles of Narnia.

Saint Monica (TLC, 2)

Today is the feast of St. Monica, the mother of St. Augustine of Hippo. St. Monica is (if you will allow it) my self-appointed patron saint. She is an inspiration and a sacred exemplar of Christian fidelity, maternal love, and undying hope. A couple years back Matthew Rothaus Moser, a theologian at Azusa Pacific, wrote this on Twitter:

Theology hot take: *Confessions* is less a narrative of Augustine’s search for God than it is a narrative of the efficacy of Monica’s prayerful tears.

I retweeted that with the following small thread:

Print this out and plaster it on every mirror, wall, and doorframe of your house. God help us parents to pray with one percent of the blood, sweat, and tears of St. Monica.

This supposed hot take should be so cool as to be frozen solid. St. Monica is the human hero of the Confessions: the exemplar, the faithful one, the stubborn widow pestering the judge, Abraham haggling with the Lord: tear-stained incarnation of irresistible grace in fallen form.

I've shared this before, and I always share it whenever I teach the Confessions: Re-reading the book after becoming a parent—sitting in a little YDS second-floor study room—I wept like a newborn baby when I got to the end of Book VIII. God heard her prayers. All grace. Pure joy.

Come by my office, and you'll find icons of St. Monica on my door, on my wall, at my window. (Sitting in my study at home, I'm looking at an icon of her as I write.) When I grow up I want to be like St. Monica.

A few months later, on the feast of St. Monica in 2019, I retweeted that thread with the following appended comment:

A thread from last month for the feast of St. Monica: mother of St. Augustine, soldier of prayer, and my own (alas, self-appointed) patron saint. Jesus spoke of her in Luke 18; she is the persistent widow incarnate.

Remember and celebrate St. Monica this day, and give thanks for her witness and for her tears, which by the Spirit’s grace made her wayward son a son of God. Like Hannah, the one thing she loved most in the world she gave over to the Lord, whom she loved even more; she knew her boy needed the church as a mother, not only herself. And what she gave up, she received back one hundredfold.

Why, after all, did St. Augustine write what may be the most important, influential, and beautiful work of Christian literature in the church’s history? Answer:

My Lord, my God, inspire your servants, my brothers, your sons, my masters, to whose service I dedicate my heart, voice, and writings, that all who read this book may remember at your altar Monica your servant and Patrick her late husband, through whose physical bond you brought me into this life without my knowing how. May they remember with devout affection my parents in this transient light, my kith and kin under you, our Father, in our mother the Catholic Church, and my fellow citizens in the eternal Jerusalem. For this city your pilgrim people yearn, from their leaving it to their return. So as a result of these confessions of mine may my mother’s request receive a richer response through the prayers which many offer and not only those which come from me.

The Confessions exists to elicit the prayers of God’s people in perpetuity, on behalf of St. Monica and as an extension and fulfillment of her own prayers, while she was still on earth. So say a prayer today on her behalf; say a prayer especially for your children, as she did her only son. She’s in heaven now, all her earthly prayers answered, yet still (we may trust) praying without ceasing. For whom? For all God’s children still journeying toward their eternal home.

Piranesi and Decreation

Last month I read Piranesi, Susanna Clarke’s belated follow-up to her best-selling Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell. Piranesi is as wonderful as advertised, a bona fide mystery box of pure prose, genuine wonder, and spiritual imagination. It’s also best to go in without knowing anything, so unspoiled readers who prefer to remain that way ought to stop here.

Much has been made about the theological character of the House, or the World, in which Piranesi finds himself. And rightly so: Clarke invites the comparisons, through interviews, the epigraph from Lewis, and the text itself. Is the House heaven? the divine mind? the realm of the Forms? an in-between place a la the Wood Between the Worlds? something else? (The TVA?)

One clue to the Nature of the Place—Clarke’s liberal capitalizations, like Katherine Sonderegger’s, are contagious—is that Piranesi, like all long-time inhabits of the House, slowly forgets himself. That is, he forgets earth, terrestrial history, his own history, even his name. He lives in a kind of utterly un-self-conscious perfect present of awareness of, and transparency to, the House in all its many-roomed splendor. His innocence and joy are childlike in their unadorned simplicity. Even when he contemplates what one would consider moral harm, he turns over the idea in his mind not so much as a moral quandary as an unthinkable question from which anyone would recoil.

As I read the book, this notion of the loss of self-consciousness in heaven brought to mind Paul Griffiths’ book Decreation: The Last Things of All Creatures. (I wrote about the book a few years ago for Marginalia.) Griffiths argues there, as an admitted item of speculation, that beatified rational creatures—i.e., you and I—will not, in heaven, be self-conscious. We will be conscious, but what we will be conscious of is nothing less or more than the living and perfect and perfectly simple triune God. Saturated in his rapturous glory, we will gladly forget ourselves as we see, finally, face to face, our loving and gracious Creator, who is himself the highest good, ours and all creation’s, he who is beauty itself. But it is important to see that, for Griffiths, we will not choose to forget ourselves, as an intentional act of volition, thus retaining something like a property of self-consciousness. We will no longer be self-aware. And this condition of rapt awareness of nothing but the radiant light of Father, Son, and Holy Spirit will be final, unchanging. We will forever be, as the hymn has it, “lost in wonder, love, and praise.” We will forever be, in a word, happy.

Are these two depictions of heavenly self-forgetfulness the same idea, rendered in different modes? Or are they distinct? And either way, are they right?

I don’t have much to say on the question of their rightness. The matter is wholly speculative; we do not and cannot know, so the best we have to go on is the criterion convenientia, that is, the fittingness of the speculative claim to those matters about which we can claim to some measure of theological knowledge. And here Griffiths, it seems to me, is pushing back, appropriately, on modern trends in both philosophical and theological anthropology and eschatology. In the former, there is far too much emphasis on our cognitive abilities, on our self-transcendence through self-consciousness. In the latter, popular as well as scholarly pictures of the new heavens and new earth often appear as though life as we now find it (at least in the industrialized liberal West) will basically continue on—minus suffering, death, and procreation, plus God. And that is positively silly. The startling strangeness of Griffiths’ speculations does good work in helping us to shed some of those projections and illusions.

As for Clarke’s House, I think there is substantial overlap between Piranesi’s worshipful forgetfulness and Griffiths’ forgetful worship. Both see the human as basically homo adorans; self-consciousness is secondary to a teleology of praise. We are doxological creatures ordered to the Good. When we find it, we revel and glory in it, which elevates rather than denigrates us. Clarke understands this, and accordingly her ideological foe in the book is scientism—not science, properly conceived and practiced—in which the human quest for total mastery and absolute knowledge becomes an idol. “The Other” is incapable of worship, and therefore he is incapable of knowledge. He cannot know because he cannot see; he cannot see because he cannot delight; and he cannot delight because he refuses to be a creature, limited and limiting as that status is. He will not be a supplicant of the House. This makes him an idolater, curved in on the idol of his own self. Consequently the waters of the World rise and drown him in death.

To both Griffiths and Clarke, however, I want to pose a question. Apart from awareness of ourselves as selves, it seems to me a nonnegotiable feature of the life of the saints in heaven that they do not lose their identities there. And if not their identities, then neither do they lose their histories. Mary is and always shall be the Mother of God, because on earth she bore Jesus in her womb. That is an irreducible and inextirpable fact of who Mary was and therefore of who she is and never will not be—precisely in heaven.

If that is so, then Piranesi’s slow forgetting of himself, including his past and his name, seems somehow unfitting. It is not merely that he is “forgetful” of himself, the way a lover is. He forgets himself, and his history is thereby erased. He must be brought back to himself by “16,” an emissary from his world, which is to say, from his forgotten past. The novel is thus patient of a reading that sees the House in less positive, more sinister terms; one might depict it as a kind of black hole, or parasite, that slowly saps the self of the self. Or, to put it theologically, the House would here stand in for a picture of God as competitive with creatures—for him to increase, we must decrease—by contrast with the classical view, which understands the glory of God and the well-being of creatures to be positively, not negatively, correlated. The more of one, the more of the other: the more I find myself in God and he in me, the more I become truly myself. (Aslan grows as Lucy grows.) God’s presence in me, far from crowding “me” out, expands and deepens my self, for my self is nothing other than his good creation, and it finds its ultimate good in him alone.

That is why the saints are known in heaven by their names and hence by their histories. Dante understands this. St. Thomas and St. Bonaventure can sing praises of each other and of the founder of the other’s order (St. Dominic and St. Francis, respectively) only because each of them remains, in heaven, who he was on Earth, yet now purged of every taint of sin and death and transfigured in Christ by the Spirit to the glory of the Father.

In sum, whether or not I will know myself as an “I” in heaven, you will know me as the “I” I am, at least, the “I” I am in Christ; and vice versa. On its face, then, it seems unfitting for that intersubjective beatified knowledge of each individual as the person she is in Christ, with the unique and irreducible history she had in Christ, to be coextensive with a kind of self-erasure for the person in question: as though you will know I am Brad, but I will not; as though we all will know St. Francis as St. Francis, but he will not—even when we glory him in song, or rather, glory Christ in him through song. Will the words mean nothing to him even, or precisely, when the chorus resounds with his very name?

The paradigm of the saints in heaven, after all, is Christ. Christ reigns in heaven as the enthroned Lord, to be sure, but equally as the One who was crucified. (Just as Mary is Theotokos henceforth and for all eternity, so it Jesus Mary’s son.) Nor does the incarnation cease, as though he sloughs off his skin once “returned” to heaven, for the union of divine and human natures in his person is everlasting. Suffice it to say, then, that Jesus knows who he is in heaven, when we sing of him and when we do not (though that “do not” does not obtain in heaven by definition); the name and history of Jesus are a condition of there being a heaven for beatified rational creatures in the first place: and that name and its history are what are praised, what will be praised, world without end.

That should give us a hint here. Whatever the status of our self-awareness in heaven, not only our selves, but our names and histories will not be struck through, much less forgotten. They will continue to constitute us as us, the great “us” of the bride of Christ. Piranesi, in the true heaven, would be just as dumbstruck in delighted self-forgetfulness as he is in Clarke’s novel. But he would still know his name, not least if addressed by the Voice of the House or by one of its fellow happy inhabitants. The difference is that the occasion of hearing his name would not rouse him to jealousy or confusion or dissatisfaction. It would function more like an echo, a reiteration of the great Rule that guides his life: The beauty of the House is immeasurable; its kindness infinite. It would function, in other words, like a living Amen.

Must theologians be faithful? A question for Volf and Croasmun

In their new book, For the Life of the World: Theology That Makes a Difference (Brazos Press, 2019), Miroslav Volf and Matthew Croasmun make the argument that the lives of theologians matter for the writing and evaluation of theological proposals. Reading through chapter 5, though, where they make the argument, I was left unsure about what exactly they were claiming. Let me offer a sample of quotations and then offer a range of interpretations of the claim or claims they are wanting to make.

(Full disclosure: Miroslav and Matthew are at Yale, and were there when I earned my doctorate; the former was a teacher, the latter a fellow student and friend. Take that for what it's worth. Here on out I'll call them V&C.)

Consider the following quotes (bolded emphases all mine):

• "execution of the central theological task requires a certain kind of affinity between the life the theologian seeks to articulate and the life the theologian seeks to lead." (118)
• "an affinity between theologians' lives and the basic vision of the true life that they seek to articulate is a condition of the adequacy of their thought." (119)
• "It would be incongruous for theologians to articulate and commend as true a life that they themselves had no aspiration of embracing. They would then be a bit like a nutritionist who won't eat her fruits and vegetables while urging her patients to do so." (120)
• "Misalignment between lives and visions ... is prone to undermine the veracity of [theologians'] work because it hinders their ability to adequately perceive and articulate these vision." (120)
• "living a certain kind of life doesn't determine the perception and articulation of visions, but only exerts significant pressure on them." (120)
• "Just as reasons, though important, don't suffice to embrace a vision of the good life, so reasons, though even more important, don't suffice to discern how to live it out. Our contention is that an abiding aspirational alignment of the self with the vision and its values is essential as well." (122)
• "[it is a requirement] that there be affinity between the kind of life theologians aspire to live and the primary vision they seek to articulate." (122)
• "Only those who are and continue to be 'spiritual' can ... perceive 'spiritual things.'" (125)
• "[An ideal but impossible claim would be] that only the saints can potentially be true theologians." (129)
• "Consequently, we argue for an affinity, rather than a strict homomorphy, of theologians' lives with the primary Christian vision of flourishing (always, of course, an affinity with the primary vision as they understand it)." (129)
• "Imperfect lives, imperfect articulations of the true life—yet lives that strive to align themselves with Christ's—and articulation that, rooted in this transformative striving, seek to serve Christ's mission to make the world God's home: this sort of affinity of life with the true life is what's needed for theologians to do their work well." (134)
• "Truth seeking is a constitutive dimension of living the true life; and living the true life—always proleptically and therefore aspirationally—is a condition of the search for its truthful articulation." (137)

It seems to me that there are a number of claims, actual or potential, interlaced and overlaid in these quotes. Consider the following, all of which are technically compatible but only some of which, I'm convinced, V&C want to affirm:

1. The best theologian will be a saint, i.e., a baptized believer whose life is maximally faithful to Christ.
2. All theologians ought to strive to be saints.
3. All theologians ought to strive to align their lives with their articulated vision of faithfulness to Christ.
4. Saints are likelier to be better theologians than those who are not.
5. A necessary but not sufficient condition of faithful theology is sainthood, that is, faithfulness to Christ.
6. A necessary but not sufficient condition of faithful theology is imperfect but real alignment between the life of a theologian and his or her articulation of faithfulness to Christ.
7. One of the criteria for evaluating a theologian's proposals and arguments is the lived faithfulness to Christ on the part of the theologian in question.
8. One of the criteria for evaluating a theologian's proposals and arguments is the alignment between that theologian's life with his or her articulation of faithfulness to Christ.

 It seems to me that the mainstream or majority Christian theological tradition would affirm claims 1 through 4. Some today would quibble with one or more of them, especially claim 4 (e.g., Paul Griffiths would say that, in via at least, those who are not yet sanctified may either have intellectual gifts greater than the saint—which is true—or have a perspective on the faith, say, as an outsider or a sinner, that the saint lacks—which, prima facie, seems more questionable). But the questions really come with claims 5 through 8.

Is it truly a condition of theology done well that the person making the theological proposals be herself (even somewhat) faithful either to Christ or to her understanding of Christ's will? Is such faithfulness, moreover, a legitimate criterion for evaluating said proposals—so that, if we knew of the theologian's utter unfaithfulness (even attempted), such knowledge would thereby falsify or disqualify her proposals outright?

I remain unpersuaded either that V&C really mean to make either of these claims or that either of them is a good idea.

It seems to me that V&C are making a materially prescriptive argument—"this is how theology ought to be done and how theologians ought to understand their work"—underwritten by a generically descriptive argument—"the sort of practice theology is and the sort of subject it is about means necessarily that it is self-involving in a manner different from algebra or astronomy"—but not anything more. We should not, I repeat not, include our judgments of the character of theologians' lives in our evaluation of their ideas, proposals, and arguments. If a serial adulterer were to write an essay against adultery, and meant it (i.e., it was not an exercise in deception), the thesis, the reasons offered in support, and the argument as a whole would not be correctly evaluated in connection with the author's sins. They would stand or fall on the merits. Such an author is precisely analogous to the comparison V&C make to the nutritionist: she is not wrong to recommend fruits and vegetables; she is merely a hypocrite.

And here's the kicker: All theologians are hypocrites. That's what makes them uniformly unsaintly, even those canonized after the fact. For saints are recognized postmortem, not in their lifetime. And that for good reason.

(I should add: It's even odder, in my view, to say that theologians' work should be judged in accordance with the affinity between their lives and their ideas, rather than their lives and the gospel as such. Barth and Tillich and Yoder, for example, all offered ample justification in their work for their misdeeds. Properly understood, however, their actions were wrong and unjustifiable regardless of the reasons they offered, precisely because they are and ought to be measured against that which is objective—the moral law, the will of God—not their own subjective understanding of it or their rationalization in the face of its challenge.)

So it is true that there should be an affinity between theologian's lives and ideas. Theologians of Christ should imitate Christ in their lives. And it is plausible to believe that their theology might improve as a result: that their vision into the things of God might prove clearer as a consequence.

But the unfaithful write good and true theology, too, and have done so since time immemorial. We ought to consider such theology in exactly the way we do all theology. For it is up to us to judge the theology only. God will judge the theologian.

Ronald Knox on how to think of Paul's epistles

"So let's try and think of the Epistle, always, as a personal letter sent to us from St. Paul, or one of the other apostles, who is a long way away, but still very much interested in us. Take that Epistle this morning—there's nothing there, I think, St. Paul wouldn't be wanting to say, isn't wanting to say, to you or me. 'We have been praying for you, ' he says, 'unceasingly'; of course he has; the saints in Heaven go on praying all the time, and they pray for all Christian people. He has been praying that you and I may have a closer knowledge of God's will; that you and I may live as God's servants, waiting continually on his pleasure; that you and I may be inspired with full strength, to be patient and to endure; isn't that nice of him? We feel inclined to say "Hurrah!" at the end of it; only we don't say it; we just think "Hurrah!" when the server says Deo Gratias."

—Ronald Knox, The Mass in Slow Motion (Aeterna Press, 2014 [1948]), 26