“Can there be an heroic humanism?” It is to ask, in effect, whether Christian humanism is possible, a humanism not merely compatible with sanctity, but essentially directed to the achievement of sanctity as to the achievement of its own purpose. But the adjective is significant. Heroism implies a more than human effort, a strain therefore and tension; and the persistent presence of tension implies for the Christian humanist two outstanding dangers: forgetfulness of divine transcendence, forgetfulness of irremediable human sorrow.

The things that are seen have a directness of appeal to the heart that the greater glories miss for being hidden in the obscurities of faith. “Eye hath not seen, nor ear heard.” “It remains, then,” wrote Joannes a Sancto Thoma, “that the captive soul, bound in the bonds of faith to its clouded object, can be illumined only by the flame of love.” And there is no mysticism without tears. “I sought Him Whom my soul loveth, I sought Him and I found Him not.” But the beauty that is not God is ever present, and pulls at the heart to such purpose as to become potential rival of divinity. So the discovery of God often entails a first reaction against the things which before had distracted attention from the search for Him.