We have seen in earlier articles how the Church takes natural, human things, such as water and oil, and supernaturalizes them by the power of God. In the technical language of sacramental theology the natural sign is called the matter, the words which raise it up and determine it to bring about that which it signifies, the form. But it would be quite wrong to imagine an implied contrast between material and immaterial in the normal sense of the words. In the sacrament of penance the natural element is human sorrow for sin, a turning from evil to good: it is transformed into that supernatural love of God which is charity, through words of absolution spoken by a priest who has been given the necessary faculties by the bishop.

There is always a danger that emphasis on the primary effect or purpose of any one of the seven Sacraments may obscure our vision of secondary effects and purposes. It is only natural that we should think of a Sacrament in relation to its principal effect, but we must never lose sight of the complete picture. It is as though we thought only of the head in a human body and forgot the unobtrusive little finger or toe. Yet should we lose a little toe we suddenly become aware of being thrown out of balance. If a more important limb—none the less secondary —suffers grave damage we notice it still more. In spite of the fact that we adjust ourselves strangely quickly, we do remain crippled and unable to take our full share of life.

The title of this article seems to imply a dichotomy. First, let me affirm that man, as a living being, and still more as a spiritual being, is a unity, a whole, that cannot be split into two parts.

This may seem obvious when it is question of a normal, balanced, adult man; one who does not need psychotherapy, but only pastoral guidance. On the other hand, when we are talking of a neurotic, we make use of numerous expressions, or ways of speaking which introduce a dichotomy, not in the way in which the neurotic is approached, but in the subject himself. For instance, we make a distinction in his psychology between a healthy part and a part which is diseased. We say that the therapist must ally himself with the healthy part in order to fight, with the sufferer, against the diseased part.

It is impossible to maintain a neutral attitude towards the priest; by his very calling, he must either attract or repel. In society, he may serve as a scapegoat, like the Jew, or he may become the beloved shepherd of his flock; he may heap confidences upon himself as easily as insults; he may even arouse feelings of guilt, though no sooner is the word out than the presence of psychiatrists is felt. Today their influence, though not emphatic, is everywhere pervasive. Indeed, if the eighteenth century was called an Age of Reason, so perhaps might the present century be called an Age of Psychology; a definition far nearer the mark than any newspaper headlines about an Atomic Era. For in the end, mind always proves to be superior to matter, just ‘all argument proves to be ultimately theological'.

These are the words of the Apostle St Paul, penned nearly nineteen hundred years ago; words which would fall admirably from the lips of a St Ignatius; were it not that the Saint, in his lovable humility, would be the last to think that such words could apply to himself.

Yet they do speak of him. For the words of the Apostle are the words of Scripture; and the words of Scripture are the words of God; and the words of God have a timeless character, and so a value at all times. Thus it is that without undue violence we can read these words of St Ignatius who went to God on July 31st four hundred years ago. It is this going to God, and then more especially the wonder of a lasting and living and growing work for God that we commemorate in this its four hundredth year.

Happy the man who hopes in him.’ No need to explain that, is there? Whoever does not hope in the Lord is miserable. And who doesn't? Why, whoever hopes in himself. Sometimes it's even worse, my dear brothers; listen, sometimes men don't even want to hope in themselves, but in other men. ‘While Jack Robinson's safe, you can't touch me'— and Jack Robinson may even be dead already. Here in this town the man says ‘As long as So-and-so is safe and sound', and So-and-so is already dead somewhere else. And how ready people are to say this sort of thing, instead of saying ‘I trust in God, he won't let you harm me'; instead of saying ‘I trust in my God, even if he does let you touch something, everything even that belongs to me, he won't let you touch my soul'.