The doctrine of divine simplicity in its denial of any real ontological distinction between God’s substance and His attributes commanded a special place within classical theism, finding a forceful expression within Augustine’s metaphysic. However, the simplicity of God is a relatively neglected doctrine within current metaphysical and theistic considerations. This is somewhat strange considering the profound implications it has for theistic matters. Its tenets are inextricably linked to such theistic concerns as immutability, aseity, sovereignty, divine volition and necessity. As such, it is well worth our effort to devote careful attention to the Augustinian conception of God’s simpleness, confronting head-on its seemingly counter-intuitive assertion that there is not any actual distinction between divine substance and its qualities. We will want to first expound the relevant texts to Augustine’s teaching on divine simplicity. After its main features have been identified, our analysis will measure Augustine’s doctrine against some of the more serious contemporary objections.

We initiate our exposition by asking: What is Augustine’s notion of divine simplicity? Augustine’s doctrine rallies around the claim that God is what He has (hoc est quod habet). He remarks, “What is meant by ‘simple’ is that its [the Godhead] being is identical with its attributes,...” (CD XI.10). To gain a fuller appreciation of this pithy formula, it is necessary for us to consider its wider context.

Within De civitate Dei, Augustine begins the tenth chapter of Book XI by stating, “There is then one sole Good, which is simple, and therefore unchangeable; and that is God. By this Good all good things were created; but they are not simple, and for that reason are changeable.”

In this article I attempt an overview in four parts. First, I shall discuss why Catholics should not only show some ecumenical concern for Orthodoxy but also treat the Orthodox as their privileged or primary ecumenical partner. Secondly, I shall ask why the schism between the Catholic and Orthodox churches occurred, focussing as it finally did on four historic ‘dividing issues’. Thirdly, I shall evaluate the present state of Catholic-Orthodox relations, with particular reference to the problem of the ‘Uniate’ or Eastern Catholic churches. Fourthly and finally, having been highly sympathetic and complimentary to the Orthodox throughout, I shall end by saying what, in my judgment, is wrong with the Orthodox Church and why it needs Catholicism for (humanly speaking) its own salvation.

First, then, why should Catholics take the Orthodox as not only an ecumenical partner but the ecumenical partner par excellence? There are three kinds of reasons: historical, theological and practical — of which in most discussion only the historical and theological are mentioned since the third sort — what I term the ‘practical’ takes us into areas of potential controversy among Western Catholics themselves.

Art inevitably reflects the virtues and vices of the culture that produces it. This article treats of the American cultural crisis as reflected in American art and then discusses the moral and religious implications of this crisis.

Martha Bayles, in her Atlantic Monthly article ‘The Shock Art Fallacy’ (Feb., 1994, p. 20), affirms that “Obscenity as art is everywhere. ... Never before in the history of culture has obscenity been so pervasive.” She calls attention to a Spin magazine jeans advertisement in which a young man brandishes a handgun over the caption “Teaching kids to KILL helps them to deal directly with reality.” In the Whitney Museum Bayles finds a photographic display of penises in one room and a row of video monitors showing “transgressive” sexual practices in another. The compulsion to shock dominates popular music, movies, television, publishing, talk-shows, stand-up comedy, and video games. Whatever the cultural bomb-throwers seem to think, Bayles avers that this does not mean we cannot be shocked. Obscenity, she affirms, is shocking. The Supreme Court defined obscenity as the depiction of “sexual conduct” in a “patently offensive way” lacking “serious literary, artistic, political, or scientific value.” This definition, because it focuses exclusively on sex while exempting material possessing “serious artistic value,” is irrelevant to our present situation.

Education and schooling are not the same thing. Education, correctly understood, is a lifelong process. Schooling occupies our young days. Although it is a generalisation, I think it is true to say thal modern schooling is the product of the Industrial Revolution.’ Education, by contrast has a longer pedigree. We have schooling because an industrialised nation requires skills best imparted by a schooling process. Recent education reforms (1988 onwards) — particularly under the influence of Toryism — have tried to cement schooling to current economic theory.

The Catholic Church cannot afford to dedicate too many of her resources to reinforcing a particular economic or social theory. Indeed, history shows that the Church has demonstrated wary resistance to such trends. A turning-point arose at Vatican II. In the Decrec Gravissimum Educafionis we read: “Holy Mother Church … is under an obligation to promote the welfare of the whole life of man.” (In modern — politically correct — speech, we would say person, of course). Many, though not all, diocesan education departments concentrate on schooling. This falls under the spell of a myth. The myth suggests that schooling educates. Reality suggests that schooling may open avenues, but education is a most complex process. As the Church slowly climbs out of the shadows of medievalism, we are discovering the need for broader minds, broader concepts of formation. Trends are gradually changing.

Heterology is Michel de Certeau’s great unfinished project. Begun while still in the U.S., it was put on hold so he could complete his work on mysticism,—and regrettably—never resumed. This work holds such great promise that the thought of continuing his project, of somehow bringing it to fruition, has long been a fancy of mine. But besides the obvious difficulty of creating what is practically a new epistemology, there is the more immediate difficulty of establishing just what heterology is meant to be. Since Certeau died before he could formulate either a specific thesis, or a particular method, we have no certain way of knowing what he actually meant by the term, or indeed intended it to mean. So until now the fancy has remained idle. However, it now occurs to me that it may be possible to construct a workable impression of what heterology is by determining what it decidedly is not.

While it is true that we do not really know what heterology is meant to stand for, there is one thing, at least, of which we can be certain and that is what Certeau did not want this book “we will never ready” to be. It is quite clear from his existing work that he wanted to steer what at the time of his death was then emerging as cultural studies away from what might be called, to coin a phrase, ‘interpretative semiotics’. He objected to ‘interpretative semiotics’ not because its result is more allegory than analysis, but because it presumes that the state of affairs called culture is, through being composed of ‘symbols’, a purely relative, or else quid pro quo, structure, without any substantive base.

Sir John Morris Jones, the most distinguished pupil of Sir John Rhys, collaborated with the latter in editing a Jesus College manuscript. This work appeared in 1894 in the Medieval and Modem Series of Anecdota Oxoniensia under the title of The Elucidarium and other tracts in Welsh from Llyuyr Agkyr Llandewivrevi, A.D. 1346 (Jesus College Ms. 119) (The Book of the Anchorite of Llanddewifrefi). A note added to the translation of the preface to the Elucidarium says:

There are seventeen stories in the book, beginning with ‘Hystoria Lucidar’ and ending with ‘Hystoria o uuched beuno ae wyrtheu’ (The story of Beuno's life and of his miracles). One might say that the contents of this book give some idea of the nature of the religious teaching of the Church in Wales in the Middle Ages. Practically all the works included in this book are translations from Latin except for one which is our special interest on this occasion. It is known as ‘Kyssegyrlan Vuched’ or ‘Ymborth yr Eneit’ (The Holy Life or The Food of the Soul) ff. 78v - 92r. It begins on f. 78 with the words ('we now deal with divine love which joins the Creator God and the creature Man ...'). On f 80r there is the sentence ‘and so ends the second part of this book, namely, of Divine Love'.

In this article I want to suggest that Christian theologising about evil cannot avoid the multifarious voices of those who have defined what is meant by the term “tragedy”, even where it seeks to reject this. This is to argue that the “tragic vision” articulates something important about human and worldly reality, and that theologising that does not acknowledge this will inevitably demonstrate it anyway in its own incoherence. This will be shown in relation to the writings on evil of St Augustine of Hippo and Donald MacKinnon, and finally it will be argued that the only possible “theodicy” lies in the area of Christology.

I begin with the man who proclaimed himself the first “tragic philosopher”, Friedrich Nietzsche, who in his first published book, The Birth of Tragedy, produced the most radical and disconcerting (to Christian sensibility) account of tragedy I have yet encountered. Early in that work Nietzsche retells a fragment of Greek mythology, as follows:

Hazlitt’s writings as a whole are distinguished by his close attention to the structures of power, political power not excepted. In a Morning Post article of March 1800, he writes,

“Power” in Hazlitt’s metaphysic refers to the mind’s innate faculty, its freedom from subjugation to external influences. His philosophy also connects power with liberty: the mind is free since it is subject only to the laws of its own innate constitution. By affirming innate “power”, Hazlitt refutes the empirical account of epistemology in which the mind, moulded from without, remains passive or subjected. He asserts in its stead that the process of knowledge is ab intra, directed by the mind from within. The creative genius celebrated in Hazlitt’s literary and artistic criticism exemplifies intellectual power in its highest degree, and so vindicates the core principle of his metaphysics.

The Sunday before Advent has long been known among Anglicans as ‘Stir-up Sunday’, the day for stirring mincemeat, cakes and puddings in preparation for Christmas. Its title is drawn from the opening words of its Collect in the Book of Common Prayer (BCP), Stir up, we beseech thee, O Lord, the wills of thy faithful people, translated by Cranmer from a Latin collect beginning Excita, ‘stir up’, which has been part of the Roman liturgy since the sixth century.

The Catholic liturgy, too, has kept this ancient text for the week before Advent, but the version in the current Missal from the International Committee on English in the Liturgy (ICEL) is much duller: Lord, increase our eagerness to do your will. It is good news that this is to be replaced with a version that, like Cranmer, recalls the peremptory crispness of the original: Stir up the hearts of your faithful people. Lord God .... It is unlike Cranmer and the Latin, however, in that the words ‘Stir up’ do not stand alone, and so they are less arresting, less memorable.

This new version is part of the revision of the Missal undertaken by ICEL, whose fruits are now being submitted to Bishops’ Conferences for approval. The bishops of England and Wales have voted to accept most of the prayers submitted, including those for the Masses of weeks in Ordinary Time. In so doing, they parted company with their brother bishops in the USA, who have raised objections to a number of texts. ICEL has become something of a tyranny, which individual bishops’ conferences are in effect powerless to resist.

A consideration of our human participation in the divine creativity can be regarded as a legitimate, indeed desirable appendix or coda to the theology of creation. It is essentially a consideration of the relationship between creature and creator, of the active relationship indeed of creatures, that is of ourselves, with God. A look at God’s active relationship with us, at what the creator does with and for his creatures, means reflection on God’s providence and on his government of his creation. A look at our active relationship with God, at what we as creatures do for the creator, means reflection on our ability and our need to know and glorify God.

But the question immediately arises whether it makes sense to talk about creatures doing anything for the creator; and it is answered by the very firm assertion that God has absolutely no need of his creation at all. We, all creatures, owe him everything, he has no need of us. Our need of him is total, he owes us nothing. Difficult to establish any relationship between such radical unequals, but leaving that point aside, we are faced with the next question that arises, which is why, in that case, did God create the universe. The only possible answer is because he wished to. And why did he wish to? The answer you give to overpersistent children—because he did.

The changes in Lamennais’s thinking after the papal condemnation of 1832 were in many ways anticipated in earlier works. In adopting a populist stance in his political writings, he was but extending into the social and political field the epistemological principal of le sens commun, as the final authority to which individual reason must submit. In an appendix to Des progrès de la révolution, published in 1829, he drew an analogy between his belief in the superiority of faith to individual reason in intellectual matters and the superior claim of social duty to individual liberty in the political world. I shall now outline how his thinking on religion and politics developed in the years following his break with the church.

In this paper, I propose to deal with various sacred realities that helped the people of Israel deepen their relationship with God over the years: die Aik of the Covenant, the desert Tabernacle, the Temple, the Sabbath and other feasts, the synagogue, religious meals and creation itself.

Of all the sacred objects of Old Testament Religion, the one that must have ranked among the most sacred was the Ark of the Covenant. It was constructed at Sinai, according to the instructions of the Lord, from acacia wood (Ex. 25.10ff.). It was a box two and a half cubits long, one and a half cubits wide and one and a half cubits high. It contained the two tablets of the law (1 Kings 8.9), a jar of manna and Aaron’s rod (Ex. 16.33; Heb. 9.4). It was covered by a gold plate called the kapporet (die mercy seat) at either end of which, facing each other, there were cherubim. The Aik was not only a powerful symbol of the Sinai covenant, it was also a location of divine presence “There I will meet with you...”(Ex. 25.22).

The cultures surrounding Israel provide some insight into the culdc thought that lay behind the construction of the Ark. In the Ancient Near East there was a custom whereby a treaty document was often placed in a container which served as the footstool for a deity. Thus the decalogue was placed in its container, the Ark, and this then became God’s footstool.

The Tabernacle

The aik was housed in the Tabernacle or the Tent of Meeting.

Introduction

The question of the relationship which should obtain between Church and State has vexed Christians for two millenia and will probably go on doing so for another two. Nonetheless this problem has become the subject of renewed debate following the publication of the recent papal encyclical Evangelium Vitae. Towards the end of the encyclical the Pope urges that those in public office are obliged unequivocally to defend the rights of the unborn. A practical conundrum is, therefore, posed for those who exercise public office in lay States and who at the same time consider themselves to be members of the Christian faithful. Put very concretely, the question may be posed like so: Is there a conflict between my responsibilities to the Church and my duties to a democratically elected government which espouses laws that do not cohere with the Church's positions on human rights? At times the potential conflict of allegiances that may result poses the broader theological problem of the autonomy of the lay sphere. More specifically, in the case of Evangelium Vitae, it raises the problem of the relationship between the civil law and the moral law and the claims of the magisterium to interpret the latter as a criterion of legitimacy for the former. In the short space available to us we cannot hope to explore both of these questions comprehensively. The following thoughts are offered as reflections on the current problems which vex the theological and legal statement of the Church's relationship to the State and of the allegiancgs of the faithful owed to the civil legislature.

Let me begin by thanking in the first instance Dr Sarah Jane Boss for the honour of being invited to give this inaugural lecture, celebrating the establishing of the Marian Study Centre here at LSU College of Higher Education. In offering such thanks, I would like to extend them beyond that invitation to include thanks for the establishing of the Marian Study Centre itself. Without having any sort of “inside track” information, I imagine that thanks for such a timely and courageous move are due not only to the interests and commitment of Dr Boss, but also to the creativity and energy of Professor Mary Grey and the innovative drive and support of the Principal of LSU, Dr Anand Chitnis.

If you remember the terms introduced into our national vocabulary by “ Yes Minister”, my characterisation of the founding of the Marian Study Cenlre as “courageous” may begin to sound a little ambiguous. If my memory serves me accurately, bold decisions cost you votes, while courageous decisions cost you elections … But I would wish to stay with the term “courageous”, because I think that in its unambiguous sense it dbes apply. The doyenne of Jungian analysts in the UK, the Baroness Vera von der Heydt, points out the sensitivities that may be involved:

The row over exorbitant salaries for the bosses of private monopolies has resurrected an ancient belief: namely that we can distinguish just from unjust prices. ‘Just prices’ — as distinct from prices set by market forces and the profit motive — once formed part of the ‘moral economy’. A just price for some article had to be proportionate to the amount of work that went into making it and to the contribution it made to the common good.

The great enemies of justice in fixing prices were (and are) ‘damnable avarice, sensuality and pride’ (as the fourteenth century writer Henry of Langenstein rightly remarked). His views resonate loudly today in the columns of the newspapers and on the tops of Clapham omnibuses. But they can hardly be squared with the economics of Adam Smith or his modem disciples. For the tradition which Smith initiated put things asunder which the earlier tradition regarded as having been joined together by natural law and ultimately by God: in particular, ethics and politics (and therefore economics).

A commentary by an eighteenth-century Spanish scholastic on Adam Smith’s political economy may seem an unlikely place in which to find a sharp and telling critique of ‘the state we’re in’ (to use Will Hutton’s punning phrase). Yet (as Scott Meikle’s recent article in the February 1995 New Blackfriars shows) Fray Antonio de la Santisma Trinidad, who was appointed in 1791 by the Spanish Inquisition to examine The Wealth of Nations, was able to reveal something fundamentally amoral with the ideology which afflicts contemporary Britain.

The sacraments raise controversy at every turn, no matter which one of the seven we think of. There is no end to hot debate on pastoral issues.

For example, why has Penance taken a back seat of late? Is it because we sin less? Or do we have less sense of sin? If so, why should it be so? Or are we more forgiving and therefore take it for granted that God is more forgiving? As to the Eucharist, why cannot any one receive communion, whether they are baptised Catholics or believing Christians or outright pagans? Would it not do them good, whatever their condition? Does Marriage really matter? Why does Ordination rule out Marriage? How often can the Last Sacrament be given? Why is Ordination the only gender-exclusive sacrament? I have left out Confirmation and Baptism, but we can ask why the Catholic Church institutes seven sacraments, while some Christian congregations just have Baptism, and others, Baptism and Confirmation, and some take everything in the world to be a potential sacrament?

I want to take the last two questions together, women priests (why not?) and the seven instituted channels of grace (why seven?), together with the claim of the Church to be universal. Universal means standing above local bias, resisting temporary pressures, recognizing a passing fashion for what it is, and thus standing for permanent truths for all times and places. The universal Church is old, but not a fossil, she must develop; truth is revealed gradually, the doctrines have to be unfolded. I understand that the work of the Holy Spirit is to safeguard doctrine and practice.

This article is based on a number of texts written by Michel de Certeau between around 1969 and 1974. These texts all explore the ways in which a lucid Christian belief may endure as a resource in contemporary societies. They also indicate a form of transition. In comparison to the probing but orthodoxly circumscribed analyses of L’Etranger, ou Bunion dans la différence (1969), we see the emergence of a more open (more exposed but also freer) mode of reflection. Although Certeau would rarely return in his writings after the mid-1970’s to the question of contemporary Christian belief as such, the analytic and figurative frameworks generated by this reflection continue to inform his thought. They help us to make sense of the apparently disparate heterogeneity of his subsequent publications, taking us as they do in a series of significant zigzags between, say, The Writing of History, The Mystic Fable and The Practice of Everyday Life.

Christianity was, in Certeau’s view, in the process of ‘shattering’. While this may have seemed a provocative diagnosis in 1974, it appears today as a basic premiss for a scrupulous sociological analysis. Moreover, Certeau suggests that there is nothing intrinsically new about this process. He recalls elsewhere the major scissions already at work in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, as Christendom broke ‘into pieces’, producing here and there new generations of believers ‘without a church’. What is unprecedented, he argues, is now the sheer extent and scale of this shattering. This development is not necessarily synonymous with an imminent extinction of Christian belief, but does modify radically the conditions in which such belief must find a voice and a horizon for action.