When Antony Flew in the 1950’s declared that religious assertions died ‘a death of a thousand qualifications’, he was expressing frustration in the face of a dogged refusal by theologians to relinquish cherished beliefs. No matter what conundrum the atheist camp hurled at the theists, they found (to their considerable consternation) that the theologians had moved the goalposts just that little further away. Although the debate following Flew’s comments addressed crucial questions concerning the meaningfulness of religious statements, it also highlighted, in my view, the durability and resilience of religious beliefs and assertions in the mind of the believer. Flew’s point was that religious believers, despite being surrounded by confusing and contradictory evidence, refuse to give up their notions and convictions concerning the divine. It is this resilience in the face of cognitive and experiential difficulties that forms the background of the following discussion.

As part of this paper I will be briefly looking at John Hick’s treatment of the problem of evil and be comparing this with his response to the problems of religious diversity. The purpose for such a comparison is not to provide an exhaustive look at these separate issues in relation to each other. Neither am I concerned to engage in recalcitrant hair-splitting regarding various ideas put forward by Hick. However, I will be showing how differently Hick has treated both problems and lead into a consideration of how the eschatological dimension of his thinking can result in a wholly different ‘solution’ to the question of religious diversity. I contend that the means are available to treat both questions in similar ways because of one highly significant factor—the possibility of further opportunities beyond death.

For those familiar with the themes of traditional female spirituality in the Christian West, the dreary saga of Thérèse Martin and her death at the age of twenty-four in 1897 can only come as a grim reminder of the symbolic burden by which women have carried in their persons the dualistic designation of the spirit at war against the flesh. In the past the story of Thérèse has divided the Catholic faithful between traditional adherents of her cult, and those who opposed it in the name of a more virile postVatican II spirituality. More recently interest in her has extended beyond its traditional bounds. Monica Furlong’s biography, written from outside the Catholic community, provided a long overdue reappraisal of the young woman’s ambiguous character, from a frankly feminist perspective. Furlong concluded that the vitality and strength of determination typical of the young adult Thérèse has often been hidden from view by the sickly cult of weakness and submission that sprang up after her death.

Thérèse’s asceticism, which has come to be known as the Little Way, is an asceticism which reaches its apogee in her uncomplaining spirituality of suffering and death. By the time Thérèse died, a few months short of her twenty-fifth birthday, she had developed a spirituality of the body which stood over against a theology of considerable insight.The orthodoxy of her assertion of the gratuity of divine love, and of her conclusion that God cannot be pleased by heroic effort, but accepts the imperfect human being without question of merit, is expressed with all the clarity and conviction of so distant a figure from her in time, if not altogether in temperament, as Martin Luther. But the profundity of her basic theological insight is not the subject of this article.

In this article I explore Newman’s theological understanding of the human person and the doctrine of original sin. The concept of sin plays a dominant role in Newman’s theological anthropology. He argues that human beings are slaves to sin and are in need of God’s mercy. He describes sin as a pestilence and disease which robs us of our spiritual life. Original sin is an indifference to the very work of God’s grace within us and as such strikes at the very core of our being.

Newman’s understanding of the doctrine of original sin admits monogenesis which passes on the fallen state of human beings to descendants of Adam. For Newman the sin of Adam and Eve was different in degree from any subsequent personal sin that we can commit as individuals. Original sin encompasses both the original sin of Adam and Eve and the state of corruption into which all subsequent generations are born. The personal sins of future generations are conditioned by the milieu of original sin and they resemble original sin insofar as they contribute to the overall sinfulness of humanity.

According to the Second Council of Constantinople (2 June 553) there is ‘one divinity in three hypostases or persons’. Today it is commoner to say that there are three persons in one God. No doubt these formulations come to the same thing, but what is that?

The English word ‘person’ translates the Latin persona and the Greek prosopon, expressions for the masks actors wore on the ancient stage. Since the same actor might appear in different masks, playing different roles, in the same play, the word suggests that the Persons of the Trinity, the Father, Son and Spirit, are three roles the one God plays, three appearances or aspects he presents. The word ‘hypostasis’ is a philosophical term for something that exists on its own like a living organism; so to call the Father, Son and Spirit ‘hypostases’ is to suggest that they form a kind of three-membered society. Both these suggestions are unorthodox. The first is Sabellianism, the second tritheism, and these are the Charybdis and Scylla between which the speculative theologian is supposed to steer. But is such a course possible? The use of both terms by Constantinople II rather poses the problem than solves it.