Illtud Alban Evans, though born in London, was quintessential a Celt. His roots lay deep in Wales and the subtle cosmopolitanism of his outlook, equally at home in Athens, Bangkok and Los Angeles, only served to emphasize his strong traditional loyalties. His health was never good but in spite of this he drove himself with extraordinary and our and enthusiasm. He combined a great precision of thought, for he was always most careful about his sources, with a capacity for vivid description that could illuminate the most difficult and obscure political and social problems: here one recalls the articles he wrote in The Tablet in the late 1960’s on conditions in the United States.

Before coming to the Order in 1937 he had worked as a journalist, and from the moment of his ordination he pursued his trade relentlessly in spite of frequent severe illnesses. Twice Editor of Blackfriars, where his first tenure of office was particularly fruitful, he also wrote and reviewed for Time and Tide and contributed regularly to The Tablet (under the pseudonym of Aldate) and also to The Times and Times Literary Supplement. While he was in America from 1966 to 1970 he was Associate Editor of Faith Now, a monthly supplement to The Sunday Visitor, as well as working regularly for other Reviews. His writing shows him to be a conservative of the best kind, one who treasures but is not uncritical of tradition and who is at the same time open to modern problems, while being helped by his gift of quick sympathy for those in distress and by those flashes of insight, amounting sometimes to near genius, which brought him close to deprived groups and those suffering from anxiety problems. He gave a lot of his time, particularly in the early part of his priestly life, to helping those in borstals and prisons, and not only did he give generous assistance to many individuals but he also studied closely prison conditions and the problems of penal reform. Some of the principles that lie behind this work are stated in the book edited by him called Light on the Natural Law.

In his Whitsuntide address the Holy Father, Pius XII, lurcher developed the principles of the Right Christian Order for Society. To the Five Peace Points concerning the relations that must exist between states he adds the principles—the Christian view of the Family, Property, and Labour—needed for the internal order of the State. ‘These are the principles, conceptions and rules under which we may co-operate as from now on in the future organisation of that New Order for the birth of which out of the dreadful effervescence of the present struggle, the world is waiting and wishing.’ We have the Holy Father’s authority for making our effort in the present struggle positive in character, not simply to slay the ‘Beast from the Abyss,’ but also to re-fashion a healthier countryside than the one in which it made its appearance. This effort towards reconstruction should be identified with our war-effort to give the latter real driving force. Catholics are rightly urged to co-operate with all sincere Christians in working and fighting for a happier state of society. And we may, to that extent, welcome less clear pronouncements from the representatives of Protestant States. Thus President Roosevelt declared: ‘To-day the whole world is divided between human slavery and human freedom, between pagan Brutality and the Christian ideal. We choose human freedom, which is the Christian ideal.’ And Mr. Eden, stating the British war aims for the first time, claimed that ‘only our victory can restore, both to Europe and to the world, that freedom which is our heritage from centuries of Christian civilisation and that security which alone can make possible the betterment of man’s lot upon the earth.’

In 1921 the Editor of Blackfriars was able to write:

‘To-day, the first of April, Blackfriars keeps its first birthday. There are some—optimists as well as pessimists—who believed we should never achieve twelve months of life. The fear, expressed in our first number, that our career, as witness to the truth, might be as short lived as that of the Holy Innocents has happily not been confirmed.’ Despite all initial prophecies and fears, the review has survived to celebrate its twenty-first birthday with as much vigour and hope as its first. This success is due in large measure to the energy and enthusiasm of Fr. Bede Jarrett, Fr. Bernard Delany and Fr. Hilary Carpenter, and we are happy to have the inspiration of the last two behind us still. Fr. Delany, the first Editor, deserves the laurels at this celebration, for not only did he toil in launching the new review and keeping it buoyant for its first ten years, but also it is mainly due to his energy that it did not founder in the crisis of last summer, when the French defeat had its repercussions even on the monthly review edited by the English Dominicans. But at the twenty-first birthday celebrations we must not forget the large number of contributors whose eminence, wit and perspicacity have marked a distinguished path for the life of Blackfriars. Mr. Joseph Clayton appeared in the very first number, and his tribute to the founder, Fr. Bede Jarrett, in this number is one of a score of articles that he has contributed since then. And there have been many like him, among whom we must single out Fr. Vincent McNabb for special gratitude.

Any serious analysis of the systematic oppression of women must focus the greater part of its attention on the structure and role of the family. For us in the West the prevailing ideology identifies as central to a woman’s task in life the running of a husband-and-family, while for the man, his wife and family belong to the private, ‘unimportant’ side of life—to his ‘spare time’. We are taught to equate marriage with having a family, and a family with the bourgeois nuclear family of two parents and a few children living as a self-contained unit. In this guise the family is justifiably condemned by feminists and some psychologists as the most immediate locus of the oppression of women and children. It has the complex function of underpinning the capitalist economy by being the consumer unit it depends on, and of perpetuating both itself and the repressive economic and political system by being one of the most influential places (along with school) where children are brought to see themselves and the world in the terms of the prevailing ideology, and thus to become law-abiding citizens. On top of this is the severe economic pressure on women to marry, while men can afford not to if they like. Working-class and many middle-class women cannot earn enough to survive on their own.

It is now over fifty years since my old teacher of Elocution, Father Paul Stapleton, O.P., taught me on the authority of Father Dominic Aylward, O.P., that usually the most important page of a book is the title page. For this reason let me set out the title of a book that was sent of God into my hands in the Lent of 1941:

St. Thomas More’s History of the Passion

Translated from the Latin iby his grand-daughter Mistress Mary Bassett

Edited in modern spelling with an introduction by Right Reverend Mgr. P. L. Hallett

London

Burns Oates and Washbourne Ltd.

Publishers to the Holy See

The most significant thing about Cardinal Heenan’s autobiography is its preface. He cannot write the whole truth, he tells us, because ministers of Christ must keep confidences without limit of time; and he has written his own life-story because that was less trouble than the granting of frequent interviews to a prospective biographer. In other words, he regards the history of a man’s life as total recall tempered with discretion. How well does this dubious conception serve him?

Best, obviously enough, in narratives of a circumscribed and picturesquely memorable kind. Days in the infants’ class; a schoolboy’s escapade; anecdotes of life at Rome or in a parish; episodes in a journey to Russia. Some of the anecdotes are entertaining; of some (especially those of an edifying character), the best to be said is that c'est la guerre, mais ce n'est pas magnifique. However, it is good to have the criminally bad diet at Ushaw set down for posterity by a cardinal, while his account of The Day World War II Broke Out should find a place in any anthology of such narratives. The book proceeds in this style from schooldays to Rome and from Rome to ordination in 1930 and parish work. Before and during the war the author became involved, not only in local affairs, but in public speaking and writing. There follows the resurrection of the Catholic Missionary Society in 1947, retreat work for Clergy (of which the unfortunate The People's Priest was the precipitate) and the author’s appointment in 1951 to the See of Leeds. We are promised a second volume. What kind of man emerges from the first?

In the context of this colloquium it may be as well to begin by indicating the purpose and scope of an opening paper on this topic. The topic itself is so wide that any adequate treatment would presuppose expertise and experience far beyond the range of the author and perhaps beyond any single individual’s range. My approach is necessarily conditioned by my professional interest and experience, a moral theologian who is, in fact, a celibate by choice. The more precise meaning of these qualifications will, I hope, emerge later.

I can at once outline my approach and summarize my position by saying that I regard the celibate state as a form of human relationship in the way I regard the married state; that I see it as having in common with all other human relationships a sexual dimension; and that I am naturally concerned as a Christian theologian with the Christian meaning of human relationships and their sexual dimension.

It seems to be axiomatic, in most discussions about Vietnam, that the only important questions about that country’s future are ones relating to the Americans. To what extent are Vietnamese capable of efficiently taking over American policies and operations (i.e. just how good a substitute for an American is a Vietnamese)? How worthy of American support is the Vietnamese Government? Will it survive American departure long enough to save American faces?, etc. During a seven-week stay in Vietnam last summer, I was lucky enough to avoid getting stuck in that foreign way of life in which Vietnam is seen simply as a function of American policy, and to meet some people and groups whose work and ideals vigorously make nonsense of the habit of defining everything Vietnamese in terms of American plans and expectations.

Not, that is to say, orphanages with teams busily arranging adoptions as a salve to Western consciences, in implicit denial that Vietnamese children have any Vietnamese future. Not relief organizations where the question is only what proportion of these supplies is being sold for private profit. Not the world on which a Vietnamese academic, met in circumstances of free and friendly discussion, commented bitterly, ‘We drink American drinks, drive on American petrol, fire American bullets and have our governments changed by American coups’. I saw that world too: you can’t miss it. But, luckily for me, I saw some very different things as well.

One very obvious feature of the current theological scene is a divorce between—in Pascal’s celebrated distinction—the God of the Philosophers and the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob. That is to say, the people most interested in religion, mostly members of the ‘counter-culture’, are generally hostile to the intellectual exploration of religion and religious language. Their religion centres on ‘love and consolation’, to use Pascal’s phrase, not upon rational argument or analysis. Another way of putting this is to say that the God of Religion is naturally spoken of in metaphorical language, while the God of the Philosophers can only be spoken of in analogical language. I am concerned to argue that, despite the anti-intellectualism of the ‘counter-culture’, it is still necessary to have a philosophical foundation for religion, and that this involves accepting the validity of analogical language, even if the most significant religious language we have today is to be found in the metaphorical speech of singers, poets and story-tellers. It is important, therefore, to establish the right relationship between analogical and metaphorical language. The following analysis of a sonnet by Hopkins is offered as a brief preface to a discussion of the two-dimensional structure of any language that purports to discuss God.

All over the ‘developed’ world, children left their homes this morning and went to school. All over the undeveloped world, parents were wishing their children could do so.

All over the developed world, millions of children are accepting school as an unavoidable bore, or actively hating it. Some weep, some play truant, some produce psychosomatic symptoms to avoid going to school. Most just put up with it and long for the holidays. A lucky few enjoy school, at least until the age when the shadow of public examinations falls over their lives. Yet all over the undeveloped world, angry or wistful teenagers see schooling as the means to a good life—a means withheld from most of them.

The greater part of the world’s children long for what those who have it dislike. And even those who loathe it grow up to assume it has an absolute value, and should be imposed on every human child. No wonder the whole notion of schooling as a method of education is coming under fire. But too often the question of schooling or not schooling is treated in isolation from its social and economic setting. What follows is an attempt to consider a few of the problems involved, and possible solutions, for there have been changes recently, in the way people think about the schooling situation. For one thing, an uncomfortable realization is spreading that the schooling systems of the prosperous nations are not working too well. Violence in schools is frequently in the news, and organized as well as spontaneous protest by school children is not uncommon. Part of the reason for this unrest lies in the rocketing costs of normal educational equipment and of teachers (salaries and training) plus the demand for still more elaborate educational gadgetry for a technological future. This has created a huge gap between what educationists think schooling should be like and what it is actually like for most children. The overcrowded schools, the overworked teachers, the bored, resentful children, are there because governments have refused to acknowledge that their resources were not equal to their published principles on education.

One of the Christian notions that has been offered a new lease of life as a result of the twentieth-century renewal of ecclesiology has been that of vocation. It no longer ought to be possible to write an article entitled ‘vocation’ in a Catholic encyclopedia and go on to deal exclusively with the call to the priesthood or the religious life. Even when an author has the intention of dealing with these topics, he should nowadays feel obliged to begin with remarks to the effect that all Christians—and, indeed, all men—share in the same vocation to the kingdom of God. It is the sacrament of baptism that is the seal of a vocation before ever there is a question of an ordination or a religious profession. Just as the notion of the ‘Church’, once confiscated by the clergy, has had to be handed back to the baptized, who all begin and mostly remain as lay people, so has the notion of ‘vocation’. A vocation from God is something which every Christian must learn to detect and act upon, whether or not he remains a layman all his life. One hopes that children in Catholic schools run by religious orders are no longer led to believe that there are just two major possibilities in their lives: either that of having a vocation or, if they do not have this, of getting married. (Not that I am going to spend time in this article in setting up marriage as an alternative vocation; rather the reverse, as we shall see.) The confiscation of the notion by the few, besides giving them a false sense of status in the Church, has done immeasurable harm to the Christian lives of ordinary people.