Beruflich Dokumente
Kultur Dokumente
AND SILENCE
Fr. Raymond Gawronski, SJ
Abbreviations
Preface to the First Edition
Preface to the Second Edition
Preface to the Third Edition
INTRODUCTION
CHAPTER I: Non-Christian Traditions
Introduction
I. The Situation of Humanity, Without Revelation
A. Longing (Sehnsucht)
B. Guilt
C. Death
II. Approaches to the Situation: Possible Solutions
A. Philosophy
1. Plato: The One and the Many
2. Hegel: The Absolute
B. Non-Revealed Religions
1. Asia: India
2. Asia: Buddhism
3. The West: Gnosis
4. The West: Neo-Platonism
5. The West: The Classical (Greek) Tradition
C. Religions of the Word
1. Judaism
2. Islam
Conclusion
GENERAL CONCLUSION
Bibliography
List of Abbreviations
Introduction
“I n order to show the world the credibility of the Christian message, the
Church Fathers set this message against the background of the world
religions. . . .” 1 With these words Hans Urs von Balthasar describes what is his
own favored methodology as well. This is only natural, as he was so thoroughly
formed at the feet of the Fathers. As one reads his works, one cannot help but
remark the consistently apologetic flavour of much of his writing. His style is
first to present what others in the world have thought on a topic, and then
gradually to circle ever closer in on his own vision.
If only from a cultural point of view Balthasar was eminently suited for the
task of understanding the human condition. His interests reached beyond the
Biblical and philosophical foundations of Christian theology into the world of
literature, myth, poetry, drama. As far as Western Civilization goes, he was, as is
commonly acknowledged, one of the most literate men of our age. Although he
carefully disclaimed any specialized competence as regards Asia, his references
to Asian traditions became increasingly frequent as the years passed, reflecting
his respect for and not inconsiderable knowledge of the human achievements of
Asia. Not untypically, he places the Bhagavad Gita alongside Homer and Dante
as pure gold in value, comparing them favorably to contemporary base metals. 2
In this first chapter we will be trying to sketch in the background for our
thesis. That is, we will investigate some of the salient features of what Balthasar
took to be the situation of natural humanity, of humanity bereft of explicit
revelation (Balthasar was at pains to deny any natura pura). 1 We will then
explore two main philosophical attempts to deal with the situation, expressions
of what he termed “idealistic systems.” Finally, we shall explore several of the
leading religious answers to the problems of natural humanity, East and West,
non-Biblical and Biblical.
I. The Situation of Humanity, Without Revelation
Balthasar does not conceive of humanity as ever bereft of knowledge of God.
Man was created to know God—in the words of Acts which he is fond of
quoting (the Areopagrede), man was created to seek God “if maybe he might
find Him”:
Religion is the longing for a fulfilment in a way that the world cannot give. In this sense,
there really is a general concept of religion, no matter how varied the types of religion may
be. On one point, all religions are interchangeable. This presupposes that there is a level in
the human which penetrates its entire essence. The locus classicus of this is found in St
Paul’s speech on the Areopagus. Beginning with the altar to the Unknown God, he speaks to
the pagans of the God of Heaven and Earth who “has caused the entire human race to
proceed from one person. . . : They should seek God, to see if they could touch and perhaps
find Him, the One who is indeed not far from each one of us (Acts 17:23ff).” 2
What the religions have in common is not at first blush any answer, but rather a
question, a searching implanted in the human heart. Thus, humanity does, in
fact, come trailing clouds of glory, as it were. In his typically nuanced manner,
Balthasar writes that the religious creations of the human imagination are
certainly understandable, for man has a hunger for God which must be satisfied,
and should God not speak to man, man must yet strive on his own to ascend—
yet he hastens to add that in fact God has been revealing Himself to man from
the beginning. 3 Student of the Alexandrines that he was, Balthasar certainly
does not deny the notion of a “logos spermatikos,” seeing traces of knowledge of
God throughout humanity. It is in the Christian dispensation that these logoi
come “openly to light”: man is “graced” not only since the time of Christ, but “in
a hidden, but effective, way ‘before the foundation of the world’ (Eph. 1:4).”
That which came to light in Christ was hidden “in myths and conjectures
concerning the beginning, end, and meaning of life.” 1 Thus Balthasar respects
these traces of divine knowledge found in human myths and conjectures. Of
more than that however he is skeptical especially if speculative reason is
involved. Balthasar is not hesitant to criticism such an attempted ascent, as
witness his polemic against the “anonymous Christian.” 2 In writing of more
contemporary matters, he writes of a pneuma spermatikon,3 the effects of the
Incarnation scattered throughout the world. Moreover, humanity, never entirely
bereft of God, has now had some exposure to at least bits and pieces of the
Gospel, throughout the world. Thus, a religion like Buddhism is now concerned
with appearing to be socially conscious, something which has nothing to do with
the world-denying tradition of Buddhism, but is, as Balthasar sees it, one of the
fruits of the Gospel’s penetration of the world. 4 Indeed, it is no longer possible
in today’s world to speak of a naive “pre-Christian.” 5
Yet insofar as one can speak of humanity without revelation—and certainly
Balthasar does speak of humanity without the knowledge of Jesus Christ,
without “historical revelation”—there are three characteristics of that humanity
that are prominent and that call for exploration. They are: Longing (Sehnsucht),
Guilt, and Death.
As noted, although he is skeptical of an overuse of the concept of the logos
spermatikos, Balthasar is certainly aware that if mankind does not possess an
innate knowledge of God, it certainly possesses an innate hunger for God. This
is the first characteristic of humanity we will be examining.
A. Longing (Sehnsucht)
Suchen means to seek; while the word Sehnsucht is conveyed in English as
longing, yearning. To seek is at the root of this concept, so very appealing to
Romantic poets and composers. For Balthasar, “everything depends on whether
God has spoken to man or if the Absolute remains silence beyond all words.” 1
Insofar as we are looking at a humanity which has not received explicit
revelation, it is a humanity confronted with silence. Curiously enough, all human
religions, says Balthasar, are weary of the word. Asia especially has opted for
silence, and “has, more than others, turned its face towards this single
fascinosum.” Yet Asia is not some alien world, for “the great European religions
and world views are also rooted in the religious longing (Sehnsucht) of Asia.” 2
Sehnsucht is a “thirst for the absolute,” a divinely implanted thirst that “has been
set in us by Thee.” 3
The problem with a weariness of the word while having an inborn hunger
for the word is that without the Word, one has “no object of love left other than
oneself.” 4 At its worst, this leads to the “‘spirit’ of anti-godliness,” the
“replacement of the ‘anointing in the Spirit of God,’ of the ‘seed’ of God in man,
and thus of the ‘being generated from out of God,’ by the self-sufficient, self-
divinizing void of the ego that ‘seeks its own honour.’”5 Sehnsucht is the longing
of the human soul for God. Without its object, the longing can turn back on
itself, exalting the self into an idol. The emptiness of the self thus becomes self-
divinizing. This is a very serious matter indeed. Coming at the problem from
another direction, Balthasar notes that for Dante’s Virgil, “unquenchable longing
is Hell.”6
Sehnsucht is identified, for Balthasar, with Augustine’s desiderium7 and
with eros in general,8 of which we will be writing more later. It is the “ultimate
gesture of creaturely being,” that which Plotinus describes as the “essence of the
nous,” what Augustine sees in a Christian sense as “the essence of the creature,”
while Thomas “formulates it as the desiderium visionis Dei” (though here
Balthasar hastens to add that Thomas knows nothing of a “supernatural
existential” in this regard). In the world of art, this longing was fully expressed
in Michelangelo’s Adam. God Himself has a “longing question and search”
(sehnsüchtige Frage und Suche) for man, and the response of man is something
that God has already prepared in His freedom, lest man think that somehow he
himself has the answer already within himself. That is, the answer of God is
“finally” Jesus Christ, the “fulfilment of Adam’s longing,” and so, Balthasar
adds, in this sense “every ‘theological’ statement is an ‘anthropological’ one.”
Yet all human attempts to anticipate this invariably go awry, only digging man
deeper into his existential situation. The answer of God is, for Balthasar, the
“form of the Word of God” which is the Logos tou stauru, the Word of God
“crucified by men.” No man could have created such a response on his own, as
an “extension of himself God-wards”: indeed, this response is one that the
majority of humans “reject not only as something unexpected, but rather as that
which is not desired, as scandal and folly.”1
God’s Word spoken to man; God’s “yearning question and search” for
man’s answer (Antwort); the Cross—all these are themes we will be addressing
later. For now, it is important to see that the natural tendency of man is in fact
away from God in the very act of seeking God, into an “ever deeper error.” Man
searches, but what he finds remains dubious: “The seeking is what is
commanded and vouchsafed here, the making contact and finding remain
questionable.”2 He is more than likely to find and deify his empty, wordless self.
In contrast to the excellence for which he was created, post-lapsarian man is in
the situation where man’s “longing for wholeness” certainly survived but in such
a way that it sought to “reestablish the original relation from its own strength”
thus falling “from the condition of analogy” in its relation to God to “Titanic
forms of mysticism of identity or of a pure humanism which placed man in the
place of God.”1
Thus, the problem is man’s inborn longing, created and placed within him
by God which, because of the Fall, has lost its focus and tends to be turned back
on itself. Man is full of a longing, a yearning which impels him to seek. Without
the help of revelation, however, he loses his original position of awareness of an
analogous relation to God in favor of mysticisms of identity, which would
effectively replace God with man—or destroy man. Important here is the belief
that natural man is therefore the man in search of that which will still his
longing.
B. Guilt
Whereas other modern writers have tended to depict humanity as in a condition
of Angst, Balthasar sees existence for humanity as naturally guilty. A vague guilt
lies at the root of human consciousness, for man is aware of having “fallen out”
of a primal unity or harmony. In the face of the fullness for which man
experiences desire, the fact of alienation from that wholeness rouses in him a
feeling of guilt: somehow his very being, the fact that he is separate from “the
One,” is a guilt-ridden existence.
Balthasar expresses this well in the context of the Greek tradition, one to
which he is especially partial. Religion is the “primordial knowledge (Urwissen)
of man,” and it means that he knows that neither he nor the entire phenomenal
world are self-sufficient. Thus, in an oft-repeated reference to the Delphic
Oracle, the ancient Greeks insisted that one recognize that one is not God.
Balthasar repeatedly asserts that this originally meant: “Go in yourself, step back
in the recognition that you are not God.”
But this “primordial knowledge” is “ambivalent,” it could lead one in
either of two ways. Either it leads to a religion of dependence, of reverence—of
which Balthasar approves, as being “entirely unmystical” and able to remain so.
That is, a human understanding that accepts the distance (Abstand) from God
and approaches Him with reverence. The alternative lies in the many techniques
of approach to God, which aim at union or identity. These are often “innocently”
magical in cult and “non-demonic.” They spring from the feeling of alienation
joined to the fact of distance, and this alienation rests on a secret guilt based on
the knowledge that man belongs “with God,” that the “best of him” belongs
“over there.” Man has a “longing for overcoming the distance”—and thus he
will try to devise ways to find a refuge for “his ‘restless heart.’”1 And so: “The
peoples feel the gloomy, diffuse pressure of a general culpability of existence, a
having fallen out of grace from fortune, from which they seek to free themselves
by means of rites and techniques.”2 As the situation of alienation has in this way
of perception a moral dimension, mankind will want to know “who had passed
on this guilt and why, and, depending on the answer, the way of purification
from this guilt will then be designed.”3
For the ancient Greeks, man is guilty for he must act responsibly but is
condemned to act in coordination with gods whose thoughts and plans are
impenetrable to him. So he becomes ever more guilty: he can be free only by a
total uprooting of his existence.4
Sinful man, craving purification, then has two options before him. He can
despair, turn to hedonism, wallow in his sinfulness. This attitude is eventually
one of resignation. Or man can turn to what Balthasar calls Titanism—that is, the
human attempt, in the face of “the Absolute,” to escape or to overcome the
distance by means of technique which “should allegedly let man be freed of his
limits and ascend to be the super-man, let the one tied to a body become pure
spirit, the limited spirit to become the Absolute.” But either attempt leads man to
“destroy himself” for it leads him to be beast or (fallen) angel, when what he
needs is the “reconciliation with God” which can only take place by grace. Thus
this self-sufficient world is what Jesus means by “the world,” and it “swings
between the two extremes of self-seeking and self-flight and in this movement
remains chaos and darkness.” And this chaos is that disorder which is sin, a
refusal to “recognise the original analogy of the creature to God” which leads
man either to want to identify with God or to deny Him, both movements finally
“equated in a chaotic manner.” The solution lies in analogy which “is the order
of distance-nearness (Abstand-Nähe) in which a clear tie is created through a
clear distinction.” Man who rejects this finds only chaos, lack of order, and this
chaos is “darkness because man, whether he denies God or seeks to make
himself equal with Him, cannot enlighten himself without God.”1
We have gotten a bit ahead of ourselves here, for of course we are here
viewing a humanity which has not yet explicitly encountered Christ Jesus. But it
is necessary to see where the solution will lie in order to see the problem more
clearly. That is, the question of relation between the limited and the unlimited,
between the relative and the Absolute is what is at issue in the attempt of
humanity to reconcile its desire for the Absolute (longing) with the awareness of
separation (guilt). The human attempts will fail because they cause the
destruction of the human—“the human destroys himself” (this will be more
adequately treated in the section Prayer: Technique). Man cannot illumine
himself, whether he denies God or makes himself equal to God. Man needs to be
purified, but he cannot purify himself; he must be rid of guilt, but to be rid of
guilt means to get rid of himself.
Balthasar sees a clear distinction between guilt and sin. In the world of pre-
revelation humanity, guilt is actual; sin, strictly speaking, is not yet really
possible, according to Balthasar. Guilt is the generic feeling of things being
awry, and of there somehow being a responsibility for a fall from a primordial
unity. It is a queasy feeling attached to existence. Sin involves a personal
relationship, and apart from revelation, this is not really possible. Thus: “In the
pre-Christian situation, one can speak of human guilt in manifold forms, guilt
before the gods and before human society; that which is called Biblical sin, is as
yet undiscovered. . . .”2 Guilt allows for compensatory activity; the overcoming
of sin demands conversion. Hence in the East, where “the Absolute is ultimately
not personal” there can be guilt, which “on the way of salvation” is the “falling
back into new individuation.” But though there is guilt for this fall from the way
back to unity, there is not yet sin as the West understands it which is “a wound to
the personal love and holiness of God, and also to His command of love of
neighbor.” Technique can help man compensate for the losses in his spiritual
journey which guilt indicates, it cannot help with sin, which requires a
forgiveness which depends upon an initiative taken by God to which man
“responds by conversion.”1
The experience of trying to overcome individual guilt leads to the creation
of systems which both explain the situation to man and attempt to overcome it.2
For the Theodramatik, this phenomenon leads non-Christian religions in two
directions: first, to a reaching out to a solution of the problem of the meaning of
human existence; but secondly, to a rejection of the answer given by God in
Christ.3 Of course, this second possibility is only implied in the situation we are
viewing. “Guilt and attempts to resolve it” are found “wherever there is personal
conscience and social order” whether in the religions of Asia with their law of
karma as well as in Africa with their “consciousness of shame and guilt above all
in the face of community.”4
As we have seen, the attempts to be free from this situation of guilt,
emanating from the human imagination are invariably futile. Describing a
human condition characterized by “finitude, temporality, and mortality” and
man’s “freedom for evil and his entanglement in the sorrows of the world,”
Balthasar concludes that “the attempt of all extra-Biblical religions to break
through the structures that determine earthly existence could only, if seriously
pursued, lead to a self-dissolution of the human.” Again, they only serve to “get
stuck ever deeper in guilt” either “consciously or unconsciously.”5
That salvation cannot come from human efforts alone, and that the
situation of guilt remains permanently part of the human condition, is seen in the
Prolegomena to the Theodramatik. There, Balthasar, criticizes the “modern ‘anti-
tragedy’” in which “only empty spaces, absences, un-values, absurdities crash
against each other” (emptiness in particular being a favored expression of
Balthasar’s for futile human efforts at accosting God) and states that it must be
overcome: “Overcome . . . in the sense that in it [his humiliation] man might
again encounter the mystery of that powerful God . . . : the mystery of an
ungraspable, but omnipresent guilt between heaven and earth.”1
C. Death
At the heart of the human experience lies what Balthasar calls the “mystery” of
death. Balthasar, viewing the human condition in light of the Resurrection,
writes that it “must be radically stressed that the human as a corporeal natural
being is, like all that belongs to subhuman life, a ‘being unto death.’”2 This
being a “being unto death” gives man’s life both its sweetness and its sadness.3
Death is the ultimate evidence of his “having fallen out of favor with fortune,”
that last step in his “finitude” and “transitoriness.” The Platonic poet William
Butler Yeats well expresses Balthasar’s view of the natural man: “O sages
standing in God’s holy fire/. . . Consume my heart away; sick with desire/And
fastened to a dying animal. . . .”4 Death is the undeniable evidence that man has
fallen out of that primordial unity for which he longs. The story of man’s
religions will be the story of attempts to overcome what we might call, in
anticipation of the answer of Christianity, the “fact of the corpse”: “Outside of
the Old Testament, all religions were and are attempts to escape from this tragic
situation. . . .”5
There are three main aspects of human unity which death separates: “the
unity of body and soul, which as such makes up the individual, the unity of
personal and generic sexuality, and then the unity of individuality both open to
God and bound to human society.”1 Death thus attacks man in his very person,
the unity of body and soul; in his sexuality, his intimate, affective relations with
others; and in his relation to God and community. Death is the great dissolver.
The central one of these three areas which Balthasar discusses draws our
attention because it links death with Sehnsucht. He finds this especially in the
works of Vladimir Soloviev. For Soloviev, evil enters into the world as the
contradiction between the “endlessness of the blind drive or ‘thirst’ and the
limitedness of the forms, in which it operates. . . .” He continues that the “central
phenomenon” which demonstrates this is the “life of the species that is built on
the sexual thirst and necessarily flows into death, that feeds on another’s life
(kills, in order to live itself) and can only live in order to die.”2
The “thirst,” correlative to what we have described as the “hunger” of
Sehnsucht (and which is identified for Balthasar both with Buddhist trsna and
Augustinian concupiscentia)3 is here located at the mouth of death, into which it
flows. It is the “thirst” of sexuality. It is not surprising that Balthasar sees this
union of desire and death in the thought of the Russian Soloviev (whom
Balthasar calls a watchman at the exit gate of German Idealism)4 as
“outspokenly eastern thought.”5 To anticipate the direction of the answer to the
problem, we see Balthasar writing that “the positive concept of form is the
annihilating sublimation (Aufhebung) of this endlessly empty search in a limited
being: ‘the limit of matter is in God’ [Soloviev].”6 Of note is the identification of
the understanding of death as part of the world of generation—desire, birth,
death—with the thought of Asia: an “endlessly empty search.” It is the thinking
of the natural man par excellence.
We will shortly be turning to the attempts of philosophy and religion to
overcome the problems we have presented, especially the problem of death.
Before doing so, a quick glance at Balthasar’s understanding of modernity’s
approach to death will round out our discussion.
As always, man tries to avoid facing death squarely. Contrary to what
Ferdinand Ulrich calls “life in the unity of life and death,” this avoidance has
two main directions. One can try to live “for the moment,” where death is seen
to be “the final border of life” and, along with Faust, one “seeks the ‘eternal’ in
the ‘moment.’” This need not be limited to the erotic: it finds expression in that
“compulsive activity (Tatendrang)” that Balthasar sees as characterizing our
century and with which one would live in an intensity of activity as if to rob
death of its final say. The second alternative, the “flip side” is “not less
insidious.” That is, “the old proverb that philosophy is nothing else but a lifelong
practice for death,” in which a “genuine commitment to life is avoided because
of a false ‘indifference’ (Gelassenheit).”1
We see in Balthasar’s critique of the modern answer to death elements of
his more general appraisal of modernity: the Faustian nature of the search for the
moment (Verweile doch, du bist so schön. . .)2 and the hectic race. On the other
side, there is the return to a “philosophical” stance in the ancient and very
important alternative of a false apathy.
He finds another caricature of the classical answers to death in the modern
interest in the transmigration of souls. But we also find here an important echo
of the polarity of possibilities we earlier encountered in our look at guilt:
exaggerated resignation (a sort of indifference—Gelassenheit—which leads to
hedonism) or Titanism. Elsewhere he comments on the more spiritual attempts
of modernity at an answer to death, attempts to reach back through technique,
through parapsychology, “into the space covered by death.” Here he mentions
the “recollection of former existences,” and the whole notion of the
“transmigration of souls” which exists today in a “demythologized” form. This is
a step backwards from “the Christian idea of the absolute uniqueness of the
person and its fate” into “the pre-Christian understanding of the individual as
merely a (person-less) subjectivity.” He adds that “even the most influential
philosophies of modernity have reverted on this point. . . .”1 Modern, technical
man attempts to reach—Zugriff—where he cannot reach, something Balthasar
judges to be a “wicked undertaking.”2 It continues the Faustian attitude
Balthasar sees as characterizing modern man and which is a key element in his
critique of modernity. So the attempt to recall former lives, the teaching of
reincarnation, attacks a fundamental Christian understanding of the uniqueness
of the person—but in so doing, it only mirrors a move earlier made by the
leading philosophers of modernity, reverting to a pre-Christian view, one which
is now however demythologized.
Scanning the many possible solutions to the problem of death which
mankind has attempted in its history, Balthasar holds no hope for resolution, for
death is and remains a mystery: “one can try to explain the mystery of death with
a thousand supposedly clarifying names.” Among these are “sinking into
nothing, reincarnation, dissolution of the body along with the immortality of the
soul, return of the soul-spark to the original glow from which it sprang . . . but
the final solution is not given away, because as a final stance that which is
demanded is the giving oneself over to the mystery.”3 We see here that what
seem to be ways of transcending or overcoming death are called, with brutal
frankness, attempts to explain death away with allegedly clarifying names. That
is, Balthasar is consigning the human means of treating death to the realm of
human fancy. It should also be observed here that the post-Christian is seen as
re-presenting some version of the pre-Christian for Balthasar. The post-Christian
is demythologized, to be sure, but nonetheless it is unmistakable that he sees a
regression in thought from what had been achieved by Christianity. As noted
earlier, guilt could be overcome at the price of human existence; here, death
could be “overcome” only at the price of the dissolution of the person.
What then were these pre-Christian, and non-Christian, answers to the
problems of human longing for the Absolute, the experience of the guilt of
human existence, the limit that is death? It is to these various approaches that we
now turn.
Looking back from the resurrection of the flesh, in which the infinite and the
finite are reconciled, Balthasar is able to raise myth (and so poetry, art) to the
level of the only serious alternative to revelation. The other competitors—
Gnosticism (corrupt, human religion) and Idealism (corrupt philosophy) are
tenable only if there is no resurrection of the flesh. If they are right, then the
finite must make way for the infinite, the relative must be sacrificed to the
Absolute, the many must yield to the One. To understand somewhat better the
difficulties Balthasar has with the philosophical tradition, let us look at two main
currents in that tradition with which Balthasar engages in conversation—the
Platonic and the Hegelian.
Copleston quotes F.H. Bradley as observing that “when the concept of God
passes into that of the Absolute, God ‘is lost and religion with him,’”2 and goes
on to observe that he sees “Hegel as transforming the concept of God into that of
the Absolute.”3
Another way of putting this is to see absolute philosophy as a philosophy
of silence, for “everything limited is sacrificed in the face of the Absolute.”
Everything that is not yet and comes into existence must be “levelled” into a
“no-longer-being.” It does not matter what the Absolute is called: the same
happens whether in a “nihilistic or materialistic, or Buddhistic or even Islamic”
context. The Absolute “does not move itself, and all the noise of becoming and
passing away must become mute before its stillness.”4 The Unmoving Absolute
remains ever aloof in its deadening silence. On the human side, it is a philosophy
of Titanism par excellence—Balthasar refers to the Moloch of the Absolute into
which the person is fed.5
The Idealistic philosophers of the nineteenth century (the Titans), with
their apogee in Hegel, all illustrate the problems this thought poses for Balthasar.
Kant and Schiller “stay with the limitedness of the human spirit,” but “the three
Titans Fichte, Schelling and Hegel think of man as of a piece with the Absolute,
as its middle.” God and His “revelation, man” are bound together by
philosophical necessity: “man himself is God expressed” and it is for this reason
that what is distinctive in Christianity, what the Bible calls “Glory” must forever
elude the Idealists in their “titanic architectonics.” Identifying man with God
destroys the “analogy of Being” on which “Glory” stands or falls. The Analogia
Entis is lost for an Identitas Entis. And with its loss German Idealism is capable
only of an “æsthetic of ‘beauty’” but not of an æsthetic of “Glory.”1
Mysticisms of identity are the way of natural man through and through—
something we shall see echoed in his critique of Asian mystical traditions. Even
for Fichte, whom Balthasar treats kindly as a man of deep piety, God Himself
comes to have a “dark basis” out of which He arises—and Balthasar suggests
this is a nothing (Nichts), an unconscious Nirvana.2 For Schelling, there is the
dark abyss (Abgrund), the night—the “unconscious part of God” which is the
“logical outcome of the being-less conceptual thought of univocity.”3 As we see
again, the identification of nothing (Nichts) and Nirvana is constant for
Balthasar. It is nothing that one discovers when the creature looks at self (rather
than at God). We should add a note on Titans, as it is a favorite theme for
Balthasar. In our connection, he writes that “it is the person who is sacrificed as
a final consequence of all forms of Titanism.” The person is “burned up in the
belly of the Moloch of the Absolute, whether this be the Will of Life or death” as
well as “in Hegel. . . .”4
The problems with Hegel are particularly severe. It might be a reflection of
Balthasar’s youthful exposure to Kierkegaard that induces him to so lambast the
Professor. Observing that “history is only given as a fragment whether for a
theologian or for a philosopher,” Balthasar observes that unlike history a
symphony of which one only has a fragment can never be recreated: “Not even
Hegel, who knows everything else, has constructed the future.”5 At the heart of
Balthasar’s polemic against him is the fact that in Hegel’s theology, it is God that
needs man, the Absolute needs the relative. God needed to create the world in
order to have another with whom to relate. This results from Hegel’s faulty
understanding of the Trinity. Again, the small “I” is destroyed by Hegel: man is
“to be saved for spirit (from matter), under the condition that he renounce his
unique personality (so it is with Hegel and his predecessors and successors). . .
.”1
Hegel is opposed to God’s sovereignty (God needs to create man in order
to prove His freedom2), and this in turn is reflected in his anti-Semitism. Writing
of Hegel’s “insatiable, hate-filled polemic against the Old Testament,” Balthasar
points out that what Hegel is really fighting is that “one element” which could
never fit into his “otherwise all-comprehensive system”: the free God and His
free action with the world. And so Hegel attacks as well “the uniquely Old-
Testament form of divine Glory, the Kabod.”3
Finally, this all leads to a philosophy of identity, in which the relative is
sacrificed for the Absolute—and even here, the One disappears: “In Hegel’s
well-ordered cosmos of the spirit there is no place left for the one about which
he speaks the most: for the true unlimitedness and immensity of existence. . . .”4
This disappearance of the One leads to the ever stronger emergence of the
“ineffable—impersonal” behind the anthropomorphic-personal mask of the
Absolute.5
Hegel destroys the analogous distinction between tragedy as play and the
Passion of Christ as seriousness, dissolving that distinction into identity (play).
This caps a host of problems in Hegel, where both Christology and the doctrine
of the Trinity are “philosophically overhauled,” where an impersonal Fate
overcomes “the personalism of the Passion and Resurrection.” Even the “spirits
of the nations” (Volksgeister) which Balthasar identifies with the Pauline
“principalities and powers” find themselves integrated in Hegel’s “total world
spirit.”6 Hegel, as master of the absolute system, is master at dissolving the
tensions between relative and absolute which are crucial for the Christian view
of man in relation to his freely creating Creator.
In fact, one is left with a situation in which, “in a Buddhist or Idealist
sense, no solution can be found on the level of the senses and only a vertical
opening upwards creates the way out.”1 We have been seeing Balthasar draw
parallels throughout between Idealistic philosophy and mysticism and Asia.
Even Wagner is seen as participating in a weariness with Being which is related
to Asia. Idealism is characterized by a “weariness of thought” which allows it to
“sink . . . back into its Indian origin. . . .” Should such “weariness” combine with
an “absolutised Eros,” what emerges is the “hybrid art of Wagner which neither
in the renewed myths of the gods nor in Tristan or Parsifal ever again stands up
to real existence.”2
What is this Indian origin to the weariness of thought of Idealism? What is
the “Asian connection” of which we have seen so much? Beginning with the
religious traditions of Asia, we now turn to the religious attempts of solution of
the human problem.
B. Non-Revealed Religions
1. Asia: India
Natural religion, the religion of man without revelation, is the bridge extended
from two shores “that never reaches.”3 It is the human building from two sides
of a river, from the side of myth and that of philosophy, but the project never
meets. This is an image frequently used by Balthasar. Leaving the religions of
the Bible aside for later consideration, as they are religions of revelation and of
the word, we note that Balthasar often refers to the religious traditions of Asia.
As we have been seeing, he links the tradition of India in particular with the
Idealistic philosophy of the West.
In India, we find an attempt to treat of human guilt and death by the
theories of karma and reincarnation: “longing” is behind all attempts to be free
of this mortal coil. Balthasar ridicules the system of karma as being patently
unjust—for after all what is reincarnated is a new being hardly conscious of any
responsibility for former acts. Hence, any punishment for what was done in a
former body, a former life, is unjust. To Rudolf Steiner who maintains that it is
only through the law of karma that “it becomes understandable why the good
must often suffer and the evil can be happy” Balthasar answers with biting irony:
“Really? The greatest of the puzzles in the world, on which Israel rubbed itself
raw, would no longer exist.” All questions of different types of people in the
world would be resolved, and this in a way very different from St. Thomas
Aquinas who maintained that differences as between people had nothing to do
with what they had earned but that rather existed because “the fullness of the
divine perfection could only be imitated at all through the highest diversity of
creatures.” And, as mentioned, the question remains who is responsible for
committing a deed: if not the same person, then perhaps the same “impersonal
principle of person” which is to say, again, no person at all. Moreover, with no
“Thou” with whom one stands in relation, there can be no love. Balthasar writes
that with no “unique Thou” but rather a “principle being demonstrated in him”
one could not possibly feel called to love.1
In Balthasar’s critique of Steiner’s understanding of the law of karma we
see many of his own values. Thus, he feels the absence of any personal
responsibility—certainly if no one remembers what he had formerly done; and
even if one can lead others to remember their former lives, personal love does
not exist in this situation.2 We note his passionate respect for the attempt of
Israel to deal with the problem of evil, seen especially clearly in Job. The
attempt to create a system of justice in an impersonal universe is mirrored in
modernity’s interest in theories of reincarnation, for Balthasar a natural
consequence of Idealistic philosophy. In general, the non-Biblical religions are
trying to form for man a redeemed existence, i.e. one free from guilt.
India also has the theory of the avatar which is of especial interest in light
of Balthasar’s focus on the Incarnation. Balthasar is at pains to deny that Christ
is an avatar, Christ who is “a human being of flesh and blood and no Indian
avatar that can dissolve itself back into vapor.”1 An avatar is a god come to earth
who takes on human form. But in Christ the God becomes human not to return to
the world of the gods after a series of earthly adventures but rather to suffer and
die as a human being. This is something an avatar never does, for avatars “are
nothing but new manifestations of the divine, but never a real incarnation.”2
The “East” for Balthasar represents the ultimate in human attempts to
climb to God. Its teachings bear a consistent logic, one which would
deny/destroy the individual in favor of a “higher” view. Thus, for the East, the
individual “ego” is only a manifestation of the divine Self, and thus detachment,
indifference (Gelassenheit) for the East means leaving one’s self behind, one’s
apparent individuality, in order to find the kernel of truth in which all individuals
are identical.3 Differences are only apparent, for this spirituality; what is real is
what is common at reality’s core. We transcend the differences created by being
an “I” by going deep (or above) to where all is one, in the true Self.4
Indian pantheism and post-Christian Geistphilosophie are based on a
philosophy of identity. This desire for unity is characteristic of much of Indian
thought, of course, which teaches the ultimate identity of the atman and
Brahman. Death is transcended as illusory—but the price of this is that life is
illusory as well. This will be especially seen in the tradition of Buddhism.
The whole notion of Maya is a favorite of Balthasar’s, who loves to
contrast the realistic quality of the West with the fantastic quality of the East.
Manifestation (Erscheinung) is for him a very important word, but:
“Manifestation must be understood in the Greek, not in the Indian sense, as the
becoming visible in reality (not as Maya, phantasmagoria), but always as the
(real) appearance of that which does not appear, of the God Who is . . . ever
greater and ever more hidden.”5
Here once again we see the shadow of the Idealistic philosophers mingling
with those of Asia. Praising St. Thomas’ metaphysics, he writes that “ipsum esse
est similitudo divinæ bonitatis. Thus and only thus is the creature freed before
God and for God and can strive for and love God with all his powers. . . .”
Recalling what we have recently seen of St. Thomas’ teaching about the fullness
of Being naturally mirrored in the great diversity of creatures, a tremendous love
of Being is here at issue. Contrasted with it is the “perverse demand” that one
“negate himself in his limited existence” a thought that “has darkened
philosophy from India over Greece and Arabia” and, “shortly after Thomas,
begins to cast its shadow again, with Eckhart and Bruno, Hölderlin, Fichte,
Hegel.”1 We see India joining the West in the inability to deal with the tension
between the relative and the absolute for, as we have already seen, “no
philosophy can render an account as to why something can be that is not the
absolute,” for either the one has need of the many and thus ceases to be absolute
(Hegel) or else the One has no need of the many, which thus in its turn becomes
illusion (India).2
Finally, as we have seen in connection with the Idealistic philosophers,
Balthasar maintains that for India immortality means the abolition of the person.
Seeing Indian thought expressed in the work of Simmel, Balthasar holds that
with the notion of transmigration of souls “which in the end leads logically to a
dissolution of the person” it is “only the constellation, not the substratum that
would be individual.”3 Thus, immortality is bought at the price of being an
individual human person, and we return to our “constellation,” to the “knot” of
consciousness on the surface of reality which is the individual. The individual
has no “substratum”: the subject is illusory. As with the loss of any “Thou”
relation with God in the notion of karma, so here, we find an ultimately self-
enclosed universe, bereft of the personal God. For India, as for all non-Biblical
religion, God is the impersonal who manifests in the unreal multiplicity of the
world but who “must be sought behind the phenomena which veil Him.”1 To
find these ideas brought to their full consequence, we turn to Buddhism.
2. Asia: Buddhism
As with India, we can say that Balthasar’s thoughts about Buddhism are quite
varied. If at root he is critical, ultimately using Buddhism as a background
against which to highlight the unique importance of the Judaeo-Christian
revelation, still, he is deeply respectful of the tradition as well. Thus, he can
write that Buddhist compassion is superior to Dante’s “apatheia”2 (Balthasar is
of course highly critical of Dante’s peopling of Hell); the Cloud of Unknowing
incorporates the best of the Buddhist ethic of compassion.3
Balthasar likes honesty. As we will see, he prefers the honesty of Homer
and the Old Testament to “phantasmagoric” efforts to explain the afterlife in later
traditions. Hence the thoroughgoing critique which Buddhism offers draws
Balthasar’s praise: “one must take seriously the Buddha’s option for the
nothingness of the world and salvation in Nirvana.”4 He is open to the view that
the notion of grace has been understood in other traditions, pointing to Amida in
Buddhism, or to Ramanuja,5 and seeing this as a possible point of contact
between East and West.6 Even the atheism of Buddhism is a “religious atheism”
which Balthasar respects; indeed, true atheism first appears only after Christ.7
He did see Buddhism as a danger for Asia in that, according to him, impersonal
religions, with their natural tie to Idealism, would easily yield to atheistic
Marxism, and thus he predicted future victories for Communism in Asia.8
In an introduction to his Theologik written some forty years after the
volume it introduces, Balthasar refers to “the thoroughgoing contemporary
significance of a person-less, atheistic religion (Buddhism)”1 which he felt he
did not adequately treat at first writing; he recommends one examine his more
recent works.
Much of what we have written of the Indian tradition applies to its spiritual
child, Buddhism. Thus, Karma, Maya, reincarnation are all notions which were
brought over into Buddhism. In connection with “maya,” we must mention that
although Balthasar does not use the term explicitly, the notion of “upaya” is
implicitly present in his critique of Buddhism. Upaya is a notion that teaches that
the Buddha uses all manner of “skillful means” for the salvation of all sentient
beings—that means, that teachings are not necessarily literally true, but have a
soteriological value. Balthasar’s insistence on the reality (Wirklichkeit) of the
Christian revelation contrasts directly with this tendency in the Indian, and
Buddhist, tradition to relatives—indeed, to ignore—that facticity and historicity
that the West so prizes. Balthasar has a particular sympathy for the Amidist
tradition of Buddhism which represents an opening to personalism in that
tradition, a sympathy likely received from the famous study by Henri de Lubac
of that tradition.2 But of greater relevance to the West is surely the Zen tradition,
a tradition to which Balthasar refers with increasing frequency with the passing
years. Our next chapter, on negative theologies, will deal in greater detail with
Zen. The experience of satori, Zen conversion if one will, as well as the whole
question of the practice of meditation will also be treated later. Here we would
merely like to sketch out some particular characteristics of this tradition as
Balthasar mentions them.
At the beginning we had noted that natural man was confronted with
Silence. Buddhism is so far the religion of silence par excellence, that it is the
religion of the man characterized by the non-word (Unwort).3
The notion of “thirst” (concupiscentia)—of “trsna”—is particularly
prominent in Buddhism. It is the second of the Buddha’s Four Noble Truths, the
fact that suffering is caused by human craving, desire. For Buddhism, according
to Balthasar, which is the “radicalisation” of such viewpoints, the individual
human being—the “I”— is defined through the craving to be that I: it is, as it
were, stuck on itself, its “desire to be I” and thus it refers all things to itself. This
is “above all ‘thirst’ (sanskr. trishna),” a “not-knowing” in which one is caught in
what is “transitory and illusory (Maya).” Balthasar identifies this with the
Western concupiscentia and desiderium and with the Johannine understanding of
the “world” as “the lust of the flesh, lust of the eyes, pride of life. . . (1 John
2:16ff.).” Buddha himself, as is well known, did not “enter upon the origin of
this fallenness of the world, because an answer ‘is neither edifying nor tied in
with the essence of the teaching, nor would it lead to a conversion of the will nor
to a stilling of the passions.’”1
The world of generation and mortality (which we had earlier seen as
associated with sexuality and desire, as for Soloviev) is what is called
“Samsara,” the “wheel of birth and death” and it is “without beginning and
end.”2 It is an image Balthasar enjoys using to speak of a “world without end.”
And Balthasar agrees with the Buddha’s conclusion about that world:
Buddha is right about this: one must extinguish that “thirst” which is unquenchable in
finiteness and which originates in the perpetual dying (Verendlichung) of the formal object—
and one can do this, if Being is not itself Mind (Geist), only through the attempt to dissolve
the finite mind centres (Geistzentren) in infinite Being (or rather “not-being-Being”). . . . The
“thirst” of Buddha which only increases with drinking from the finite, is the “philosophical”
unveiling of the illusion of the possibility of realising oneself in the private world of the
desiderium.3
The First Noble Truth, of course, is that of suffering. Not only of human
suffering: but that of all sentient beings. Curiously Balthasar is a pleasantly
broad-minded eschatologist, who favorably considers the presence of plant and
animal life in Heaven.4 But Buddhism’s treatment of suffering is quite the
opposite of that in either the Greek or the Biblical traditions. In general, non-
Biblical religions try to avoid suffering, most of them “going the opposite way”
to that of the Christian. They attempt to “evade” suffering, to render it
“innocuous”: “Religion becomes in many ways a technique to this end.”1
Especially for Buddhism, suffering is eliminated at the price of being “I.”
Still, suffering also attains a quasi-redemptive quality in the figure of the
Bodhisattva, a figure which exercises a certain fascination for Balthasar and
which we shall explore more fully in our final chapter. Here suffice it to say that
this figure which puts off final Nirvana until all sentient beings are saved serves
as an “analogy” that cannot be denied.2 The whole notion of substitution
(Stellvertretung) is crucial to Balthasar’s soteriology, and that an enlightened
being should condescend to share the sufferings of humanity is naturally of
particular interest, even if it is quite different from Balthasar’s idea of salvation.
Such a figure serves as “a pointer in the direction of the Christian.” But what
remains problematic is that such a “personal” figure is set against the “Ineffable
—Impersonal (Nirvana)” and thus “will fall pray to the Heideggerian critique”
that is, that “the personally imagined ‘God’ is only imaginable according to the
ontic pattern of earthly being, which is then willingly conceded.”3
The shared suffering is manifested in the Buddhist virtue of karuna, of
compassion. Attention has already been drawn to this virtue, as Balthasar
contrasts Buddhist compassion favorably with the indifference/apathy
(Gelassenheit/Apatheia) of other traditions. But Buddhist compassion—karuna
or maitri—remains fundamentally different from the Western. In the East, one
must “renounce his being an I because the divine is ego-less.” In the West, most
especially in the Christian understanding of agape, one “loves God for His own
sake and one’s fellow man because his person is absolutely loved by God,” while
what the East thinks of as “selfless love” is “primarily compassion (maitri) with
the being (i.e., person, animal or plant) still imprisoned in the bands of its being
an ‘I’.” Thus, naturally, since individuality is “identical with suffering” the way
to end suffering is to be “rid of one’s being an ‘I’.”1
In broadest terms, Buddhism shares with Idealistic philosophy the need to
escape vertically. It does this through its mysticism. We will be returning to
Buddhism to look at its apophatic theory, its use of technique in meditation, and
at the figure of the Bodhisattva, the enlightened saviour figure. Here we must
note in closing that no matter how respectful Balthasar was of Buddhism, he
certainly concluded that it was as different from Christianity as water from fire.2
Now we must turn to the Western religious cousins of the Asian traditions
we have been exploring.
Looking at the West, we find three main streams of non-Biblical traditions
which are of interest to Balthasar: the Gnostic, the Neo-Platonic and the
Hellenic. In the ancient world of course the distinction between philosophy and
religion was not always clearly drawn. But each of the traditions we will look at
here are at least what might be called “religious philosophies,” the first two with
strongly mystical claims.
We have seen that all “eastern” religious philosophy is dealing with the
problem of the One and the Many. It is time to move closer to the world of
literature so dear to Balthasar which will move us into the world of the revealed
word.
We begin with a brief look at the Hellenic tradition, especially the mythical
and dramatic part of that tradition.
Homeric man lives in a world in which “the divine . . . holds sway.”2 This flows
from Homer’s decision to renounce the otherworldly explanations which already
existed. This decision lies at the base of Western art.3
For Homer, man’s beauty comes from being man—that is, limited, before
God. Thus: “In the free indwelling of God the fulfilling elevation of the human
is experienced, as that purification of his mortal lowliness which simultaneously
bestows upon him happiness, meaning of life and beauty.”4 It is this willingness
to let man be man that lets man’s true worth be seen, the “light out of darkness,
life in death.”5 This realism in the face of death cannot be overestimated for
Balthasar. The Greeks were content that the gods existed without “as mortals
raising a claim to immortality,” they were content with a “divine fullness that
justifies the questionableness of the existence unto death” without adverting to
the concept of illusion for this world. In this, they showed “such strength of heart
that to them was given the gift of beauty for endless ages. . . .”6
The greatness of the ancient Greeks then was that they knew and accepted
their place as mortals before the divine. It only follows then that sin is hubris, the
attempt to go beyond the limits and want to go it alone, without God: “sin is
simply the arrogance to want to manage without God” because man is
“essentially in need of God.”7
The consequences of this understanding for the future of the West would
be momentous. The relation of man, especially of Homeric man, to God is
naturally dialogical (and prayerful); reason—on its solitary search for “Being as
a whole” and philosophical man—the man of reason—are monological. The
beginning of philosophy marks the “abrupt” end of the “dialogical act of prayer.”
A “knowledge that keeps itself to itself” replaces the “heart that dares risk itself.”
It is precisely at this point that what the Ancients had known as “Glory” yields to
that which in the “age of philosophy . . . will be called the ‘beautiful.’”1
This will be the beauty (Schöne) of the nineteenth century Titans, the
Idealist philosophers, models of the non-prayerful assault of Reason on Being.
The world of myth is the world in which God and man stand apart from each
other; the world of philosophy leads both “to the limit of identity.”2
We close our look at classical antiquity with a quick look at the figure of
Virgil, whom Balthasar calls “the father of the West.”3 Virgil’s own humble
person is, for Balthasar, most appealing. As distinct from any Faustian or Titanic
spirit:
There is nothing of the Cæsars, radiant in itself, about the shy, awkward, always sickly,
probably tubercular form. But that is the way in which Virgil is the “Father of the West” and
it is in this way that all have loved him, that all who know have spoken of him only with
restrained awe. It is thus that “that he stands in the very centre of European culture, in a
place which no other poet may claim to share with him or to usurp from him” (T.S. Eliot).
“Above the millennia he is the spiritual genius of the West. . . .” (E.R. Curtius).4
1. Judaism
Israel itself, in Balthasar’s view, had a rich relation with surrounding (pagan)
cultures. By no means would Balthasar subscribe to the view that Israel totally
rejected all that was pagan: “‘Syncretism’ in the Bible is a fact denied by no
one.”2 Thus, the syncretism can be seen beginning in the Old Testament, the
final books of which use not only Hellenistic language (Maccabees) but also
Stoic and Neo-Platonic language as well (Book of Wisdom). Balthasar further
suggests that the “Logos” of the philosophers was used in Jewish reflection on
God and that “Hellenistic universalism becomes a medium for the claims of
absoluteness of the Bible.”3 The use of pagan (mythical) images in the Scripture
shows that all that was Gentile was not to be condemned. In the earlier books of
the Bible, Balthasar sees Israel’s procession with the Ark of the Covenant as
analogous to the pagan practice of carrying images4 (one cannot help but pause
here to reflect on the importance of icons for Balthasar, and the practice of
religious processions with icons which continues to this day in the Eastern
Church). The Old Testament mentions good pagans, the psalms reflect Philistine
religion—and yet Israel is in the light while others are in darkness.5
Thus, although Israel takes much from surrounding cultures, it must be
observed that “nowhere does the Bible make concessions to a foreign religion or
form of world view as such where this were not comparable to the religion of the
living God. . . .”6 The syncretism is not therefore indiscriminate. Israel maintains
its own identity.
This is seen with special clarity in Israel’s insistence on history over myth.
Although mythical images had been used “to express the thoroughgoing action
of judgment of Yahweh,” still “the centre of the Biblical religion remains
historical.” In this, the religion of Israel is distinct from other religions of myth
or mysticism which had the choice either “to negate the being of the world as
such for the sake of the divine/Being” or else to try to break through “human
confusion and forgetfulness” to the divine laws immanent in the world. As
examples of the latter Balthasar cites “the Tao or the vedic Rta or the Logos and
Nomos of the Pre-Socratics and of the Plato of the Nomoi.” For Israel, neither is
the world denied nor must there be some new breakthrough of consciousness
into the “eternally accessible world law” but rather “a mode of protective
salvation in God is created from the freedom of the love of God.”1
The insistence on history is an insistence on the reality of the world, and so
the action of God is a saving action, rather than one of dissolution. Religion, for
Israel, is this relation with God. It is not a means by which the world is negated,
nor is it a lens through which the light of a (Platonic) God is filtered. Rather,
there is a relation with God in covenant, a God who created the world and who
wants the world to be lived in—according to His intention. It is not the world
that must be overcome or negated, but rather it is the sinful alienation from the
will of the Creator that is to be overcome by the saving action of God.
Unlike the pagans who as we have seen feel the “oppressive, diffuse
pressure of a general guiltiness of existence, a having fallen out of grace with
fortune, from which they try to free themselves through rites and techniques,”
Israel has a far greater precision to its need for salvation, for rather than some
diffuse pressure of the guilt of being, Israel feels “the pressure of its sinfulness
and the having-become-questionable of its relation to its God.”2 Sin, not guilt, is
the human situation which faces Israel—for sin means breach in a personal
relation, and Israel is in such a relation with her God. The problem of good and
evil is no easy matter for Israel. There is no easy turn to a law of karma. As
noted earlier, this is “the greatest of the world’s puzzles on which Israel had
rubbed itself raw.”1
The realism of Israel is especially distinctive in the face of death. As the
Resurrection is the central fact of the Christian mystery, it should be no surprise
that death is the central human dilemma with which Balthasar deals. Unlike the
pagan mythologies and religions, there are no trips through the underworld for
Israel, no fantastic attempts to evade death.2 Israel knows no hypothesis of an
eternal soul which survives the “mortal coil” (Socrates-Plato), no consolation
that “death is nothing final for rebirth stands to hand (the Indians, Pythagoras)”
no Nietzschean “eternal return.” Rather, the Old Testament “looks the given
straight in the face.”3
This unflinchingly realistic look at death testifies to the value Israel puts on
life, for only the unique (einmalig) truly dies, and thus it becomes especially
precious.4
In the Bible, immortality is first mentioned in the late, and Hellenistic,
Book of Wisdom.5 Death remains problematic, however. The covenant is made
only with the living: with the living, corporeal man. And though Israel knew
heroic deaths, deaths of witness to its Faith (the Maccabees), death as such
remained darkness, totally alien to the covenant, and thus unrelated to love.6
Israel is, of course, the Chosen People. According to Scripture, “the Word
that went forth to Abraham and then to the People Israel was not accepted by the
‘nations’ before its fulfilment in Christ, apart from the witness of Israel.” This
difference between the Gentiles and Israel is not due simply to the “official
character of Biblical religion” but to something “more radical.” The “pagans”
are depicted as being “‘without hope and atheioi in the world’ (Eph. 2:12)” and
yet as “essentially, naturally God-seekers (Acts 4:8) . . . still, the Word of God
was not addressed to them.”7
Thus the pagans remain in a situation of silence, unaddressed by the God
who speaks to Israel: they are atheioi who yet must be God-seekers. Yet the gods
of the pagans are creations of human hands—they are projections of the human
imagination. This lies at the heart of the Biblical critique of idolatry. In spite of
this basic situation, however, God remains free to speak to anyone, of course: “It
also belongs to the freedom of the living God to reveal Himself among the pagan
peoples at His good pleasure and to summon from them individual wise men and
prophets to whom even Israel must listen and from whom she must learn.”1
The silence of God is seen by Balthasar in two important connections. First
of all, he observes that for theologians of the Holocaust, the silence of God has
taken precedence to His speech. Relatedly, in the Cabala, the speech of God is
seen as proceeding from His silence. Balthasar criticizes the latter notion
especially, insisting that God in His Word in Scripture does not reveal Himself as
idea or concept, but rather as a “free, sovereign Subject.”2 Still, the silent nature
of the God of Judaism is part of that tradition for: “In the common Jewish
imagination God is most hidden, the Messiah most absent in times of great and
greatest need.”3
The flowering of the religion of Israel in Christ and the Christian Church
left the Jews the people of the promise, but a promise whose fulfilment they
rejected. Thus, they are in the peculiar position of having a tremendous promise,
greater than any other people, while having to look elsewhere for its fulfilment.
The Jews as a people are unique for they do not exist biologically or
sociologically—but rather theologically.4 That the Jews exist as a people (a
Volk), is perhaps their central characteristic for Balthasar: the people is more
important than the individual, who only counts as member of the nation. The
Jew is a theological person, as Balthasar understands this, in those who are
called from the people to be “their prophets and leaders.” But of the other
individuals in the people, Balthasar maintains that we cannot speak of person as
in the New Testament. The problem is one of translating that which is proper to
the group, to the collective entity, into the personal. Even in the Song of Songs,
he wonders if the notion of the “union of Yahweh with His People” is understood
as something that happens “in person.” Thus: “Even when the Jewish element
sees itself as liberal, unbelieving, atheistic: Israel as a People is that which
counts in the individual.”1 Furthermore, Balthasar who sees the pagans seeking
(and losing) themselves in philosophy or mystical techniques, curiously sees the
tribally defined Jew as seeking his individuality—at the price of social ties—in
his study of the Law.2
Heaven’s Word having been rebuffed, it is only natural that the people of
such promise turn earthward with their energies. Secularized Judaism takes
many forms which “are reducible to several basic forms that today in large
measure dominate the ideological market.” While the Gentiles seek to escape the
world through contemplation, “non-believing ‘Jewry’ produces world-changing,
futurological schemes, which are mightily stimulated by the wonders of modern
technology and not least by the insights of the natural sciences concerning
evolution.” If the Gentiles are tempted to a “flight out of time,” the Jewish
temptation is the utopian one of “transforming the world into a paradise.”3
In this earthly utopia, there is no room for suffering. The representative
Karl Marx is a good illustration of this tendency of secularized Judaism. Marx
was not exercised so much by the problem of Seinsvergessenheit as he was about
“the forgotten Real” and he saw this “primarily in the form of need.”
Remarkably, this is the “primordial Christian situation, and behind it the
primordial Israelitic situation of the Old Testament and prophets” one which “the
Jew Marx, substituting (stellvertretend) for the Christians discovers anew” and
which then becomes the “theological a priori of all his thought as well as his
æsthetics.”4
Here we see that the “forgotten reality” of human misery is greater for the
prophetic Marx than any “forgetfulness of Being”—in this his concerns (though
not his solutions) are seen as truly Biblical, and primordially Christian
(urchristlich), the prophetic way, not that of the Greek (and German)
philosophers. One other thinker with Jewish roots keeps cropping up in the
pages of Balthasar’s work—he is Joachim of Flores, whose interpretation of the
Trinity as corresponding to the different stages of human history, the age after
Christ being the age of the Holy Spirit, reflects the tendency towards the earthly
utopia which characterizes Jewish thinking.1
Again, because of the peculiar nature of their relation to God, it strikes
Balthasar that it may well be natural that Antichrist would himself be Jewish, as
in the end the Jewish vision is the only real alternative to the Christian. In an
unusual passage he observes:
Maybe it is after all a real theological inference and not an expression of simple
Antisemitism that according to secular tradition the Antichrist will be a Jew, for Israel alone
among all nations is the remaining bearer of an absolute hope which is identical with its
existence, a hope which in its rejection of Christ, thought through and lived to its natural
conclusion, must offer a world-historically dominant counter-proposal to the Christian.2
We see then that the people of Israel were truly the ones to receive the Word of
God—the Chosen People. From the Exile onwards, as we shall see, the true
Israel, the anawim, developed in a way which would lead to the birth of Mary,
and of Christ. The people of the Old Testament thus become the Jews, a people
who accept no mediator between God and man. In their religious mode, they are
prey to either the Gnosis of “Rabbinism and the Cabala” or to an orientalism
mysticism as that of Hasidism which attempts to bridge the gap. Without faith,
but with the promised hope, they are fated to become propagators of the secular
utopia, and in the end, the only true competitors to Christianity.
2. Islam
If the problem with Judaism which renders it incapable of being a “catholic”
religion is its national (Volk) exclusiveness, Islam is limited ultimately because
of its ritualism, a ritualism “that the Arabs themselves only observe with
difficulty and which foreigners cannot fully observe.”1 Locating Islam in relation
to Christianity and Judaism, Balthasar writes that it is “the most significant
mixed form between pagan and Jewish (or rather Jewish-Christian, Ebionite). . .
.” Were one to want to see it as an heir to Judaism, one need but look into the
field of religion to find “a thousand smaller religious projects originating in the
Bible” of which Islam would only be “the most important and historically
powerful.” On the other hand, were one to look to Christianity, one would see
that in Islam too many elements had “broken out of the Christian image of God
—Eucharist, Incarnation, substitutory salvation on the Cross, Eucharist, etc.” for
it to be seen as a “cryptic form of the Christian.”2
We see therefore that though today it is “in increasing measure one of the
great powers of earth”3 (Balthasar sees much of religious revivalism outside of
Christianity as resurgent nationalism’s expression of resentment against the
West4), Islam is a small Biblical offshoot grown very large. This is not to say it
is without Christian and Jewish influence—“contacts with Jews and Christians in
Arabia explain the powerfully Biblical flavour of his [Muhammad’s] strict
monotheistic religion. . . .”5 It is, in today’s scene, a neutral point having much
of the Old Testament without its inner dynamic, a religion in which “the
‘Absolute’ or ‘divine’ of the old religions and the supramundane Old Testament
‘God’ are blended and solidified. . . .”6
Along with Christianity and Judaism, Islam is a religion which is in
relation with a personal God, and so sin is part of its reality, as well as the
paradox that “God forgives out of free grace and not on the basis of human
penitential accomplishments, but that also this forgiveness cannot become
effective without the penitential conversion of the human.”7
Of the three Biblical religions, Islam is the religion of the Absolute par
excellence. In this, it is bracketed with other worldviews of the Absolute—“the
nihilistic or materialistic or the Buddhistic or even the Islamic”—in which, as we
have seen, “nowhere does the Absolute move itself, and in the face of its silence
all the noise of becoming and passing away must fall silent.”1 It might not be
inappropriate to suggest that in such a vision of God as unmoving Absolute there
is seen something of the irritable old grandfather who demands silence and
stillness from his rambunctious grandchildren. So the Absolute has silenced the
noise of coming and going. In such a tradition, epic is the mode of expression,
drama cannot succeed. All individual forms are crushed by the weight of this
Absolute, whose traces are seen “there, where limited form is negated and one
sees through to the Absolute.” Such a view is however an “essentially
antidramatic principle” and for this reason neither India nor Islam has known
anything comparable to the drama that has “grown up” in the Greek and
Christian worlds. Rather than the dramatic, it is the epic which “remains to the
fore.” The Absolute makes no moves to encounter “the transitory on pilgrimage”
to him; the latter must rather accommodate himself to the “eternal law” of the
former. Thus, the “way” for the time-bound on pilgrimage to the infinite takes
place under the ægis of “a ‘providence’ that appears to be chiefly ‘fate’. . . .”2
This belief in a Providence which becomes Fate (Kismet) is of course
characteristic of Islam. The individual has no freedom in the face of this
Absolute, for as Balthasar describes it, the freedom of the creature and the
freedom in covenant with God “by being powerfully grasped, from the very first,
would be dispossessed of its own groundlessness and would be smothered by an
‘omnipotence’ of divine goodness (as for example in Islam). . . .”3
There is, true to human nature, the attempt to bridge the gap between God
and His creatures. This generally occurs under Christian or oriental influence,
leading to the mystical tradition in Islam. For Sufism, the “total submission to
the will of God paints itself as selfless love which—as in every mysticism that
confronts the indivisible One—can only be understood and cultivated through
the un-becoming (Entwerden) of the creature.”
Although Islam allowed poets to sing of such an un-becoming, it could not
tolerate a serious mysticism of identity, as Balthasar recalls in the case of Junayd
and his disciple Hallaj (“the latter was crucified”). If the “great religious thinker
Al-Ghazzali” was able to “slip moments of this mysticism into Islamic
orthodoxy” still, it remains questionable just what import the human person can
have relative to God. Balthasar concludes that the last word on this subject is
given by Averroes: “all men have only one mind (Geist).”1
Thus, in the end, the Absolute is such that He stands in relation to only one
human, the individual with his freedom long since destroyed. The Silence of the
Absolute is once again met with an absolute silence from the side of an
overwhelmed humanity.
Conclusion
We began our chapter with a review of the three outstanding characteristics of
the human situation: longing, guilt and death. We then sketched various
responses to the human longing to overcome guilt and to deal with death. For
Balthasar, as we have seen, natural man tries to escape from this world of
limitation, finitude, death. Individualistic schemes of salvation lead him to
dissolve his individual humanity or to dissolve his ties with the rest of humanity
in attempts at union with an Absolute. In the end, all systems of natural religion
or religious philosophy are based on attempts of identity. Without the revelation
that comes from a personal God, a personal Absolute, reason tends to take over
and reason projects itself into its monologue, the union is ultimately with
oneself.
There are degrees in which this is true in the various traditions of
humanity. The nearer mankind is to its “primitive,” mythic state, the less likely it
is to confuse itself with God. The distance (Abstand) remains, the distance which
allows for that analogy that will be so important for Balthasar’s understanding of
God, the Analogia Entis, and not the Analogia Identitatis of the Idealists. The
mythical consciousness is dialogical. Homeric man is involved in a prayerful
relation with a personal God in a way that is no longer the case for the
practitioners of Platonic philosophy or of the Neo-Platonic conversion.
One way to speak of this is in terms of the ascent/descent
(Aufstieg/Abstieg) polarity in religious experience. The way of human religion
and religious philosophy is the way of ascent—towards God to be sure, but most
significantly away from the world of multiplicity, individuality, relativity:
Natural mysticism and religion is an expression that proceeds from man and sets out in the
direction of God. It does this out of a most profound necessity and without anyone being
able to complain that this movement is an eros which struggles to leave earth, to ascend
(aufsteigen) and to fly above (überfliegen). But in its drive to push past everything that could
point the way to God in order to see in that thing the one truth that it is not God, this eros is
always in danger of losing both, the world as well as God. The world, because it is not God,
and God, because He is not the world and because without the help of worldly things in
which He is reflected He can only be experienced as the absolute emptiness (Leere), the
primordial Ground, Nirvana.1
1. GINL, p. 8.
2. S5, p. 288.
1. GIMF, p. 105; TDPC, pp. 380–2, inter al.
2. S4, pp. 87 – 8.
3. S1, p. 188 .
1. TDPM, p. 315.
2. Cf. CORD.
3. TLGW, p. 16.
4. Ibid., p. 237.
5. EPIL, p. 14.
1. CM, p. 7.
2. S1, p. 135.
3. S3, p. 479.
4. CS, p. 59.
5. HSG, p. 227.
6. HFSL, p. 435.
7. CM, p. 86.
8. HRMN, p. 882.
1. TDHA, pp. 107–8.
2. S5, p. 368.
1. CS, p. 125.
1. S4, pp. 308–9.
2. TDHA, p. 208.
3. S4, p. 27.
4. S3, p. 351.
1. CS, pp. 103–4.
2. TDPM, p. 371.
1. CUDW, p. 4.
2. TDHA, p. 204; S5, p. 111.
3. Ibid.
4. S5, p. 204.
5. TDHA, pp. 185–186.
1. TDPR, p. 408.
2. EPIL, p. 84.
3. Ibid.
4. William Butler Yeats, “Sailing to Byzantium,” Selected Poems and Two Plays of William Butler
Yeats (NY: The MacMillan Company, 1962), p. 96.
5. EPIL, p. 84.
1. TDPM, p. 360.
2. HFSL, pp. 683–4.
3. TDPM, p. 213.
4. MWDB, p. 65.
5. HFSL, p. 684.
6. Ibid.
1. S5, pp. 182–3. “Gelassenheit” narrowly defined indicates “calmness,” but Balthasar tends to use
it as a colorful way of indicating passionless, non-Christian indifference, and it is as “indifference” that we
will usually be translating the word.
2. Goethe, Faust, as cited in GIMF, p.77, inter al.
1. TDHA, p. 110.
2. Ibid.
3. S5, p. 181.
1. Peter Henrici, S.J., “Zur Philosophie Hans Urs von Balthasars,” Hans Urs von Balthasar. Gestalt
und Werk, ed. Karl Lehmann/Walter Kasper (Köln: Communio, 1989), p. 237.
2. HSG, p. 148.
1. S5, p. 183.
1. TDPM, pp. 360–1.
2. HFSK, p. 27.
1. BG, pp. 212–3.
2. HSG, pp. 368–9.
1. TDHA, pp. 205–6.
2. TLGW, p. 399.
1. S1, pp. 151–2.
2. HSG, p. 487.
3. TDPR, p. 130.
4. Ibid.
5. S5, p. 118, footnote 30.
1. TDHA, p. 133.
2. S3, pp. 19–20.
1. REL 1, p. 173.
2. S3, pp. 330–1.
3. S1, p. 187.
1. S3, p. 23.
2. REL1, p. 91.
3. Ibid.
4. TDPM, pp. 39–41.
5. Ibid., p. 388.
1. HRMN, pp. 879–882.
2. Ibid., pp. 889–90.
3. Ibid., p. 896.
4. TDPM, p. 388.
5. GIMF, p. 13.
1. Ibid., p. 104.
2. S4, pp. 327–8.
3. HRMN, p. 911.
4. S3, p. 451.
5. S4, p. 85.
6. TDPR, pp. 61–2.
1. Ibid., p. 360.
2. HRMN, p. 536.
3. HRMA, p. 197.
1. S5, p. 116.
2. Ibid.
1. TDES, pp. 450–1.
2. CUDW, p. 13.
3. Ibid., p. 3.
4. Ibid.
5. HFSK, p. 167.
1. HRMA, pp. 365–6.
2. S3, p. 330.
3. TDPR, p. 585.
1. CUDW, p. 2.
2. HFSL, p. 447.
3. HRMN, p. 445.
4. S5, p. 228.
5. See especially Jacques Cuttat, Begegnung der Religionen, tr. Hans Urs von Balthasar (Einsiedeln:
Johannes Verlag, 1956) for an interesting treatment of Amida and Ramanuja as signs of development of a
personalist dimension in Buddhism.
6. CUDW, p. 4.
7. S5, p. 362; CUDW, p. 15.
8. CUDW, p. 5.
1. TLWW, p. XX.
2. Henri de Lubac, Amida. Aspects du Bouddhisme. II (Seuil, 1955).
3. TLWG, p. 106.
1. S5, pp. 104–5.
2. Ibid., p. 105.
3. TDPM, p. 219.
4. TDES.
1. TDHA, p. 208.
2. S5, p. 106.
3. EPIL, p. 21.
1. CUDW, pp. 3–4.
2. S5, p. 227.
1. HFSK, p. 33.
2. HRMA, p. 213.
3. HFSK, p. 41.
1. Ibid., p. 34.
2. TDPE, p. 376.
3. TDHA, p. 404.
1. HTNB, p. 479, footnote 1.
2. TDPC, p. 125.
3. TDPM, p. 37.
4. HFSK, p. 103.
5. Ibid.
1. HFSL, p. 528.
2. HRMA, pp. 252–3.
3. Ibid., p. 207.
4. Ibid.
5. S5, pp. 20–1.
1. TLGW, p. 399.
2. HRMA, p. 270.
3. HRMN, p. 885.
4. Ibid., p. 773.
5. Ibid.
6. S4, pp. 86–7.
1. Ibid., p. 236.
2. S5, pp. 220–1.
3. TDHA, p. 103.
4. TDPE, p. 489.
1. TDPR, p. 461.
2. Copleston, pp. 30–31.
1. TDPM, p. 170.
2. S3, p. 312.
3. S4, p. 14.
4. Ibid., p. 15.
5. Ibid.
1. Ibid., p. 26.
2. S5, p. 232.
3. TDPM, p. 385.
4. Ibid., p. 317.
5. Ibid.
6. HRMA, p. 43.
7. Ibid.
8. Ibid., p. 94.
1. Ibid.
2. Ibid., p. 98.
3. Ibid., p. 117.
4. Ibid., p. 122.
5. Ibid.
6. HSG, p. 19.
7. S3, p. 281.
8. Ibid.
1. HRMA, p. 48.
2. S3, p. 280.
3. HRMA, pp. 47–8.
4. Ibid., p. 50.
5. Ibid.
6. Ibid., p. 66.
7. Ibid., p. 49.
1. Ibid., p. 144.
2. Ibid., p. 166.
3. Ibid., p. 250.
4. Ibid.
5. Ibid., p. 247.
1. Ibid.
2. Ibid., p. 220.
3. CUDW, p. 1.
4. EPIL, p. 35.
5. CUDW, p. 7.
1. Ibid., pp. 7–8.
2. HRMA, p. 221.
3. Ibid.
4. HTAB, p. 66.
5. S1, p. 46.
6. S3, p. 46.
1. HSG, pp. 486–7.
2. TDHA, p. 209.
1. S5, p. 116.
2. EPIL, pp. 84–6.
3. S5, pp. 38–9.
4. Ibid., p. 39.
5. HTAB, p. 335.
6. EPIL, pp. 84–6.
7. TDPC, p. 380.
1. Ibid., p. 382.
2. S5, p. 260.
3. TDES, p. 131.
4. TDPC, p. 341.
1. TDPM, p. 392.
2. TDHA, p. 405.
3. S5, p. 353.
4. HRMN, p. 922.
1. TDPC, p. 469.
2. TDHA, p. 411.
1. CUDW, p. 7.
2. S4, p. 95.
3. S5, p. 225.
4. Cf. S1, p. 40.
5. Ibid.
6. S4, p. 64.
7. S5, p. 204.
1. TDPM, p. 39.
2. Ibid., p. 40.
3. TDHA, p. 307.
1. EPIL, p. 27.
1. BG, p. 46.
1. TLWG, pp. 99–101.
2. S1, p. 188.
1. BG, pp. 137–8.
2. GINL, pp. 44–5.
1. S3, p. 20.
2. S1, p. 187.
3. S5, p. 25; WIEC, p. 81.
4. S1, p. 187.
5. TLWG, p. 258.
6. S5, p. 150.
7. S1, p. 180.
II
The Via Negativa
Introduction
I t has been stated in the first chapter that perhaps the key insight of Balthasar’s
theology is that in light of the Resurrection the poets are ultimately right, that
the choice for man ultimately is one between myth and revelation.1 Systems of
speculative philosophy most notably do not enter into the picture. We have seen
that his main criticism of non-Christian religious and philosophical tradition is
that the particular tends to be destroyed to make way for the Absolute. In this
present chapter we propose to further explore what Balthasar sees as happening
especially at the other end of the relation—that is, if, for the natural man, the
particular human individual tends to be destroyed in his flight to the Absolute,
what then happens to God?
Balthasar addresses this issue in terms of “negative philosophy and
theology.” The via negativa for him is something that is found in all higher
cultures, “most passionately developed in the lands of the Far East . . . but not
less in Greece, whose final philosophy, Platonism” had such far-reaching effects
on Christian thought and “finally in a radicalised Islam.”2
In this chapter we will be looking at the via negativa as developed to its
height in the religious philosophy of the Far East, in the tradition of Zen, and in
Christian theology, both in the Greek tradition, so heavily influenced by Neo-
Platonism, and in the Latin.
It will be recalled that Balthasar has great sympathy for the workings of the
human imagination, those creations of the mind which in myth, in literature,
attempt to deal with the mortal fate of man. That man’s attempts to deal with
death, in particular, were fanciful has already been made clear. Now it is
important to see that Balthasar holds that man, in his religion-making, subjects
himself to a self-delusion. All is well as long as the illusion holds. The simple
people, indeed, continue to cling to the forms of a religion long after the
sophisticated have yielded to disillusionment. But when the inevitable stripping
of the gods takes place, the sophisticated turn to the via negativa. How can they
approach the Absolute without returning to forms of which they have become
disillusioned? Balthasar answers that it will be only through “negation” of all
form, both sensible and spiritual, including “power, beauty, wisdom, love.” He
continues:
The moment in which this completely unbounded one exposed itself to the human mind was
the moment of birth of negative philosophy or, if the word “God” could still have any
meaning here, of theology. It is the necessary counterpart to the positive doctrine of the
form-bearing Godhead, and its necessary Götterdämmerung. As such it is to a great extent
the religion of the intellectuals, of the initiated, of the true savants, since for ordinary people
that which is concrete is indispensable, whether it be in the form of statues and pictures, of
altars and sacrifices, or in the form of myths, which narrate to us the fortunes of the gods.1
The idols of the human imagination are projections of that imagination thrown
against the (blank) screen of the Absolute. Hence, the tolerance in Hinduism for
those who need a personal god: let there be as many as the imagination can come
to know. Once one sees through these figures, one realizes there is no-thing
beyond, and so one turns the light of disillusionment on himself, realizing that
his own self, the features of his psyche, are precisely that which get in the way of
his correct vision of the featureless reality beyond. The awareness of that reality
“unfolded,” freed from its limits in form, represents the birth of negative
philosophy and, “if the word ‘God’ could still make any sense here,” negative
theology. That this phenomenon primarily affects the sophisticated elements of
society points the way to the Christian (and Balthasarian) predilection for the
anawim as privileged God-knowers, something that will be considered later. It is
no coincidence that the locus of Balthasar’s self-admitted polemic against
negative philosophy is a short volume with the significant title Christen Sind
Einfältig.1 That Balthasar refers in this context to the “twilight of the gods”
(Götterdämmerung) underlines the fact that the sophisticated are well
represented in the Wagnerian world of Idealist philosophy. The consequence of
this critical attack on the world of the gods is a “step back” to an Absolute which
“can only be attained through the negation of all concepts that have been seen
through as finite,” an Absolute that is stripped of any personality and that can
“only be assumed (not thought) as an Absolute that lies ‘above all existents’
(Plato).”2 In this way the destruction of images leads to the impersonal Absolute.
For the individual person, this religious move leads to radical devaluation
of the subject, of the “I” (Ent-Ichung). This will have profound effects on the
sort of approach one uses for the Absolute. Anticipating our later treatment of
prayer, Balthasar asks what the religious consequences are of such negative
theology. First, he sees the human spirit stripped of all “finite ideas” beginning
with the sensible and the power of the imagination, then those of the
understanding. The only alternative to these will be a “standing-outside (Hinaus-
stehen, Ekstase)” in a “formless condition” that “corresponds to the Absolute,
that is, to that which has been released from all.” Here Balthasar sees all the final
forms of the religions as being similar in that they lead to a mysticism in which
“the physically and spiritually limited person tries to overcome and to negate his
finitude” and to do this by using various techniques, techniques which are not to
be underestimated. They are “forms of radical ‘de-I-ing’ (Entichung)” because
that self, which is greedy, hungry, ultimately self-centered, is seen as guilty.3
In the present chapter we shall see the encounter of the natural man’s
tendency toward negative theology with Biblical revelation as prelude to our
deeper investigation of that revelation. Balthasar observes that one coming from
an exposure to world religions who encounters the Bible will be astounded to
find no negative theology at all within its pages1 (although this bold assertion is
elsewhere qualified when Balthasar observes that the “awe of negative theology,
into which the natural knowledge of God flows”2 is still present in the marrow of
the bones of Old-Testament man).
Balthasar respects negative theology, calling it “necessary,” even as he is
painfully aware of its inadequacies and hence critical of what can be its
sophisticated pretensions. Without the revelation of the Biblical God, man would
be, however, limited to negative theology, with its attendant dangers. The one
who became flesh “brought the fullness of Heaven to earth” and by so doing
showed that the Unity of God need not be destroyed when expressed in the
multiplicity of the world. And this multiplicity includes “the spoken speech of
human existence . . . the multiplicity of statements and concepts, of images and
judgments.” Were it not for this revelation, contemplation would perforce be
limited to the way of negative theology which must see God as beyond, other
than all earthly concepts and images, but which does this only by committing a
“deep injustice vis-à-vis the world and one’s fellow creatures.”3
Short of the Incarnation, then, the way of negative theology is the safest
way for the natural man, both for his religious thinking and for his religious
practice.4 Yet by its very nature, the way of negation tends to a wrong relation
“with the world and one’s fellow creatures.” That it is not the only way even for
the non-Biblical world we have already seen in Balthasar’s positive assessment
of the Greek mythical tradition. Classical antiquity in the West did manage to do
something of tremendous value, especially given the natural tendency towards
the via negativa: “The affirmation of the cosmos as a whole, together with its
lights and shadows, was the most extreme and marvellous accomplishment of
the theodicy of antiquity and was doubtless also the final reason why Dante
entrusted himself without second thought to the guidance of Virgil precisely
through the dark realms.”1 It will be recalled that Virgil thereby won the title
“Father of the West.”
The Greeks on the other hand gradually lost that simplicity they had shared
with the Latins, and which so won Balthasar’s affection. Whereas for Homer and
the early tragedians the deity was engaged with humanity (although even here
Balthasar is aware of the dark, abysmal Fate which lurks behind even Homer’s
gods),2 this did not last. In Sophocles’ work, “there are no longer any glimpses
into the heart of God.” Rather, Sophocles the tragedian could only see man set
against a dark background of an “infinitely majestic, distant God.” God becomes
dark, hidden (“Darkness, Thou my Light! Eternal Night, how you shine to me!”)
and here Balthasar sees the true beginning of that “hiddenness of God” which
will later become negative theology. He notes that it is against this dark
“background, analogous to the black or red isolating background of the vases
with their heroic figures” that the “horrifying form of suffering man” is set.3
From these beginnings, the via negativa will be carried into the West
through the Platonic current of thought. In Europe, in contrast to Thomas’
careful positioning of negative theology in his approach to God, later
philosophers will lose his sense of analogy in their approach to Being in favor of
a philosophy of identity, viz., Hegel.4 Of Hegel, Balthasar writes:
Hegel allows for no space for the “inaudible voice” of the things that are not God, and of
which the psalm spoke. Behind the speech of things about God—a speech that can only
originate in God—there is a silence of God, where the negative theologians must in the end
move His kingdom. . . .5
This inability to hear the “inaudible voice” of things—a mysterious speech that
speaks of God—is characteristic of Hegel, perhaps the ultimate “un-poet” as
Kierkegaard might have testified. Behind lurks an “empty” silence of God.
Bearing in mind God’s unknowability, if knowledge means an overcoming,
Balthasar is prepared to include Kant among the great figures of negative
theology.1 In general, the Idealists betray a feel for negative theology.2 This, of
course, fits naturally into Balthasar’s critique of the inadequacy of idealistic
philosophy.
Turning to the world of Christian theology, a phrase of Augustine’s echoes
throughout Balthasar’s corpus: si comprehendis, non est Deus.3 This points to
the positive use of the via negativa in Christian life.4 It anticipates the other
favorite phrase of Balthasar’s—Deus semper major, a phrase we shall return to
at the end of this chapter when we consider the via eminentiæ.
We have seen already that Hegel allows for no speech of things: he
demands an absolute silence, for behind the speech of things, there is the silence
of God. That silence of God is key to our understanding of negative theology. In
the Biblical realm, words play a different role. The question of the name of God
becomes very important in the Bible. Man then asks whether any name could be
found without “idolising something finite?” All “responsible philosophy,
religion, mysticism must end in this being silent” even though man knows that
all he knows is in fact woven through and through with fragments of meaning,
himself not least of all. And man knows “that these nameable fragments must
originate in a unifying Logos, but one for which human speech and reason can
find no word.” Man is then in a situation where “he can at most establish that
every attempted word does not suffice, and that the positive necessity of his
search is stronger than everything that can suffice as answer.”5 The way of
negative theology is the way of this honest silence: natural man is indeed
condemned to silence.
Moreover, the correct perception of things, the correct valuation of things,
is lost, as for a Hegel. It is not so for the Christian who is not condemned to a
“gnostic or mystical silence.” Rather, “the Spirit both knows the voice of God in
the Word of the Son and lets it resound over the world, so that he might lend the
right meaning and tone to the responding human voices.”1
Of course, this is a word that is spoken to man, not something to which
man can simply aspire and aspiring find. So after characterizing the natural man
as silent, we find him as a seeker, once again: it is the “search of non-Biblical
man for God” that forms the “primary locus of negative (philosophical)
theology.” “Weary” of his search man either “flees into a system (and Zen is one
as well)” or finds refuge “in a resigned agnosticism that proceeds with denials.”
Of such “primary negative theology” Balthasar observes that it “forms the
strongest bastion against Christianity.”2
Natural man then either finds himself fleeing into a system—it is
noteworthy that Balthasar includes Zen as a system—or into a resigned
agnosticism. Resignation is a spirit Balthasar refuses to allow the Christian3
whose proper stance, as we shall see, is one of obedience. It is probably because
of its extreme sophistication as the flower of natural humanity, that such a highly
developed negative theology—agnostic, resigned to silence—is so resistant and
indeed inimical to Christianity.
We recall the Neo-Platonic teaching on silence as the philosopher’s hymn
of prayer:
The primordial ground (Urgrund) is “unword” (Unwort) and on the part of philosophical
man it should be honoured by silence. After Plotinus, it is especially Proclus who speaks of
the hymnic character of philosophy and who himself writes hymnic works which praise the
ineffable deity, ask for illumination, purification, union, and yet who sees the best liturgy
that can be offered him in man’s becoming similar to God. The ascent (Aufstieg) to God as
“prayer” is: the “one theological hymn to the One passing through the negations (of
everything else).”4
The “Unword” (Unwort) which is identified with the primordial “ground,” here
identified with the philosophical (Neo-Platonic) man is also that which is most
particularly characteristic of Zen, the apex of the East Asian development of
negative philosophy. It is “reverenced” by the silence of the true philosopher.1
We now turn to a more detailed look at Balthasar’s understanding of key figures
in negative philosophy and theology. We begin with Zen, and the empty silence
it hymns so insistently.
Evagrius is a genuine mystic. But does that therefore make him a Christian mystic?2
Here Balthasar clearly places Evagrius at the fount both of the spirituality of Mt.
Athos and of that trend in eastern spirituality that became known as Palamism,
as well as of western monasticism. His influence is especially strongly felt in the
work of John of the Cross, as we shall later see. The central problem is the turn
from all creatures, the purification from all images, ideas, to an inner light which
is to lead to the divine light of grace. This Platonizing spirituality is overcome by
Augustine’s following of the Cross—it will be noticed that what Balthasar is
using as standard of Christian mysticism is the discipleship of Christ (Nachfolge
Christi). The rejection of all phantasms and concepts alone, leading to a mere
“emptiness,” is anathema for Balthasar. He invokes the word “Maya” to indicate
in what spiritual camp Evagrius has ended up: “the veil of Maya becomes
progressively thinner and first the ‘pragma’ and material disappear then the
multi-coloured manifoldness of spiritual logoi, until only the formless light in
the gazing spirit remains.”2
Recalling what was said in the first chapter of the deadening role of the
Absolute and of the universal reason of the Idealists in destroying particular
beings, it comes as no surprise then to see that now “the multiplicity of the
world-logos is annulled and the ‘Kingdom of the Son,’ i.e., the kingdom of the
pluralistic world-reason, comes to an end and is subsumed to the ‘Kingdom of
the Father,’ i.e., of absolute Unity.”3
As noted, the way to experience this is through an inward contemplation
which rejects all forms which become merely “Maya” in light of the
overwhelming contemplation. What is most unique about the ecstasy proposed
by Evagrius, according to Balthasar, is the extremely strong emphasis on the
contemplation of one’s own essence,1 a self-contemplation which is at the same
time experience of God.2 Balthasar is deeply disturbed to note that for Evagrius,
the Christian teaching on love of neighbor itself becomes merely a means in the
purification—the “emptying”—of the first stage of the ascetical life.3 Indeed, for
Balthasar, “contemplation of the Trinity and contemplation of the essence of
one’s own spirit appear for Evagrius to be two sides of the same experience.”4
This “technique” of turning away from all “diabolical illusion” leads all too
easily, for Balthasar, to a “refined self-observation and experimentation.”5
Later on, Balthasar will write of the “enstasis” which Evagrius
promulgates rather than of any “ecstasy.” There is “no ecstasy to a Thou, but
enstasy to a God within (geistinwendig), through the overcoming of all sensible
and mental forms” forms that are either there in memory or that might be
“mirrored before one by the demon.” Indifference to all forms, apatheia, thus
comes to the fore. The “highest condition of prayer” then is “perfect anaesthesia,
feelinglessness” and this because “God’s Light, within which we see all that has
form, is itself formless” and “only the one entirely stripped of form can behold
the countenance of the Father. . . .”6
Recalling what was said of Zen and anticipating Balthasar’s Johannine
understanding of Jesus as the Face of God, we can see the severe criticism of
Evagrius that is being made. Balthasar’s verdict on Evagrius is thus hard, but it
is consistent with his critique of philosophy that naturally hits the extreme
Origenist at the root. He is convinced that “every great, deep, religiously
oriented metaphysics in the end somehow becomes idealism.” This is so because
the human spirit must negate the relative to attain the Absolute; from the
revelation of the Absolute in Christ, man will be given “the power from God to
affirm the relative.” In any event, “Evagrius is stuck at the level of world-denial,
i.e., on the pre-Christian level. . . .”1
Evagrius is thus not a “fallen Christian” as much as a philosopher/mystic
who has not yet reached the Christian level, but is at the level of preparation.
This will become clearer as we proceed to the more explicitly Catholic
understanding of the Christian life, where:
That which is distinctly Christian is that one not only “starts” from that which is corporeal-
sensible as from a religious material from which one can make the necessary abstractions:
rather, what is distinct is that one remains with the seeing, hearing, touching and savouring
eating of this flesh and blood that has borne and taken away the sin of the world.2
So theology itself is the correct ordering of Heaven and earth, of angels and men,
singing praises at the throne of the Unseen: the Word surrounds the middle of
Silence. Words proliferate the further one goes from the center. Once again, the
silence is not an empty silence, but rather the divine silence which summons a
corresponding hymn of silence as it were with which to be honoured in its
hiddenness: “theology will be careful . . . to honour with silence the hiddenness
of God which towers above us.”3
Dionysius is thus at the heart of Balthasar’s sense of what Christian
theology is about. Balthasar writes that if one strikes out of Dionysius all that
seems too Neo-Platonic, what remains is true Biblical theology of covenant, a
profoundly and thoroughly bridal theology.4
So as we have seen, one cannot then say that symbolism and spiritual
concepts are expressions for the immanence of God, while mysticism (e.g.,
wordless darkness, negation) expresses His transcendence, for symbols are
meant to indicate a God who remains totally other, while the negations of
mysticism are used to express the union with God as he is.1 This “tension
between apophatic and cataphatic pervades symbolic theology,” for this theology
treats of the God who “is all in all and at the same time nothing of any of them”
and of man who is “spiritual (indivisible) and corporeal (divisible).” The symbol
must speak to these two levels in man, and it is the “greatness and tragedy of
man, to comprehend both [the inner, simple vision and the outer, pluriform]
without bringing them into a final synthesis.” Man needs both to contemplate a
world of images and “relentlessly to transform all images into the image-less.”2
Thus, the symbol remains both “necessary” and yet “incapable.” But that
certainly does not mean that it must be destroyed in what must eventually be a
Promethean overcoming or a surmounting (Überstieg).
Dionysius is accused by some of being a parricide for having used Platonic
tools against Platonists.3 But what so endears him to Balthasar is precisely that
he took the best of the Platonic tradition and put it to the use of the Christian,
seen most clearly in the theology of St. Thomas. Noting that even in his own
lifetime Dionysius’ heavy use of the pagan forms of thought was ridiculed,
Balthasar observes that Evagrius defended himself by saying that indeed the
Greeks had used divine things in a non-divine way: the problem lay with the
correct use. Balthasar notes that the problem really emerged with the Gnosticism
and Neo-Platonism of the Christian era in which Greek philosophy came to
represent “the misuses of genuine religious thought for purposes of Promethean
speculation.” Dionysius “does not want to ‘borrow’ but to return what has been
borrowed to its rightful owner.”4
In Dionysius we have been exposed to what is called the via eminentiæ,
often echoed favorably by Balthasar in the phrase Deus semper major. As he
writes of Dionysius, it means that God is always elevated above all principles in
which He is participated, and thus is always seen as “above” (über). By grace,
creatures can participate in God through divinization—but in so doing, they
participate in that which is incapable of being participated (Unteilnehmbare)—
for were it not, then it would not be God in which they participated.1
The distinction between “God as He is in Himself” and “God manifested
toward creatures” is the source of much concern for Balthasar. If Dionysius, with
his hierarchy, his thoroughgoing negative theology at the service of a God to
whom it points hit the right balance, we turn to a Greek theologian who is much
more problematic for Balthasar, to Gregory Palamas.
We see, then, that the distinction between essence and energies for which
Palamas is famous is one way of dealing with the problem of the unknowability
and knowability of God. Lossky holds that only with the doctrine of energies can
“mystical experience” be understood to take place. This echoes the problem we
have considered in Dionysius of how Dionysius’ anthropology is great precisely
in that it recognizes no final synthesis, but relying on symbols maintains the
tension in God and man, and between them.3
Lossky goes on to describe the foes of Palamas as:
[E]astern theologians who had been strongly influenced by Aristotelianism (in particular the
Calabrian monk Barlaam who had received his theological training in Italy, and Akindynus,
who quotes the Greek translation of the Summa Theologica)—saw in the real distinction
between the essence and the energies a derogation of the simplicity of God, and accused
Palamas of ditheism and polytheism. Having become alienated from the apophatic and
antinomical spirit of eastern theology, they set up against it a conception of God which saw
Him, primarily at any rate, as a simple essence, in which even the hypostases assumed the
character of relations within the essence.1
Holiness comes from the imitation of Christ, from the evangelical loss of all that
is not Christ—including creatures—in order to be a genuine witness “to the
bridal love between Christ and the Church, and God and world in the Cross.
Poetry then becomes the cry of the vivisected soul in the middle of the night,
only to end in a song of praise of the soul still deeper, still more alive, scorched
in the fire of glory.”1
Balthasar concludes that it is precisely as poet that John is more doctor of
the Church than as writer of prose,2 his prose works being in John’s own
judgment primarily “commentary to his poems.” Thus, as poet John of the Cross
indicates the unique character of the Word of God that is neither “simple prose
nor can be adequately translated into it” but rather possesses a simplicity in
which “the fullness of divinity dwells in person (leibhaftig) as the meaning does
in an inexhaustible symbol.”3
In contradistinction to Evagrius (and to Eckhart), we find that John of the
Cross is no radicalizer. He insists on the nada and yet, as Balthasar indicates, he
is a poet who loves, and yet who will see everything only in God. He is not a
literalist offering a technique of ascent to God, but a lover, who wants nothing
less than the Beloved, and anything else in the Beloved alone. If the language of
John of the Cross is not the dialectics of the Reformers nor the prose of theology,
how much less is it the “empty speculation” of philosophical ways. It is the
language of poetry which transcends the dichotomies of prose and silence, of
cataphatic and apophatic theology—not thereby discovering some trite “third
way” which resolves the first too. But persevering in the first, the way of
affirmation, and in the second, the way of negation, John of the Cross breaks
through to the word of poetry, the most adequate way to treat of the Word of
God. His Faith in the manifestation of God Incarnate leads him into the dark
night and the mysteries it reveals: the Incarnate God is never abandoned in favor
of a “higher knowledge.” The means to union for John of the Cross is “purity of
spirit in dark faith.”4
Conclusion
In this chapter, we have been following the thread of negative
philosophy/theology as it leads from its most extreme—and purest—expression
in Zen Buddhism through sketches of six representative figures in the Christian
tradition. The “negative way” is the way par excellence of natural man. As we
saw, Balthasar speculates that it arises among the sophisticated members of a
society when the gods—or incarnations of virtues—pale, revealing a darkling
void behind. The search for “purity” in Neo-Platonism or in Buddhism results in
a scheme of ascent, a ladder, in which one becomes purified of all concepts,
images, forms, ascending to the One. This acid purification is raised to its
highest power in Zen Buddhism, where the negation is so total that the Void
consumes all (even itself): correctly viewed, things are seen as empty, as
revealed in Oriental art. But this is an emptiness that Balthasar cannot accept.
According to him, the via negativa must ultimately destroy all that is other than
the One, as the “other” is either illusion or inferior being.1 Zen, of course,
destroys the One as well.
For Balthasar, the only way out of this dilemma of annihilation which
threatens is through revelation. Without revelation, the negative way becomes
devoid of meaning, leading to atheism or agnosticism, or else to a mysticism of
identity: the “other” is destroyed.2 It is revelation that shows man that God is
that “other” and that God’s love allows man to remain an other.3 Put differently,
man intuitively knows of Being, but he knows it only in individual beings.
Should he try to “ascend,” he runs the danger of disappearing in “the Void,” and
of losing both his own being and Being. He is in need of revelation to show him
the right relation, something he cannot attain on his own.4
So we entered the world of early Christianity, in the desert of Egypt. In
practice, Evagrius continues the ancient mystical purification in his teaching,
combining it with Origenistic doctrine. In his teaching then, particulars
disappear, are demonic intrusions in the contemplation. Evagrius is the perfect
example, for Balthasar, of one who does not incorporate the revelation, and is
rather a natural philosopher, one on the Buddhist wavelength.
Dionysius, as we saw, receives far more favorable treatment. He is able to
retain a hierarchical scheme, and yet it is centered on a God whose light
penetrates the entire vision, not requiring the surrender of particular beings,
allowing a balanced, harmonious cosmos to exist. The way of purification
(mysticism)—the negative way, is correctly balanced with the appreciation of
symbolic reality.
Gregory Palamas represents a late reversion within the tradition of
Christian revelation to an earlier form, a byway. Insisting too much on the
incomprehensibility of God, that which is “accessible,” the uncreated energies, is
reduced to a possible collection of “principalities and powers,” hearkening back
to cabalistic Judaism. The Trinity becomes as the light side of the moon, the dark
side tends to become a Void without number, while the Trinity opens up to
possibly false hypostatisation. As with Evagrius, Palamas exaggerates a
tendency in theology. In his case, it is the Greek emphasis on the divine
simplicity which is exaggerated.
Turning West, we encountered St. Augustine. In a brief sketch, it became
clear that although he brought into Christian theology the Neo-Platonic scheme
of ascent, he was yet caught by a childlike love of God, seen in his emphasis on
humility (against any Promethean ascents) and on the Cross. And so speech is
not only possible for Augustine, but natural—but it is the cry of wonder, of
adoration that bursts naturally from the creature’s lips.
Meister Eckhart represented a reversion, once again, to the pre-Christian.
His too-thorough negation leads to a destruction of the incarnate being, placing
the individual’s reality in God’s idea of him, resulting in a cold spirituality which
seeks to evade suffering by rising above it, to the passionless godhead.
Moreover, the Trinity too can disappear in a Void which would allow a Blessed
Infinity. The right balance is lost, if at times verbally retained. As we saw,
Eckhart is contrasted with Tauler, who insisted that when he looked into his own
ground, he saw the Passion of Christ. The imitation, the following, of Christ here
becomes the central—and simple—way to God.
Finally, in John of the Cross we saw the tremendous tension of a man of
negative theology par excellence—on a par with Evagrius—who yet was able to
keep it so in tension with his positive theology that a true Christian vision
emerged. The fact that John of the Cross insisted on the humanity of Christ—“all
the way”—and that this centered on the Cross leads us to see the importance of
this for Balthasar in any adequate way to God. John is a poet, an artist: the poetic
word transcends the prose of the philosophers and the silence of the mystics.
What does this mean in terms of Balthasar’s assessment of negative theology?
We have been seeing that Balthasar rejects extremes. Thus, in mystical
theology, one could say that God is light. One could also say that God is not light
(darkness)—and this would be closer to the truth. Closest would be to say that
God is too much light, “much too much light.”1 Negative theology surpasses the
gropings of positive theology, but both are surpassed in the “revelation of grace”
in which the emphasis now falls on a “positive incomprehensibility of God.”2
This will be reflected in the relation of word and silence as well, as we shall be
seeing.
Behind Balthasar’s implied criticism of the mysticism of the
“sophisticated” lies his belief that in humanity there is an innate idea of God. If
one ignores this as the sophisticated tend to do, then, rejecting simple humanity’s
inadequate attempts at constructing images of this God, one reaches the point
where all becomes nothingness and void. All the ascetical purification would
lead only to this nothingness, rendering any talk of a via eminentiæ foolish
chatter. But this is not the last word: that is offered in the “Biblical formula”
where there is a “primordial affirmation in which lies the certainty that that
which is sought is ‘over and above’ (via eminentiæ).” Assured of this, and “only
thus one undertakes the task of negating all that is limited, definable, non-divine
(via negativa), in order to strive toward the One Sought without getting lost
(unbeirrt).”3 That is, for the Biblical man, the turn to the via negativa has a
fundamentally different spirit than that of the natural man. For the natural man,
pushed to its final conclusion the via negativa leads to the voiding of all
(sunyata). For the Biblical man, the first word is that God is Creator: and so, all
other things fall into place in light of that Being. That is, one can ascend through
the hierarchies of created being by a way of negation which is yet not
destruction, as one knows by intuition that God is, and by revelation that He is
Creator, thus, that His creation exists and can exist as well, and yet that His
creation is not God.
The ultimate in negative theology is the Cross: “the Cross is the truth of
natural negative theology, but only because it is at the same time much more
than that.”1 That is to say, according to Balthasar there is no mystic of the
negative way who experienced a more profound loss of world and God than the
Crucified Christ, nor is there any “ascent” from the world to God, from
“appearance into existence” greater than Christ’s: but Christ’s death “was no
rejection of the creature in order to gain God, but rather a rejection by God of all
in the world that was not in conformity with God’s will and godly.”2
Thus we come to the via eminentiæ, that which traditionally is seen as
incorporating the phrase “God is always greater” (Deus semper major).3 This is
what the negative way was leading to, the “‘bright darkness’ of divine Glory”: it
is not the “unapproachable remainder behind the appearance of God in Christ.”4
Balthasar enthusiastically cites Romano Guardini in this connection. Guardini
proposed that beyond nature and grace there is a third realm, that of “the depths
of nature that first become visible when they are struck with the light of grace.”5
This echoes what we had said above about man’s innate knowledge of God, and
so Balthasar concludes that underneath all attempts of human thought, such as
“proofs” of God’s existence, there is a “primal statement” (Grundaussage), an
“underlying fact of man” that “consists in an “affirmation of God.” This
affirmation “both demands as well as overcomes all the consequently possible,
indeed necessary negations, because that which it affirms is also already existing
above it (as eminence).”1
Thus the via eminentiæ is already present to the man who follows
revelation, for the last word is positive. The first word, the groping after God
through the things of sense, is positive as well, but it is in need of purification—
of that negation that Balthasar himself admits is not only possible, but “indeed
necessary.” To stop at that negation, however, to let it lead one away from the
basic intuition of the existence of God is to court shipwreck, as we have seen.
Whereas the non-Christian can find—become enlightened, experience ecstasy,
and so his search can come to an end—the Christian is found by God, and so His
search is only beginning.2 We shall turn to this in our next chapter, when we
explore God’s Word spoken to man.
To conclude here, the true movement in negative theology is from the non-
word (Unwort) that especially characterizes Zen to the super-word (Überwort)
that characterizes the Christian revelation, the via eminentiæ. In the end:
The act of making space for God through a ceaseless giving away of all one has, the sume et
suscipe of Ignatius Loyola, is in the end the highest affirmation of the self-donating love of
God in the “Superword” (Überwort) of His Son, a word man attempts to answer through a
“Superword” which is given him as gift. Here “negative theology” ultimately becomes the
place of perfect encounter, not in a dialogical equivalence, but rather in the transformation of
the entire creature into an ecce ancilla for the mystery which fulfills the creature, the
mystery of the incomprehensible love of that God who is pouring Himself out.3
Having seen the various paths which men have taken on the road of negation, we
turn more fully to the way of Christian revelation, where, as Balthasar maintains:
“In God speech and silence are one.”4
1. HSG, p. 148.
2. CSEF, p. 15.
1. Ibid., pp. 14–15.
1. UA, p. 90, footnote 16.
2. TLWG, pp. 83–4.
3. CSEF, pp. 16–7.
1. Ibid., p. 18.
2. BG, p. 139.
3. Ibid., p. 46.
4. Ibid., p. 227.
1. HFSL, p. 441.
2. TLWG, p. 84.
3. HRMA, p. 113.
4. Ibid., pp. 355–6.
5. S5 p. 256.
1. HRMN, p. 830.
2. Ibid., p. 881.
3. TLWG, p. 92, inter al.
4. S4, p. 326.
5. S5, p. 255.
1. TLGW, p. 26.
2. TLWG, p. 88.
3. Ibid.
4. Ibid., pp. 100–1.
1. The well-known adage from the Tao Te Ching, “he who speaks does not know, he who knows
does not speak,” attests to this.
2. EPIL, p. 8.
1. The dominating influence of the German philosophical tradition in leading Japanese Zen circles
has skewed the understanding of the West by those Japanese and has led to a certain slant in presentation of
Japanese thought to the West as well. This was emphasized to me in a conversation with American scholar
of Asian religions Dr. Huston Smith in the summer of 1989. It might be observed that what an earlier
generation of ex-Christians found in the “atheism” of Theravada Buddhism, contemporaries, formed in a
worldview rooted in German idealism, have found in the Zen tradition.
2. TLWG, p. 84.
3. S4, pp. 64–5.
4. EPIL, p. 18.
1. TLGW, p. 403.
2. EPIL, p. 47.
1. TDPR, p. 523.
2. TLWG, p. 86.
3. Ibid.
4. E.g., CM, p. 20, inter al.
5. GIMF, p. 52.
6. TLWW, p. 280.
7. HSG, pp. 227–8.
1. Ibid., pp. 17–18.
2. HFSK, p. 58.
3. Ibid.
4. This recalls the teaching of the famous Prajnaparamita-Hridaya Sutra, favorite of the Zen
tradition: “form is emptiness, emptiness is form.”
5. Kaji (sic) Nishitani, Was ist Religion? (Frankfurt: Insel, 1982), pp. 133–5, as cited in TLWG, p.
85.
6. Ibid.
1. Karl Rahner, “Die geistliche Lehre des Evagrius Pontikus,” Zeitschrift für Aszese und Mystik
(Innsbruck, 1933), p. 22.
2. Hans Urs von Balthasar, “Metaphysik und Mystik des Evagrius Ponticus”, Zeitschrift für Aszese
und Mystik (Innsbruck, 1939), p. 40.
3. HSG, pp. 529–530.
4. Ibid., p. 303.
5. Balthasar, “Metaphysik und Mystik des Evagrius Ponticus,” p. 32.
6. HFSL, p. 519.
1. Balthasar, “Metaphysik und Mystik,” p. 33.
2. The Philokalia, compiled by St. Nikodimos of the Holy Mountain and St. Makarios of Corinth, tr.
and ed. G.E.H. Palmer, Philip Sherrard, Kallistos Ware (London: Faber & Faber, 1979), p. 29.
3. Balthasar, “Metaphysik und Mystik des Evagrius Ponticus,” p. 34.
4. Ibid., p. 47.
1. S2, p. 133.
2. Balthasar, “Metaphysik und Mystik,” p. 36.
3. Ibid., p. 37.
1. Ibid.
2. Ibid., p. 38.
3. S4, p. 309.
4. Ibid.
5. HSG, p. 257.
6. Ibid.
1. Balthasar, “Metaphysik und Mystik,” p. 40.
2. HSG, p. 302. Emphasis added.
3. HSG, pp. 303–4.
1. HSG, p. 117.
2. HFSK, p. 153.
1. Ibid., p. 150.
2. Ibid., p. 147.
3. Ibid., p. 150.
4. Ibid.
1. Ibid., p. 157.
2. Ibid., p. 167. The notion of the “real” (das Wirkliche) will occupy our attention in the next
chapter.
3. HSG, p. 117.
4. HFSK, p. 182.
1. TLWG, p. 94.
2. Ibid., p. 95, inter al.
3. HFSK, pp. 209–10.
4. Ibid.
5. S2, p. 76ff.
1. HSG, p. 117.
2. HFSK, p. 151.
1. Ibid., p. 169.
2. TLWG, p. 102.
1. HFSK, pp. 176–7.
2. Ibid., p. 177.
3. Ibid., pp. 177–8.
4. HSG, p. 115.
1. HFSK, p. 182.
2. Ibid.
3. Ibid., p. 152.
4. Ibid., pp. 211–2.
1. Ibid., p. 191.
2. UA, pp. 33–36.
3. A Monk of the Eastern Church, Orthodox Spirituality (Crestwood, NY: St. Vladimir’s Seminary
Press, 1978), p. 19.
4. Ibid.
1. Vladimir Lossky, Mystical Theology of the Eastern Church (Greenwood, SC: The Attic Press,
Inc., n.d.), p. 86.
2. Ibid.
3. HFSK, p. 182.
1. Ibid., pp. 76–77.
2. HSG, p. 273.
1. HTAB, p. 52.
2. Ibid.
3. TLWG, p. 63.
4. Orthodox Spirituality, p. 21.
1. TDPM, pp. 11–12.
2. S4, p. 193.
3. TDES, p. 373.
4. TDPM, p. 175.
1. HTNB, pp. 252–3.
2. TLWG, pp. 137–8.
3. Ibid., p. 137.
1. Ibid., p. 138.
2. Ibid.
3. HTNB, p. 16.
4. S4, p. 315.
1. TLWG, pp. 101–2.
2. HFSK, p. 103.
3. HSG, p. 303.
1. Ibid., pp. 303–4.
2. Ibid., p. 304.
3. GIMF, pp. 35–6.
1. TDPM, p. 211.
2. GIMF, p. 37.
3. Ibid., p. 36.
4. S5, p. 22. Balthasar cautions against a facile opposition between earthly eros and divine agape,
something with which Anders Nygren began but which Balthasar feels he overcame. We shall return to the
eros/agape issue in Chapter IV.
5. GIMF, pp. 13–14.
6. TDHA, p. 107.
1. S5, p. 279.
2. CM, p. 86.
3. GIMF, pp. 39–40.
4. HRMA, p. 265.
5. TLWG, p. 95.
6. TDPR, p. 461.
7. Ibid.
1. HFSK, pp. 107–8.
2. Ibid., p. 125.
3. TLGW, pp. 241–2.
4. S2, p. 133.
5. TLWG, p. 102.
1. S1, p. 143.
2. TLWG, p. 101, footnote 13.
3. Ibid., p. 102.
4. TDPR, p. 522.
5. TLWG, p. 102.
6. TDPR, p. 523.
7. Ibid.
1. Ibid., p. 522.
2. Ibid., p. 523.
3. Ibid., p. 520.
1. Ibid., p. 521.
2. TLGW, p. 404.
3. TLWG, pp. 137–8.
1. WZGM, p. 102.
2. Ibid., p. 119.
3. Ibid., p. 122.
4. Ibid.
5. Ibid., p. 121.
6. Ibid. pp. 121–2.
1. Ibid., p. 129.
2. Ibid., p. 128.
3. TDES, p. 400.
4. WZGM, p. 128.
5. Ibid.
6. Ibid., pp. 126–7.
7. Ibid., p. 121.
8. Ibid., p. 122.
1. Ibid., p. 123.
2. Ibid., p. 125.
3. Ibid., p. 129.
4. Ibid., p. 126.
5. Ibid. p. 132. Interestingly, in his treatment of Eckhart, Balthasar often refers to the “morning
cognition.” The origin of the phrase, it would seem, lies in the “Augustinian cognitio matutina as intuition
of things in the Essence of God” (TDPR, p. 519, footnote 35).
6. Ibid.
7. Ibid., p. 133.
1. WZGM, p. 140.
2. TDES, p. 409.
3. TLWG, pp. 111–2.
1. Ibid.
2. S4, p. 317.
3. HFSL, p. 490.
1. Ibid., pp. 490–1.
2. Ibid., p. 527.
3. HSG, p. 303.
4. St. John of the Cross, The Ascent of Mt. Carmel, in The Collected Works of St. John of the Cross,
tr. Kieran Kavanaugh, O.C.D., and Otilio Rodriguez, O.C.D. (Washington, DC: ICS Publications, 1973), p.
159.
1. HFSL, pp. 491–2.
2. Ibid., p. 487. Emphasis in the original.
3. Ibid., p. 492.
4. Ibid., p. 495.
5. Ibid., p. 493.
1. Ibid.
2. As St. Ignatius Loyola makes his first appearance in our work on Balthasar in a critical light, in
simple justice one must hasten to observe that it would be impossible to find a more admiring and faithful
son of St. Ignatius than Hans Urs von Balthasar. It is a tribute to Balthasar’s freedom that his utter loving
dedication to the charism of St. Ignatius could see and remark the rare inadequacy.
3. TLWG, pp. 101–2.
4. HFSL, pp. 511–3.
1. HRMN, p. 443.
2. Ibid., pp. 443–4.
3. HFSL, p. 519.
4. Ibid.
5. Ibid., p. 520.
6. Ibid., p. 527.
7. Ibid.
8. Ibid., p. 528.
1. Ibid., p. 504.
2. S4, p. 78.
3. Ibid., p. 77.
4. HSG, p. 117.
1. HFSL, pp. 508–9.
2. Ibid., p. 504.
3. Ibid., p. 520.
1. Ibid., p. 523.
2. Ibid., p. 480.
3. Ibid., p. 525.
4. Ibid.
5. Ibid., p. 476.
6. Ibid., p. 486, italics mine.
1. Ibid.
2. Ibid., p. 530.
3. Ibid., p. 531.
4. St. John of the Cross, p. 169.
1. TLWG, p. 111.
2. GINL, pp. 37–8.
3. Ibid.
4. S5, p. 254.
1. S1, p. 190.
2. S3, p. 38.
3. TLWG, p. 90.
1. BG, p. 237.
2. Ibid., p. 47.
3. In any talk of the ways, we must recall that for Balthasar there is only one way: the One Who
called Himself the Way, Jesus Christ. And so no “way” other than the Person of Christ is the way. However,
the via eminentiæ clearly comes closest to the spirit of Christianity in Balthasar’s view and thus it represents
a “preferred way” of describing the approach to truth.
4. HFSK, p. 9.
5. TLWG, p. 88.
1. Ibid., pp. 88–9.
2. Ibid., p. 88.
3. Ibid., p. 113.
4. Ibid., p. 106.
III
Einmaligkeit: The Unique Word Spoken from
the Fullness of the Father
Introduction
“Y ou’ve heard the bad news,” the common saying goes, “the good news
is. . . .” The “bad news” for humanity, limited to what St. Ignatius of
Antioch calls the “first speech” of God, creation, is that in order to satisfy the
longing of his heart for the infinite, man will have to negate the finite. It is bad
news because the fulfilment of the relative being, the reaching the goal for which
he seeks with his deepest desire, means necessarily the destruction of that
relative being by and for the Absolute. As we have seen, this extends beyond the
world of non-Biblical religion to include even Judaism and Islam, where the
individual is sacrificed for the People or the Umma, and where there is a gulf
fixed between God and man, which orthodoxy maintains but which mysticism
would seek to overcome—at the price, however, of a mysticism of identity in
which the individual subject disappears. The good news, from the point of view
of natural mysticism, would be that there is a way out of the choking thicket of
relativities, a way to the cool spaces of infinity beyond the crowded constraints
of limitedness. But again, the price is the loss of the world.
We saw as well that Balthasar continues his search through the ways in
which this hunger for God has manifested itself in Christianity. The natural
religious philosophy of humanity as it has found its way into the Christian
tradition is what is called the via negativa. It is based on the natural assumption
that stripping oneself of all things earthly, of concepts and images and finally of
one’s self, one will attain the heavenly. Thus, emptiness becomes the great
symbol for what is, humanly speaking, desirable: the Void becomes the goal in
Asian religion, in John of the Cross we hear the refrain of “Nada, nada.”
Balthasar has a different sense of what is good and bad news. The bad
news, according to him, is that all traditional religion is ultimately trying to
escape the inescapable facts of guilt and of death, and that however
imaginatively man tries to do this, in the end, death, at least, is ineluctable.
Somewhat in the manner of a prophet in the Old Testament who seeks to clear
the divine world of deities competing with the living God—what Balthasar
himself calls “Biblical negative theology”—Balthasar basically attacks the
attempts of man to scale spiritual heights (aufsteigen) as illusory hubris. It is
pardonable and understandable given the condition of fallen humanity, but it is
not the truth. The good news (das Evangelium) is that the truth is far simpler
than any of the schemes devised by the human mind: indeed, the simpler the
human mind the closer it comes to the truth. Myth is preferred to philosophy, the
more primitive states of Grecian culture—Homer—are far more likely to lead to
the truth than the sophisticated Neo-Platonic tradition. The good news for
Balthasar is the Evangelium of a God who speaks, a Trinitarian God of three
persons, who wants to share His Being, who wants to engage in dialogue with
others, with free beings, and who will culminate His speech in a Word which
becomes flesh and in a Spirit which gathers together all the scattered syllables of
creation to return them to the divine speech.
We turn, then, in this chapter to Balthasar’s positive vision of some key
elements of what is distinctively Christian, centering on the notion of “word.”
We will attempt this in three sections. The first will reflect on aspects of the
being of God and God’s relation to man. The second will focus on the speech
and the silence of God and of God made man. The third will explore some of the
uniqueness of this revelation. To make any claim to exhaustively present
Balthasar’s teaching on the uniqueness of Christianity would suffer from the
same hubris he so laments in humanity. Rather, with our center in the theme of
word and silence, we shall try to touch on some of the most important elements
in the unique mystery that Balthasar so rhapsodizes.
Here we see a clear instance of the via eminentiæ so beloved by Balthasar, the
excess of God’s greatness illustrating one of his favorite maxims: Deus semper
major. The best of the pagans yearned for fullness: Platonic eros strives
ceaselessly for fullness. But it is the Christian life, the life of grace, faith and
love, that lives a life “out of the fullness,” overwhelmed beyond both need and
hope by the copious bounty (Füllhorn) of eternal life.2
In contrast with India, whose ascetical exercises lead to an “empty
identity,” the Christian, with his gift of the spiritual marriage between Creator
and creature (which we shall address in our next chapter) is led to an “identity of
fullness, in which all limited being is transformed.”3
Finally, in the modern world, Nietzsche taught that God was dead; Bloch
added that it was Jesus who killed Him. But God is not dead, and because of His
“I am” claims, Jesus has fully identified Himself with God concentrating on
Himself all the diffuse claims of humanity’s religions, a vague religious horizon
that has finally thus cleared and revealed that the only alternative to God left for
modern man—and this most interesting to our investigation—is the great Void
(die grosse Leere).4
Fullness for the Christian then is one of Trinitarian love, and one which is
emphatically personal: it finds its center and focus in the mission of the Son of
God into the world:
This fullness of Trinitarian life is not experienced in a worldless solitude as is the Satori
ideal of the Orient or the ecstatic experience of the One for Plotinus. Rather, it is experienced
in that which is at the same time immanent to God and, in the Incarnation of God to the
world, transcendent: that form which is called “mission.” And this fullness is integrated
directly in the community not only of the Church but of humanity as a whole and of every
creature which is to be called home to its Maker. . . . The love which descends in the mission
from God and which has already been integrated into the world in the work of Christ should
be the decisive fact that allows one to designate as a person in a specifically Christian sense
that subject who has become by grace a sharer in absolute love, who has shared in its death
and resurrection and who has truly become selfless in this love.1
Returning to what we had seen at the beginning of this section of how the
uttering of earthly words from the fullness of Being is analogous to the
procession of the Word in the Blessed Trinity, we proceed here to see that the
fullness of Trinitarian life leads to a life of man on earth which finds its focus in
the mission (Sendung) in which man participates in the Incarnation of the Son,
and in which man finds his personhood. We will be returning to this shortly.
Here, it is vital to see that the source of this fullness is the Blessed Trinity and
that the life within the Trinity will be mirrored in creation.
As we have earlier seen in our treatment of the Gnostics, Balthasar waged
a relentless battle against those who would posit a “God beyond God,” a
godhead (Eckhart) or an Absolute who is greater than the God who can fully
reveal Himself. The Blessed Trinity has the fullness beyond which there is no
emptiness: hence, Balthasar commonly uses the phrase “the fullness of
Trinitarian life.” He strives mightily to portray this overflowing abundance as
characteristic of God and His Being. This is certainly illustrated in his fondness
for the Baroque as a style in architecture and in music, a fondness which leads
him to describe the work of Mozart as virtually divine music.2
The God of the Bible is a living God: His liveliness (Lebendigkeit) is in
contrast to the fixed nature of the Absolute. He is so alive that He is the
primordial image (Urbild) of all that is of becoming on earth, without Himself
becoming: rather, His aliveness is one of Being, but a fullness of being so great
that it is seen in creation as becoming.1
It cannot be emphasized enough that this God is personal. Although
Balthasar is aware of interpersonal elements in primitive religions, he maintains
that they were initial insights that were always soon overwhelmed by the
impersonal:
[T]he spiritual high points of religions are almost always impersonal, and the idea of the
transmigration of souls, spread worldwide and in places universally held, shows how
underdeveloped the sense of true personality remained. . . . Personality, lifted from plain
human subjectivity (Geistsubjektivität) first appears thematically both with and from within
Christology: there where an expressive word of mission guarantees man his qualitative
uniqueness because it bestows it upon him.2
B. Dialogue: I-Thou
The meeting of the I and the Thou is at the heart of Balthasar’s theology, for it is
at the heart of being human—and divine. Indeed, the human comes to self-
consciousness itself first by being addressed by another.1
It is the absence of this dialogical quality that also lies at the heart of
Balthasar’s critique of other systems. He insists that neither ancient philosophy
nor the Christian philosophy built on it has taken the I-Thou relation seriously
enough2 and faults all attempts at Christian metaphysics—including St. Thomas
—for leaving out the “Thou”3: indeed, it is a source of ongoing astonishment to
him that until very recently, interpersonal human relations were not an integral
part of the study of philosophy. This is, moreover, a further instance of his
passionate concern for the unique individual whose existence is created by such
interpersonal meetings and, conversely, is threatened when interpersonal
relations are attacked as they are today by various manifestations of “mass
man.”4 In a word, “man, this image of the Logos, is from ground up dialogically
created; every monological self-explanation must destroy him.”5 That dialogue
penetrates to the very core of the individual is corroborated by Fr. Copleston,
who points out that no metaphysician can maintain the philosophy of the One
and still speak: the only alternative to discursive thought is silence.6
Balthasar rehearses the various philosophical attempts to deal with
personhood, the unique personhood that he is urging. In Neo-Platonism,the
encounter of the alone with the Alone confirms one’s uniqueness but at the price
of one’s individual selfhood.7 Once again, this tendency is seen as continuing in
Hegel and the idealists as well: they let the “empirical-personal I be dissolved in
the ‘essential’ and ‘ideal.’”1 This requires for Hegel so great a stripping of the
particular personality clinging to itself that Balthasar calls it the “most
demanding self-overcoming known to ascetical literature.”2
Asian religion does not fare better as far as the interpersonal goes. In
Begegnung der Religionen, published by Johannes Verlag, Jacques Cuttat, who
greatly influenced Balthasar, writes that although Buddhism would seem to
encourage love of neighbor, there is no neighbor as the Christian understands it:
“two equally real individuals, both created in the image of God.”3 Instead, there
are two “aggregates” who are both “‘pain-filled, impermanent, transitory’
according to the classical formulas.”4 Hence, the Buddhist knows only a
compassion which is then extended to all beings. Cuttat goes on to criticize
Gautama for not knowing a “burning love” but rather a “passionless spiritual
clarity” which rather than embracing the neighbor, “embraced all living beings,
in order to embrace himself in all, under the masks of the neighbor.”5 The danger
of such an ultimate embrace of self haunts Balthasar as well in his reflections on
Buddhism.
Again, myth does better than philosophy and mystical religion, for all myth
is essentially dialogical,6 and as such is the foundation of all art. This
harmonizes well with Balthasar’s observation that the self-expression of spirit is
always a dialogue with other souls, and the truth first comes to light in this
super-subjective dialogue.7 Furthermore, mythical thinking is grounded in
particularity, which Balthasar habitually contrasts with Gnosis which raises
essentially universal claims.8
The uniquely named partner to the unique God is first discovered, indeed,
is first possible, in the dramatic tension that is offered by the Bible.1 Balthasar
insists that to arrive at the uniquely personal, we need the vertical dimension of
biblical revelation: it is God’s calling the individual by name that gives each one
his unique worth. No longer is one just an individual of a species. This is a first
in the history of human thought, which left to its own devices, at its highest
reaches in Idealist philosophy, produced a mathematics, a Platonism which is
what has ultimately destroyed the West’s faith in Christianity.2 To be a person
means that one cannot be merely numbered as a member of a species, for each
person is a “world unto himself.” As he beautifully puts it, to know what it
means to be a person, one must know a face, know someone’s fate.3 Other
religions seek a cosmic way to God: the Christians seek the way in the
neighbor.4
In a Biblical anthropology, dialogue—the Zwischenwort—is first possible
in this world where bodies confront each other.5 This Johannine understanding is
seen incarnate in that most basic of human relations, that between mother and
child. Perhaps the most commonly encountered image in Balthasar’s corpus is
that of the mother, calling her child to I-consciousness by a smile, a “spiritual
expression” as he calls it. The child first becomes aware of itself as a “Thou.”
Man, for Balthasar, is a “Thou” who learns to say “I”6: he can “only become an
‘I’ as one awakened by the love of a ‘Thou.’”7 Because one is first a “Thou” and
learns to be an “I” from the “Thou,” the “Thou” is always “older” than the “I,”
thus being prior within the “I” and opening the individual to the many relations
of “we.”8
In the relation of God and man, it is the unlimited “I” of God that calls the
limited “I” of man into existence, and this in His Word9: “To be man means to be
addressed by God in the word and to be so created in the image of God, that one
can receive the word and answer the word.”1 In contradistinction to compassion
for fellow suffering beings, it is the way of relation between the unique God and
his uniquely addressed creature.2
God relates to man as a “Thou” speaking to an “I”: but He is not simply a
“Thou” among others. He is in the “I” (even as the “I” of the mother is the
primordial “Thou” for the human child) but He is also above it. Thus, He is the
deepest grounding of the “I,” “more inner to me than I am to myself” in
Augustine’s classical phrase favored by Balthasar.3 The relation is so profound
that “my I is the Thou of God.”4 That God is love we have already seen in our
glance at the Trinity. Balthasar naturally proceeds to the conclusion that the I-
Thou of the Trinity finds its “epiphany” in the I-Thou between God and man.5
And it must be underlined that it is the Trinity—most particularly the Spirit, the
Spirit of love—that is guarantee against the dissolution of human individuals.6
Each unique human being is a “Thou” created and addressed by God, and
so should pass from egoism to a disinterested love of God, others and self.7 To
love the other is not merely to love someone who happens to share the same
nature as one has, a fellow member of the same species (as Balthasar notes the
Stoics and Spinozists would do): rather, it is to love another who is addressed
individually and uniquely by God “in what is most individual to him.”8
It is the individual nature of the call which most distinguishes the Christian
from the Jewish vision of the relation of God and man. Balthasar obviously
draws very heavily from the inspiration of Jewish thinkers, most notably Martin
Buber, throughout his discussion of the I-Thou. But Balthasar observes that the
I-Thou relation in the Old Testament tended to be between God and His People:
although he also notes that the call to Abraham was individual, it was yet
oriented toward a people. The Christian call is unique in being individually
addressed. We have already encountered the notion of mission (Sendung). It is
this individual encounter with God that is unique to the Christian understanding:
“the human spiritual subject becomes a person in the Christian, and
christological sense, only in a face to face (Aug in Auge) meeting with the
uniqueness of God.”1 Christ Himself is the “person par excellence” because in
Him, consciousness and mission are identified.2 God wants us, in Christ, to be
persons who express God’s unique idea of us.3 This is again seen in the task that
God has for us as His dialogue partners, a task which continues after our earthly
life and which is nothing less than the actual kernel of personality.4 For
Balthasar, Jesus Christ addresses each human being (Geistsubjekt) individually:
each must decide if he will bear the Name of Christ and accept the unique
mission that God has for each, within the mission of His Son.5 It is only by
identifying with this mission that we become persons in the deepest, theological
sense.6 And “person” for Balthasar is the unique (das Einmalige).7
Key to all this, of course, is the existence of the dialogue. So essential is
dialogue to being a human being that it is the sphere in which we are placed:
outside of dialogue, there is only monologue which is the sphere of sin.8
It is clear that in the personal identity of each member of the Trinity —“the Son
who never becomes Father, the Spirit who never becomes either Son or
Father”—an eternal dignity is bestowed upon individual being which is not to be
dissolved. To dissolve the individual would be to remove the very possibility of
love. Thus, the Other is found in God’s very essence.
Anticipating our imminent discussion of the Incarnation, we see that the
otherness is ultimately guaranteed for man by the Incarnation, by what is
implicit in the New Testament and what has been explicitly stated in the
Councils from Nicea to Chalcedon: that the dignity of man is lifted up into the
divine life itself on the Cross, without man’s created being having to dissolve in
God.2 Thus, “salvation is not being freed from limitedness, but rather the taking
up of the limited (and thus of the Other) into the endless, that, in order to be the
life of love, must have the Other both as such (Word/Son) and as united with the
One (Spirit) in itself.”3
It must be mentioned, if only in passing, that this whole issue of distance is
intimately related to that central theme of Balthasar’s vision, analogy. The whole
scheme of salvation opposes to cosmic identity the presuppositions of “the
analogy of God-world, the freedom of divine mission, and the Trinity in God.”4
Without the analogy proper to him, man is destroyed: his natural desire for God
pulls him out of the world, draws him to deny/destroy the world in his desire for
God, and so, he loses his created place as a creature with a God-given distance
from God.5 As witness to this, beauty is based on analogy, not on identity, and
this is true both for inner-worldly æsthetics as well as for the spiritual order.6
For a capsule illustration of this, we turn again to St. John of the Cross.
Balthasar points out that John’s mysticism can only be fulfilled by the Trinity
which helps it avoid two opposite spiritual shoals: the first is the pantheistic,
what we have seen called that of identity; the other is that of an impoverished
meeting of mere accidents as between Creator and creature. John sails between
them:
From now on, on the level of the triune life in which the creature may by grace take passive-
active part, we are on the other side of separating distance and person-threatening identity.
And it is only through a miracle of received grace that the breathtaking wonders of the
substantial contact of I and Thou are not deadly, that this and the wonders of the awakening
of the Thou in the middle of the I and of the I in the middle of the Thou become the content
of the life of love. . . . Distance of person in God in the bosom (Schoss) of a unity of Essence
is the precondition of all love, the eternal as well as the created.1
For John of the Cross, then, the distance of the persons in unity of essence
(that is, the correct distance, neither “dividing” nor yet “an identity that threatens
the person”) is the foundation of all love.
Put as simply as possible, for there to be a beautiful painting, there must be
both a unified canvas and a diversity of elements, each in proper order and
harmony with each other. Without proper space there cannot be the other, and
with no other, there can be no love—where God is love, then there must be the
other.
So the Biblical man, found by God, is yet constantly told to seek the Lord. But
this is a seeking which truly begins with God’s initiative, an initiative which
speaks to the deepest longing of the human heart, and the human drive to seek
for God, a drive which is well ordered when it becomes a drive to respond to the
one who has addressed him.
This is seen most clearly in the perfect man, Jesus Christ. As we shall see
more thoroughly in our treatment of the Incarnation, “all that God can say and
give to men is perfectly realised in the humanity of Jesus.”2 Interestingly, Jesus’
manhood is so thorough that the search for God is part of it. But, as distinct from
humanity who settle for magic rituals or who turn their own longing into the
measure of their relation with God, Jesus’ search is a “pure search for the honour
and glory of God for its own sake—and precisely for this reason is the search
fulfilled (erfüllt) by God.”3 Moreover: “The entire word of God addressed to the
world takes on flesh in the personal selflessness of Jesus’ pure search for God’s
honour, and that in a uniquely personal fullness (Dichte).”4
Thus, we find that man’s ongoing search, essential to his nature, for the
God Who finds him should be fueled not primarily by man’s own longing for
God, “but from the fire kindled by God’s Word in him.”5
In a vein parallel to that of the “seeking/being found” theme, we find
Balthasar speaking of knowledge of God as knowing/being known, and of seeing
God as seeing/being seen. Thus, to be enraptured in faith is not the deed of the
one seeing but of that seen. In Christian perception, what is perceived depends
finally on the initiative of the object (which becomes subjective/active).1 This
quickly takes on Balthasarian focus when he appreciates Pascal’s description as
being known by a God who is neither the god of the philosophers nor yet the
analogy of being, but rather that incomprehensible love seen in Christ’s Cross.2
Balthasar seeks to replace the Cartesian “cogito” with the Baaderian “cogitor,”3
and he recalls Goethe’s words to Schopenhauer: “What, is the light only there
because you see it? No! You wouldn’t be there, if the Light didn’t see you!”4
The divine ground actually “comes to us unexpectedly,” making known “a
‘Light,’ which one cannot bypass and yet which is invisible; a word of
incomparable precision, that expresses itself equally well in the cry (Schrei) of
dying, in the being silent of death, and in the supra-verbal (Überworthaften)
character of the awakening and in being exuded.”5 All of this is given in the face
of man’s search for God. The balance is created, the distance is mediated and
maintained in proper harmony, by God’s Word, that word of “incomparable
precision,” a precision as great as that of a human fingerprint. The Other
expresses Himself to man, and that in a word:
Glory and Power stand close together, yet to be sure not so much like the “eternal power”
(Rom.1:20) which shows itself in transitory, temporal creatures but rather much more as
God’s more astounding power to express His abyssal Being Other in His supernatural
“Word” as a revelation that is understandable and appropriate to the world.6
As with the uniqueness of the person who is no longer just a member of the
species, we see that the unique action of the Christian God reduces other
experiences of God to predictable categories. The understanding of the
“incomparable middle” becomes theology: Logos about the Logos, word about
the Word. The word-character of the Biblical God is bluntly stated by Balthasar:
“God is nothing other than the voice summoning out of the midst of Glory.”1
Man has been created for this voice (and by this voice). And, in typically
Trinitarian fashion, it is the Spirit that allows us to enter into God’s dialogue.2
According to an image of St. Ignatius of Antioch much favored by
Balthasar, God has made three speeches: Creation, Scripture, and Incarnation. In
our investigation of the uniquely Christian, we have seen the grounds for the
interpersonal communication which seems to be at the heart of this mystery.
Now we proceed to a more detailed look at how God has spoken to man.
A. Creation
The first of the words of God is the Creation. It is to dishonor God to try to go
behind the God of historical revelation in search of an “unknown God.”3 God
reveals Himself first of all as Creator: “The Being of things and not something
next to or behind them is the revelation of the eternally powerful divine Being”4
—though Balthasar is quick to note that God is always other than the image the
creature has of Him; the relation is not quite a simple human I-Thou. Creation is
an image of God, but as an image of the “Other” of God.5 In this respect,
Christianity shares with Judaism and Islam respect for the distance separating
creation and Creator.6 Apart from God does not mean alienated from God (that
wrong distance of which St. John of the Cross writes): it is sin that will negate
the bond of love between creature and creator. But even sin does not cancel the
promise of a return to God held in the creature’s origin from God.
It is a commonplace (if not undisputed) that the idea of a “creation out of
nothing” is uniquely Biblical. Balthasar posits the dividing line between pre-
Christian and Biblical Christian in “the first line of Genesis” whereby man and
the cosmos are set on one side of the line apart from the Creator God on the
other.7 The uniqueness of every created thing speaks the freedom of the Creator
God, His creative Word spoken in absolute freedom.1 Something of this
wonderful uniqueness must be visible to anyone with the least acquaintance with
nature. Something of Balthasar’s sense for the glory of God’s uniqueness in
unique creation as against the killing forces of human idealistic philosophy
might be seen were one to contemplate the heavy hand of modern man visible in
wilderness, where a power line aggressively draws its straight and relentless
trajectory across a forest of infinitely non-linear variety.2 Balthasar insists that
each individual creature reflects in its uniqueness something of God’s
uniqueness, thus echoing however distantly something of God’s majestic
freedom: each created thing has a unique dignity and is not interchangeable, not
a “pure” object like a mathematical number.
In the Genesis accounts, God creates man and the cosmos by His speech.
Things themselves speak of God, but as this is the first “speech of God” God is
not yet speaking directly, as Ignatius of Antioch points out. Created things are
partial utterances—the “speech of things,”3 waiting for man to utter them (even
as all creation is good in light of the Incarnation which will be full “utterance” of
this speech). In this sense, the speech of creatures is “a speaking if silent word.”4
Among creatures, plant life is a spoken word, animals are words that speak as
well. Relative to their capacities, God’s relation to His creatures is dialogical. In
Creation, God silences Himself, and by empowering the creature to its own
speech, God will speak to it.
This whole objective, created world is constantly presenting itself to man
—but man is free to turn himself away from it, closing his eyes and “playing
dead.”5 Man is free to turn a deaf ear to the first speech of God—indeed, this is
likely what is ultimately the sin of hubris in man’s attempts to climb to God by
turning away from creatures, as we have seen in Balthasar’s critique of the
apophatic traditions. As Nicholas of Cusa wrote: “Creation is a legible book.”1
Platonic language is that of picture, of image: it is a “visible language” whereas
the Christian language begins with the talk of the person whose appearance itself
is a speaking, a language.2 In either case, one should not turn a blind eye or deaf
ear to what is being expressed in creation.
To man’s question “who am I” the answer must be: a creature of God.
Otherwise, Balthasar insists, “I” must be dissolved. It is as a creature that “I” am
intended, willed, loved and chosen by God.3 If the distance between Creator and
creature forbids any identification between them, so the otherness in the Trinity
allows for the permanent existence of the creature as beloved other: this is found
nowhere but in Trinitarian Christianity.4 Creatureliness thus becomes a guarantee
of existence for the individual. Without the Biblical view of man as a “being
with His Creator,” the Grecian view emerges in which the soul becomes creator
of the world, and creation is diminished.5 The Biblical view of creation and of
man, sober as it is, was maintained for millennia in the face of temptations to
turn to myth or to let man disappear in self-destruction. The value of creation is
inestimable then for Balthasar. It is a truth known to metaphysics only by
revelation: and a truth which is much threatened by the Promethean modern
world. As bearers of this truth, Christians become “the responsible guardians
(Hütern) of God’s Glory and of Creation for the modern world.”6
Balthasar cites Caussade as saying that things go out of God’s mouth like
words.7 Yet this first speech, even brought to the articulation of the human voice,
is still a speech about God even if it is uttered ultimately by God: we move on to
the second speech, that of Scripture in which God addresses man directly.
B. Scripture—language, poetry
In the “second speech” of God, we enter into the world of speech as we would
commonly understand it, most particularly, the world of Scripture, of the spoken
and written word. Of course, as we have seen, speech can more generally
indicate communication, and so “things” become the speech of God. On another
level, gesture and symbol are also a form of non-verbal speech. For someone as
interested in the arts as Balthasar, a sensitivity to the non-verbal forms of speech
is very important. The third speech of God, the Incarnation, goes far beyond (and
“below”) the verbal. Here, we focus on the verbal speech.
In terms of St. Ignatius of Antioch’s three-fold scheme, this second speech
is most particularly that of God to the prophets of Israel.1 If things are already
the speech of God, then man is so a fortiori. But as we have noted, man’s “I” is
not on the same level as God’s: man must be adapted to the speech of God:
between God and man the only common language is the Word of God.2 But prior
to the Incarnation of that Word, how is the Word to speak in words?
When God wants to speak to man, to reveal Himself, He must make the
created spirit capable of grasping the Absolute.3 We shall see this more fully
developed later on when we investigate the preparation of the anawim in Israel
for the reception of God’s Word in Mary. Here, it is the general human ability to
receive and articulate communication that is of interest. This is seen most clearly
in the human experience of poetry, which Balthasar calls “indispensable for the
concretion of revelation.”4
We have already seen in our first chapter that in light of the Resurrection of
the concrete individual, the poets are seen as ultimately vindicated, certainly as
against the philosophers. It will be recalled how greatly Balthasar reverences the
ancient poets Homer and Virgil, the latter being one who surpasses normal
human imaginative power and “indicates the point where . . . God begins to
speak out of the depth of His heart.”1
Of the figures Balthasar studies in the first volume of The Glory of the
Lord, Georg Hamann is the one most concerned with poetry per se. Hamann
speaks of two books, that of nature and that of Scripture,2 thus roughly
paralleling the first two “speeches” of St. Ignatius of Antioch. The beauty of
creation is seen as an audible and visual “speech” of God for Hamann as well.
Believing that language comes from God, Hamann, who was profoundly anti-
gnostic and pro-myth, religion and Incarnation, speaks of man as the “highest
word of the poet-God.”3 Although he holds that originally all theology was
poetry,4 Hamann defends Christianity from its dissolution into poetry itself that
Herder attempted5 (as well as from its dissolution into philosophy by Kant). The
disorder of the poet serves as analogy for the disorder of the Holy Spirit; the
poetic disorder of the Bible is a form of expression of the higher disorder of the
Holy Spirit.6
Poetry’s revelatory character was not lost on Goethe, for whom poetry
united heaven and earth.7 And certainly no poet more celebrated God’s unique
glory shining in the individuality of things than Hopkins.8
Poetry’s concern for the individuality of created things is true of human
speech as well. Human speech, Balthasar insists, is no vague mumbling, it is not
the incoherent grunting of animals however communicative they may be: rather,
it is the precise nature of human speech that especially commends itself to him.
In Christianity, this human language, precise by nature, is not a mumbled
groping to express some reality that remains hidden—this in contrast to the
mystical silence at the peaks of other religions.9 Mystical silence is appropriate
to the first language of creation, when one turns away from (beyond) the first
speech, that of things. For St. Ignatius of Antioch, the only possible response to
the first speech of God is exactly this “mystical silence.” But beyond that first
speech, once God Himself begins to speak all becomes an “echo” culminating in
a “yes.”1 As we shall see, the Son Himself is not an approximate, hazy image of
the Father, but a precise, essentially equal image of the unseen Father.2 And, as
might be expected, Balthasar affirms that philosophy generalizes, while theology
is concerned with the particular.3
The book that we know as the Bible largely takes its form from the desire
to abide in the “word event.”4 In it, the ineffable has put itself into words. This,
according to Balthasar, is a dangerous situation, one that requires a prayerful
stance. The words of Scripture are human, but the Word of God sounds
throughout. Because of this distance between the “ineffable”5 God and his
human creatures, a unique language is needed. The Bible itself keeps turning to
poetry and pictures although Biblical language is a language beyond prose,
poetry and all literary genres (and if that is the case, then certainly “no theology
will ever be able to finally translate the poetical and pictorial dimensions of
Scripture into abstract concepts”).6
God’s self-communication to man then develops in a level of conscious
address and response. God speaks through creation, or rather things created
speak of God; similarly with historical events, although these are raised by the
work of the Spirit into that form known to us in the Bible. The Biblical spirit is a
dialogical spirit, Balthasar notes, given to man.7 God’s speech in and through the
prophets was a mission given to selected individuals which yet was different
from the core of their beings: they performed a role, or bore tidings, but in no
case was the role, or the news identical with their person. The words which they
spoke bore witness to the Word in whose Spirit they spoke, and yet, as John’s
Prologue says, they were not the Word.
Balthasar notes that strictly speaking—and in a sense that Luther’s
understanding has obscured for us1—the Bible is not the Word of God, but rather
words about the Word. That Word Incarnate is a mysterious person whose idiom
is creative beyond the constraints of any religious or literary genre, and whose
uniqueness speaks of the love of individual forms of the “poetic” creator God. It
is to this third speech of God that we now turn.
C. The Incarnation
When we speak of Word we must be careful not to let ourselves be limited to the
narrowest sense of word. It is the communication, expression, of the Father that
we behold when we behold the Son. For Balthasar, Jesus Himself is the Gospel,
the good news. He is the Word of salvation (Heilswort), the Gospel of the Father
to the World.2 This cannot be emphasized enough. It is God’s Word made flesh,
and not the Scripture, that is to be preached to mankind3 (and then, of course, the
preaching itself must become incarnate and not limited to verbal proclamation).
In the Old Testament, attention was naturally drawn to the speaker behind
the words spoken: in the New Testament, it is the Word who speaks that draws
attention.4 The prophets in the Old Testament were given missions: Jesus is the
mission. God’s covenant with Israel rests on two pillars, that of His active Word,
and the form of the suffering servant.5 Jesus is the Word become suffering
servant, the incarnation of that post-Exilic signpost of God which Israel had tried
to evade with various theologies of glory.6 These illusions were first broken by
John the Baptist: but John is only the voice, while Jesus is the Word.1 The
Incarnation was then far more incarnate than Israel, used to word, had expected.
The Incarnation is God’s answer to the longing of human hearts: Jesus
Christ is the “fulfillment of Adam’s longing.”2 Because humanity does not have
a final goal in the world proportionate to its elevated nature, the fulfilling Word
of God fills this emptiness, and man comes to know what before he knew as only
a hunger.3 This longing as we have seen is endemic to humanity, reaching a great
height of articulation among the Greeks. It is the Western—Greek—discovery of
Being that Balthasar calls the last preparatory step for the Incarnation: without it,
he finds the basis of the general announcement of the Gospel to have been
unimaginable.4
As the Word of God, Jesus Christ fulfills creation, He is the realisation of
all the promises of the Creator.5 It is the fulfillment of creation in that God wants
to lead the entire body-soul unity to its perfection, to the glory of the
Resurrection, and He will do this beginning with Jesus.
Of St. Ignatius’ image of God’s three speeches to man, we learn that nature
is a book that is really only read by Christians who can see the hand of God in it.
Nature is an exteriorly written book, Scripture an interiorly written book, Christ
the God-man is the “apocalyptically outer and innerly written book.”6
Recalling the dialogical character of reality, Balthasar writes that the word
character of the Incarnation corresponds to the word which is at the heart of
being a human (= the “Thou”).7 Word for Balthasar means something like full
expression of abundance, the word abundantly expressing the abundance from
which it is uttered. Jesus is God’s Word to man; He is also the fulfillment of all
human words8 of whom it can be said that “everything about Him was Word.”9
Pascal has written that to understand Scripture one must have the same
Spirit in which Scripture was written.1 For Balthasar’s theology, this is a spirit
which can see Heaven in a blade of grass, one which looks for the whole in each
of the pieces. As the title of one of his books would have it, one seeks Das
Ganze im Fragment. Christ is the primordial Word (Urwort) that includes all the
words of the Old Testament (and indeed all the words of creation). He is that
which keeps the meaning of God’s expression together
(Ausdruckszusammenhang) and is the total Word-form (Gesamt-Wortgestalt) that
must be understood before one can understand any of the words of Scripture.2
We have seen Balthasar’s concern with the “liveliness of God”: so it is no
surprise that when we say that Christ is the “primordial Word” it is no static icon
to which our gaze is drawn, but rather to the heart of a drama in which Christ is
the synthesis of all Scriptural words to lead them all through the death to which
they point.3
Again, one must hear the word itself in its fullness if one is to understand
at all. In a telling image, Balthasar writes that Jesus is like a word that has three
syllables: life—passion/death—resurrection. Only with the hearing of the last
syllable can one understand what the whole word means. He uses this image to
combat the attempts of exegetes to understand isolated statements of Jesus—
words of Jesus—apart from the fullness of His expression of the Father.4
Moreover, all of Christ becomes the speech of God, from the Beatitudes to the
silence of the tomb. To be understood at all, Jesus must be understood whole.
This fullness spills over to Jesus’ expression of the Father: Jesus is the
adequate, the sufficient, the complete expression of God, beyond which no other
is needed. It will be recalled that various traditions seek to remove God beyond
what is humanly tangible. Thus, the Jews developed the notion of the Shekina
which only revealed something of God in his Name, the Neo-Platonists know
only a reflection of God’s glory, etc. It is central to the Incarnation that God both
can fully reveal Himself and has done so. So, for Bonaventure, creation reflects
Christ the Word: but Christ does not merely reflect, He fully expresses the
Father.1 Again, all non-Christian mysticism holds the word is an inadequate
expression of the ineffable Being: in Christ, the Word is God’s eternal expression
of Himself, accessible to us as “Thou.”2 And one cannot go behind the only-
begotten Son of the Father who understands Himself in no other way than as the
“Thou” of the Father.3
The Incarnation is only possible because of the Trinity, the personal word
of God the Father who is also a person.4 Again, for Bonaventure the Trinitarian
processions are expressed in the Word, or else the divine Word could not be the
primary image of the Triune God in creation.5 We see the truth that the inner-
Trinitarian life cannot be separated from the form of Jesus Christ. And, reflecting
Balthasar’s perennial concern lest there be any necessity in God, for him the
Incarnation answers no divine need, no Platonic impersonal, radiant Being Good
that needs to become man in order to learn how to love: “He must already be
personal love and relatedness in Himself, as a self-giving, fatherly ground, as the
begotten-awakened, answering Son, as the common Spirit of love, which
incarnates the miraculous character and the always more precisely of eternal
love both as fruit and as witness of this love.”6 And to complete the Trinitarian
missioning on earth, it is Jesus’ finiteness that is the condition for the sending of
the Holy Spirit.7 “Only in Jesus Christ appears the possibility that the
innerworldly dualism of speech between a free I and Thou and a common
horizon prior to or beyond speech [the überwort] can coincide: in a God who is
at the same time both Himself and His Word; ‘Word’ this time belonging to His
essence.”8
In the Incarnation, the eternal Word takes on flesh in the hypostatic union.
Philosophically stated, in this union, love for Being is united with love for a
finite Being.1 The view into the depths of God which we gain through the man
Jesus is, again, an introduction into the Trinity through Jesus’ prayer and
suffering.2 The hypostatic union allows us to be unique persons: our uniqueness
as individuals is grounded in the hypostatic uniqueness of the Son, we
participate in His “Thou-ness”: furthermore, the closer one comes to the Son,
following His call, the more unique one will become.3
The homoousios spells the end of Neo-Platonism as the vehicle for
Christian thought4 and the Incarnation spells an end to anti-incarnational
spiritualities, to all who like Evagrius—and even Augustine—want a vision
without form.5 Recalling our earlier observations about spiritualities of “ascent”
(Aufstieg), the Christian Incarnation is the “descent” (Abstieg) par excellence.
And descent means a transformation, emphatically not a fleshless
spiritualisation.6 In this Johannine spirit, we see that creation from the Logos
means not just from a logos asarkos but rather from that Son of God who has
been eternally marked for the Incarnation.7 Because of His full incorporation in
humanity’s lot, one need no longer look for God in the peaks, but can rather, in
the Jesuit phrase, “find God in all things.”8 The witness of the Holy Spirit then is
always incarnational: any disincarnate, idealistic spiritualization is antichristian.9
Furthermore, the Incarnation must permeate all the substance of humanity, doing
battle against all tendencies towards disincarnation in which man would like to
be “like God.”10 If “between God and man . . . the only language possible is the
Word of God”11 and that Word has been issued in Christ, then man must enter
into that Word if He is to enter into dialogue with God.
With this in mind, we will, in this section, look more closely at five aspects
of the Incarnation. As fullness and emptiness has so occupied our concerns, we
begin with an investigation of Balthasar’s understanding of the Kenosis.
God wants to empty Himself to fill man with His loving self-emptying. Invoking
St. Ignatius of Loyola recalls the meditation on the Incarnation in the Spiritual
Exercises in which this movement from above is depicted. It is quite the opposite
of the movement of natural humanity, one which would disappear in a formless
infinite. The Incarnation eternally fixes form.
The issue at stake is selflessness, where the one strong alternative to
Christian “selflessness” is the Buddhist (and, what Balthasar terms in general,
the “Far Eastern”):
The Buddhist view sees in the being-for-itself of the individual I the incarnation of the fatal
egoism which follows the abolition of the individual I as a challenge. The Christian view
recognises in the individual I an imago Trinitatis, in which every hypostasis constitutes and
understands itself only in terms of the others. A religion of Nirvana and of the equally void
Samsara (which can possibly be treated as equivalent in their nothingness) cannot
understand what kenosis means in a Christian sense; but it is a hair’s breadth (hautnah) away
from it. A dialogue between the two views, the difference between which could not be
greater in terms of the idea of an incarnation of God (as opposed to an avatar), could be
successful in the realm of pneumatology.1
Thus there appears the irony that while as noted earlier the movement from
below is “opposite” to that from above, and therefore seeking to dissolve the “I”
in the Void tends in the opposite direction, Balthasar yet writes that the Buddhist
understanding is very close to the Christian. Again, the difference between the
incarnation of God who will suffer and die and the avatar who is an incarnation
of the Absolute who returns to Absolute status without sharing the whole human
fate is accentuated.
Balthasar is obviously not unaware that Christian mystics have used the
negative language of the non-Christian, a language in which the “other” must be
shown to be illusion in the face of the All. But for the Christian, annihilation
(Vernichtung) means a creaturely assimilation to the Kenosis and self-
annihilation (Selbstvernichtigung) of Christ, in which Christ presents the self-
emptying love of the Triune God to the world in most radical form and invites to
imitation. The Ignatian giving away of all that is one’s own (sume et suscipe) to
make room for God is:
finally the highest affirmation of the self-giving love of God in the superword (Überwort) of
His Son, whom man seeks to answer through a superword which is given to him. Here
“negative theology” becomes in the end the place of perfect encounter, not in a dialogical
equality but in the transformation of the whole creature into an ecce ancilla for the mystery
that fulfills it, the mystery of the incomprehensible love of the God Who divests Himself.1
The prophet comes to know God Himself, for what God has to say reveals who,
and how, God is—and here we see the wide range of emotions which also sound
throughout Balthasar’s work as pointers to the utterly personal character of the
Biblical God.
Humanly speaking, gestures are extremely important in communication:
one can “say more with a glance than with an entire discourse.”1 Gesture—and
deed—are so important for, as Ortega says, the word is the mere “embryo” of the
total human act.2
Thus, in the Incarnation, the God of Israel who has been communicating
His Word in words and deeds now takes on flesh, and that “not to speak among
us but to ‘dwell’ among us.”3 We might say that the acting word took on flesh.
From the very beginning of the Gospel, word is deed, not just the uttered words
but the whole fleshly existence of Jesus is “interpretation” (Auslegung) of the
Father.4 Impatient with attempts of theologians to use the thought of linguistic
philosophers, Balthasar writes:
We’ve surely already lingered too long on the phenomenon of the Word, for in the
Revelation of Jesus Christ very much more is involved than problems of speech: that which
God accomplishes in Him for man is completely different from an oral protestation of His
love, it is an almighty deed, of which the explanatory speech is only a part, and not even the
most important part at that. . . . God’s Word is His free, sovereign, grace-imparting and
challenging deed, that can make itself known in the express Word as such, and that can
contain as well the promises and threats for obedience or disobedience as regards this entire
initiative of God (Dt. 4:30; 30:1, etc.). . . . It is clear from the Old Testament that the
characterisation “Word” for Jesus Christ means more than just speech, it means rather a total
“expression” of God with the emphasis on a lordly deed.5
So much is God’s word identified with His deed, that “we can never distinguish
between what is God’s Word and what is God’s deed in God’s self-revelation to
us.”1 As we will further develop later, Balthasar suggests that God is perhaps
never more “eloquent” than in the Passion and death of Jesus. Moreover, it is
“thoroughly possible that much that Jesus only did, only ‘was,’ has been
transformed into words comprehensible to us by the Holy Spirit in the Scripture
the Spirit inspired.”2 For Pascal, of course, battling against the God of the
philosophers, the Cross is the deed of God.
This of course has its roots in the Trinity. God’s Word is always His deed
because within the Trinity, the Word is the deed of begetting (Zeugungstat) of
the Father, become man through the Holy Spirit and as man is Word for He
“always does the will of the Father.”3 Moreover, the doing/speaking of Jesus is
the revelation “of the inner Being of God as abandonment of the divine
hypostases to each other.”4
As God’s Word is essentially a doing (or perhaps more precisely, as being
begotten, a “being done” which invites the response of doing), the missioned
disciples have the power not only to spread the words of Jesus but also His
deeds.5 By the very nature of the message, the Christian community does not
primarily “preach” a doctrine or spread a teaching, but rather, Christianity “can
primarily be only an action of God, the carrying through of the drama of God
with humanity begun in the Old Covenant”6 and so it is a fact, “something
accomplished”7 that is preached.
Of the three syllables that make up the “wholeness” of Jesus, the first was
His life, a life of “deed” which involved words as well. We turn to the second of
these three syllables, His Passion and death, which find their focus on the “Cry”
from the Cross.
In the hour of the cry, we come up against that which is ineffable in God, in the
Word that holds death (= silence) within itself. The prophets had been told to cry
out, but there remained the distance between actor and role: here, Jesus Himself
is the Word become cry.
Going even further, Balthasar, writing of the witness of the “Spirit, the
Water and the Blood” observes that the blood, which is the “perfect uniqueness
for all times” gives witness in the silence and in the “great inexplicable cry,”2
that the blood is the cry that stands in the place of the last unutterable word.3 The
cry is speech without form, communication from the “bowels” (Gr. splagkhna)
of the man who shows the heart of God, the blood is the deed of the cry, fluid,
formless.
As to the other Scriptural words from the Cross, Balthasar views them as
later interpretations of the cry.4 In this very weak word, unformed, is found
God’s answer to the problem of suffering.
The cry from the Cross is followed by the silence of the tomb, the silence
of the corpse, the wordlessness of death. Before we move on to consider it, a
final note on inarticulate speech should be made. Apart from the great cry from
the Cross, Balthasar draws attention to “wordless sighing” (Wortloses Seufzen)
on numerous occasions. It is significant enough to be called “the adequate word
of prayer to God,” similar to the cry on the Cross.1 The “wordless sighing” of the
Spirit in the heart of the Christian is part of “a trinitarian dialogue in the most
inner intimacy of the creature.”2 Not surprisingly, Hegel replaces this sighing
with the concept and a “knowledge that is not at all sighing” (gar nicht
seufzendes Wissen).3 And the passionate cry is the very opposite of resignation to
an absolute, undramatic horizon. Rather, the cry “which includes all questions”
issues into the great silence of Holy Saturday, and receives the event which is the
answer of that horizon, Easter.4
Unlike systems in which the word is uttered out of silence, in Christianity,
the eternal word is uttered from the eternal fullness of the Father, and Incarnate
from the fullness of the Trinitarian life. In the world of words, fragmented
utterances, Jesus becomes the speech of God to man and of man to God. On the
Cross, that speech is gathered into an incoherent, formless cry as He enters the
great emptiness that is death, as the Word is given over to silence.
It is because man cannot fully understand all in spite of his best will that there
remain for him these spaces of silence in God.2 This, it will be observed, is the
opposite movement from that of natural mysticism which seeks Silence as the
highest good, above the Word: Christians must take this yearning for silence and
situate it in the Word of God.3 As Ferdinand Ulrich puts it, Christians value “the
positive fullness of his silence, the breath of the Father in the Word.”4
Balthasar reflects on the “zone of silence” that surrounds the words of
Jesus: beginning with nine silent months in the womb, the silence that had his
parents concerned about his boyhood whereabouts, through his silence with the
woman taken in adultery, all the way to Tabor. Yet all His life, Jesus by His
words and wonders, was speaking with the Jews of His time, and speaking in the
prophetic language they understood. It is when we come to the Passion and death
that we come to the “Not-word” (Nichtwort) which is in the middle of the word,
the second syllable which is increasingly silent.5 Jesus’ frustration with His
disciples’ non-comprehension and His growing silence in the face of the leaders
of Israel—culminating in His total silence—reflect the inability of humanity to
comprehend the divine utterance, even though God is expressing Himself fully.6
When the Word takes on flesh, the Word enters the realm of silence, for
flesh is silence. The movement from the fullness of the Father to the emptying of
the bleeding, screaming figure on the Cross is the movement from Word into
silence. Similarly, as the Gospel story progresses, the words of the Father
themselves diminish, as if words—as distinct from the word-deed—had
something of the flavour of the Old Testament to them, the second speech,
something that was here being transcended in the word incarnate which is a
“super word” (Überwort) relative to all speech, even to inspired speech.1
Thus, the words culminate in the Cry from the Cross and the becoming
mute (stumm) of the corpse, the Holy Saturday mystery. In death, the Word
becomes an un-word, a not-word. The descent into hell is a passage in “pure
‘wordlessness.’”2 The silence of Holy Saturday, the “great silence” is the final
expression of God,3 where the dead Christ has become the silent word of the
Father. As Jesus’ silence, reflecting the silent word of God, the superword, is
sometimes more important than His speech, so also His descent into the silence
of hell becomes the Father’s loudest and clearest statement to the world.4
It is the Holy Spirit, expected to be the “the unknown beyond of the Word”
who begins to speak precisely where the word is silenced, at the end: the Spirit
begins to explain, to show what has come to pass, first through the Apostles and
evangelists, then, in an ever increasing volume of words, through the Church’s
theological reflection.5 As if the fullness of God were passing through a silent
hourglass to open on the other side of the passage in a hitherto unknown fullness,
the Incarnate Word transfigured, resurrected and ascended returns home, “in
order to end the world and carry it into the eternal silence of the Father.”6
This was all possible because of the willingness of the Son to do the will of
the Father: in His death, Christ gives the wordless (= formless) flesh over to the
Father so that in His “poverty (or obedience) in God’s hand, in the womb of His
mother and in the tomb, he might be made the ‘formable’ (Formbarem) Word of
God.”7 A look at this obedience will complete our reflection upon the
Incarnation.
5. Obedience
Love describes the relations within the Trinity and between God and creature,
but the word “love” tends to convey a static character. The word which perhaps
best characterizes the active power within that love, for Balthasar, is
“obedience.”
It will be recalled that his much admired Virgil (“Father of the West”)
presented the world a “pius Æneas” whose humble piety it was that commended
him. Virgil is seen as the first in the classical world whose humility takes on
meaning and a hidden glory because it takes place in obedience to God.1
In the natural order itself, it is the artist who, like Virgil, perhaps best
serves as image of obedience. The chief quality of the artist must be obedience,
that quiet docility that lets anima sing in him: no matter how he conducts himself
outerly, innerly, he must be “a humbly receptive womb for the ‘conception.’”2
Faith, in the fullest Christian sense, is like this: it is “to make the entire man into
a space responding to the divine content.”3
Man’s natural passivity vis-à-vis God becomes a potential obedience which
yet can only be actualized by the free call of the totally free God.4 In the relation
between God and man, everything depends on the correct difference between
God and creature: distance (Abstand),5 and this means obedience, as seen in the
blind obedience of Abraham. “To know God is to fear God and that means to
obey.”6 In obedience, the visionary (prophet) “sees as much of God as God
deems is good for him,” but the vision serves the most important thing which is
the mission.7 Through the history of the prophets, “God wants to build for
Himself in selected people a step into the godless darkness, a step made out of
obedience.”8 And it is this “thoroughgoing obedience toward God and the nation
[that ill treats the prophets—it could not be other, as the Word of God begins by
convicting man of disobedience] that allows the covenant to become
substantially incarnate on earth.”1 As we shall see more fully in our next chapter,
this relation of Israel in obedience reaches its culmination in Mary.
If, for man, “love and obedience are one in the heart’s centre”2 this is the
image of the Trinitarian original, where the obedience of the Son to the Father
leads to the hypostatic union. In the hypostatic union, the image, “without which
man is destroyed,” is restored in the heart of man, by the appearance of the
triune God in the form of Christ.3 In a striking statement of the relation of
obedience and the economic Trinity, Balthasar observes that the Cross is what
happens when the world is included in the Son’s obedience.4 This obedience of
the Son, freely accepting mission from the Father as a person, again
distinguishes Him from the appearance-form of an avatar.5
Jesus’ obedience leads to death, a death in obedience (Gehorsamstod)
which replaces the death of guilt. Jesus does take on Himself the guilt of the
world, but only “in the hour.”6 The Johannine theme of “the hour” points, for
Balthasar, to the obedience of the Son who blindly lived in obedience towards
that point of time to be revealed by the Father. Obedience is the Son’s “yes”
(Jawort) to the Father, behind which stands the heart of the Father that will allow
His Son to go to hell in total abandonment.7 The descent into hell is the most
clear—if mute—statement of obedience possible for the Son. Balthasar calls it
“the economical form of the absolute correspondence of the Son to the Father.”8
In the descent, Christ is the first person in history to display what St. Ignatius
Loyola will refer to as the obedience of the corpse (Kadavergehorsam), that
which for Balthasar is the peak form of obedience.
It is, however, not the last form of Christ’s obedience. That is what
Balthasar calls His “loving obedience” (Liebesgehorsam). This is the passive
work of Jesus in letting Himself be interpreted by the Holy Spirit. This is “His
last act of loving obedience . . . but at the same time the first work of the ruler
elevated to the right hand of the Father who now, making use of the Spirit He has
breathed out, leaves to His [the Spirit’s] discretion the endless work of
interpreting all His ‘hidden riches.’”1 It is the Holy Spirit who is the first to
make the speech of God in Christ understandable: a speech of loving obedience
in three forms: that of the serving human body of the mortal man, of the silent
body of the dying one, and the transfigured body of the Risen One.2 That is, the
Spirit, in obedience to Father and Son, for the first time opens the ears of the
nascent Church to the sound of the three syllables spoken together, the three
syllables that are the Word Incarnate.
Christian faith, then, is primarily a listening obedience to a Person, and the
service of that brother “for whom Christ died”—and not a knowledge.3 To
underline the absolute nature of that Person, Balthasar notes that Christianity is
unique in that whereas other religious founders demand obedience to the Light
of the revealing God, Christ demands obedience to Himself (der Anspruch).4 It
is no surprise then to see Balthasar contrasting obedient humility to God’s truth
to idealistic thinking: using the Kantian category of the sublime to understand
human greatness, Balthasar writes that the alternatives are either the greatness of
Promethean arrogance or the greatness of obedience and humility.5 That
obedience unto and through death is the heart of the revelation of God in Christ
who accepted His Incarnation and death in order to rescue man.6
We shall see more of the dangers of technique in our chapter on Prayer. Here the
point is that other teachers, at their best, through their self-abnegation become
like a flute through which inspiration blows: Christ is both inspiration and flute,
the “inspired flute” itself, if one will. In terms of our thesis, Buddha must
become the un-word (Unwort), Christ is and remains the super-word
(Überwort).3
The unique word of God is a sign of contradiction in the world. In a world
of tolerant indifference to manifestations of the religious beyond, the Word
remains unique in its claims. Moreover, Balthasar maintains that in the course of
the centuries the Word “has ever more clearly destroyed the competing religions.
It is Verbum exterminans in a spiritual sense.”4
The naturally religious man listens to himself or the voice of his longing:
but he must listen to the Word of God,1 which (who) is other. It is a Word which
is not only sent, but which is unique in coming from God and from Heaven. This
claim of Jesus, the “I am” claims (der Anspruch), is “without analogy in all of
the history of religion.”2
It is the Incarnation that alone overcomes identity mysticism, allowing for
distinction of natures in one person. And the Incarnation is not just a first step:
there is no beatific vision over, beyond seeing the Son. Rather, the Son, who is
God Incarnate, is the Eschaton.3 Again, in this Incarnation, the unique God of
love is known not in some general way already known by humanity, but rather in
this “unique speech of the unique God in His unique turn to me, to the Church
and to humanity. This word, this speech, is Jesus Christ—not selections of this
speech and actions but He Himself, whole and entire.”4
Within the Incarnation, of course, Balthasar focuses on the issue of
suffering. He notes that for Irenæus, it is the real, incarnate, suffering man
[Jesus] who by what He is gives glory to God far greater than any of the
suffering-free schemes of the Gnostics.5 Other religions all seek to free man
from pain and death through liberation or at most through indifference: for
Christianity, Christ’s taking on Himself of the world’s guilt and sin on the Cross
becomes the greatest proof that God is love. This is the exact opposite of what
other religions are about. Christ’s death reveals a death that “fills the place left
empty (leergelassene Stelle) by all others”: it is His death as the fruitful “deed of
love” (Tat der Liebe).6 As locus of this deed, the Cross is not the world’s last
word, but it is God’s last word about Himself: and it is the “crossing out of the
word of the world (das Weltwort) through a completely different word, one
which the world does not want to hear at any price.”1 The Resurrection further
reveals the eternity of form, for it shows that the formed Son is not overcome by
a formless Father (and it doctrinally points to the importance of the filioque).2
Our topic could lead us to a vast number of comparisons. But with this
summary view in mind, we shall investigate three areas relative to Christian
uniqueness: the Catholica, the issue of reality (Wirklichkeit) and sin.
A. The Catholica
Catholic means universal, and it is universality at every level that so clearly
draws Balthasar. Yet the universality—and unity—of the Catholica is drawn
from one man, Jesus Christ, who is the “concrete universal.” In Him, both
universality and particularity meet in a unique individual, the fragment
containing the whole. Thus universality for the Church is not a quantitative or
geographical fact: catholicity can be reduced to one man, an Athanasius or a
Maximus.3 Totality is a further aspect of the universality of the Catholica for
Balthasar.
Other religions are fragments in search of a whole; the Catholica is not
made up of religious fragments, but is rather a whole that may include them but
far transcends them.4 This is so because she is the living body of a living person,
and because “the truth of a living being always lies in its wholeness.”5 This
wholeness relates to the parts in a way which is illustrated by Balthasar’s
directions to a theologian: “Not every one who writes dogmatics need write an
entire dogmatics: but he must preserve the totality, the catholicity of the truth in
every feature of his thought.”6
That this truth is open to all distinguishes it from gnosis which is secret
(Balthasar further notes that esotericism always has an element of anxiety).1 The
Church is the unity of mystery and openness: God’s Word is addressed to all, but
received by only a few.2
The Catholica is the “fullness of Christ” (Fülle Christi)—but though she
has the fullness, she must continually search for it as well (the “seeking/being
found” dynamism will be recalled). Other claimants of universality—eastern
meditation, Communism—can spur her on to reach back into the treasures she
already has to find the fullness of that fragment which the others call to
attention.3
The particular claims of Christianity are scandalous to the largesse of
liberal Judaism and paganism: but it is precisely this particular God, with this
particular Son who opens the way of salvation to all.4 In contrast to the national
character of Judaism, it is the individual whom Jesus calls to intimacy. Again,
against Buddhists who seek vertical flight from this world and liberal Jews who
seek to create an earthly utopia in a future time, the Catholica is unique in
accepting and loving this world as it is now, for it is the world that God so loves
and that the Son of God came to save.
It is this aspect which further distinguishes the Catholica from other
Christian groups, and which leads Balthasar to identify it with Roman
Catholicism, very specifically.5 The Eastern Orthodox represent a church of
Tabor: a vision of a world suffused with the Spirit who proceeds from the Father
alone, through which the Son walked, the Light coming into a “saved” world. It
is not the Spirit breathed out on the Cross into the profane world until the end of
time. Protestantism goes to the other extreme. If Orthodoxy is a religion of
extreme vision, Protestantism is the religion of hearing stripped of vision—a
religion which knows only the Spirit breathed into the profane world which is in
need of historical transformation.6
Roman Catholicism is mid-way between the extremes of Athos and
Wittenberg, of east and west in Christianity, even as it offers a balanced solution
to the problems addressed by Communism and meditative religion. Highlighting
what it is he sees as characteristic of Catholicism Balthasar writes:
If a religion wants to prove itself as the absolute religion, it must show that it is through this
religion that man in his temporality and historicity, indeed, in his fallenness-unto-death and
nothingness, is truly restored. In other words, it must show that both the order of creation as
well as the disorder of sin (including social sin) find a place in it. The religion must be world
affirming without becoming enslaved by worldliness. Moreover the “absolute” historical
event must at the same time remain relevant all the time, not only as a memory, but rather as
present (in Christianity, this is the role of the Holy Spirit).1
C. Sin
That guilt is a part of man throughout the world, present wherever there is
personal conscience and social order, and that religion is largely an escape to
deal with this has already been presented. Here we move from guilt to sin, which
is unique to the Biblical religions (including Islam).3
The guilty man of course suffers from sin, but he does not know it. His
guilt comes from the result of sin which is essentially chaos, the chaos of fallen
man who does not know God and who must choose either hedonistic resignation
to his sinful state or else attempt to flee through technique to become pure spirit.
In either case, he will not acknowledge the analogy of creature to creator and
seeks either identity or dialectic (= denial of God). Balthasar’s answer of course
is the correct order of analogy, which is made up of the proper
relation/perspective of distance-nearness (Abstand-Nähe).4
Unlike vague and pandemic guilt, sin first comes to light with the Biblical
Word of God and its call to be holy. As seen in Adam, man became deaf to the
inner voice of things and to God’s voice within, needing the external word of the
Old Testament and the Incarnate Word of Christ.1 In Scripture, man becomes
aware of the “supernatural goal” God has set for him: sin is his inability to will
and strive for this goal.2 It is the Spirit that makes our longing—and our
sinfulness—known to us, and who reveals the fact that we cannot free ourselves
from sin, unlike the guilt which man can deal with by compensatory means.
Importantly, “the devil quotes Scripture”: with the coming of God’s Word,
confusion emerges between spirit and anti-spirit, and education in discernment
of spirits becomes indispensable.3 In the covenant relation which God
establishes with man, sin becomes unfaithfulness to the relation.
That man is sinful must be revealed to man by the Spirit of God. But the
sinfulness is present from the beginning, and with it, the wrath of God (der Zorn
Gottes) which Balthasar insists upon and which is fundamental to his
soteriology. Sin is the pure opposite of obedience, it is to tempt God by not
waiting for what is good and necessary from His hand. Elsewhere, Balthasar
writes that the central sin of world history is “self-justification” and the lies that
go with it, as with those who tried to excuse themselves of Jesus’ death.4
As we have seen, sin is monological while salvation is dialogical.
Conversion for the Christian is not a monologue between his higher and lower
selves, but a dialogue between the guilty sinner and the Lord who calls him.5 Yet
the dialogue is always one of “I” and “Thou”: one vision of hell itself is the
dissolution of the individual “I” into a collective/mass. Hell is also seen as the
refusal to meet God in the here and now of one’s world but rather seeking to
escape elsewhere, for example, into a future potential.6
Interestingly, atheism properly so called is possible only after the coming
of Christ, and with it the revelation of the “man of sin,” that man who tries to
assault Heaven by his own efforts, thus refusing to imitate the humble Christ
who has been revealed to him as the way.1 And along with this, the
“fundamental theodramatic principle of world history” comes to light: “that the
always-more of the revelation of God’s free love provokes a new and ever
greater human hate.”2
If sin is the formless disorder that results from self-willed disobedience,
conversion for the Christian means being formed in “contemplative obedience,”
following the “highest example” of her whose ecce ancilla allowed the Word to
become flesh.3 It is to the response of the Bride that we turn in our next chapter.
Conclusion
It is by way of analogy that the fragments of our world, greater or smaller, are
seen to reflect the whole, each fragment a unique angle, a particular “take on
reality” which yet also speaks of the whole, conveys the whole, as if by way of
that character that signs this particular piece of art as coming from this particular
artist. God can be approached as the artist whose conception has taken on
material form, as the poet whose words have come to life. The words which are
the fragments of creation point away from themselves, point elsewhere. Man,
reading this language, at first is drawn to worship, yet wearied of words in time,
he longs to rise above the language to a whole which he presumes is the silence
from which all these words would issue, but a silence that is only the refreshing
absence of words unless the lightning of grace call it to light.
This language of creation is spoken by the God who is a community of
persons in relation, who speak to each other: it is as it were an overflow of love
from the overbrimming aliveness of the Father, a creation of words which yet
speak of the Logos through Whom they were made and for whom they are all
ultimately created. Yet man soon turns a deaf ear to the language of things. God
then addresses man through prophets, through willing instruments, if one will,
who can bear His melody to mankind.
This second language involves human words and human deeds, it involves
the first language of creation and the second language of history and what comes
to light in history. The Spirit’s gift is perspective, correct vision, the seeing of
things in harmony which is to say, things correctly situated one to another in
space and time: the Spirit provides the reflecting mind a knowledge of the
distance and closeness of things which is what it is to perceive things and events
correctly. This Spirit is already at work in the Trinity itself, the Spirit of love
between Father and Son, a love which to be love must allow space for the other.
This other is reflected in the created world, and the Word which is uttered
by the Father, is begotten of the Father, takes on the otherness of the world fully,
emptying Himself of the glory of the divine community in order to take on
Himself the humility of the lowly other and lead it to its fullness. All the
fragments of reality, all the words, are drawn to him as metal shavings are to a
magnet. He is the primordial Word before all words—the Urwort—who as
sharing in the divine essence is also an Überwort, the alpha and the omega.
Word and silence are mysteriously wedded in the divine mystery, a mystery
which Balthasar will not quite characterize as silence, for this would be to
“limit” God where He is not to be limited, but rather pointing beyond, in,
through and above Word to the Full Silence which speaks.
In the flesh, He speaks words, fragments themselves which are cast out like
a net to gather in the original fragments, turned away from their telos by misused
human freedom, leading them not to destruction, but to fullness. But it is a new
fullness, one that will pass through the ultimate purification of the Word’s
entering that dead silence which knows none of the creative tension of word-
silence, that mutedness which is death. All the words of His life, all that He
would express of the One Who sent Him, are gathered into the one inchoate cry
from the fixed point at which life’s speech collapses into silence. Then there
remains the silence alone, the “Not-word.” If the “Un-word” of natural man
somehow comes close (and yet so far!) to the glowing speech-silence of God, the
“Not-word” of death is as dead and mute as anything can be. Yet the Father
raises this now formless Word to transformed life, sending the Spirit through this
silent Word to begin to transform this silent Word back into the words that will
transform all creation.
For Balthasar, the “Cry,” the Cross, is God’s last word to the world, and so
the moment where time, with its flow of words, meets eternity, and where it will
meet it until the end of time: there are no further words to be revealed, although
words first begin to be spoken then to bring to the light what has happened in the
way leading to that cry. And so the Christian life begins after all the words of
creation have been gathered up into the one Word Jesus Christ and lead with and
in Him into the silence of the grave: the Spirit continues this drama through all
time, bringing the words of God in creation to the intensity of confrontation with
that earthly silence which allows for transfiguration into that perfect word-
silence which is the fullness of God.
But how does this union of word and silence, perfect in God, come about
on earth? If Christ is all Word whose silence but reflects what humanity cannot
understand of Him, who is there in the world to hear that Word, to receive Him?
The loving tension of word and silence in God brings to mind the
dynamism of human marriage: it also calls up the image of the crowning of
Mary by the Son (with the Father and Spirit taking approving part) as Queen of
Heaven, so favored in medieval Catholic art and devotion. It is to this wedding
of the divine Word with the human silence that listens and hears that we must
next direct our attention.
1. HTAB, p. 103.
2. HFSK, pp. 58–9.
3. S5, pp. 116–7.
1. HFSK, pp. 287–8.
2. S1, p. 151.
3. Ibid., pp. 150–1.
4. TDHA, p. 60.
1. S5, p. 108.
2. S3, p. 471.
1. S5, p. 197.
2. TDPC, p. 381.
3. Ibid., p. 421.
4. Ibid., p. 420.
1. S1, p. 168.
2. HTNB, p. 479.
3. S3, pp. 274–5.
1. EPIL, p. 59.
2. S3, p. 292.
3. E.g., HTNB, p. 412.
4. Ibid.
5. TDHA, p. 133.
6. REL1, p. 34.
7. TDPR, p. 512.
1. Ibid., p. 524.
2. Ibid., p. 543.
3. Jacques Cuttat, Begegnung der Religionen, tr. Hans Urs von Balthasar (Einsiedeln: Johannes
Verlag, 1956), p. 60. Henceforth: BEGR.
4. Ibid.
5. Ibid., p. 63.
6. HRMA, p. 143.
7. TLWW, p. 192.
8. Ibid., p. 213.
1. TDPR, p. 604.
2. TDPE, p. 642.
3. TLWW, p. 172.
4. S3, p. 276.
5. EPIL, p. 81.
6. S4, p. 204.
7. GIMF, p. 114.
8. TDHA, p. 92.
9. HTAB, p. 54.
1. S1, p. 23.
2. BG, p. 85.
3. Ibid., p. 18.
4. S3, p. 274.
5. HSG, p. 139.
6. TLWG, p. 178.
7. CUDW, p. 3.
8. TDPR, p. 598.
1. S5, p. 111.
2. TDPC, p. 467.
3. TDES, p. 358.
4. Ibid., p. 360.
5. S5, p. 236.
6. Ibid., p. 33.
7. GIMF, p. 64.
8. HSG, p. 459.
1. HTAB, p. 69.
2. S3, p. 156.
3. TDPC, p. 484.
4. Ibid., pp. 483–4.
5. S3, p. 158.
1. S5, p. 51.
2. EPIL, p. 30.
3. Ibid., p. 31.
4. HRMN, p. 675.
5. CS, p. 145.
6. HSG, p. 305.
1. HFSL, pp. 501–2.
2. S1, p. 152.
1. This polemical hyperbole is elsewhere contradicted, as we shall soon see—but the point remains
in the sense of an initial contact with God.
2. S3, p. 282.
3. Ibid.
4. S5, p. 368.
5. Ibid., p. 254.
6. Ibid., p. 368.
1. TLWG, p. 88.
2. TDPC, p. 385.
3. Ibid.
4. Ibid.
5. TLGW, p. 337.
1. HTNB, p. 267.
2. HFSL, p. 567.
3. Ibid.
4. HRMN, p. 712.
5. TDPR, p. 16.
6. HTNB, p. 250.
1. GINL, p. 30. It must be noted that Balthasar is opposed to the creation of any system of theology.
2. HTNB, p. 94.
3. TDHA, p. 58.
4. HFSL, p. 547.
5. HRMA, p. 285.
1. HTAB, p. 146.
2. TLGW, p. 341.
3. HFSK, p. 60.
4. HSG, p. 413.
5. S5, p. 50.
6. EPIL, p. 28.
7. TDPM, p. 362.
1. TLWW, p. 106.
2. Suggestively, Balthasar cites Bonaventure’s description of how revelation appears to outsiders as
“a sort of primal forest (Urwald—silva opax).” Bonaventure, Brevil Prol, par. 6 (V 208b) as cited in HFSK,
p. 273.
3. EPIL, p. 59.
4. TLWG, p. 226.
5. BG, p. 28.
1. HRMN, p. 561.
2. Ibid.
3. S4, p. 24.
4. TLWG, p. 76.
5. HSG, p. 368.
6. HRMA, p. 28.
7. HRMN, p. 488.
1. S5, p. 260.
2. GINL, p. 30.
3. TDPM, p. 365.
4. HRMA, p. 179.
1. HRMN, p. 959.
2. HFSL, p. 608.
3. Ibid.
4. HFSL, p. 622.
5. Ibid. p. 603.
6. Ibid., p. 641.
7. HRMN, p. 687.
8. HFSL, p. 723.
9. S1, p. 86.
1. S5, p. 276.
2. Ibid., p. 264.
3. TDPM, p. 59.
4. HTAB, p. 356.
5. We use this word cautiously, to indicate that God is always greater, yet bearing in mind
Balthasar’s insistence that God can fully express Himself and has done so in Christ.
6. HTNB, pp. 248–9.
7. HSG, p. 246.
1. Ibid., p. 26.
2. S4, p. 345.
3. TLGW, p. 305.
4. BG, p. 221.
5. HTNB, p. 30.
6. HTAB, p. 379.
1. HTNB, p. 47.
2. TDHA, p. 107.
3. TDPC, p. 382.
4. S1, p. 95.
5. HTNB, p. 118.
6. HFSK, p. 313.
7. HSG, p. 385.
8. TLGW, p. 294.
9. Ibid., p. 13.
1. HFSL, p. 537.
2. HTNB, p. 253.
3. Ibid., p. 78.
4. S5, p. 302; TLWG, p. 273; CM, p. 21.
1. HFSK, p. 348.
2. TDPM, p. 264.
3. S5, p. 292.
4. HTNB, p. 255.
5. TDHA, p. 56.
6. S3, pp. 39–40.
7. HSG, p. 147.
8. TLGW, p. 333.
1. HSG, p. 186.
2. Ibid., p. 593.
3. TDPM, p. 245.
4. TDPC, p. 193.
5. HSG, p. 302.
6. TDPM, p. 333.
7. EPIL, p. 79.
8. S1, p. 190.
9. TLGW, p. 227.
10. TDPM, p. 377.
11. GINL, p. 30.
1. TLGW, pp. 276–7.
2. TLWG, p. 258.
1. TLGW, pp. 242–3.
1. TLWG, p. 113.
2. HTNB, p. 198.
3. HFSL, pp. 688–9.
4. S4, p. 139.
5. HTNB, p. 210.
1. A historian of German culture has pointed to the lack of verbal development in German culture as
a key both to the culture’s greatness and to its weakness. Its greatness, for it developed music to tremendous
heights; its weakness, for the musical development of intuitive communication robbed the culture of the
proper development of discursive reason as control to powerful intuitions. Curiously, the Slavic nations all
use the word “mutes” (Niemcy) for the Germans, while one of the etymologies of the word “Slav” is slovo,
word. This may suggest a further reason why Goethe’s replacement of deed for word at the heart of
revelation holds a powerful appeal to the music-loving Balthasar.
1. TLWW, p. 198
2. TLWG, p. 252.
3. S4, p. 298.
4. S5, p. 260.
5. HTAB, pp. 216–7.
1. S5, p. 253.
2. Ibid.
3. TLWG, p. 253.
4. Ibid., p. 14.
5. Ibid., p. 251.
1. S5, p. 244.
2. Ibid.
3. Ibid., p. 265.
4. Ibid., pp. 266–7.
5. S4, p. 346.
6. GINL, p. 46.
7. S3, p. 60.
1. S1, p. 120.
2. EPIL, pp. 78–9.
3. TLWG, p. 316.
4. HSG, p. 19.
5. EPIL, p. 85.
6. CM, p. 14.
7. HTNB, p. 77.
1. Ibid., p. 81.
2. S1, 146.
3. HTAB, p. 362.
4. HTNB, p. 195.
1. Ibid., p. 481. It is interesting that in the Russian tradition, one’s sighs are seen as the sighs of
one’s guardian angel, praying for one.
2. S3, pp. 162–3.
3. S1, p. 153.
4. TDPR, p. 21.
5. CM, p. 7.
1. TLWG, p. 107.
2. HFSK, p. 176.
3. TLWG, p. 139.
4. CM, p. 40.
1. TLWG, p. 254.
2. Ibid., p. 252.
3. Ibid., p. 101.
4. TLGW, p. 209.
5. HTNB, p. 176.
6. CM, p. 41.
1. HTNB, p. 145.
2. TDES, p. 242.
3. S5, p. 270.
4. TLWG, p. 320.
5. TLGW, p. 210.
6. S1, p. 155.
7. HTNB, p. 135.
1. HRMA, p. 247.
2. HSG, p. 241.
3. Ibid., p. 212.
4. S3, p. 36.
5. HTAB, p. 209.
6. Ibid.
7. HTAB, p. 217.
8. Ibid., p. 206.
1. HRMN, p. 959.
2. HTAB, p. 172.
3. HSG, p. 461.
4. S5, p. 268.
5. TDPM, p. 79.
6. TDHA, p. 460.
7. HTNB, p. 505.
8. TDPC, p. 485.
1. S5, p. 272.
2. Ibid., p. 270.
3. HTNB, p. 424.
4. HSG, p. 160.
5. HRMN, p. 852.
6. S4, p. 396.
1. HSG, p. 177.
2. Ibid.
3. TLWG, p. 254.
4. S1, p. 40.
1. S3, p. 253.
2. CM, p. 12.
3. HSG, p. 290.
4. BG, p. 144.
5. HFSK, p. 68.
6. EPIL, p. 29. The whole issue of “substitution” (Stellvertretung) would offer a very interesting
entrance into an understanding of the uniqueness of Christ. Part of Balthasar’s respect for Buddhism is
related to the Bodhisattva ideal in the Mahayana.
1. GINL, p. 92.
2. HSG, p. 242.
3. S4, pp. 62–3.
4. TDPC, p. 386.
5. S1, p. 81.
6. Ibid., p. 167.
1. Ibid., p. 73.
2. S2, p. 517.
3. S5, p. 350.
4. BG, p. 157.
5. S2, p. 495.
6. S4, p. 61.
1. CUDW, p. 15, footnote 5.
2. S4, p. 113.
3. Ibid., pp. 298–9.
1. HRMA, p. 318.
2. HRMN, p. 962.
3. Ibid., p. 963; see also S3, p. 15.
4. TDPR, p. 600.
5. TLWW, p. 114.
6. HRMA, p. 363.
7. HFSL, p. 690.
8. S5, p. 39.
1. TDPR, pp. 75–76.
2. TLWG, p. 238.
3. The distinction between guilt and sin is important to Balthasar. Unfortunately, the theoretical
distinction between non-Biblical guilt and Biblical sinfulness cannot be maintained in watertight
compartments and so for example in his works we find, naturally enough, references to general human
sinfulness and the guilt of Christians.
4. CS, p. 103.
1. HSG, p. 434.
2. HTNB, p. 439.
3. Ibid., p. 67.
4. TDHA, p. 164.
5. S4, p. 246.
6. TDPR, pp. 356–7. Of his vision of hell for contemporary man in mass society, Balthasar calls
Solzhenitsyn’s Gulag Archipelago “the epic of our century, the book that should survive should all the
others perish. . . .” (NK, p. 160).
1. CUDW, p. 15.
2. TDHA, p. 314.
3. HSG, p. 467.
IV
Hochzeitlichkeit: The Word Weds Silence
Introduction
I t is a curious thing that in our sex-obsessed culture, the differentiation of the
sexes in expected social roles, occupations, clothing, appearance should be
diminished to the point of disappearing. Or perhaps this should be put
differently. Perhaps it is in a society that would turn a blind eye to gender
differences that sexuality emerges as a raw wound. We had seen earlier that
Balthasar loudly and constantly celebrates the diversity of creation. The
uniqueness of each bit of reality speaks of the imaginative power of the poet-
God who has created all by His Word. Moreover, this God is a Trinity of Persons
who in Himself has the Other, a richness of diversity within unity which is at the
essence of the Creator. It thus stands to reason that His creation should mirror
this diversity.
Because of the Incarnation, one must go further. We have seen that because
there is the Other in God, there is room for the Other in God: there is room for a
world redeemed on the Cross to be taken up into the divine life, in the Son. In
this chapter, we turn our attention to that Other “outside of” God, the creature(s)
to whom His Word is issued. We first consider the qualities required of one who
would receive that Word which Balthasar habitually describes as a “seed.” We
then turn to the Blessed Virgin Mary, who was the perfect receiver of that Word,
a virgin whose virginity will bear fruit. We look at her preparation for that
reception in the history of her people Israel, as a member of the anawim. Mary’s
reception of the Word was such that she was the perfect “hearer of the Word.”
Yet as we shall see her hearing was not merely passive: the divine action was to
provoke a responding word from her, in which her action revealed her
affirmation, her “yes” (Jawort).
The whole issue of eros and agape requires our attention, as eros—human
longing—is so much at the heart of being human, and as its interplay with agape
forms the distinctive ambience of Christian spirituality in Balthasar. Here we
will spend some time exploring what Balthasar calls the “theology of the sexes,”
which includes what today might be called a study in “sex roles.” Analogy being
the lens through which Balthasar views reality, the whole question of male and
female, how each originates and how this determines their interaction will richly
illustrate the relation of God and His People.
This relation which we have seen take concretion in the Virgin Mary
moves into a new dimension as the “bridal mystery,” connubiality
(Hochzeitlichkeit), in which the divine Bridegroom creates His Bride from His
fullness on the Cross. Here we find:
[t]hat ineffable bliss which lies in the mystical experience of total release and of pouring out
the finite spirit into the infinite spirit, as China, India and Sufism join in celebrating it: it
reaches its fulfillment in the pneumatic “marriage” between God and creature. Only here the
release has lost its negativity: its presupposition is no longer the ascetical negation of every
finite being as illusion and maya, but rather loving union with the spirit of Christ.1
As we have seen before, the former “can only lead to a Nirvana as identity . . .
the second, however, to an identity of fullness, in which all limited being is
transformed.”2 As will be seen, the fullness refers both to the Bride who is the
fullness of Christ and to Christ Himself, from whose fullness the Bride issues.
This means so much to Balthasar that he maintains that “it is only on this level
that a true dialogue is possible between Christianity and other religions.”3
An extreme instance of natural humanity’s relation to the sacred can be
found in contemporary, popular culture. The American film The Doors presents
the story of rock-star Jim Morrison who mesmerised a generation by addressing
what he perceived as their “need for the sacred.”1 Using a model of shaman
which he learned in drug mysticism and in contact with American Indians, and
focussing on the eros which craved compensation for modern man’s “loss of
God,” his performances were to become increasingly sexual (and narcissistic)
until indeed he was convicted of public indecency. The dionysian frenzy of his
music and performance illustrates an extreme attempt to reach the sacred—“the
other side”—by a poet convinced that ecstasy was the way through the “doors of
perception.”2 The Christian turns another way, to an eager silence which is
listening for that word which “the other side” will utter. It is with a look at that
silence that we begin.
C. Indifference
Even as silence is not the mere absence of words, a mere emptiness, and as the
relation of activity and passivity in receptivity is subtle and interwoven, so the
whole concept of indifference is very nuanced. Indifference is ultimately
contrasted, for Balthasar, with that resignation which characterizes non-Christian
spirituality. We might briefly designate resignation as the total passivity which is
not that active cooperation that makes for Christian indifference. In both the
Greek philosophers and in Asian religions, Balthasar was confronted with an
ideal of “apatheia,” which, at least superficially read, meant an absence of the
passions. For him, true indifference is indeed a calmness (Gelassenheit) but one
which is not a matter of “spiritual aloofness” but rather one that has the character
of being willing to be plunged into various human conditions, if it be the will of
God.1 This willing—indeed, daring—indifference is seen most clearly in Mary’s
ecce ancilla.2
The chief alternative to Christian indifference then is Stoic indifference (in
whatever form). Stoic indifference does not let the deepest self be affected by
emotions while Christian indifference allows the deepest self to be open to
suffering if God wills it.3 So for Origen, indifference was the heart of the matter:
man’s falling out of indifference was indeed the Fall.4 Balthasar contrasts Origen
with Augustine who was centered on love. Both looked to the Heavenly
Jerusalem, but Augustine identified it with the “bride without blemish or
wrinkle”—had he lived a few centuries later, he would have identified it with the
Virgin Mary, the “essence and nucleus of the Church.”5
This move from classical indifference to a love which then takes bridal
form and is identified with the Virgin Mary is a theme which runs throughout
Balthasar’s view of Christian spiritual history. In his Metaphysik der Heiligen, he
speaks of a moment when the post-medieval West, no longer Aristotelian and not
yet affected by the reassertion of the Neo-Platonic, rediscovered the classical
sense of tragedy and with it the issue of human suffering.1 For classical tragedy,
there was a suffering which no technique could overcome: one must “surrender
himself in indifference” and following the examples of Odysseus and Æneas,
know “patience in fate with the god and in the god.”2 In the fourteenth century,
there was a split between philosophers who tear their world apart in nominalism
and dialectics and “the lovers [who] give themselves over to the night and
discover the form of existence of indifference.”3
This moment was one of change from the ancient dominance of eros in
theology (Augustine) to the new indifference. The theory of eros had tended to
emphasis the ability of eros in the individual seeker to perform the “act of
transcendence” (Überstieg); in the new view, what matters is a true indifference
that is the
“passive” readiness to absorb in suffering every positive impression coming to one from
God. The “glorious” (Herrliche) does not lie any longer in the high-flight of eros which
gazes into the eternal, but rather in the encounter of the disponable spirit of the “Handmaid
of the Lord,” oriented to service, with the condescending Son.4
This represents a sea change in the spiritual theology of the Church. The spirit of
Christian indifference is profoundly feminine. Balthasar writes that “on the
creaturely level it is virginal, on the level of the revelation of love it is bridal,”
and that the replacement of the transcendence-spirituality of eros with the stance
of indifference represents “the kairos for feminine self-expression in a Church
that understands herself in a feminine way.”5 Not surprisingly, the fundamental
virtue for Balthasar is patience—as Catherine of Siena describes it, a patience
blended with “generous disponability (zur Verfügung stehend).”1
Curiously enough, it is in the school of Eckhart that this sea change takes
place. Not, to be sure, the Eckhart of dubious philosophical speculations, the
Eckhart who places human intellect “face to face” with God and who, losing the
proper relation of distance, will help in the development of that speculative
idealism in which the individual is lost in the Absolute, as we have seen.2
Rather, it is in the school of Eckhart, “choosing his Christian way and rejecting
his speculative extravagance” that the “metaphysics of the saints is grounded, a
school that stamps all Christian thought until modern times, including Ignatius,
Francis de Sales, Fenelon, Newman. . . .”3 What is it then that Eckhart proposed?
Eckhart understands indifference in a marian way: “to be present to the
highest truth virginally and freely, without any hindrance.”4 This marian
teaching on indifference moves on to its completion in a Trinitarian view: “The
marian womb receives the seed of the Father, and because the Father is begetting
the Son in an eternal present, the eternal procession of the Son takes place in the
pure medium of receptivity.”5 This “eternal conception” takes place almost
naturally, for “active and passive seek each other”6 and “the more actively God
is at work, the more passively should the creature conduct itself. . . .”7 But this
“pure surrender to conception is the work, an inner, spiritual work, that gives all
exterior work its worth and replaces all external deeds, for all fruitfulness lies in
it.”8 Although praised for this insight, Eckhart will also be criticized for
exaggerating the loss of will of the “passive” subject. Eckhart’s marian
understanding—and its relation to a correct understanding of analogy—suffer in
consequence, but the basic insight of marian indifference was invaluable.
In this epoch of changing views, the active despising of the world
(despicere mundum) which characterizes “Buddhist-Platonic-Stoic” indifference
progresses to an ideal of “being despised by the world (despici a mundo).”1 One
desires this freedom to suffer because “Christ is Himself a divine person who
suffers as man.”2 The Christian view moves beyond that of a desire to be
purified of images by apatheia in search of “pure imageless Being (the Light
Experience of Evagrius, Simeon, Palamas).”3 It is love for and imitation of
Christ that leads the believer into the darkness “in which God hid Himself,
which could also be affirmed in the not-seeing and in the naked faith of
indifference.”4 It is this indifference of love of the particular that distinguishes
the Christian above all and that renders discussion possible with other religious
traditions:
And as this Christian metaphysics reaches behind Plato to tragedy and comes into
conversation with the existential situation of real people, the dialogue with the metaphysical
ways of salvation of Asia will become possible, at least beginning with a Christian Eckhart,
and probably only with him. The “indifference” (Gelassenheit) of Christian Neo-Platonism
(in sharpest form in Evagrius Ponticus) may well introduce this dialogue, but it will not be
able to conclude it; it is only where the despicere becomes despici and Gnosis in
consequence becomes love that the Occident has something of its own, something that is of
surpassing value on the same turf, to offer to the East.5
D. Word-Seed
According to Balthasar, the “Word of God, sown in the world, is Jesus Christ
Himself. . . .”3 The parables He spoke while He was on earth are full of images
of seed and sowing. The seeds are vital, powerful: they grow. Yet the growth of
the seed is not presented so much as a “historical process” but rather as the
encounter of the world (which in the parables is presented as “the field”) with
the Word and the changes which come to the world through this event.4
God the Father is the sower. Balthasar writes: “As the one begetting gives
his seed, so God gives His Son: in the dark, dangerous, powerful womb of the
world.”5 Most obviously, of course, this takes place in the womb of the Virgin.
The word that Mary loves is sown (eingesät) in her heart.6 In nature, the “foreign
seed unites itself with the maternal egg”: this is “like the word that came from
outside united with the supernatural grace held ready in Mary” and became a
unity, which new unity “becomes precisely the primordial image (Urbild) of all
unity in the world.”1
Incarnate, the Word speaks often of the seeds that are sown; it is only after
His death and resurrection that these sayings are understood as referring to
Himself, the “life-giving Word.” The post-resurrection recollection of things said
and done by Jesus during His life is itself an “opening up” of seeds planted
during His earthly life.2 Making the Word of God, the “seed of the Father,”
intimately present to the soul is the “witness” of the Spirit, a work which renders
contemplation possible.3
On the Cross, His flesh is sacrificed as a “seed of new life through all the
ages for the feminine Church and through her for the entire historical cosmos.”4
Though hated by the world, this Word acts as the leaven of history, pervading it.5
As this leaven works, both individually and corporately, then, there is progress in
the world: but if the fact of progress is given to the Christian, it remains a
progress which he cannot determine.6 The ongoing work of God in sending His
Son into the world is virtually the motor of history: for Balthasar, the world
always remains the “not yet pure womb for the entire seed-word (Samenwort) of
God” and so “every present moment is ever more urgently open to the future.”7
It is virginity “for the sake of connubiality with Christ” (Hochzeitlichkeit zu
Christus) that is the true “creative power” in human history.8
The Word of God, then, must fall on ground that has been prepared; there
must be a suitable vessel to receive the seed. Comparing the Word of God to a
sacrament, Balthasar writes that it “certainly works of itself what it expresses
and means, but yet must fall as a seed upon prepared, loosened earth.”9 Having
appreciated several aspects of the seed-character of the Word of God, we turn
our attention to the perfect receiver, the virgin womb, Mary.
God loves to dwell with those who have been badly treated because He Himself
is badly treated by those whom He loves: it is this, more than the theophanies of
glory, that proves the enduring theme of the Bible. The prophets, of course, are
the great teachers of this purification. Jeremiah, “persecuted, mocked,
humiliated” himself, becomes the “patron of the spirituality of the poor.”2
Balthasar observes that from Jeremiah onwards, it is poverty, the “being
deprived of rights and help that infallibly draws God’s gaze to itself.”3 And
since, in the Exile, all Israel suffers the fate of this impoverishment, “it receives
rightful access to the mercy of God.”4 The “true Israel” then is a “hidden” Israel,
one which does not dominate in earthly glory, but one which is receptive to God
and His Word “through poverty, humiliation, neediness and patience.”5 It is
Israel’s poverty that gives God access to this people. What Jesus praises, then,
comes out of this experience, one stripped of all resentment, of all desire to take
the place of the wealthy: rather, He praises “simplicity not sure of itself, an
entirely un-self-conscious receptivity to the wisdom of God, a wisdom fashioned
completely differently, which seems to the Jews a scandal and to the pagans a
foolishness. . . .”6
The anawim are the truly Chosen People, those who, lifted up to the eyes
of the world, reflect the universal religious phenomenon of being open to God,
of being needy and dependent upon Him. It is they who are truly “empty” for
God. Jesus will speak of this emptiness for God in the Beatitudes. The Church
will incorporate this vision in its institution of the vows: virginity, poverty and
obedience are all ways of abandoning power in order that God may be powerful
in one.7
The sufferings of Israel had served as purification to solidify—within the
people, as it were—a new spiritual stance, and Mary, the humble virgin from a
distant village will now become locus of God’s glory in the world. It is in Mary
that the streams of prophecy and wisdom in Israel converge. Balthasar writes
that in Mary, both the “ascending Spirit-wisdom and the descending Word”
meet; she whom Augustine calls “created wisdom” “becomes the eschatological
bride of the Word, that will become flesh from her, while Mary will become both
bride and body for the Church: the return to the Father takes place in this union
of Spirit and Word.”1
It is Mary who is the one so perfectly empty for God that she will summon,
as it were, His all powerful Word to her listening person, her gifted purity that
will allow Him to do great things in her.
It is Mary’s total faith-act that allows for her total, virginal fruitfulness—again,
Augustine’s phrase prius concepit mente quam ventre capsulizes it perfectly.
And Jesus Himself will not give the world a partial, sexual fruitfulness, but
rather He Himself becomes fully “seed” for the feminine, receptive community.4
Mary is the “feminine womb of the Word of God, believing and
remembering womb of the Church” who does not receive the “seed of Christ”
but rather the “seed Christ.”1 It is important to underline this, recalling that the
Word precisely is seed, and on the Cross once again becomes seed for the world.
The Pietà suggests itself as image of the “second” becoming seed in the womb
of Mary-Church. In terms of the primordial “hearing,” Balthasar describes Mary
as the blessed “hearer of the Word who knows how to keep and to guard it, to
feed and to bear it, and once she has given it birth, pondering to keep it alive in
her heart.”2 Here we see the fine interplay between word as verbal message and
word made flesh, inseparable in the relation of Word to Mary. And, in all this,
Mary is ever more the primordial image (Urbild) of the Church.
God’s Word, going forth, does not primarily seek a response, but rather it
seeks the indifference of the ecce ancilla3 in which there is no “passivity or
resignation.”4 In this waiting indifference, “active and passive are one in letting-
it-happen (Geschehenlassen)”5 which is the stance of the one listening. Mary is
the “paradigm” of that correct stance, “beyond contemplation and action” which
is an “active-passive readiness for the entire Word, not suspecting how it will
articulate itself in her, together with her.”6 The Virgin then is the “hearing
person, pure and simple . . . who becomes pregnant with the Word and gives
birth to it as her Son and the Son of the Father.”7 Mary heard the word of God
more fully than anyone else, and so “her faith was the fulfilling incarnation of
the divine word of promise.”8 It is a commonplace that hearing, in religion, is
associated with obedience, and at least from Irenæus on, Mary is seen as the
New Eve, whose obedience is set against the former disobedience.9
As the “primordially authentic hearer” who ponders and understands
correctly, Mary becomes the “authentic interpreter” of God’s Word: for the
Church, she is both the “primordial contemplative” and the “mediator of right
hearing.”1 For contemplation, Mary serves as a necessary “immunization” in two
ways: first, she keeps the Word from being something merely exterior, she shows
how it is properly interiorized; but second, the Word is never so interior as to
become identified with the contemplator.2 Once again, the issue of proper
“distance” comes to light. Although Mary hears and becomes pregnant with the
Word, she herself is not the Word. Balthasar links this discernment with the Holy
Spirit who is needed both for man to receive the Word of God, but also to know
the difference between God’s “Thou” and man’s own.3
The “marian mission” is very important in Balthasar’s thought, pervading
His writing, especially about the Church. He writes that what is special about
Mary’s spirituality is exactly “her own fundamental renunciation of any special
spirituality that would be anything other than the being overshadowed by the
Most High and the indwelling of the divine Word.”4 Mary’s mission is more
basic than that of the apostolic pillars of the Church and contains “within its
shadow other feminine missions” such as Mary Magdalene’s or Mary of
Bethany’s.5 Her being a hidden member of a hidden people, the anawim, and her
own virginity combine to create a perfect ear for God’s Word, a vessel that will
offer no resistance to His imprinting action as He forms His Son in her. Her
response can be beautifully summed up in one word: “yes.”
It is Mary’s “perfect act of faith in hearing the Word of God, which concludes
and summarises the ‘Daughter Zion’ and founds and introduces the ‘Bride-
Church.’”2
Without the marian listener as other, identification looms large as an
erroneous mystical way. This remains the problem with the way of Meister
Eckhart who, when all is said and done, lacks a true sense of the analogy of
being. That is, his thought lacks a true potentia receptionis grounded in a
“secondary cause” that “is active in (passive) reception: in short the Marian
Principle is lacking,” and this in spite of the marian character of the indifference
which his school discovered. This then leads to an “identification” of the birth of
Christ in the soul with what goes on within the Trinity and eventually, “the
creature usurps the place of the Father Himself, the creature becomes the
begetting primordial ground (zeugender Urgrund), causa sui.”3 Typically,
Mary’s reaction to the words of the angel was not “empty speculation about
God” but rather reflection on how best to respond to the Word addressed.4 In this
contrast between the “empty speculators” and the simple, but fruitful, responders
lies much of Balthasar’s understanding of the different roles of the sexes in
creation and salvation. It is important to our understanding of the relation of God
and His creation that we explore this theme more thoroughly.
Thus, all the riches of the “Egyptians,” all the treasure of earthly wisdom and
beauty can be taken over into the Christian view if “transfigured.” This is seen
perhaps most clearly in Augustine, who was led to “the highest beauty, God” by
an enthusiasm that was Platonic as well as Christian.2 Whereas the philosophers
are left to pine in their unsatisfied eros, the Christian has an agape at the end of
His journey, and this promised love of God is “the organ note that sounds
steadily under the whole dizzying music of world time.”3 We note that it is not
an organ note that obliterates the rest of the music, but a perfection that sounds
under (or over) all. Rather than seeking to separate eros and agape, Balthasar
seems to rejoice in their marriage, though, we hasten to recall, without being
ignorant of the dangers of eros. He sees this throughout the writers of the
Catholic tradition, where the ascent and the descent tend to meet harmoniously.
Gregory the Great, along with Augustine, speaks of the “seeking in
finding” of the Bride for the Bridegroom which “remains characteristic of the
blessedness for men and angels.”4 For the Victorines, amor represents “the vital-
subjective side of the world harmony grounded in God”5 (Balthasar’s organ note
will be here recalled). For Bernard, as well as for the Victorines, “enthusiasm
and inspiration flow into each other” and so they “used the language of eros for
agape. . . .”1 In Dionysius, the “ecstasy of creaturely eros is itself an emulation
of the ecstatic divine eros, which because of love stepped out of itself into the
multiplicity of the world. . . .”2 Moreover, if one strikes out the Neo-Platonic
parts, one finds in Dionysius a substance that is “truly Biblical, a true Old and
New Testament theology of covenant, in which the eager and consuming love of
the divine bridegroom does his work in the bride, to lift her into the same
answering love.”3
In St. John of the Cross, the human eros which allows itself to be overcome
by the divine eros is itself already the “response” to “God’s work of grace.”4
Furthermore, in the Carmelite mystic, the Holy Spirit between Bride and
Bridegroom is the secret of the “common spirit of the Father and Son” and
represents the “awakening of Christ in the middle of the soul,” where the
Bridegroom is addressed as “Word-Bridegroom” (Wort-Bräutigam).5 Hence the
divine Word itself in the middle of the human soul represents the lifting of
human eros into the divine eros, something which would clearly be blasphemous
for Nygren.
Recalling Nygren’s harsh criticism of Ficino for equating eros and agape in
a Platonic friendship in which eros would overcome and destroy agape,
Balthasar observes that “it was already obvious to Plato and Plotinus that eros in
its highest development was seen as selfless, for it loved the good for the sake of
the good”6 and he portrays Ficino as teaching that “all true love means
essentially to die oneself (sich selber sterben), in order to live only in the
Beloved.”7 Poles apart from Nygren, Soloviev maintains that eros and agape are
not essentially different, for “Christian love is the stage of fulfillment of natural
eros.”8 Eros cooperates with agape, for it draws the man to the woman: under the
power of eros, one glimpses the divine in the other, one sees “the beloved as God
sees him” and can work for the realisation of this vision.1
Concluding our brief survey, the poet Claudel anticipates what we shall see
in our look at Dante: his glory it is to have presented “the painful transformation
of eros into pure agape” where, as in Dante, it is a woman who “drags an
unwillingly following man to the final blessed humiliations.”2 In Claudel the
transforming dynamic is seen in his play The Satin Slipper in which the hero “is
purified by night by a guardian angel in a burning purgatory from longing eros to
an abnegating agape that wants nothing other than what God wills.”3
As always it is the love of man and woman that remains focal for
Balthasar. In light of our concern for “uniqueness,” he finds that the
exclusiveness of human relations—this man, this woman—“incarnationally
represents the eternal uniqueness (je-Einmaligkeit) of personal encounter.”4 The
interpersonal, which as we have seen is at the heart of his theology, comes from
the “dialogical a priori” within man himself: it is best described in erotic terms,
although it is superior to physical eros, even as the human comes out of but
transcends the animal.5 He goes so far as to maintain that sexual union is perhaps
the only image of the intimacy of divine truth, “the act of the union of two
persons into one flesh and the result of this union: the child”—though of course
one must view this transcending the duration of time.6
It is marriage that supplies form to this union in a way which resists the
tendencies of the individuals to break away, which “resolutely confronts the
tendencies of existence towards dissolution” and it is the forge that forces the
persons “to grow above and out of themselves into real love.”7 In the world of
sexuality, there is always present the possibility of what Balthasar calls the “bad
infinity”: it is a compulsive drive common to both sexes which is this “moment
of bad infinity.”1 In the Christian world, the form of marriage, the discipline of
it, is seen as the contribution of the laity in making eros/sex translucent for
agape. Of course, this is only possible in light of the Incarnation and the
redemption of all flesh on the Cross.2 However elevated its goal, marriage, for
Balthasar, is nothing special: rather, it is legitimate as the normal will of God for
humanity.3 Aquinas writes of marital love as maxima amicitia. He writes of the
high value the Church places on marriage as a sacrament in which the Holy
Spirit “can transform the natural eros into an agape that comes from God,” an
agape that is the “primary sacrament of love between Christ and His Church.”4
Although there is a “spiritual fruitfulness” of those who renounce marriage and
serve the “spiritual body” of the Lord in virginity, and although the Church in the
Council of Trent spoke of the “superiority” of virginity to marriage, still the
Church “takes marriage under its wing” by “insisting on its sacramentality” as
over against the Reformers (i.e., Luther) for whom marriage was a “worldly
thing.”5 Marriage as a sacrament redeems eros from the melancholy to which it
is condemned outside of Christianity (in a pre-, non- or post-Christian world)6
and shows that “as the entire man, so also his eros is capable of salvation,” that
the very “covenant of God with man in Christ (and in the Church) bears an erotic
form, that the Platonic-Plotinian longing for God as the eternal beautiful must
and indeed can be justified in a Christian scheme.”7
After this intoxicating view of eros harmoniously cooperating with agape,
we enter now into the needed reflection on the difference between eros and
agape. There was always the danger, Balthasar concedes, that “metaphysical
eros” would remain dominant in any of the syntheses of the Catholic tradition
and that “the distinguishing caritas of Christ will be robbed of its power and its
salt.”1 Indeed, he sees this as the ongoing danger in the history of Christian
spirituality.
As we have seen, Claudel and Dante insist that Christian eros must pass
through a death “in order to become an agape than can stand before the judgment
of the eternal light.”2 This purification means the Cross. Even Goethe recognized
that “to love means to suffer.”3 Balthasar puts the right balance this way: all eros
is love this side of what is revealed on the Cross, which is agape, and which is
the measure of all other loves.4 Because this is so, eros must be “totally
transformed through agape.”5 Man is by no means limited to eros: there is also a
capacity for agape in man implanted by the Holy Spirit as response to the
descending agape of God.6 Yet eros is not something evil, something hostile to
God. Balthasar observes that with Luther, the whole world falls into Dante’s hell
except those for whom Christ died on the Cross: for Protestantism and
Jansenism, “the sinful world as a whole moves back out of the light of the divine
eros and falls into general damnation. . . .”7 It is not a question of eros or agape:
but of a correct, harmonious relation of the two.
It is on the Cross that eros and agape are seen in their right relation:
Thus the mysteries of the Song of Songs here shimmer through the mysteries of the
humiliation and the servitude unto the Cross, and the mysteries of the divine eros shimmer
through the mysteries of the divine agape. The metamorphosis of Jesus before His disciples
on the Mountain is the unveiling of the Bridegroom, as He is, before the eyes of the Church.
. . yet the Bridegroom reveals Himself physically naked only in the form of misery
(Elendsgestalt) on the Cross. . . . And only a glance like that of the virginal John would be
capable here of contemplating the two unveilings as one: the unveiling of the Song of Songs,
the physically becoming visible in the glow of eros—and the unveiling of the equally
physically suffering love of the triune God.1
It is not the case that eros is only earthly and agape is only divine: what
Balthasar is here saying is that the divine eros—that love between the persons of
the Blessed Trinity—in pouring itself out to the human eros for God takes the
form of what humanity calls agape. Put differently, for the human eros
(ascending) to correspond to, and to encounter the divine eros (descending),
what is needed is the love of God which as self-emptying is called kenosis, as
selfless is called agape.
This love of God is a fire which purifies human eros. He questions the
facile presumption of Christians that earthly relations/friendships will just
continue on the other side. Using the image of the “purifying fire” he notes that
what is “wood, hay and straw must be burned (1 Cor. 3:12) and what man can
maintain with confidence that his love is ‘gold, silver and precious stones?’”2 It
is worthy of note that in heaven the form of male and female remain even as
sexual relations will not—there will be fruitfulness, and this is a form of
“interpersonal fruitfulness” but it is virginity that is the true anticipatory form of
the “supersexual bridalness.” What remains in heaven of earthly love “is that of
heaven which has incarnated itself in it.”3 If the soul is bound for an
eschatological marriage, then the purifying fire is the narrow passage of
virginity, mediating the earthly sacrament of marriage and purifying it,
transforming it. It will be recalled that Balthasar holds that the important
discernment for the Christian is not between the good and evil spirits, as the
natural man can do this; the Christian must discern between what is of God and
what is of man: the key, and sign, to this discernment between eros and agape is
virginity, “virginity, which means the exclusive fixing of all the human powers
of love to the love of God becoming man.”4 We turn to the poet Dante to see
how Balthasar evaluated the efforts of this Christian bard of “the human powers
of love.”
Balthasar’s treatment of Dante is rich, and includes points of great
admiration as well as some considerable criticism. Here, we want to touch some
main points as Dante figures so considerably in the subject we are addressing.
At his best, Dante took the Platonic-Scholastic world view and in the
middle of it placed the love of man and woman, the eros which, purified by
agape, will lead through all the depths of hell to the throne of God.1 For him,
eros is the “divine kernel” in man, implanted by God. The “love that moves the
sun and the other stars” is hardly a matter of “principles of being” but rather of
“an existing being.”2 In his setting the “concrete, personal existant over the
Scholastic essentialist world-contemplation” Dante led the way in establishing
the primacy of the ethical over the metaphysical.3 His eros is in harmony with
ethics: “no ethics without eros and so without beauty, but so much the less a
beauty without ethics.”4
The personal finds its center in Beatrice who initiates Dante into the
Christian. Tempted to treat her as an idea, Dante overcomes this for the
contemplation of divine beauty is “in the nobility of the form, in the eye, the
mouth and speech, that reveal the cor gentile.”5 His relation to Beatrice is hardly
one of “æsthetic libertinism”: the ethical is so much to the fore that Balthasar
calls the Commedia a “penitential sermon” (Busspredigt).6
Dante’s Beatrice overcomes the classical Neo-Platonic divisions of
positive, negative and eminent theology. Noting “as Charles Williams has rightly
seen,” the principle here appears “that the Christian does not have to give up a
limited love for the sake of unlimited love, much rather he can positively
introduce the limited love in the unlimited.”7 It is this principle we have seen all
along, where Balthasar refuses an emptiness which is mere void, refuses to
sacrifice the individual for the sake of the Absolute. Here, the limited love of
man and woman is introduced into the divine love, which fills the cosmos. For
Dante, the “radiating Good is love in all without the all having to be denied for
the sake of the One.”1
Through Beatrice, the whole comedy is about the overcoming of the limits
of Dante’s earthly personality, his narrow “I” in order to be open to the “Thous”
and to the “Other.”2 Beatrice has a “purifying and saving power,” “only she
leads from eros to agape, or else it is that eros that purifies itself into agape.”3
She is that “anima ecclesiastica, that soul, whose experience and feelings,
thought and will have been taken up into the universality of the Bride of Christ,
the Bride of the Lamb, of the Heavenly Jerusalem, the community of all the
loving and the saints.”4
In the end, Balthasar is critical of Dante. First of all, he feels that Dante’s
apatheia in his treatment of the souls in hell goes even beyond that of Buddhists
who have a compassion which cannot bear to see any creature suffering and
being finally lost.5 This can be related to the other main criticism, that is, that
Dante has an underdeveloped Christology and Trinitarian understanding. Simply
put, Dante baptized classical eros, but in spite of his developed inter-personal
sense, through Beatrice, he did not attain to what Balthasar understands as
Trinitarian love. Both eros and agape are, in the end, subsumed under eros: all
reality is indeed flooded with a divine eros, but in the end, all he offers is “the
eros of antiquity vastly intensified in a Christian way.”6 It is perhaps the whole
issue of selflessness which suggests itself as that which is missing here. If Dante
encountered that other self who revealed to him his own self, and so was saved,
he did not attain to that vision of selflessness which is at the heart of the Trinity
and which, in Christ, poured itself out in abandonment on the Cross and
descended into the depths of hell, leaving no door unopened in His loving search
for the lost other. We conclude this section with a look at this selflessness.
In selflessness, the divine original and the human image meet. In God,
selflessness is not a negation of the person but a part of “the order of the
processions” that “constitutes the essence of God as absolute Love.”1 It is
selflessness that is at issue in the dialogue of East and West today, as we have
noticed before: selflessness in order to be rid of being an ego or selflessness in
order to love.2 Selflessness, for the Christian, is a love through death and
resurrection in that mission that creates him as a person: selflessness is that
dying and rising with the self-emptying God with whom one is in loving—
obedient—union.3
Everything about man is invited into this transfiguration. That includes the
erotic which is lifted up in Christ, taken into His incarnation, where it is purified.
To be “one flesh with the Lord” does not mean “virginity as contrasted with
Christian marriage, but the expropriation and impressing into service of the body
with all its powers—even eros—in the context of selfless Christian love.”4
The human mirrors the divine in a curious way. Man’s longing is an image
of God’s outpouring of self, and as such, it transcends eros for the longing of
man’s heart already bears within it the distinguishing feature of the Kenosis.5
This divine ray, this drive to giving of self, allows for agape to mediate the
divine and the human eros, meeting at the Cross. Yet behind this selflessness
Balthasar, following Augustine, is prepared to consider a divine self-love. In
Ephesians 5:23ff, one is admonished to love one’s wife as one’s own body, and
Christ is portrayed as husband to His Bride/Body Church. Might not the eros that
fills all things then be “the love, with which Christ tends and cares for the
Church as His own Flesh, a reflection of this eternal love, loving itself and
giving itself glory in all things?”6 Paul would seem to teach a self-love on the
human level that is higher than the “I-Thou” love of man and woman, pointing
above the Christ-Church, man-woman love to a “self-love above, where the
Thou-love (between Father and Son in the Spirit) is again gathered in a self love
of selfless eternal love.”1 No matter: as we have seen before, we must leave the
living mystery in a state of tension. The “self-love of selfless eternal love” is one
good way to describe the relation of the Bridegroom to His Body/Bride. It is this
that we will attempt to address in a final section.
A. Matthias Scheeben
It is to Scheeben that Balthasar owes his insight that the “marriage” is at the
heart of the Gospel message: Scheeben was right to treat the commercium of the
Incarnation “under the title of marriage (Vermählung).”3 In what reads like an
anticipation of his own life’s work, he writes thus of the connubium:
Here, in the Mysteries and in the Dogmatik Scheeben has reawakened the spirit of the great
Patristic-Scholastic tradition which alone can initiate a genuine conversation with the great
religions and philosophies of the world.4
This Church both issues from Christ’s fullness and is His fullness. Unlike
generation in human sexuality, Christ issues the Church from His own Body. The
New Eve re-created from the side of the New Adam, the Church is the “Other of
His very self, into whom He pours His fullness.”6 Christ condescends to need the
other, as man needs woman, yet He always remains a member of the “eternal,
unneedy Trinity.” And so, in what Balthasar calls an “unstoppable oscillation
between fullness and emptiness (Fülle und Leere)” there is “the appearance in
the incarnate Word of a still less graspable mystery of absolute love” and “in this
oscillation lies the possible completion of Christian experience.”7
As Christ is a scandalously unique person, so the Church shares in this
uniqueness.1 The unique relation of God to His Church reaches its concretion in
the “immaculately conceived Mother-Bride Mary.”2 This concretion is different
from the “horizontally coordinated” loves such as Dante and Beatrice, for the
“absolutely unique God relates to humanity as His Bride,” a uniqueness mirrored
in the indissolubility of marriage.3 Furthermore, a “glimmer of the divine
uniqueness” falls on every one who “encounters God in faith and in love” and
“in this glimmer the individual becomes a member of the only Bride, the
Church.”4 And, as sin is “uniquely” Christian, the saviour “puts His purple
mantel of love and of shame on His Bride and draws her distance into His
distance.”5
The Fathers had viewed Mary mostly as the Mother of Christ; in the
Middle Ages, this spilled over into Mary as Bride of Christ and so Mother of the
Church.6 Bride, Mother and source of His Body, Mary is the “primordial image
of the Church.”7 Pre-redeemed from His Cross, she is the primordial fruitful
hearer, the one chosen in virginal readiness to pass through the selflessness of
consenting to her Beloved’s death and so sharing in His death, in order to
become the mother of many. Mother Church, like Mary, teaches the child
language and how that language relates to reality. This rootedness in the
feminine is crucial for theology, for in woman herself man finds his very face.
Moreover, without the feminine—without the image—theology falls into the
absurd.8 The Church (and the soul) is the woman, darkly conceiving, darkly
nourishing and bearing she knows not yet what—with no masculine counter-
attempt to do what God has already done.9
Even as “the face-to-face meeting of man and woman is the foundation for
the possibility of such a face-to-face meeting of God and humanity,” in the
feminine Church humanity “receives a face for God.”1 The Son has created this
Church-Body for Himself, but we must look beyond, for in the end, it is the
“Word of the Father” and thus “Trinitarian love” that “is the single final form of
all God-human love and all interpersonal love.”2 In the end, it is the marriage of
Creator and creature alone that allows the reality of the creature to survive and
not be lost in a “Nirvana/identity”: it is the fulfillment of that blessed
“outpouring of self” other mysticisms had known, the transfiguration of all
limited being,3 purified and lifted up for the unveiling kiss of the Bridegroom.
Conclusion
As music serves as a frequent metaphor for Balthasar, perhaps we can compare
this chapter to that movement in which all the instruments are brought into play
in an allegro which includes and transforms the preceding movements. If in the
preceding chapter we had focused on the humanly interpersonal, and following
that thread had moved into the Blessed Trinity, in this chapter we expand our
vision, as it were, to include all Creation.
The I-Thou here became sexual and bridal. We have seen that Balthasar
uses gender imagery even for inanimate creation—how much more fertile is his
approach to living beings, to human beings. Earlier we had caricatured God-as-
Absolute as a grouchy grandfather who dislikes the noise of the younger
generation. Here, in the heart of the Catholic vision, God is the benevolent
Father who delights in beings, the person who loves a wedding and rejoices
when he hears that a child is coming.
We saw the love of God find, for companion, a lowly maid, fruit of a
nation schooled in bitter humiliation and poverty. Her silence and receptivity
invited Him to ask her to be the mother of His Son. She received His Word in the
stance of perfect indifference, a holy indifference in which she had only to
answer “yes” to all that would be, a “yes” that was really the spousal “I do,” with
all the richer and poorer, better and worse that that carries with it. She herself
had been formed from out of humanity, a new humanity to be re-created in her
who could hear more clearly than any other because her hearing was virginal,
fresh to receive the fresh imprint of the Word of the Beloved, free to respond
fully.
We saw something of the range of views concerning the love—and loves—
of heaven and earth. The God who created humanity in His image and likeness
in the first place created them as male and female, from the beginning. He did
this in a nuanced way, reminiscent perhaps of the Taoist interplay of the sexes,
where Adam preceded Eve, where Eve could be created from Adam only
because Adam already had Eve within him. Conversely, Adam was filled with
longing for an other who would satisfy him, for a face to encounter: in the face
of Eve Adam found himself, something he could not do otherwise. And Eve,
turning her face to Adam, would then also turn her face to the third that would
emerge from them, she, the mother, calling the child to awareness, to human
encounter in personhood. Woman supplies the answer to man’s word.
The longing of Adam for Eve, the desire of Eve for Adam—this is at the
heart of the mystery of the world. Sexuality could be divinized, and so become
an idol, a blasphemy to the God beyond sexuality. Sexuality could be
anathematized, treated as something diabolical, a denial of the nobility of
humanity. And sexuality, eros in its fleshly side, remains problematical, for it
means the world of generation and death. Marriage stabilizes, controls, this
raging fire, channels it for the good of humanity. But Christian marriage lifts it to
the level of a sacrament, an anticipation of what God Himself has in mind for
His Creation, purified of the world of impure desire and death. It serves as
earthly analogy of the eschatological marriage, to reach which it needs
purification in the cool fire of a virginal encounter with God.
We saw an attempt to build a vision exclusively on the moment of God’s
love for erotic humanity which is agape, pure self-giving love. But Nygren
reduces the symphony of Creation to the divine organ note underlying the rest,
he refuses the Creation its dignity, however wounded, impure—whorelike—the
creature-bride be. On the other hand, Dante’s poem resounds with that love
which fills the cosmos, but it is not yet sufficiently transformed by that other
love which will lead—and descend—to a Cross. It is this love of God that makes
a pure bride for Himself, “beginning” with Mary. She consents to be partner in
His new Creation, and so the whole music begins with her simple note.
The bridal symphony which fills creation must reach its peak, as Balthasar
says, in the one simple Jawort: “Yes, I do.” That peak is reached for Mary, and
for her Son, on the Cross, in which His Word is silenced in order to become
perfect, slumbering seed, sown into the cosmos in order to bear the rich harvest.
That narrow gate, that bridal moment, is the moment of agape between the
jungle of earthly, “erotic,” sounds, all bits and pieces, discordant yet redeemable,
of the primordial harmony, and the eros of Trinitarian love. The meeting is one
of selflessness, of outpouring, kenotic love, which, however, may be only
possible because there is a self to begin with, a self which loves itself and so
pours itself out. This is imaged in a fallen way in the man, whose narcissism is
transfigured in his love for his wife. With grace, she becomes loved as his body,
and the two become one. In Christ Jesus, the Bride issues from His own body by
no sexual generation, yet one that respects human genders. The New Eve, kept
immaculate by Christ from His Cross, has borne the New Adam—and she issues
from His side at Calvary in order to be the mother of all who will be brought to
His bridal embrace, taught the language of divine love by her who was His
mother and perfect Creation. Mary remains silent throughout, witness to the
virginal soul whose only desire is to listen and obey her Lord, whose one desire,
undistracted, is to please Him. She is the soul who can be imprinted with His
love, with His form, and so cooperate in His plan for the transformation of all
lesser loves through the one, silent love that centers on the single word “Yes.”
All are aligned, all find their harmony through that narrow gate, the musical bar
that makes beauty from an ocean of sounds. So we find ourselves in a
magnificently decorated baroque church. Clarion calls burst forth from myriad
angels, all being rejoices. At the center, there is a small Crucifix: and it is only
the center which opens to the eschatological marriage beyond, where Mary is
crowned Queen of Heaven and earth, an earth that struggles to align its loves
with the one love that is needed, that silent Word that underlies all the poetry of
creation and that elicits her “Yes.”
1. S1, p. 151.
2. Ibid.
3. Ibid., p. 150.
1. Suggestively, the film shows Morrison creating a film at the UCLA Film School which centers on
Adolf Hitler at the Nuremberg Rally. Morrison was also fascinated with Nietzsche’s reflections on power.
The only alternative to Morrison’s dionysian mysticism the film offers is the “clean” member of the band
who follows the ascetical way of Buddhist meditation.
2. Cf. Aldous Huxley’s book of this title from which the musical group took its name.
3. HTNB, p. 131.
4. TDHA, p. 336.
1. Ibid., p. 334.
2. Ibid.
3. Ibid., pp. 336–7.
4. WIEC, p. 38.
5. Ibid., p. 76.
6. NK, p. 91.
1. Collins German-English, English-German Dictionary, Peter Terrell, Veronika Schnorr, Wendy
V.A. Morris, Roland Breitsprecher eds. (Glasgow: HarperCollins Publishers, 1991), p. 208.
2. Balthasar uses the same word to express reception (of a form) as well as conception; in English,
we shall use either word as the context warrants, though the reader is implored to keep the richly generative
connotation in mind.
3. THGE, p. 26.
4. HSG, p. 236.
5. Ibid., p. 542.
6. Ibid.
1. Ibid., p. 541.
2. Ibid.
3. HTNB, p. 359.
4. HFSK, p. 63.
5. Ibid., p. 279.
6. Ibid., p. 220.
7. HTNB, p. 359.
1. EPIL, p. 29.
2. HSG, p. 434.
3. TDPE, p. 498.
4. GIMF, p. 35.
5. Ibid.
1. HRMN, p. 407.
2. Ibid., p. 408.
3. Ibid., p. 970.
4. Ibid., p. 434.
5. Ibid., p. 436.
1. Ibid., p. 450.
2. Ibid., p. 409.
3. Ibid., p. 410.
4. Eckhart, Predigten 2, deutsch, Band 1, pp. 26ff., as cited in HRMN, p. 397.
5. HRMN, p. 398.
6. Eckhart, In John 1 n 177, L III 146, as cited in HRMN, p. 398.
7. Ibid., p. 402.
8. Ibid., p. 399.
1. Ibid., p. 409.
2. Ibid.
3. Ibid., p. 408.
4. Ibid., p. 409.
5. Ibid., p. 411. Our citation of Balthasar ends with a reference in which he directs the reader’s
attention to three books by de Lubac on Buddhism.
6. Ibid., p. 456.
1. Ibid.
2. Ibid., p. 457.
3. Ibid., pp. 465–6.
4. Ibid., p. 466.
5. Ibid.
1. Ibid., p. 412.
2. Ibid., p. 418.
3. GIMF, p. 163.
4. Ibid., p. 162.
5. S5, p. 292.
6. BG. p. 24.
1. GIMF, p. 274.
2. S5, p. 303.
3. BG, p. 72.
4. GIMF, p. 330.
5. Ibid.
6. Ibid., p. 166.
7. S5, p. 296.
8. GIMF, p. 330.
9. CM, p. 20.
1. HSG, pp. 623ff. Elsewhere, Balthasar suggests that it is the historical critical approach that has
brought a similar process to bear on the Christian tradition. This may be one reason for his emphasis on
Mary and the Beatitudes rather than on a “theology of glory.”
2. WIEC, p. 77.
3. HTAB, p. 214.
4. WISY, p. 150.
1. HTAB, p. 208.
2. Ibid., p. 294.
3. Ibid.
4. Ibid.
5. CSEF, p. 24.
6. Ibid., p. 25.
7. GIMF, p. 235.
1. TLWG, pp. 46–7.
2. CM, p. 55.
1. HSG, p. 517.
2. CM, p. 62.
3. HSG, p. 517.
4. HTNB, p. 453.
5. HSG, p. 328.
6. TDPC, p. 297.
1. CS, p. 161.
2. TDPC, p. 301.
3. HTNB, p. 57; NK, p. 121.
4. TDPC, p. 248, footnote 5.
5. HSG, p. 350.
6. CM, p. 58.
7. TDPC, p. 162.
8. HTNB, p. 57.
1. TDPC, p. 322–3.
2. HSG, p. 576.
1. S5, pp. 135–6.
2. GIMF, p. 329.
3. MFHE, p. 13.
4. S5, p. 136.
1. HSG, p. 516.
2. Ibid.
3. Ibid., p. 434.
4. THGE, p. 91.
5. NK, p. 131.
6. S4, p. 294.
7. BG, pp. 23–4.
8. MAHE, p. 275.
9. HFSK, p. 54.
1. BG, p. 74.
2. Ibid., p. 22.
3. S3, p. 164. Elsewhere, Balthasar maintains that discernment between good and evil is something
of which the “natural” man is capable. The Spirit is needed for the real discernment, that is, to distinguish
what is human from what is divine.
4. S1, p. 235.
5. TDPC, p. 256.
1. Ibid., p. 261.
2. CM, p. 68.
3. TDPC, p. 263.
4. Ibid.
5. S5, p. 276.
6. Ibid., p. 144.
7. TDPM, p. 133.
8. HSG, p. 350.
1. CM, p. 41.
2. Ibid.
3. HTNB, p. 201.
4. S4, p. 126.
5. HTNB, pp. 373–4. Interestingly, Virgil, whom we have seen is much admired by Balthasar, also
utters a Jawort which is his answer to the gentle “yes” of Being. HRMA, p. 236.
6. Ibid., p. 148.
7. S4, p. 256.
8. TDHA, p. 328.
9. Rene Laurentin, Marie, l’Eglise et le Sacerdoce, Vol. II (Paris: Lethielleux, 1953), p. 153, as cited
in TLGW, p. 289.
1. TDHA, p. 467.
2. S5, p. 145.
3. TLGW, p. 261.
4. S5, p. 142.
5. GIMF, p. 97.
6. BG, p. 253.
1. S3, p. 163.
2. GIMF, p. 94.
3. TDES, pp. 404–5.
4. BG, p. 171.
1. HRMN, p. 945.
2. HSG, p. 368.
3. TLWW, p. 86.
4. HFSL, p. 623.
5. S5, p. 20.
6. Ibid.
7. TDPC, p. 266.
8. NK, p. 122.
9. S4, p. 340.
1. TDPM, 335.
2. A. Frank-Duquesne, Creation et Procreation (Paris: Ed. de Minuit, 1951), pp. 42–46, as cited in
TDPM, p. 335.
3. GIMF, p. 229.
4. Ibid., p. 65.
5. TLWW, p. 93.
6. GIMF, p. 333.
7. Ibid.
1. TDPM, p. 350.
2. Ibid.
3. S4, p. 340.
4. Ibid.
5. GIMF, p. 105.
6. TDPM, p. 341.
7. GIMF, p. 226.
8. TDPC, p. 274.
9. Ibid., p. 269.
10. TDPC, p. 322.
1. S5, p. 122.
2. TDPM, p. 165.
3. S5, p. 122.
4. THGE, p. 50.
5. TDPC, pp. 19–20.
6. HTNB, p. 379.
1. S5, p. 134.
2. TDPM, p. 377.
3. GIMF, pp. 333–4.
4. TDES, pp. 79–80.
1. TDHA, p. 207.
2. HSG, p. 370.
3. TLWG, pp. 172–3.
4. GIMF, p. 335.
5. Ibid.
6. Ibid.
7. Ibid.
1. HFSL, p. 659.
2. Ibid., p. 675.
3. Ibid., p. 685.
4. Anders Nygren, Agape and Eros, tr. Philip S. Watson (London: SPCK, 1982).
1. Ibid., p. 143. The italics in this and the following citations from Nygren are all in the original.
2. Ibid., p. 297.
3. Ibid., p. 236.
4. Ibid., p. 389.
5. Ibid., p. 159.
6. Ibid., p. 236.
7. Ibid., pp. 223–4.
8. Ibid., p. 230.
1. Ibid., p. 663.
2. Ibid., p. 560.
3. One can only imagine Nygren’s shudder at a sentiment like that of Croce e delizia in La Traviata.
4. S5, p. 22.
1. TDES, p. 461.
2. TDHA, p. 98.
3. S4, p. 205.
4. S1, p. 132.
5. GIMF, p. 50.
6. TDHA, pp. 98–9.
7. Ibid., p. 99. The essence of this is captured in the phrase of Goethe’s he often cites: “Verweile
noch, Du bist so schön. . . .” One recalls Augustine’s prayer in the Confessions: “Lord make me chaste, but
not now.”
8. Ibid.
1. S4, p. 205.
2. HRMA, p. 173.
3. Ibid., p. 174.
4. Ibid., p. 175.
5. TDHA, p. 105.
6. HRMA, p. 176.
7. HRMN, pp. 757–8.
1. HRMA, p. 54.
2. Ibid., p. 231.
3. HTAB, p. 121.
4. Ibid., p. 125.
5. Ibid., p. 331.
6. HRMA, pp. 289–90.
1. Ibid., p. 290.
2. HFSK, p. 97.
3. GIMF, p. 36.
4. HRMA, p. 307.
5. Ibid., p. 320.
1. Ibid., p. 324.
2. HFSK, p. 208.
3. HSG, p. 115.
4. HFSL, p. 489.
5. Ibid., p. 502.
6. HRMN, pp. 598–9.
7. Ibid., p. 601.
8. HFSL, p. 710.
1. Ibid., pp. 712–3.
2. UA, p. 37.
3. HRMN, p. 628.
4. S4, p. 210.
5. Ibid., p. 207.
6. BG, p. 69.
7. HSG, p. 24.
1. S4, p. 341.
2. CS, p. 286.
3. Ibid., p. 343.
4. TLGW, pp. 317–8.
5. Ibid., p. 318.
6. HRMN, pp. 612–3.
7. Ibid., pp. 612–3.
1. HRMA, p. 26.
2. TDHA, p. 105.
3. HRMN, p. 704.
4. S3, p. 157.
5. TDES, p. 461.
6. S5, p. 28.
7. HFSL, p. 449.
1. HSG, p. 648.
2. TDHA, p. 105.
3. TDES, pp. 462–3.
4. S3, p. 164.
1. HFSK, p. 16.
2. HFSL, p. 389.
3. Ibid., p. 390.
4. Ibid., p. 461.
5. Ibid., p. 398.
6. Ibid., p. 461.
7. Ibid., p. 387.
1. Ibid., p. 425.
2. Ibid., p. 440.
3. Ibid., p. 392.
4. Ibid., p. 409.
5. Ibid., p. 447.
6. Ibid., p. 459.
1. S5, p. 101.
2. CUDW, p. 3.
3. S5, p. 107.
4. S4, p. 212.
5. S5, p. 30.
6. HTNB, p. 451.
1. Ibid.
2. TDPM, p. 302.
3. S1, p. 151.
4. Ibid.
5. HSG, p. 104.
1. Ibid., p. 109.
2. S1, p. 151.
3. TDPM, pp. 336–7.
4. HTNB, pp. 452.
5. TDHA, p. 41.
6. S4, p. 195.
7. HTNB, p. 443.
1. S5, p. 124.
2. HTAB, p. 24.
3. Ibid., p. 223.
4. Ibid., p. 227.
5. HTNB, p. 444.
6. HFSK, p. 269.
7. Ibid.
8. Bonaventure, Vit myst 2, 3 (viii 161b), as cited in HFSK, p. 357; p. 358.
9. TDES, p. 229.
10. HSG, p. 555.
1. TDES, pp. 443–4. Ref. to Eph. 5:32.
2. S2, p. 155.
3. NK, p. 120.
4. TDPC, p. 313.
5. Ibid., p. 390.
6. TDES, p. 439.
7. THGE, p. 74.
8. HTNB, p. 329.
9. CSEF, p. 66.
10. BG, p. 113.
1. MAHE, p. 276.
2. S2, p. 173.
3. CM, p. 68.
4. S4, p. 113.
5. CM, pp. 67–68.
6. GIMF, p. 332.
7. Ibid.
1. TDPC, p. 390.
2. GIMF, p. 211.
3. Ibid.
4. BG, p. 83.
5. THGE, p. 111.
6. TDPC, p. 298.
7. BG, p. 86.
8. HSG, p. 306.
9. THGE, pp. 89–90.
1. HTNB, p. 454.
2. Ibid.
3. S1, p. 150.
V
Prayer: Listening Rightly
Introduction
C ontinuing the musical metaphor from our previous chapter, we enter the
final movements of our thesis on a reflective note after the opening of all
the organ stops in the previous two chapters. We turn to consider the effects of
Balthasar’s vision both in terms of prayer and the lives of the saints. Much of
what will be considered has already been encountered en passant: here it is
largely our task to tie together as it were the already scattered logoi that will
enflesh our theme, a theme which flows out of all we have considered so far. In
this chapter, we focus on prayer.
“Prayer is a conversation,”1 writes Balthasar at the beginning of his chief
work on contemplative prayer. This simple phrase clearly does not exhaust all
that could be said of prayer, but however one may define prayer, “it is certain
that it is also a dialogue with God.”2 That prayer is a conversation should come
as no surprise, for we have seen throughout that there are several persons
involved in this divine-human relation, beginning in the very life of the Trinity
itself.
Of course, it need not be viewed in this way. Where the Absolute is
“empty,” no speech is needed or desired. Indeed, to ascend to this Absolute, one
would have to leave the discursive mode entirely, perhaps to be plunged into an
experiential encounter, into non-verbal “seeing.” In an intermediate zone, one
might find oneself in a world of religious “monologue” where the one speaking
is, as it were, whistling in the dark, something consoling until one’s eyes become
accustomed to the dark. Or, viewed differently, one might in fact enter into what
seems to be a conversation only to discover that the conversation partner is, in
fact, only another part of himself. All of these are possibilities for humanity in its
attempts at relation with “the Other.”
Much depends on how one understands that Other (if there be an other at
all). Yet this is not to say that reality is defined solely by the lenses through
which humanity views it: both the presuppositions of the prayer and the
experience of the community of which he is a part seem to inform each other,
confirming, correcting.
Strictly speaking, it might be well to observe caution in using the word
“prayer.” If prayer is a conversation, then what a Christian might facilely call
prayer in another, non-personal tradition cannot be considered such. Meditation,
yes, perhaps contemplation: but not really prayer. It is one of the great paradoxes
of Christianity that it is the child who is held up as model. Though the child
might be a “natural contemplative,” pulsingly alive to the wonder of being, the
child’s prayer as prayer is more than its natural contemplative gaze: it is a
simple, trusting entry into a relationship with a loving “Other.” In this sense,
prayer, simple, childlike, trusting prayer, is a marvel of simplicity which
surpasses the adult training grounds of meditation and contemplation.
The conversation which is Christian prayer, then, is at the center of our
chapter. First we will investigate what it means to listen correctly, what the role
of the Word is in the prayer of the Christian. Then we will look more deeply at
some aspects of the spirit of Christian prayer, the qualities which are required of
the human partner in the divine conversation. Finally, we shall look at
Balthasar’s assessment of some of the non-Christian forms of meditation which
have had so powerful an impact on the contemporary Church.
Balthasar is, from first to last, Ignatian in his understanding of prayer. To
begin our investigation, it might not be amiss to present a prayerful reflection
with which he concludes the section “Gebet um den Geist” in Spiritus Creator, a
statement of his understanding of human nature placed in the form of the
Suscipe:
The religion and longing of all peoples finally comes to this: to get beyond one’s own
longings. And yet we do not want to say that this longing, this thirst for the Absolute, is
nothing, for it has been implanted in us by You. Only You in Your triune love can bring us
the solution: we ourselves must surrender, in order to be confirmed by You in Your love.
From the very beginning we were a gift, that You have made to us; we give everything back
to You, dispose of it according to You will alone; give us only Your love and grace, for that
is what surpasses all our longings, and thus it is enough.1
Let us turn then to our exploration of that prayer in which man’s longing is met
by the “solution” that God has planned for it.
B. Listening: Hearing–Seeing
It will be recalled that Balthasar describes man himself as “that being that is
created as hearer of the Word and that comes to his own dignity in his answer to
the Word.”2 Of course, it is “not to himself nor to the voice of his longing that
man is supposed to listen, but to the Word of God.”3 Since the coming of Christ,
one no longer listens to the whirl of words at the periphery of experience: rather,
one listens now from the Center, from the Word, in which all the dispersed logoi
spermatikoi are drawn as to a magnet.4 Indeed, we can hear God’s Word
“because we are in God’s Word [Who] . . . takes us up in Himself and gives us
Himself as our form of existence.”5 It is now man’s task to become a “hearer of
the Word” and as such to hear the many words in and through the one Word,
Christ.6
Yet at the very outset of our reflection on hearing we encounter a
paradoxical tension. If Balthasar seems to emphasize hearing, it is not as if
hearing were univocal in meaning. There are two sides to this coin, seeming
contradictories which yet must live in tension. That is, baldly put, hearing is
hearing and hearing is more than and indeed other than hearing, a name for
obedient perception which includes vision.
The meaning of the first is obvious. As such, the Christian is to listen to
God’s Word in Scripture and in his life as the Spirit teaches. Moreover, a
response is required of this having heard the Word. To really “hear” one must
also answer—and this answer must be personal. It is not enough for the Holy
Spirit to pray in one: one must pray oneself.1 This leads of course to the whole
question of the response, the Antwort to God’s Word. Balthasar notes that
Abraham supplies the best example of hearing and response, where hearing
God’s Word means letting it become effective in the hearer. The Word of God
wants to convey a blessing, but this can only be realized in obedience.2 Much
has already been written of Mary as hearer of the Word. Here it will suffice to
recall that “the hearing person pure and simple is the Virgin, who becomes
pregnant with the Word and gives birth to it as her and the Father’s Son.”3 The
listening demanded of man then is total: as God is present to man “corporeally”
so He demands from man a “corporeal” response: He calls on “man in his entire
existence as hearer and answerer of the Word.”4 But it is precisely this
wholeness of attention that must lead us beyond the simple category of
“hearing.”
In the second sense, we approach the wider aspect of the truth by observing
that hearing is a corporeal sense that opens onto a spiritual sense and
encompassing both is the presence of the whole person. Put differently, when we
speak of hearing, it is faith first of all of which we speak. Thus, “faith is the
organ of hearing”5 and “believing and hearing the Word of God is one and the
same.”1 And—here the paradox—this hearing is intimately interwoven with
seeing throughout.
There is a dimension of hearing God that can be called seeing, and this
rests on being seen by God.2 In the Incarnation, seeing does not exclude hearing:
for John, “knowledge” includes both seeing and hearing.3 Indeed, Balthasar
describes the Word as “audible-visible” (hörbarsichtbares Wort).4 Balthasar
speaks of a “light-word” (Lichtwort): from the light sounds the voice that calls
the individual by his name.5 Commenting on the Johannine text “Who has seen
me, has seen the Father” Balthasar coyly observes: “seen but with the listening
eye and the beholding ear.”6 We can also recall the descriptions of Creation as a
“speech” that must be “heard.”7
Yet hearing has a dignity peculiarly its own, and Balthasar strongly urges
that hearing is not just a prelude to seeing, as the tradition had maintained until
St. Ignatius Loyola. Rather, the fact that God speaks to us in His Word includes
us in His Trinitarian dialogue and this is indeed the greatest sign of our dignity.8
It is an academic commonplace that classical Greece was a culture of
seeing whereas Israel was one of hearing. Balthasar does not deny this, seeing in
Biblical hearing a personal tie to the Word which he contrasts with Greek
contemplation.9 Culturally, this has meant that the Eastern Church has tended to
be Johannine, a church of vision, while the West has been Synoptic, Pauline, a
church of hearing.10 Each of Christianity’s two branches has tended to absolutize
one sense over the other, and so to fall into its characteristic heresy. For the East,
Theosis, divinisation, is . . . the final goal of Eastern Christendom, because it is the final aim
of pure vision. Therefore the East aims at mystical and supernatural identity, and
Monophysitism is the heresy proper to the East. . . . The Eastern Church became heretical
because it abandoned itself to the absolutising of the inner dynamic of vision, which in its
impetus basically comes from identity with God and world-denial. . . . Only where this
impetus to identity remains innerly tied to the form of a lasting, opposing distance, that is,
where the foundational form of creatureliness and with it a spiritual place of hearing is
preserved, only there does the eastern form of Christian piety remain a form not to be lost
(unverlierbar) in the realm of the Church.1
Thus, the Eastern Church, Church of vision, can fall into heresy where it loses its
bond with that creaturely distance which is required for correct hearing. The
Church of vision and divinization must fit into a universal Church which is
“oriented toward hearing and oriented toward the world because of the mission
of the Word.”2 At the same time, the Western Church has its own temptations.
Being the Church of hearing, it is tempted to pure immanentism, to an activism
of pure activity, it is a Church that can become so immersed in the world that it
forgets “the mission itself and the hearing,” becoming “prisoners of this world to
which we should have announced the word.”3 This is the “immanentism of
modernity.”4
Not surprisingly, then, in the final analysis, the “Christian revelation is not
primarily a revelation of seeing, but rather one of hearing.”5 In this age, we are
more hearers than seers of the Word, for the Word purifies us and we wrestle
with it—it thus seems to come from outside us, hence the importance of the
distance. Seeing is more an anticipation of things to come (yet even so, in
Heaven we will still be God’s “listeners” as well as seers).6 Hearing represents
the eschatological element in Christian contemplation which is no timeless
“sinking (Versenkung) in the presence of eternity.” Were the Christian to so
“sink,” he would lose that watchful waiting for the Word which came in the
“middle of time.”1 The Church does not repose in the vision of Tabor, but moves
on in patient obedience to the will of God. As if to underscore the hearing-seeing
polarity of the one reality, where hearing is dominant, Balthasar observes that in
the Apocalypse, the One on the throne is not visible, even for those in Heaven:
but His voice is audible.2
Once again, the Word of God is a living Being, no static sun of the
Enlightenment to be contemplated apart from response. Man cannot divine the
will of God, reasoning to it from nature: rather, because God is sovereignly free,
one must keep listening to know His will in this prayer time, in this hour.3 Yet
ever careful to keep a balance, Balthasar, though willing to give the listening
West the “edge” over the seeing East, does so only in a sense of balance of two
sides of one coin, two aspects of one reality, each of which has its dignity and
runs its dangers (not unlike the theology of the sexes we have already studied).
Thus, eschatologically oriented, responding to the Word she has heard by serving
the world, the Church “should continue to shelter and develop the great
contemplative tradition of the Christian East in her and thus also grant room in
her for a human treasure that threatens to disappear in contemporary Asia.”4 This
contemplative tradition is not a natural contemplation with a “Christian mantle
thrown over it” but rather a part of the Christian tradition itself, in which “the
Church keeps watch on the mountains of the world for the promised eternity.”5
Returning to the stance of the listening Christian, we see that there is
something the Christian can do to prepare himself for prayer, Parrhesia and
childlikeness notwithstanding. Again, it is the paradox that with the openness
there is always a distance between creature and Creator. And so, one prepares
oneself for the encounter with God as if one “were waiting for an audience with
a king or with the Pope.” The attitude is one of “receptivity of the divine
presence” in which one prepares oneself to hear things from God that are
unexpected, to be prepared for “what God wants to say to me and that which I
certainly do not know.”1 One will encounter an “other” as Adrienne von Speyr
writes: “Every act of adoration (Anbetung) has as its primary ground the being
other of the Other. Adoration would not be possible in simply being one.”2 Here
as always, identity, though seemingly the satisfaction of vision, loses that
distance which is required for the dominant element of obedient listening, ready
to hear and do the will of the God who speaks. Once again, it is man’s ability to
hear and to respond generously (Jawort)—that is the basis of prayer.3
The “judgment” which the Word makes of man in his situation is an invitation to
an answer which continues the prayerful dialogue.
It is the Spirit of God that leads the praying man into a space far deeper
than anything human, the space between the Father and the Son, the Spirit that
leads beyond words to the Word, to the “Super-Word” (Überwort) that is Christ.1
The danger for the hearer of the Word is to lose the “word of prayer” and thus to
lose his way, absolutizing a word without its divine depths and thus being left
with a “philosophical logic or philology.”2 The Word loses its prayer character,
interestingly, when it loses respect for the ineffability of God.3 This difficult
balance should cause no surprise in a religion which wants to take the world
seriously while trying to love and serve the world in the light of the Creator.
It is in the initial encounter of the creature and Creator that negative
theology has its value. The Super-word which is Christ summons the response of
a Super-word by man, but though this is dialogical, it is not a “dialogical
equality of value” but rather is “the transformation of the entire creature into an
ecce ancilla” for the outpouring love of God.4
Man is created ready to hear the Word of God: he is a “tabernacle” for the
Word, “built around a sacred mystery.”5 On the anthropological level, this
corresponds to the teaching of the Parrhesia. Man does not have to create some
prayer space—does not have to fly in ecstasy or to silence himself (unduly). It is
true that the sacred space at the center of man has become a “junk room” that
needs to be cleared and the way to clear it is contemplative prayer. One turns
inward and then outward to the “highest Thou.” God is already present in one as
one’s “deepest self ‘more inner to me than I am to myself.’” Yet this deepest self
is first and foremost the other “Thou.”6 And so it is God’s prerogative to purify
and order “what He has already created, that dwelling place in the heart of each
person, created in order to hear the Word of God.”1 Thus, the Christian does seek
to still himself, but in order to hear the Word of God. And even so, Balthasar
puts little value in this sort of inner-silencing, as Jesus tells us that as the little
ones have their angels always before the Father’s face, so the Christian is already
present to God. Hence, “as preparation for meditation there is needed no long
psychological volte-face, but rather the short realisation in faith of where our
true centre and emphasis has already been and is.”2 It is the Word that gathers all
the scattered (and noisy) words, reducing them to a speaking silence and a silent
speaking, much as “noise” is harmonized into “sound” as an orchestra responds
to the baton of its conductor.
It is this intimior intimo meo that reveals to the Christian his true self. To
try to find himself in prayer is folly unless he first encounters the Word of God
who will reveal to himself his true self. That is, to know one’s self, one must
encounter God’s Word. Balthasar criticizes Evagrius and others for making too
much of self-observation in prayer “as if they had photographed their own
transcendence,” noting that this is dangerous.3 In a lovely passage, Balthasar
notes that the “fisherman Simon” could have “rummaged for his ‘I’ in all
directions before his encounter with Christ” without finding anything “Petrine”
anywhere: it is in the “mystery of the soul of Christ” that the “form of Peter” lies
hidden, to be found only in the encounter with Christ.4
Though cultivation of silence is no guarantee of finding anything but
emptiness, to “pray fruitfully” one must head for solitude and stillness (as Jesus
often did) to recollect himself from the “entirely unholy contemporary
scatteredness and anæsthetisation through the mad rush of the world.”5 “Today
the encounter should take place in the inescapable aloneness of my ‘I’ before
God.”6
Yet this solitude of the one praying needs to be balanced with a note of
community. It is the Church that is the “medium between Word and hearer,” the
guarantee of “right hearing” which no individual can be for himself.1 That
Church remains the Bride, and it is the Bride united to the Head as His Body
who prays far more than the individual.2 It is the Spirit who provides the “final
enablement of contemplation” rendering it always an ecclesial act—and yet, for
all that, contemplative prayer remains the most solitary act of the Christian.3 So
much does Balthasar insist on the Trinitarian, incarnational and ecclesial aspects
of contemplation that he says: “All other depths and shallows into which human
contemplation could descend (versenken) are, if they be not explicitly or
exclusively depths of the Trinitarian, theandric and ecclesial life, either no
depths at all or else demonic depths.”4
Thus, listening to the Word and responding, led by the Spirit to issue a
“super-word” which is loving response to the one “Super-Word” sent from God,
the Christian lives a life which is itself dialogue, a dialogue in which God has
taken the initiative and sent the Spirit to help the soul respond. There is precious
little the human can do to prepare the ground to receive this seed, although
silence and solitude are helps. Here, as we have seen before, if man stops at
silence, the mere absence of words, he will really only have found himself and
not the self that God has in mind for him, the depth of his contemplation being
either no real depth at all (but merely the ante-chamber of the deep self) or a
thou which is opposed to God.
A. Receptivity
We have already encountered this key stance in our treatment of the Bridal
Mystery where we saw that receptivity characterized the Son in relation to the
Father, Mary in relation to God, and with her all of creation. Here we would like
to explicate some of its consequences for prayer.
Needless to say, receptivity implies readiness, and it would not be amiss to
start by noting that along with Balthasar’s insistence on watchfulness in prayer is
his observation that “sobriety is one of the most frequently emphasised virtues in
the New Testament.”1 We have noted that the Church’s contemplation is an
eschatological look-out for eternity: to that end, the Christian is aided by a stance
of not-knowing which is yet an abiding in the Lord which is the “better part”
“because only the one who doesn’t know can actualize that readiness of the heart
that evenly fills all the moments of time.”2 It is this “not-knowing” that is the
“‘habitual act of faith’ that the ecclesial tradition calls ‘the act of
contemplation.’”3
This stance of receptivity in not-knowing has its roots in the ancient world
where Balthasar again contrasts the Greeks with the Hebrews. Whereas the
Greeks took Being for granted, distinguishing between being and appearance,
the Jews had a much deeper contemplation, for they were grateful as the
recipients of Being itself. The Greeks could conclude from the dualism of Being
and appearance to a monism which allowed a “harmonious circle dance”
between gods and men: “the Biblical man on the contrary may not take it for
granted for a second that he exists” and so for him the “spiritual fundamental act
of the creature becomes a pure reception of its self, in the deepest astonishment
that it is. . . .”4 It is this same “receptivity” of Being which leads to that wonder
which Balthasar so treasures in the child.
This receptivity has priority to any response, and in this sense
contemplation has priority over action, “logos” over “ethos,” the “unity of faith”
over the “multiplicity of doing.”1 It is this openness that Balthasar will associate
with “poverty of spirit” in its reception of Being, noting that in metaphysics it is
called apatheia/indifference. Plato had seen this as the highest “level of eros”
which had to renounce all individual forms—and this could be transformed into
evangelical poverty, but it is dangerous, for often this renunciation of
indifference merely serves as a defence against pain and death. Christianity helps
“arm” the soul against such an abuse of indifference and helps “disarm the heart
for pure receptivity . . . to pain and spoliation.” What is received by the Christian
is a “food worthy of the spirit . . . the ‘Word of Being.’”2
Beginning then with the very fact of Being itself which leads one to
wondrous contemplation, the praying person is receptive to whatever it is that
God will send his way. It is a “watchful waiting” and an “active readiness” to
receive the informing action of God: what matters is not to get in God’s way
with one’s own desires, plans, imagination.3 Thus, the “stance of Christian
contemplation” is “one of pure receptivity (with body and soul) of the entire
incarnating Word, and thus to become pregnant and to cherish and reflect on it in
the heart.”4 This was the stance of Christ, Mary, John and Paul, all of whom are
characterized by virginity, the sign par excellence of fruitful receptivity for it is
the sign “that divine love has taken up dwelling in the creaturely world.”5 For
the man who would seek God, the search begins by being found by Him, the
search “is in its first logical formation a reception, a substantial opening, a
receiving and thus primarily a passivity. . . .”6 What is to be received is Christ,
the Word of God become man.7
Thus a sober, virginal watchfulness—a waiting to receive—is the first
hallmark of Christian contemplation. As Balthasar observes, “as Christ never
ceases to give Himself, so we can never cease to receive—never put the act of
reception behind us. . . .”1
B. Childlikeness
One of the Scripture texts Balthasar is fondest of quoting is: “Unless you
become as children, you cannot enter into the Kingdom of Heaven.”2
Throughout his works of erudition, the theme of simplicity, of childlikeness, in
relation to God is constant. Childlikeness serves as a metaphor for that state of
soul most in harmony with our position as creatures and indeed with the very
nature of reality, for, according to him, existence is itself play.3
What makes the child most appealing, for the philosopher, is its wonder at
Being. Children are drawn by an intuition to wonder at Being, something that is
found “in the wonder of the first opening of the eye of a child to reality.”4 One
loses this ability to wonder as one matures in the ways of the world, and so it is
crucial for one to “turn and become as children” if one is follow Jesus and
encounter reality.
The family is the natural base on which this grace works. Noting that “only
the Christian vision of the mystery of childhood” can protect humanity against
the excesses of the world’s intoxication with progress, he spells out his
understanding of childhood:
Every child begins at the same point: in the absolute newness of Being, in the very same
absolute wonder that is the fundamental act of philosophy, and enters into the same game
which is the perfect superiority over all things, but is in them, without the chilling, resigned
distancing (Abstand) from them; every child knows, or should now, absolute security in the
bosom of the mother, of the father, of the family. . . . Every child understands, or should
understand, his speaking as an answer to an awakening word of love. . . .1
The child, then, secure in the love of his family, begins with that “wonder”
(Staunen) at Being that leads into play which is a relation to things that precludes
a “resigned distance” from them. Surrounded with love, the child should
understand his speech as the answer (Antwort) to the words of love addressed to
him. The key points of the Balthasarian anthropology are thus found in his
doctrine of childhood.
It is no wonder then to find that the Holy Spirit is the “spirit of childhood,”
a spirit both of “open access to all the treasures and mysteries of God”
(Parrhesia) and yet which is a filial spirit “that does not take unwarranted
liberties.”2 Parrhesia is nothing less than the “freedom of the child of God”
which is the “highest law” of the contemplative.3
To become a Christian is to leave all that pertains to Adam, that is, the
being a slave, in order to become not only a child but also childlike. This points
to what Balthasar calls “one of the wonders of the divine relation”4 namely that
for the Christian “childhood and maturity are one,”5 that “maturity and the spirit
of childhood grow in a similar relation.”6 For prayer to know this open access,
this freedom, presupposes, of course, that timor filialis which is the correct
distance of the child to its Heavenly Father.7
The Christian turning to the Father as a child clearly rules out technique in
prayer. What is required of the Christian is “the ‘most naked’ simplicity,” a
“childlike simplicity” which can speak the “yes,” the Jawort.8 This is the
greatest challenge to “complicated and reflecting” adults, something “that would
be easy enough for a child were we but children, something that all the religious
techniques of Asia aim at and yet, because they are techniques or because they
reach for God by bypassing people, always miss. . . .”1 For other religious
traditions, being a child is only a transitional phase: for the Christian, the
Incarnation teaches “the eternal meaning of being born, the final blessedness of
coming here from a begetting-bearing womb [God].”2
As we shall see more fully in our next chapter, in contrast to natural human
wisdom which treasures aged sages, Christianity is always a religion of youth.
An extreme illustration of this is Balthasar’s use of the image of play in
reference to the very Passion of Christ itself. Writing of Jesus as the eternal
Child of the Father, he writes that the play of Jesus is one that leads to
“scourging and crown of thorns and yet does not cease to be play and delight. . . .
We other children are invited to play precisely in this game.”3 This action is part
of the prayer itself, for prayer naturally flows into deed.
C. The Beatitudes
The lowliness of the child and the helplessness of the infant are given utterance
in Jesus’ teaching in the Beatitudes, that which incarnates for Balthasar the
Christian “program” for the world. It is here that a prayerful stance becomes
incarnate in how one lives one’s life in the world. The Christian must do, in
order to be: only the Christian who does can really contemplate.4 To know Christ
can only come about in the following of Christ. The Christian is called to be
“formed to the functional behaviour of Christ” rather than treating Him as the
“object of appreciative contemplation.”5 The Beatitudes, which together with the
Our Father, are the “purified quintessence of the piety of the anawim”6 are the
Christian’s rules of conduct: precisely as such, Christians will never be able to
make Christ’s behavior and teachings efficient as the Communist Manifesto
attempted.1
It is in the teaching of the Beatitudes that true emptiness is to be found.
The anawim “offer empty space for the Holy Spirit,” the principle behind the
teaching is that “the weak one poses less opposition to the power of the love of
God.”2 The poor in spirit, those “hungering for justice, the weeping and the
persecuted, have an emptiness in them that can be inhabited by God, the
crucified God,” while “the rich, the full, the laughing, those praised by man, do
not have this free space, but rather have replaced it with their bloated ego.”3 In
His teaching of the Beatitudes Jesus introduced a foreign element into the
anawim piety in His prediction of “persecution and humiliation” for Himself and
His followers4: the scandal is that that creature least god-like in fact “has its
primordial image in the very innermost mystery of God, and for that reason it
lies nearest to His heart.”5
In contrast to the “bloated ego,” the emptiness of the poor in spirit also
means that one has been stripped of one’s illusions about oneself, that one has
nakedness of soul. This nakedness is a gift which comes from the encounter with
Christ, and it is essential to conversion.6 Recalling what Balthasar says of the
child’s wonder, true contemplation becomes possible when one is stripped and
humiliated in order to “contemplate the light of Being” in the “Sun [sic] of God”
revealed “in the humble, renouncing Heart of Jesus Christ.”7 If philosophers
themselves are willing to strip themselves of the whirl of existents in order to
contemplate a concept, the “sun of reality,” how much more must the Christian
follow in the emptying and humiliation of the Son of God in order to see “the
light of the One” who “illuminates everything.”8
It is the Beatitudes that Balthasar especially sets in contrast to any form of
technique in meditation. Anticipating our imminent look at this whole issue, we
find that for Balthasar, part of the “freedom of the form of Christ” is that one can
find Him without any technique for “His are humility and lowliness and all that
is called blessed in the Beatitudes.”1 The simplicity of the poor in spirit “is in
Christian terms certainly not the result of a ‘wise and clever’ procedure, as to
how one can unify one’s sense capacity, concentrate his attention, etc.”2 If the
“way” is to become poor in spirit, the one proficient in spiritual exercises runs
the risk of becoming the “rich man” of the Gospels. Balthasar asks: “can one
who ‘masters’ the eight stages of yoga really be called ‘poor’ in spirit. . . ?”3
Although there is a teaching of progress in Christian prayer, coming out of
Neo-Platonism and applicable to various religions, the spirit in these other
traditions can be not only different from but actually opposed to the Christian.
The Christian may either attain the prayer of quiet (einfach) or he may abandon
the search and find himself limited to the prayer of childhood (einfältig),
something which can be a deep humiliation for one with spiritual hunger: the
irony of the Christian way is that the latter may actually be more “blessed,” for
“Christian perfection” is not “determined forms of ‘God-experience’” but rather
“the readiness to fulfil the will of God.” The true Christian at prayer is then like
the man at the back of the Temple aware of his own unworthiness at prayer but
ready to “let the whole will of God be realised in his life.”4 The fundamental
stance of Christian prayer to which all these elements lead is disponibility to the
will of God.
D. Disponibility
The word we are translating as “disponibility,” Verfügbarkeit, can also be
translated as availability and obedience. Etymologically, it carries the
connotation of being at someone’s disposal, and furthermore of being able to be
molded by the forming hand of another. Virgil had as his motto: Füg dich dem
Gott (“obey, submit to, the god”).1 Catherine of Siena identifies disponibility
with obedience, holding it to be more important than the evangelical counsels
themselves.2
The bridal character of disponibility will come as no surprise. It is that
character of Christian love which does not desire to be melted together into God
but rather is a stance of reverence and service of His will.3 St. John of the Cross
holds that it is part of “the bridal-marital love of the soul for God” to hold itself
and all it has in disponibility for God.4
Disponibility as the heart of Christian prayer is of course clearly seen in
the life of Mary. Balthasar sees prayer itself as a habitual way of being before
God: in Mary, this meant her perfect availability to her Son, her being present to
Him, which was always prayer, whether or not she was consciously praying. She
was “full of graces,” unlike us who need to turn our attention to the Lord by
fixed periods of prayer.5 The bridal soul asks no questions of the Lord for whom
she holds all in availability;6 in imitation of Jesus and Mary, that soul lets God
mold her, resolved “absolutely to set no boundaries conscious or unconscious to
the will of God. . . .”7 Again, Mary was perfect disponibility, and the Church,
“founded in the chamber of Nazareth, where the Jawort of the Virgin was
[uttered] was—and always remains—pure availability (contemplation) to greater
effect (action).”8 We note that availability is identified with contemplation and
that it is oriented towards action.
Interestingly, of the elements of prayer that Balthasar mentions, he singles
out the prayer of petition as one that comes “with recognition of the limitedness
of our freedom.”9 The prayer of petition shows clearly the difference with the
philosophical attitude which with its notion of the unchangeability of God
spreads its “mildew” over the mythical view of early man: as man “matures,”
prayer either becomes the individual harmonizing himself to the overarching
Good and thus what seems to be a dialogue (prayer) is in fact a monologue of
“the ethical subject with himself,” or prayer “disappears entirely, because the
‘exemplary identity’ between the human and his idea in God has simply become
an identity, in which there is no subject left to be addressed but the human.”1 It is
then a revelation that Jesus “never rejects the prayer of petition” always turning
Himself to His tender Father “in childlike receptivity for His Will and His
gifts.”2 Indeed, compared with other developed religions, the prayer of petition
would seem to be uniquely Christian.
The stance of the one waiting to know God’s task for him is one of prayer:
as we have seen, man cannot reason to this himself. Man’s opening to God’s
disposing will has itself “the character of prayer,”3 a prayer that is itself
pervaded by the Holy Spirit. This is the Holy Spirit that Jesus had within
Himself which, while showing Jesus the Will of God, was already present in
Him (and presumably in the praying Christian) as “readiness for obedience.”4 In
this stance of openness to the unfolding will of God, Jesus is fully identified with
earth and the children of earth: “every step of the Trinitarian Revelation is the
answer (Antwort) of Heaven to a question of obedience (Gehorsamsfrage) of
earth.”5
To know one’s mission, then, one must pray, even if the prayer is only
“implicit, a readiness to be shown” and a lack of defensiveness in the face of
something one might not have chosen but that reveals itself as the will of God.6
This disponibility requires a constant vigilance, for it is never the case that the
Christian has already “heard” the Word of God: rather the Christian is listening
to that Word, to be obedient and responsive to the very slightest nod.7 Balthasar
often contrasts this to the attitude of non-Biblical religions which, in terms of
literature, are all ultimately “epical,” that is, they place the human drama against
a background of “Nothing or Nirvana or Kismet or all of life and evolution.”1 In
the face of the Absolute, the stance must be resignation, apatheia. In the Biblical
vision, the apatheia which truly does belong to the human condition is
transformed, lifted into the “readiness to commitment to every role ordered by
God in the play.”2 The epical moment is then taken up into the Christian drama
precisely in this being ready—in an Ignatian indifference—to take on whatever
role it is God assigns the person, an availability to mission. Indeed, it is only in
one’s mission that one can pray: otherwise—again drawing on Jesus’ teachings
—one can pray all one wants but he will just be calling “Lord, Lord” and not
doing the will of God.3 Action, then, becomes the fullness of contemplation as
the Bride-Church is the fullness of Christ.4 And as the one who contemplates
begins to see with the eyes of faith and know himself “more deeply as one who
is seen by God,” so “in the moment in which he resolves himself to do his
highest deed, he knows himself as one who is done by God (als ein von Gott
Getaner).”5 Action then, like contemplation from which it is inseparable, has its
origin in the Holy Trinity: man in right relation with God cooperates but does
not initiate.
We turn now to look at the prayer of those who initiate, of “natural
humanity,” and its relation to the prayer of the Christian.
B. Mysticism
In this section we ambition a brief overview of Balthasar’s understanding of
mysticism and of certain key notions fundamental to it. Light and shadow are
interwoven, as his ideas of mysticism Christian and non-Christian are set against
each other, sometimes complementing, more often contrasting.
He notes three different attitudes toward the relation of Christian and non-
Christian mysticism. The first attitude holds that in light of the considerable
amount of overlapping, all traditions can be subsumed under the one category
“mysticism.” This would be the way of contemporary schools of comparative
religion. Here the dogmatic and institutional side of the Church is relegated to
what is (merely) “positive.” In the second view, Christian and non-Christian
mysticism have nothing in common, i.e., only Christian mysticism is real
mysticism or else mysticism has nothing to do with Christian experience, as seen
in Emil Brunner’s contrast of mysticism and prophecy. The third view is the
Catholic position, characterized by the way of analogy. In this view, for example,
although one might agree with Maritain that in practicing Transcendental
Meditation one only contacts oneself (and Balthasar sees this as a very real
danger), still, “no one can prevent the living God from making Himself known
to the person, should it please Him. . . .”1 Respecting the form of revelation, God
yet remains supremely free.
What is mysticism? Etymologically, it comes from mystis, being initiated
into the knowledge of God.2 It implies an “experiential” contact with God. In
mysticism in general—and in the mystology which has influenced much of
Christianity in spite of ecclesial cautions—Balthasar sees seven characteristic
components: 1) finding the way (dhammapada); 2) an “awakening” from all that
is not Absolute; 3) use of a method to attain emptiness; 4) a vision, theoria; 5)
union (the realm of “super” words); 6) the use of paradoxical language,
indicating the tension between that experience and speech about it; and 7)
though not universally found, the presence of the “holy marriage” as the likeness
of the highest union.3 Although these elements are found in Christian mysticism,
it will be clear by now that Balthasar differs in some key respects, seeing the
Biblical approach offering a turnabout to various mystical approaches (indeed,
one must be careful in speaking of “mysticism” which is not, after all, a Biblical
term: it is applied “by analogy” to Christianity).1 Thus, God finds man and not
man God; instead of a spontaneous “awakening” Balthasar insists on the
readiness to hear and obey; Christians are indifferent in order to be ready for the
will of God in obedience.2 For the Christian the measure of perfection, of the
highest level of ascent, is not the experience of union with God but “rather the
obedience that can be just as united with God in the experience of abandonment
by God as in the experienced union.”3 This raises the whole issue, so pressing
today, of experience.
The ambivalence we have seen which characterizes Balthasar’s attitudes
towards such issues is very much present here. Positively viewed, Balthasar
insists that the hunger of man for experience of divine things not be disparaged
for God has Himself set man to seeking (the Areopagrede). And although
Christianity offers a very different way, still it does not fundamentally destroy
nature: thus, “a total separation of the God-seeking non-Christian and God-
seeking Christian mysticism does not work nor can it work.”4 Moreover, no
matter how abused the concept of experience may be today, it remains
indispensable as God wants to engage the whole man.5
Yet the concept is indeed abused today. He observes that contemporary
demands for experience have an element of atheism behind them, and that the
demand for experience in the Church is a surrender to the spirit of the times
which is given to the experimental method.6 Until modern times, Catholic
theology worked out of a middle ground that did not radically separate
experience as something mystics had as distinct from ordinary believers: what is
considered “mystical” was then considered “as the (specially) becoming explicit
of a general, so to say ‘normal’ experience of the Christian who seeks to live his
Faith earnestly.”7 The “foundation and condition for all Christian experience” is
not anything “mystical” but rather “the encounter with the God of the Bible. . .
.”1 Particular charisms that are called mystical are given to the individual only
“in functional connection with ecclesial mission.”2 Thus any “mystical
experience” is dethroned from the center of the Christian life.
Elsewhere the demand for experience is far greater. The Zen teacher Keiji
Nishitani writes that “the only real reality is pure experience” and Balthasar
observes that Plotinus would have said the same.3 For the Zen tradition, “the fact
that grounds all is . . . the (not directly comprehensible) conviction that there is
the experience of Satori.”4 In a word, all is based on mystical experience.
At the heart of the mystical experience in the non-Christian world is the
experience of ecstasy, the moment of union with the Absolute in which the
“small I” is overwhelmed and disappears as one flies out of oneself, as it were.
Balthasar is not opposed to ecstasy in itself, but he is opposed to making a
certain type of ecstasy the basis of the spiritual life. That he is not opposed to it
must be clear from his own epistemology: we need ecstasy (Entrückung) in order
to reflect the Glory of God and be transformed into His image: “without ecstasy
there is no glimpse: as Christ . . . is ‘ecstasied’ to the Father (in the Resurrection
and anticipating this in the Transfiguration) . . . so we have to look away from
ourselves in order to be able ‘to reflect the glory of the Lord with uncovered
faces and be transformed into the same image (2 Cor. 3:18).’”5 But he adds a
qualifier to this need for ecstasy: that it be understood “in a New Testament
way” which leaves man no spectator, but rather taken up by God’s glory and
love to become “a co-worker of Glory.”6 Rather than ecstasy as an alienation of
man from himself in a flight out of himself, it is God’s Trinitarian love that
overcomes the alienation and draws us into the “sphere of Glory between the
Father and Son as it has appeared in Jesus Christ.” This is effected by the Holy
Spirit and is at the heart of Christian experience.1 It is faith that is the “ecstasy
out of the I,”2 faith that “touches God”3 in an ecstasy that consists as we have
seen not in intoxication but service.4
Both Plotinus and Augustine would seem to hold a similar view of
“ecstatic being” but for Augustine no matter how important the experience of
ecstasy is, the Church is not to attain eternity through ecstatic leaps out of time,
but rather through “obedience and submissiveness in the renunciation that is
demanded of her: blessed the poor in spirit, for theirs is the Kingdom of Heaven;
blessed the patient, for they will inherit the earth.”5
In the great Christian mystics, from an early date, the notion of an “ecstasy
of love” is present which took the form of a “mystical death” which could even
include physical death. Balthasar sees this as a dangerous tradition which has
tended to forget the bearing of one’s Cross in this world in favor of the
mystical/ecstatic way. The balance was restored by Ignatius of Loyola “when he
said, that in spite of his longing for Heaven he would rather work in the mission
of Christ in the world until the end of the world even were his own blessedness
to remain uncertain because of this.”6 The voice of St. Paul can be heard echoing
here, and the sentiment is clearly a return to an earlier Christian view. The
Christian does not need to rise up above his own heart to find God, but need
rather dwell in “the profoundest depth of our Christian hearts” where he
encounters and dwells with “the brotherliness of the fellow human being Christ
in our depths.”7 In order to find God, then, one need not stop being either
personal or social, one need know no flight of “the alone to the Alone”: one need
only see the world and the self as God sees them.8
Here we return to the question of the self. For the non-Christian, the self, at
least the worldly self, is ultimately empty/illusory. Thus, when he realizes
enlightenment, he has “little trouble in consequence realising the inner emptiness
of the world and his worldly self.”1 Rather than seeing God in the world and in
his self, such a mystic quite clearly sees through himself, and as his gaze is fixed
on no-thing, so he sees the no-thing that is (not) there, and emptiness remains.
Recalling the contrast of fullness and emptiness, the Christian who finds “the
secret of the fullness of God in His inner-divine self-sacrifice, manifested in
Jesus Christ, in His Eucharist and His Church . . . will have little trouble finding
this fullness again in the seemingly so God-empty world.”2 The secret lies in
what it is one is viewing. The Christian finds himself looking into the mirror
which the Word of God offers him.3 In the directives of Augustine and Eckhart,
Christianity shares with Platonism and Buddhism the call to look inward, to turn
within. But the Christian does not encounter himself, his true “I” or the “Self”
but rather “what Augustine calls the Magister Interior, the Inner Teacher, the
Word of God”: “that speaks to me from grace and reveals to me both who I am
and what God wills.”4 And here Balthasar becomes stern: other than looking at
that Inner Teacher who is the Crucified Christ, one’s look in the inner mirror
tends to be sinful, and as sin is untruth, what one sees of oneself will tend to be a
deception.5
Mysticism in the context of Christian prayer then is first and foremost
grounded on faith and the relation to God in faith.6 Experience is relegated to a
supplementary role, not unlike the role we have seen Balthasar assigning non-
Christian contemplative traditions: supports, perhaps, to the main business at
hand which is the relation in faith.
Three things then are distinctive for the Christian in his “prayer life.” First,
it is love of God and of neighbor that is the measure of the Christian, not
experience. The directive of Christ to enter one’s chamber (Kämmerlein) to pray
is of course a call to personal prayer: “but nowhere in the Gospel does this take
on the colouring of transcendental meditation.” Unusual charisms—often
understood as mysticism—are given for the good of the community. Secondly,
Christian love follows the way of Christ. Although it can take the “most varied
forms of intensity of experience,” still it is not “intensity of experience that
offers the measure.” Thirdly, there is a tension between the ineffability of God
(“for non-Christian mysticism”) and His self-utterance (“in Christian
mysticism”). Although God has become Word this does not mean that He has
become reducible to human logic: “Christ as the Word is the revelation of God’s
freest sovereignty, the opposite of a grammar to be studied, not to be enclosed in
a Hegelian system of logic.” That is, the more uttered the Word is, the more
mysterious it becomes, and so the “speechless” returns to the scene in Christian
mysticism, “only now it is no longer set against speech, but lies in the inner
depth of the Word itself.”1
As will have become obvious, Christian dogma is intimately associated
with Christian prayer. Most particularly, Christian contemplation is completely
based on the dogma of the Trinity. Thus, in other mysticisms, the “I” must die in
order that the “greater I” may live: in Christianity, this death also occurs, but it is
a death which leads to a “real and corporeal resurrection” in God, and which
finds its source in the “circumincession” of the Trinity, that shared life which
allows each person to dwell in each other without “threat to their personal
uniqueness.”2
Along with this Trinitarian characteristic, Christian prayer always
participates in the Incarnation and so is “deed” as well, even as we have seen
that Word and Deed are identical for Balthasar. There are “no prayer wheels” for
the Christian whose existence must correspond to the Word, whose very silence
is powerfully expressive.3
The final characteristic of Christian prayer is that it always takes place
within the communion of saints: “Everything in the Church can be personal, but
nothing private.”4
The real experience for the Christian, for whom God is always revealed as
a God in love with the world in Christ, is his mission (Auftrag): anything else,
such as mystical gifts, is just an encouragement on the way.1 Contrasting vision
with contemplation, Adrienne von Speyr, Balthasar’s constant source on prayer,
notes that because of the hypostatic union: “From now on, contemplation can
never be regarded as a preliminary stage of mystical vision.”2 This is so because
for the human being: “Vision is something borrowed from Heaven and must be
treated with the greatest discretion. It is like a spice which makes a meal tasty.
But the meal is contemplation; it is what nourishes the soul.”3
Contemplation is always contemplation of the Word. And yet, as we have
seen, contemplation—and mystical prayer in particular—tend toward silence. In
this regard, Balthasar writes that Christian mysticism is only possible—is
“justified”—because in the cry of death (Todesschrei) all that is utterable is
overcome by the Word become naked and silent. This ultimate Word of Silence
on the Cross, the “inarticulate cry,” both contains within itself and surpasses all
the articulations of the faith, speaking “loudest where no formulated statement is
possible any more.”4 The co-suffering of the Bride then “demands the life of
contemplation,” where God “shares the night of the Cross” with the
contemplative.”5 Again, the one who would bypass the Cross and “meditate
himself into a supramundane, unworried-blissful God, would let himself be
lulled into an illusion, bypassing the deepest depth of Truth.”6
There are several final areas to be investigated to round out our look at
mystical prayer.
The first involves the whole question of Being and the contemplator. The
Neo-Platonic tradition encountered Being in an ecstatic opening of the spirit,
something taken over by some of the Fathers who called this the experience of
faith.1 Without this question of Being, “theology becomes void of mysteries and
positivistic.”2 For the Christian, the natural way to Being—the way of reason in
general—remains the way to God. Although this runs the risk of idealistic
(Platonic) and monistic (Stoic) misinterpretations, it is still preferable to the way
which rejects reason and Being, relying solely on “revelation.” He calls this
latter “Christian positivism” and sees it as at the heart of Protestantism. This
second inevitably leads to atheism as the opposite of the “revealed” positivism
which “suspects and anathematises the way shown by nature.”3
For Christian contemplation, it is seeing God in and through the forms that
is important (hindurchschauen) and not passing beyond all forms in order to see
the light of Being. The Christian emphatically sees Being in beings and does not
try to get past beings in order to confront Being, even if this were possible
(Balthasar wryly observes that even Plotinus admits to this experience briefly
and rarely).4 The Christian then is truly contemplating Being in all individual
beings, although the temptation has always been to try to contemplate Being as
the total of all beings. This true contemplation is the contemplation of the
hypostatic union, where “hearing, seeing and touching of a worldly form we
should enjoy company with the eternal ‘word of life’ that is with God and is God
Himself.”5 The natural contemplation of Being-beings is thus analogous to the
contemplation of God and the God-man.
Not surprisingly, then, this contemplation of Being in the Church is both
sacrificial and bridal, it is “a being sacrificed—a being taken up—into the
mystery of bridalness between God and world that has its glowing center in the
marital relation between Christ and Church.”6 It is so because the “renunciation
of the philosophical eros of beautiful bodies and souls for the sake of the One
Beautiful becomes divine renunciation itself” in the Kenosis and the share in it
which Christ grants His Bride Church.1 This sacrifice of Bride with and for
Bridegroom “is the Christian surpassing and perfection of the philosophical
act.”2 Yet it is not a “self-sacrifice of one’s own consciousness, that sacrifices
itself as a drop in the sea of Nirvana” but rather it is “Christian love, that rests on
the hypostatic unity of Christ and that joins together that which is humanly
forever separate: the love for a being with the love for Being.”3
Thus, the Christian sees “Heaven concretely in the most concrete things of
earth.”4 This is opposed to that “radical mysticism of union” which would reject
man’s senses. Balthasar observes that there are two main trends in spirituality:
that which would bypass the senses for a “mystical, non-discursive contact with
God” and another which is open to the sensual, to worldly impressions.
Mediating the two he suggests something that brings them together, a “spiritual
sensibility.”5 Observing that the “radical mysticism of union” is alien not only to
the “spiritual senses . . . but to the Christian as such,” he suggests spiritual senses
that “presuppose pious corporeal senses” and that, like “the sensibility of Christ
and Mary, are capable of ‘Christification’” (Verchristlichung). Typically he notes
that man seeks to flee God, both into “the abstract world of the spirit and the
spiritless world of the senses.” God—the “hunter God”—then meets man from
below, “flesh speaks to flesh; the Word has chosen this speech that cannot be
ignored. . . .”6 For the true Christian mysticism, the “senses are the
externalisation of the soul”7 as “Christ is the externalisation of God,” and man
meets God as humiliated in His kenotic-slave form.8
Again, in the tradition of Christian contemplation, Balthasar distinguishes
between two main schools, the one “naked”, without forms and images, the other
believes in the senses and concepts as portrayed in the Gospel as introducing us
into the very life of God. The latter is seen clearly in St. Ignatius, but Balthasar
adds the proviso that Ignatius also allows a “naked” being touched by God.1
Those who counsel against images are discounting the Holy Scriptures
themselves and run the temptation of becoming gnostics; but images themselves
offer dangers, and that is why the rich imagery of the Apocalypse is only
entrusted to the “Beloved Disciple.”2
For example, Evagrius turns the “ecstasy to a Thou” inward, replacing it
with an “enstasy to a God dwelling within, through an overcoming of all sensual
and spiritual forms.”3 This turn within for the truth, away from the deceiving
senses, is ultimately the “way of rationalism and of idealist mysticism.”4 This
leads to an intuition of a “mystery” but one that proves itself “empty,” and so
this is a way that is “ultimately hopeless.”5
Rather than following a way of stripping down which leads to mere
emptiness, Balthasar does acknowledge the role of purification which non-
Christian mystical traditions offer. As we have seen, the Neo-Platonic Augustine,
along with Asia, knows a vestibule (Vorhof) to which one turns, the turn within,
from the many to the One, the return to the depth of one’s own heart. The danger
here is that one remain where one is and consider it the actual goal, whereas it is
only the first step of the journey. One must turn to that which is more intimate
than one’s own intimacy, and this means turning above (or being turned
upwards). Yet, this first step is a needed purification: Christians cannot reject this
first step of the world religions.6 It is in this sense that Buddhism and Taoism
prepare the way for Christianity, preparing an emptiness into which the mystery
of death and resurrection, the “revelation of the heart of Being itself,” can be
poured.1
Ultimately, the stripping of individual forms which begins with the
“philosophical night” which lets the “bright darkness” of divine formlessness
shine passes onto the purifying night of St. John of the Cross2 if the mystic is
intent on the following of Christ. Without this following, such contemplation
would lead to “Gnosis or an empty reaching into empty voids.”3 In the following
of Christ, the ultimate union for the Christian may be the night of the senses and
the night of the spirit, for it was in such a night that Jesus ended His earthly
existence.4 But so far from a being silently resigned to dwelling in an empty
void, this night of abandonment is in union with one who will be raised from the
dead.
As we have seen, although a Christian must also recollect himself, must bring
his thoughts back to the presence of God and so some forms of meditation can
serve as preparation for prayer, in the end, his prayer is quite something other
than that of the eastern meditator. The difference “is that the Christian is the one
expected by God and His saints, the God who always meets a readiness to
receive . . . while the one who is meditating on the Absolute must himself make
his own way in the mysterious Void and may encounter no one.”1 Certain that
“God’s free revelation cannot be narrowed to theoretical laws or practical rules
in the way of human science or technique”2 Balthasar concludes that instead of
“technique” or “training,” the presuppositions of Christian prayer are “‘purity of
heart’ and submission in faith.”3
Christian prayer runs two dangers. The first is an over-reliance on method
which may be good, even necessary, for the beginner, but which must be
abandoned “for personal encounter,” and, at the other extreme, a falling short of
love, lingering so long in the intellectual that one arrives at gnosis instead of
love and adoration.4 No technique then can lift the Christian from faith to vision:
rather, it is our being crucified with Christ that allows us to be raised with Christ
by the Father who alone can effect this.5 This is a spiritual stance that is
incumbent on all Christians.
Recalling the bloated idleness of the “sin of Sodom,” Balthasar observes
that in the Biblical tradition “there is no restful æsthetic contemplation of the
divine Glory which would get to see God ‘in Himself’ while prescinding from
the opposition of God’s holiness and the unholiness of the world (whose
representative is the contemplator).”6 That is to say, there is no “blissed-out”
contemplation for the Christian but rather an encounter in which his own
unworthiness as representative of the world in this moment with God is brought
to light. In a word, sin is brought to light when man meets God.
These hard words notwithstanding, Balthasar offers a nuanced
understanding of technique, appreciating its natural role for natural man. Thus,
he sees technique as the inevitable result of negative theology in which one must
be stripped of everything of the senses and then of the imagination and limited
concepts. The techniques which humanity has developed to attain the ecstasy
“out of oneself into a formless condition that corresponds to the Absolute” are
not to be dismissed lightly: “they have nothing in common with the decadent
forms which they have taken on in the Western society of the good life, where
they are used for the goal of psychological-hygienic relaxation.”1 Thus his
polemic is initially turned not so much to the traditional techniques, East and
West, for ecstasy, but rather their trivialization by contemporary man. Buddhist
“atheism” is radically different from the secular atheism of the West (which, he
notes, has no roots in negative theology): indeed, Balthasar calls the Buddhist a
“super-theist.” Still, the end result of all these techniques tends toward a
depersonalization, in Buddhism a radical “de-I-ing” (Ent-Ichung) because it is
the ego itself that is ultimately seen as “guilty” and to be abandoned.2
The Christian needs no technique, for he knows a personal being-found-
by-God and responding to that being-found: for Asia, with its hunger for the
Absolute, it is always a question of a psychological technique. Balthasar
contrasts this insistence on technique with the marital mystery, observing that
even in marital eroticism an over emphasis on “technical directions” is more
harmful than helpful to marital intercourse: if this is so for human interpersonal
encounter at its deepest, it is “certainly so” in the encounter with God.3 Once
again, Balthasar proceeds to praise the simplicity and humility of the true
Christian stance as seen in the Beatitudes.
He often contrasts technique with prayer. Technique is a “means of power”
which “wants to reach in a practical way a goal set by man”: prayer is the
opposite, it is the openness to receive what God wills.1 We have seen that in
Christian prayer, a preoccupation with technique as in Evagrius and other
masters tends to lead “to an all too refined self-observation and experimentation
with oneself.”2 As far as meditation is concerned, all human forms of meditation
are similar, indeed, “the more radical the search to rise above everything
transitory the more similar they become: from the Far East to the final forms of
Mediterranean antiquity in Plotinus, whose directives for ecstasy the young
Augustine had also attempted (without success).”3 Human ascesis, thus, all too
easily represents an alternative to God’s speech.4
It is ultimately inadequate because in fact God has spoken. As we have
seen that Trinitarian prayer is the correct basis for contemplation, so here we see
that the answer to technique is found in the doctrine of the Incarnation, and
within that doctrine, the focus is on the Resurrection. The ultimate problem of
natural religion is that it does not know the Resurrection and the light that it
throws on the material cosmos. In light of the Resurrection, the “turning God-
ward of the spirit does not mean turning away from the world for man, but rather
a certain form of transcendence over the narrowness of the corporeal-historical
here and now, in which the human enters into contact with the world as a whole
being. . . .”5 It is only in the “transposition” to the world of God that the
Resurrection offers that the soul stands in right relation to the cosmos and to
God. Natural religion can never discover this on its own, and this goal of
transposition in light of the Resurrection is unfathomable to the natural man who
is seeking the peace of contemplation from the “natural busyness of man.”6
That is, the natural man seeks to rise from the constraints of space and time
by means of contemplation. This is understandable for it gives man a sense for
immortality—but such flights, if and when they occur, are only for the spirit. In
the Resurrection, the world of space and time is “mastered and spiritualised” and
this in a way that is open to “common humanity.”1 After his flight out of time,
mystical man must return to sinful time, to “empty” time.2 The Christian who
follows Jesus “should be in time and not try to lift himself above time.”3 It is
there, where God has placed him, that he can receive the “content and meaning”
that God gives to him here and now “without the attempt to usurp them for
himself in a Promethean fashion.”4 In the end, the attempt to escape from time
itself is sinful for it leads to a disincarnate splintering of the whole man. In light
of the Eucharistic mystery, the believer “will turn away from all attempts of
meditation to ‘sublimate’ from the corporeal to the ‘purely spiritual’ as unfitting
for the Christian way.”5 It was not the Greek world’s overvaluation of the
contemplation of ideas that was its chief fault, but rather an undervaluation of
worldly engagement: the followers of the carpenter’s Son must learn to be in the
world “as one who serves.”6
In light of the Incarnation, then, the Christian way is one of obedience, not
of technique. The Christian follows Jesus, and “every technique of overcoming
time is foreign to Him, he lets himself be borne along from one day and night to
the other: ‘Have no care for tomorrow, sufficient for the day is the evil
thereof.’”7
The freedom of the Christian is a crucified freedom, that is, one in union
with that Jesus who accepted His human limitations and was no more concerned
with an “expanded consciousness” than a Christian should seek to break through
the shackles of ecclesial form to attain some vague “freedom of the children of
God.”8 God is totally free of man’s attempts at “storming Heaven.” Balthasar
attempts to articulate the delicate balance between being passive and active,
receptive and searching by saying that Christians “must and should knock, but
we cannot attribute to our knocking the magical power that corresponds
necessarily to the opening of the door.”1
If there were to be a Christian “technique” then it could only be the
following of Christ: “the archetypical method is Christ, who comes into the
world in order to do the will of the Father. . . . His being man is itself already the
expression of His obedience.”2 The way “beyond,” to the Resurrection and the
heights of God, only leads “in and through” for humanity who are to follow the
footsteps of the Incarnate God through all the hot and desolate afternoons of
time and so to be open in obedience to the unfolding will of God.
D. Resignation
One of the central concepts which has pervaded our investigation is that of
indifference. Apatheia, Gelassenheit, indifference: these names for a spiritual
stance are a constant undercurrent to Balthasar’s work, based as he is on the
spirituality of St. Ignatius. We have already looked at indifference at some length
in the previous chapter. Here it remains to look at indifference under the aspect
of resignation as a stance of the prayerful man and to contrast it to what
Balthasar recommends as true indifference.
In broadest terms, resignation is the attitude of man in the face of an
implacable Fate, of an unchangeable Karma, of a faceless (and heartless)
Absolute. We have seen that one tendency is for resignation to lead to hedonism.
This is a natural enough response—“Eat, drink, be merry: tomorrow we die.” Yet
humanity at its spiritual best longs for a more noble solution than that which is
so resignedly offered by, say, the book of Ecclesiastes (which, as Balthasar
points out, is extremely “Oriental”). In the face of an “All” that is identical with
“Providence,” antiquity knew only resignation: it did not know hope.3
In the contemporary world, resignation is a “renunciation” of the
philosophical question which leads to a “terrible impoverishment of the human
who, tired of questioning, consciously limits himself to a small foreground, turns
himself . . . to his mini-world and through organisation and technology tries to
form existence for himself and his descendants as bearably as possible.”1 Here is
contained a terrible critique of the pragmatic hedonism which might well
describe the spiritual state of contemporary man. In the face of the challenges—
and terrors—of Being, he builds walls of technical competence and material
well-being around himself and his loved ones, trying to shut out the unwelcome
hunger for Being which is at the core of his being (and perhaps more
importantly, to shut out the God of Being Who is in search of him). The result is
that man cuts his umbilical cord to the Absolute and then “circles within relative
values that naturally place each other in doubt and destroy each other.”
However: “Resignation cannot be limited to the edges of things, it pervades
everything and gives all its flat taste.”2 The flat taste comes from the spirit
behind the intellectual pose: there may be a pouting self-pity behind the Stoic
acceptance.
Religiously, it was Israel’s glory, in a curious twist, to have been less
resigned than the pagan nations. The latter could more easily “be reconciled with
the impersonal One”: Israel was “provoked to opposition . . . by the personality
of the One, beside Whom there is none other.” Here the operative principle
seems to be that “it is easier to submit oneself to a law of being that is necessity,
than to a divine will, whose freedom demands obedience in positive acts.”3
Rather than resign herself, Israel tended to revolt.
The relation to the divine will thus opens up the whole area of obedience
and rebellion: it opens the whole question of sin. Even within the Biblical
tradition, attitudes toward God differ, leading to different attitudes as regards sin
and indifference.
One indicator is spiritual sadness. There are two types of spiritual sadness:
the one is appropriate, the other leads to death. In the face of the overpowering
justice of God, Biblical man can tend toward his own type of resignation, a sort
of “affected, weary moroseness” that God is right “once again.” Yet this is a
resignation that masks rebelliousness. Although this is the stance of Job, it
“remains something of the Old Testament and is not worthy of the Christian”: it
“has not overcome revolt” against this overpowering deity. Rather, Christian
sadness is a form of love that is “godly,” it is a way in which the Christian
admits the details of his wrongdoing without writing blank checks titled
“resignation.”1 True Christian (and Ignatian) indifference is based on the
recognition of the “yawning void” within opened to one’s perception by the
consideration of sin, an indifference which leads to letting God dispose of one.2
Ignatian indifference is unique in that it has an emptiness which is completely
different from the emptiness of the East Asian practices: it is based on the
recognition of sin.3
The key virtue in this matter would seem to be love. It is (alas) only
natural, Balthasar writes, to be resigned and distanced from what is earthly: “age
recommends this in its own gentle way as a preparation for death.” But recalling
that for Balthasar age has little to commend itself spiritually, he adds: “But to
embrace the earthly, just as it is, right up to being nailed to it, right up to an
interior experience of its distance from the Creator: that is another wisdom.”4
True indifference then leads to adoration and to an “endless melting of the
heart” whereas false indifference, resignation, comes from one’s own will and it
is “prayerless,” “loveless” and leads to a “petrification of the heart” incapable of
entering into the mystery of confession.5
Thus, the Christian is fully himself and fully alive, and so exposed to all
the “slings and darts of outrageous Fortune” even as was God Himself Incarnate:
indeed, being a man even as God chose to become one, the Christian “continues”
God’s “experience.” Rather than “submitting to Fate,” the Christian is to
cooperate, literally, be a co-worker, with the will of God, always of course on his
own creaturely level.
The whole question of spiritual technique appears here as well. Apatheia
for the ancients had been a technique for the “self-salvation of the world”: the
Christian knows no technique other than “the unlimited readiness of love for
gracefully encountering the ever greater glory of the love of God in the Cross: ad
majorem Dei Gloriam.” The Christian stance rejects “the storming of God, in
intellectual grasp or in ascetical-mystical technique” trusting in a grace which
will not destroy nature. Indeed, “only Gnosis that replaces a venturing trust with
a manipulative knowledge, is destroyed.”1
Because man is found and addressed by the God He has sought with
technique, “an abrupt end is prepared for every systematics and every
resignation.”2 What takes the place of the mute stance of resignation (and natural
negative theologies play their role here) is the silence of adoration.3 Balthasar is
happy to quote Marcus Barth: “theology is something that doesn’t work without
prayer.”4 The theologian must force himself to utterance, to speech: he is
continually placed before “a Truth that is ever greater than what he had set out to
understand” yet “it is forbidden the theologian to resign himself to plain
apophasis in the face of the God who is always revealing Himself as new.”5 That
is, the theologian cannot throw up his hands in the face of the unknown,
ungraspable God of surprises and find refuge in apophasis: he must dare say
something, knowing that what he says will be inadequate and overcome. Speech
must be strained if even to the limits (poetry) to express the ineffable. The
attitude to be avoided in the face of the awesome otherness, the unknowability,
the relentless righteousness of God is one of a sullen resignation. Instead, of
course, the Christian cultivates an attitude of obedient love. This too is
ultimately a silence, but not the silence that “stands at the end of all negative
philosophical theology, because the arrows of all concepts and words sink to the
ground short of their goal.”1 Balthasar writes that “there stands at the end of
Christian theology another silence: that of adoration, that loses its voice as well
because of the overwhelming quantity of gifts.”2
Conclusion
An essay of Balthasar’s which has served in this investigation is entitled
“Meditation als Verrat,” “Meditation as Betrayal.” The title itself is perhaps the
most polemical among Balthasar’s works. The essay is not directed towards the
practitioners of meditation in the Asian religions so much as to those in the West
who have taken up the prayer forms of those traditions. It is Balthasar’s
contention that the great wave of meditative-religion that has come from the East
can help Western man recall the recollectedness which is important for prayer.
More importantly, Eastern meditation can help Christianity recall the treasures of
its own traditions.
The “betrayal” to which he refers is two-fold. In the first place, one is
“betraying” one’s own tradition which is ultimately contemplative itself,
however much contemporary activism has blinded believers. By turning to other
traditions of prayer and ignoring one’s own, one betrays one’s own tradition. In
this sense, the Asian imports can serve as a valuable stimulus for Christians to
re-discover what has been there all along.
In a deeper sense, however, meditation when used by a Christian as a sort
of spiritual narcotic is a betrayal of Jesus Christ and His mission to the world.
One must hasten to mention that the problem here is with the abuse of a noble
tradition and not so much with the tradition itself, although beyond an initial
quieting meditational techniques have no value for Balthasar. The issue rather is
one of choice as to how one relates to one’s God.
In this sense, dogma is crucially important for prayer. For those who
believe in an impersonal Absolute by any name, certain consequences naturally
follow. All the multiplicity of the world will be negated in order to rise above the
demands of this world which are ultimately unsatisfying to the infinite longing
of man’s heart. A formless inner state will be sought, by technique, which will
correspond to the ultimately formless “beyond.” This form of meditation has
many names in many traditions, but it has existed from antiquity. In the face of
the vicissitudes of life, it counsels a wisened resignation, an acceptance of fate.
In terms of “prayer,” it counsels the disciplines which lead to the ascent beyond
all forms, beyond oneself.
The “betrayal” of which Balthasar speaks is a betrayal of a personal God
who has dared to become a human being and to fully share in the vicissitudes of
His human creation, submitting Himself to all the indignities of human life from
infancy to a crushingly humiliating death: it is to render His horrible passion and
death unnecessary in the face of a bloodless, blissful meditation. In the
Incarnation, He has opened up for humanity a space within the life of the
Blessed Trinity itself: in the man Jesus, every human has access to God Himself.
The way to enter this space is to follow Him who is, after all, “the way.” To
follow Him is to imitate Him, even as He claims to follow the Father. The way
of discipleship then is the stance of the Christian who would pray.
From first to last, the way of Christian prayer is adapted to human beings
as they are. Human life from start to finish is a rich interweaving of speech and
silence, even as words themselves are only distinguished by silent interstices. So
it is with prayer which is summoned forth by a Word addressed to humanity, a
Word which responds to the longing cry which humanity utters in its very being.
Far from the way of any heroic mysticism, the way of the Christian is to be
small, childlike, receptive: in short, it is the “program” of the Beatitudes. At no
time does the one praying take the initiative. At most, he should recollect
himself to realize what God has already done for him by creating him, and to
realize the relation which already exists by his “mere” being. The more he can
come to appreciate the wonder of Being, the more he will be drawn into the true
stance of Christian contemplation.
This contemplation is itself a rich weaving of reflection and action, of
Word and Deed in which the two become indistinguishable. The attitude to be
cultivated is one of disponibility, one of availability to the will of the personal
God who has very definite things in mind for each of His creatures and for all
His Creation. What He has in mind is revealed in time and events, and so the
listener must keep listening for the unfolding Word. But at the same time, the
archetype and model has already been fully revealed in the drama of the life of
Christ, a drama into which the human person is invited to enter.
Mystical gifts, touching God and being touched by Him, the naked,
burning encounter—these happen, indeed, they are given whether or not one is
practicing a method. They are gifts, encouragements for the more important
matter which is not in the end mystical prayer, but a loving obedience to God’s
will which leads the one who is formed in Christ to a full insertion in the silent
Word of adoring love.
We turn in our final chapter to look at what it means to follow this
“method” of Christ as fully as possible and at some human beings who have
done this, the saints.
1. BG, p. 9.
2. CSEF, p. 109.
1. S3, p. 479.
2. CM, p. 7.
3. “Parresìa (pas + resis full liberty of speech) outspokenness, frankness of speech that glosses
nothing. . . .” Max Zerwick and Mary Grosvenor, A Grammatical Analysis of the Greek New Testament
(Rome: Biblical Institute Press, 1981), p. 133.
1. S4, p. 307.
2. BG, p. 38.
3. CM, p. 19.
1. BG, pp. 38–9.
2. Ibid., p. 39–40.
3. Ibid., p. 40.
4. Ibid., p. 43.
5. Ibid., p. 88.
6. HTNB, p. 441. Italics mine.
1. BG, pp. 242–3.
2. Ibid., p. 17.
3. S3, p. 253.
4. The image of the Word which gathers all the logoi spermatikoi scattered throughout Creation is
central, of course, for Balthasar, the student of the Fathers. Visually, we might say that Jesus presents a face
which has gathered the logoi spermatikoi.
5. BG, p. 50.
6. Ibid., p. 15.
1. Ibid., p. 87.
2. S5, p. 275.
3. BG, p. 29.
4. Ibid.
5. Ibid., p. 201.
1. Ibid., p. 26.
2. HTAB, p. 63.
3. HTNB, p. 255.
4. Ibid., p. 258.
5. S4, p. 201.
6. S5, p. 53.
7. HRMN, p. 976.
8. CS, p. 319.
9. TLGW, p. 341.
10. S2, p. 493. Yet even here, Balthasar observes that “hearing” occurs 58 times in the Gospel of
John. For John, hearing is the same as obedience: receptivity to what God’s Light-Word has to say to human
darkness.
1. Ibid., p. 494.
2. Ibid.
3. Ibid., p. 495.
4. Ibid.
5. CS, p. 318.
6. BG, p. 20.
1. Ibid., pp. 134–5.
2. TLGW, p. 410.
3. BG, p. 19.
4. Ibid., pp. 134–5.
5. Ibid., p. 135.
1. CSEF, p. 110.
2. Adrienne von Speyr, Die Welt des Gebetes, p. 191, as cited in TDES, p. 84.
3. S3, pp. 308–9.
4. UA, p. 89.
5. Ibid.
6. BG, p. 9.
1. Ibid., p. 26.
2. S3, p. 163, footnote 1.
3. HTNB, p. 246.
4. Adrienne von Speyr, Die Welt des Gebetes, pp. 21–66 [sic] as cited in TLWG, p. 263.
5. Mt. 17:5 as cited in BG, p. 9.
6. CM, p. 11.
7. BG, p. 14.
8. Ibid., p. 58.
9. Ibid., p. 45.
1. Ibid., pp. 202–3.
2. Ibid., p. 200.
3. Ibid., p. 80.
4. Ibid., p. 30.
5. CM, p. 32.
6. Ibid.
7. BG, p. 6.
1. Ibid., p. 236.
2. Ibid., p. 206.
3. Ibid.
4. “Meditation als Verrat,” Geist und Leben, Würzburg, Echter Verlag, 1977, p. 264.
5. CSEF, pp. 20–1.
6. UA, p. 195.
1. TLGW, pp. 178–9.
2. HTNB, pp. 246–7.
3. Ibid.
4. TLWG, p. 113.
5. BG, p. 18.
6. Ibid.
1. Ibid.
2. CM, pp. 17–8.
3. BG, p. 103. Elsewhere he criticizes John of the Cross for the same self-observation.
4. Ibid., pp. 51–2.
5. Ibid., p. 83.
6. Ibid., p. 84.
1. Ibid., p. 74.
2. Ibid., pp. 252–3. Moreover, “the objectivity of liturgical prayer is the participation in the mystery
of the Bride of Christ. . . .” BG, p. 219.
3. Ibid., pp. 72–3.
4. Ibid., p. 65.
1. Ibid., p. 123.
2. Ibid., pp. 132–3.
3. WIEC, p. 79.
4. S4, p. 289.
1. WISY, p. 101.
2. HRMN, p. 962.
3. HSG, p. 542.
4. S3, p. 164.
5. Ibid.
6. Henri de Lubac, Chemins de Dieu, p. 158, as cited in TLWG, p. 95.
7. TDPC, p. 396.
1. WISY, p. 31. Balthasar goes on to note that this is why “there can be no theological system of
divine truth.”
2. HRMN, pp. 946–7.
3. Ibid., p. 947.
4. Ibid., p. 963. On wonder, cf. TLWW, p. 305; TDHA, p. 128; and TLWG, p. 232.
1. GIMF, p. 283.
2. Ibid., p. 117.
3. BG, p. 118.
4. GIMF, p. 117.
5. NK, p. 133.
6. GIMF, p. 117.
7. TLGW, pp. 177–8.
8. CSEF, p. 85.
1. HSG, p. 471.
2. S5, p. 173.
3. Ibid., p. 174. Cf. the section Kind und Tod, and within it the essay “Jung bis in den Tod” in Homo
Creatus Est.
4. BG, p. 147.
5. HSG, p. 318.
6. HTNB, p. 70.
1. TDPC, p. 23.
2. GIMF, p. 235.
3. S5, p. 358.
4. HTNB, p. 70.
5. S5, p. 359.
6. S4, p. 244.
7. S2, p. 380.
8. Ibid.
1. HSG, p. 470.
2. S4, p. 79.
3. NK, p. 90.
4. CSEF, pp. 115–6.
1. HRMA, p. 231.
2. HRMN, p. 451.
3. CS, p. 52.
4. HFSL, p. 526.
5. CM, p. 60.
6. S4, p. 297.
7. Ibid., p. 217.
8. Ibid., p. 297.
9. TDPM, p. 265.
1. Ibid., pp. 267–8.
2. Ibid., p. 271.
3. TDPC, p. 468.
4. Ibid.
5. BG, p. 171.
6. S5,p. 237.
7. S4, p. 293.
1. TDPM, p. 52.
2. Ibid., p. 53.
3. CS, p. 64.
4. S1, p. 252.
5. HSG, p. 184.
1. Cf. “Universalismo Barthiano e Teologia Della Storia” in Guerriero, Hans Urs von Balthasar.
2. Balthasar, “Meditation als Verrat,” p. 262.
3. S4, p. 15.
4. S3, p. 230.
5. S4, pp. 373–4.
6. Ibid.
1. Ibid., p. 342.
2. Ibid., p. 77.
3. “Meditation als Verrat,” p. 260.
1. Ibid., p. 261. This point is also made in the Schreiben an die Bischöfe der katholischen Kirche
über einige Aspekte der christlichen Meditation, a document of the Congregation for the Doctrine of the
Faith which could serve as a precis of Balthasar’s teaching on Christian meditation.
2. WISY, p. 47.
3. S5, p. 350.
4. Ibid.
1. S3, p. 369.
2. S5, p. 228.
3. S4, p. 79.
1. S4, pp. 302–4.
2. Ibid., p. 299.
3. Ibid., pp. 309–12.
1. HSG, p. 394.
2. S4, p. 312.
3. Ibid. p. 314.
4. Ibid., pp. 319–20.
5. HSG, p. 211.
6. S4, p. 326.
7. HSG, p. 286.
1. Ibid., p. 289.
2. Ibid., p. 399.
3. S5, p. 111.
4. Ibid.
5. HTNB, pp. 21–2.
6. Ibid., p. 26.
1. Ibid., p. 262.
2. Ibid., p. 381.
3. “Meditation als Verrat,” p. 261. “God is beyond all experience (of self); only the ‘Überstieg
(excessus) of faith’ touches Him.” This is the “way of Christian meditation” as attested by Bonaventure and
the Greek Fathers.
4. BG, pp. 69–70.
5. GIMF, p. 59.
6. TDES, pp. 307–8.
7. HTNB, p. 484.
8. CM, p. 10.
1. Ibid., p. 79.
2. Ibid.
3. S5, p. 235.
4. Ibid., pp. 237–8.
5. Ibid., p. 238.
6. TDES, p. 85.
1. S4, pp. 321–2.
2. BG, pp. 66–7.
3. S5, pp. 244–5.
4. Ibid., p. 246.
1. S4, p. 35.
2. Adrienne von Speyr, The World of Prayer, tr. Graham Harrison (San Francisco: Ignatius Press,
1985), p. 95. Italics in the original.
3. Ibid., p. 97.
4. GIMF, p. 305.
5. S2, p. 385.
6. CM, pp. 85.
1. HSG, p. 152.
2. S3, p. 289.
3. S2, p. 367. One must here recall Karl Barth for whom the doctrine of analogy was an
unbridgeable chasm between Catholicism and Protestantism.
4. Ibid, p. 382.
5. BG, pp. 137–8.
6. S2, p. 383.
1. Ibid.
2. Ibid.
3. HSG, p. 186.
4. BG, p. 257.
5. HSG, p. 354.
6. Ibid., pp. 392–3.
7. Although Balthasar writes much of the spiritual senses, he also warns against a dualism,
observing that Ignatius does not distinguish between “spiritual” and “corporeal” senses: there is one
spiritual soul which animates man, unity of body and soul, and it is this totality which encounters God in
Christ. Cf. S5, p. 55.
8. Ibid.
1. BG, pp. 233–5. Here he seems to be referring to Ignatius’ “consolation without previous cause.”
2. S4, pp. 317–8.
3. HSG, p. 257.
4. TLWW, p. 149.
5. Ibid., pp. 150–1.
6. S2, pp. 367–8.
1. Ibid., p. 370.
2. Ibid., p. 383.
3. BG, pp. 239–40.
4. Ibid., p. 242.
1. S3, p. 266.
2. Ibid.
3. Ibid.
4. TDHA, p. 146.
5. Ibid., p. 208.
6. CSEF, p. 105.
1. S2, p. 198.
2. Ibid.
3. NK, p. 110.
4. Ibid., p. 14.
5. S2, p. 267.
1. HRMN, p. 609. It should be noted that whereas Balthasar concedes that the mature Goethe was
not explicitly prayerful, he was the embodiment of reverence, and so, we can perhaps conclude, implicitly
prayerful.
2. S4, p. 84.
3. S2, p. 98.
4. HSG, p. 162.
5. S4, p. 305.
6. Ibid., pp. 305–6.
1. CSEF, pp. 112–3.
2. HTAB, p. 28.
3. Ibid., p. 63.
4. BG, p. 120. “[T]he fundamental stance of adoration disappears because one falls into brooding
and the fumes of gnosis!”
5. S2, pp. 373–4.
6. HTAB, pp. 15–6.
1. CSEF, p. 16–7.
2. Ibid.
3. S4, pp. 78–9.
1. CSEF, p. 113.
2. HSG, p. 257.
3. CM, pp. 7–8.
4. Ibid.
5. BG, p. 223.
6. Ibid., p. 233.
1. THGE, pp. 27–8.
2. Ibid., p. 32.
3. Ibid., p. 88.
4. Ibid.
5. CM, p. 23.
6. BG, pp. 251–2.
7. S5, p. 46.
8. S4, p. 130.
1. CM, p. 43.
2. S4, p. 314.
3. WISY, p. 149.
1. Ibid., pp. 43–4.
2. Ibid. This “flat taste” that resignation can give to a whole world seems to be captured in Eliot’s
The Wasteland.
3. S2, p. 368.
1. BG, p. 203.
2. S5, p. 32.
3. Ibid.
4. Ibid., p. 176.
5. HRMN, p. 412.
1. Ibid., p. 383.
2. TLWG, p. 88.
3. Ibid., p. 98.
4. Marcus Barth, in Theol. Zeitschrift, p. 41 (Basel, 1985, pp. 330–348), as cited in TLGW, p. 330.
5. TLGW, p. 331.
1. TLWG, p. 98.
2. Ibid.
VI
Mysticism and Holiness
Introduction
I t would not be far from the mark to say that mystical experience is commonly
seen as being at the heart of religion: the mystical experience is that from
which the religion comes, around which it is formed, and toward which it leads.
In Christianity, mysticism is, in Balthasar’s view, a part of the life of the body—
but only a part. From another point of view, we might look to Jesus’ entire life
and death as a mystical experience, but then we are moving out of the range of
what we mean by mysticism. If we mean the mystical experience as ecstasy, then
certainly not: His life knew tedium and everydayness. But if we include
precisely this fully incarnate quality in the “ecstasy” of being God, then
Christianity has totally altered the meaning of the mystical by letting the divine
penetrate every atom of human life. But then, instead of mysticism, we would
have to speak of particular mystical graces or else of charisms within a life the
totality of which is “mystical.”
We have frequently seen Balthasar equate Word with Deed, insisting that
the two are inseparable, indeed, in the case of God, that they are identical. This
finds full resonance in the thought of Adrienne von Speyr, who writes that “what
prayer really is” is “doing the Father’s will.”1 Thus the one who prays “best” is
the one who is most fully able to fulfill the Father’s will. If Word equals Deed,
then the conversation takes place by what one does: the story is not a
philosophical argument, but a history of lives in which the conversation has
taken flesh in the following of Jesus, in the lives of the saints.
Without the lives of the saints the Christian message becomes just a
“positivism” of the sort Balthasar deplores. The most intricate dogmatic
speculations become mental filigree unless they be enfleshed in the lives of men
and women, acting and suffering in time and space.
In the end, Balthasar maintains, “the saint is the apology for the Christian
religion.”1 To understand what he means, we propose in this chapter first to take
a brief look at some leading figures in the non-Christian religions and how
holiness is understood there, according to Balthasar. Against this background,
we will look at his understanding of holiness in Christianity and then look at the
“lived apology” of some particular holy people.
B. Conversion
One key area of distinction between the wisdoms is in the understanding of the
meaning of conversion. As a concept, it is common to both Biblical and non-
Biblical religions: it is the “freely willed transformation of a person which
effects his moral attitude and the works that spring from it, but also and above all
effects his religious attitude to God or the divine or the Absolute.”1 To see
wherein the views of conversion differ, we return to our first chapter and the
distinction between guilt and sin we noted there.
For Balthasar, guilt is pandemic. For the religious East (and this includes
Neo-Platonism), guilt is identified with a fall from the Absolute into “new
individuation.” Burdened by guilt, man seeks to fly from this twisted world,
back to the Absolute. Sin is different: it is the “wounding of the personal love
and holiness of God, as well as of His command of love of neighbor.” Balthasar
then concludes: “Man can, by compensating deeds, fundamentally free himself
from guilt, but not from sin, unless the pardon of God take the initiative to which
the human responds by conversion.”2 The “compensating deeds” of course
include those contemplative techniques through which the “guilt” of
individuation is overcome and the illusion of individual (personal) being is
overcome through absorption in the Absolute. It is this which Balthasar
understands as conversion in the non-Biblical mystical traditions, and as such it
is radically different from the personal encounter and ongoing need for
conversion that makes up Biblical change of heart. Let us look at this a bit more
closely.
We begin with Buddhism. In today’s world, it represents the alternative
form of “radical conversion.” For it: “Existence, as long as it lasts, is unrelieved
suffering: if this existence is affirmed through desires, it thus immortalises itself
through new births. . . .” This is an “inescapable carousel” unless one is able to
“see through its nothingness” and so to “also see through one’s own nothingness
that egotistically wants to be a particular I, and thus to annihilate while
sublimating (aufheben).” This is what Balthasar calls “the option of the Buddha
for the nothingness of the world and for salvation in Nirvana. . . ,”3 an option he
insists be treated with utter seriousness.
Not unrelated to this historically—Balthasar often mentions Stoicism in the
same breath—is the wisdom of classical antiquity. Though (blessedly?) not as
thoroughgoing, Neo-Platonism saw the condition of fallen humanity as a fall
from that which it called “the One,” that which Balthasar sees as containing “the
true, the beautiful, the good, the holy.” To fall from this is to fall into the regio
dissimilitudinis in which beings departing from unity are lost, dissipated.
Conversion (epistrophe, conversio) in this view begins the moment one recalls
one’s “homeland” and must turn one’s spiritual being around “180 degrees”:
“from dispersion (Zerstreuung) to recollection, from the distant to the near. . . .”1
This is the way of seeking inner peace, to “liberate the heart and to pacify it. . .
.”2 It is the way of “standing still” which at first is a going against the stream of
the world, but as it approaches the deepest levels of reality, is in fact a profound
harmony and peace, in harmony with a deeper current.3
Such views obtain where “God or the Absolute, to which one converts
oneself, is not love itself” and in consequence “it will be the bitter pangs of
hunger of the one far away that push him to departure.”4 This, in general,
characterizes all the view of the ancient world and the East: it is seen in the
“fundamental experience of the East, in the many forms of Buddhism above all,
but also in the Stoa and in Platonism.” Balthasar contrasts it with the Biblical
view—Islam included here—where “one knows the personal goodness of
Yahweh, Allah, the Father of Jesus.” Here it is “the image of love, in which we
had our home and would like to have it again” that becomes the “basis of the
movement of conversion. . . .”5
As might be expected, the Biblical God is the one who summons to
conversion. One realizes that “he is perceived by another’s ear and eye.”6 That:
“The closed sphere of his freedom is transparent to Another” is for the Biblical
man something that in fact “spares him the hardest part of conversion. . . .”
Called by God, “the person stands still on his way and obediently listens” and “if
he wants, he turns around (converts) in the power of the call.”1 This is the work
of “grace.”2
In the Catholic view, of course, grace builds upon nature. We see this most
clearly in Balthasar’s descriptions of St. Augustine whose Christian conversion
is interwoven with his Neo-Platonism. New to Augustine, the Christian convert,
is the element of the historical which becomes the “medium” for “all that
happens between God and the world.”3 For if God, eternal Being, is also “the
absolutely living and ruling” Creator, then “epistrophe to Him” means not only
“turning away from the Many to the One, but also a rethinking of the thoughts of
man according to God’s own sovereign thoughts.”4
The conversion to the calling God which is common to all the Biblical
religions reaches “its final radicality in Christianity.”5 Balthasar sees it most
clearly expressed in Paul, whose powerful conversion turned him from one who
persecuted the Church to one who saw in the folly of the Cross the supreme
wisdom of God. At the heart of what Balthasar sees in Paul, is his woundedness,
the “angel of Satan” that lashed at Paul, for it is only through the Cross that one
is saved, and only through one’s woundedness that one can participate in that
salvation and become oneself a participant in the work of salvation: “Does not
one need somewhere an opening, a wound, a painful laceration, so that
something will flow from my ‘I’ and so can effect something healing, saving,
health giving?”6 Thus conversion means a letting one’s heart be wounded in
union with Christ on the Cross. It is a turning back, “change of direction”7 which
emerges from the hunger of the human heart for peace. But the peace—the
“standing still (Stillstand) of the direction of the spiritual movement of one’s
entire existence”8—comes to mean indeed an insertion in the heart of reality but
not in that of a trans-mundane, unmoved Absolute. Instead, it means
identification with the will of God, in time and history, to the point of sharing in
the Cross of His Son. Conversion in this light means a constant turning from
one’s own will to His will in one’s life, where health is found in being wounded
along with Christ. In this sense, then, the saints must say the “Confiteor” daily.
For if Augustine, Francis and Ignatius made one major turn to God, they still had
to deepen it every day. And if Paul was thrown to the ground and came to share
and to preach the Cross of Christ, he yet admonished the Philippians to “work
out their salvation in fear and trembling (Phil. 2:12ff).”1
C. The Bodhisattva
Yet what of the notion of “postponing” one’s final salvation for one’s fellows,
most notably seen in Mahayana Buddhism with its characteristic figure of the
Bodhisattva?
Grossly speaking, whereas Theravada Buddhism focused on the liberation
of the individual monk, “his” entry into Nirvana, the Mahayana developed a
doctrine in which the Bodhisattva, the enlightened monk, would not enter into
Nirvana as long as suffering existed in the world. According to the “Bodhisattva
vow,” he would remain in the world of suffering and work to “save all sentient
beings.” Buddhism is quick to point out that unless one has one’s foot on firm
ground, he cannot save the drowning: hence, the need for enlightenment. At the
same time, as seen graphically in the well-known “Ox-Herding Pictures,”
enlightenment once attained, the truly enlightened being returns with “helping
hands in the market-place.”
That this would appeal to Balthasar with his passionate polemic on behalf
of human solidarity—sanctity is fundamentally a willingness to undergo even
hell for others2—is clear. That the Bodhisattva figure plays so small a role in his
otherwise frequent references to Buddhism is surprising. He does however
occasionally refer to the figure. Thus, “the thought of a substituting suffering of
one ready for bliss on behalf of those who are still laden with karma-guilt is like
a signpost in the direction of what is Christian.”1 Affirming that both Buddhists
and Christians recognize “the monstrous burden of world suffering, behind
which stands the burden of guilt,” he yet adds that “for the Christian, this burden
cannot be lifted by meditation (as unburdening), nor even through the famous
‘compassion’ of the one become Buddha who renounces his entrance into
Nirvana as long as beings suffer in the world.”2
What then is Balthasar’s attitude toward this most noble figure? As with
his attitude toward Buddhism in general, there is both a reverence and a sense of
analogous truth—that yet remains inadequate. The reverence is clear.
Surprisingly, Balthasar writes that in spite of the profound differences between
Asia’s law of karma and the Christian sense of what freedom is left to the
individual, “an analogy cannot be overlooked. Also the moment of intercession,
at least in the form of compassion (karuna), but also up to the Bodhisattva-vow:
‘however countless sentient beings may exist, I vow to save them all.’”3
Analogous though the notions may be, Balthasar sees these ideals as but part of
those “sign-posts” which have occurred throughout human history. Another
analogy is seen in the Greek tragic ideal of expiatory suffering for the salvation
of one’s land.
The inadequacy comes from the absence of a correct understanding of the
relation of the form to its background. Looking at Taoist or Zen painting,
Balthasar sees an attempt to represent the ineffable. The figure in the painting
“will be read and formed as an immediate pointer to the mystery of the ‘Void.’”4
But “because what it points to is ‘void,’ then the form, which becomes
fascinating, is also void.”5 In Buddhism, the form is indifferent, something
which is patently unacceptable in Christianity where the form fully expresses the
fullness of the ineffable that is uttering itself here—and uniquely here. Put
differently, the idea of the Bodhisattva, analogously related but ultimately
inadequate, forms a sort of spiritual background to the “thought of substitution
which realises its perfection in the Cross of Christ. . . .”1
In the end, the Cross of Christ is something “totally different” from the
“compassion” of the Bodhisattva. Golgotha means “substitutive carrying away
of the guilt of the world, solidarity in abandonment by God, but done from love
for those turned away from God, and so their reconciliation. . . .” From this
substitutive death which springs from love and leads to life Balthasar concludes
that “there is no Christian way to God—be it ‘mystical’ or any other—that is not
stamped by the event of the Cross.”2 It is to a deeper understanding of that
Christian way to God, the way of life nourished by His holiness, that we must
now turn.
B. Fruitfulness
Perhaps reflecting the very spirit of the concept, “fruitfulness” appears
abundantly throughout Balthasar’s work. Hardly any aspect of his thought is
unaffected by “fruitfulness.” Here we can at best pass in review some of the
many ways in which this concept is present at the heart of his criteria for
Christian holiness.
First of all, fruitfulness and unfruitfulness are most basically a measuring
rod for good and evil: “only the good, the selfless bears fruit, the evil is the
unfruitful.”4 As we can expect, given the foundation of the Balthasarian
worldview in inter-personal relations, the spiritual alternative to being fruitful is
“to exhaust oneself in oneself.”5 Fruitfulness is “the fundamental reality of the
mystical body of Christ,” the fruit of “‘the divine virtues’ in the life of those who
are sanctified through them: every one who allows them to work in him without
constraint, becomes, through them, whether he wants and knows it or not, one
who lets the divine life flow into the world through him.”6 Moreover, this is not
limited to Christianity: “Non-Christian religions have also known about this
secret, but mostly in a more limited sense.”7
Fruitfulness is so crucially important because God Himself is fruitful. It is
so important an attribute of God for Balthasar that it would be little exaggeration
to lift fruitfulness to the level of the transcendentals. God’s fruitfulness is seen
everywhere: “every mystery that He reveals gives birth to a new one: this is his
fruitfulness. . . .”1 This divine fruitfulness is based in the Trinitarian Being of
God. Thus, the love of the Father and the Son “must show itself as the eternal
fruit in God and the infinite fruitfulness in the world. . . . The Spirit is the
fruitfulness of the paternal and filial love, and the fruitfulness that He is . . .
pours itself out as free gift.”2 If the Spirit is the fruitfulness of the love of the
Father and the Son, then the Son’s fruitfulness is seen in the sacrifice of His life
for His brethren: this “opening of one’s inmost heart for the brother, and that not
in words but in deeds” is a “dying to all self-will” that is “the principle of
Christian bearing fruit (Fruchttragen), because it is the abiding in the being and
thought of the Lord.” This obedience of the Son in dying to self in self-sacrificial
love for the brethren is so much at the source of Christian fruitfulness that
Balthasar concludes: “Nothing is fruitful in a Christian way but that which
originates in Christological obedience.”3
If then fruitfulness is at the very heart of the divine Being itself, that
feature is characteristic both of Creation and the relation between Creator and
Creation. Reality, both supernatural and natural, has a triadic structure. This is so
important for Balthasar for on the one hand he wants to avoid an Augustinian
“being-closed-in-on oneself” (Ichgeschlossenheit) and on the other the danger of
the dialogical thinkers who tend to end up with two monologues delivered
against a religious background. The way to the third in Creation is the principle
of fruitfulness.4
We have already encountered this in another connection in our look at the
sexes. Whereas the man represents a “single principle (Word-Seed),” “the
woman represents a double principle” that is, both “answer and (joint) fruit.”1 If
the male represents the Word-seed, the woman has an even deeper symbolic role,
for she is not only a “vessel for his fruitfulness” but she is “fitted with her own,
expressive fruitfulness” which is yet “a responsive fruitfulness (antwortende
Fruchtbarkeit).”2 Even as a third mysteriously emerges from the sexual
encounter of two individuals—Balthasar emphasizes that the physical
fruitfulness remains forever free and mysterious, something science will never
fully understand—so this serves as an analogy to the mysterious character of
spiritual fruitfulness.3
The fruitfulness of God is seen in His astounding willingness to “throw
Himself away (as seed and Word),” something that reveals “the principle of all
bearing fruit.”4 Balthasar makes much of the principle of “dispossession”
(Enteignung): man must “join himself” (aneignen) to God’s dispossession
(Enteignung) if he is to bear fruit: “the one who bears much fruit, glorifies the
principle of bearing fruit.”5 The seed of God in the Old Testament falls to earth,
fructifying it. In the New Testament, the soil, Mary, is already fruitful, the “Word
that comes finds a fertile earth,” an earth that has been made fruitful by the faith
of Mary. Thus, her physical fruitfulness is intimately united with her spiritual
fruitfulness.6 The word of Mary is “more deed than word: the letting-happen of
the divine deed-word (Tatwort). And the fruit of this fruit is Jesus. . . . And this
love is given us as fruit in our heart: the Holy loving Spirit of God.”7 The
circular movement is clearly seen, where the Holy Spirit descends upon Mary, a
Mary who is fertile in faith and rendered fruitful by her participation in the work
of the Holy Spirit. She who is already fruit—fruit of the faith of Israel, an Israel
which knew no Promethean fruitfulness but a “patient waiting” on the Lord,8 the
faithful perseverance of the anawim—bears fruit, and her fruit, obedient to the
Cross, bears fruit in the Church.
At the Cross, Balthasar sees sinful humanity’s “attempt to drive God out of
finitude in order not to have to conceive from Him but to fructify themselves. . .
.”1 This bears out what we saw in our last chapter regarding the sin of Sodom.
All attempts at self-fertilization are ultimately futile. It is at the Cross where the
Word is fully seen as the Seed become flesh (“in the centre of all fruitfulness
now stands the body”2), at Calvary, where the Son and Mother are separated by a
“physical and spiritual death” that “the mystery of highest fruitfulness of love
between man and woman is realised: where the Eucharist springs forth, the
ecclesial womb that will receive it is formed.”3 The Eucharist, which Balthasar
sees as symbolically originating at the Cross, is fruitfulness poured out for all
mankind, a mankind who can receive it if conformed to the image of the
receiving “womb” of the Virgin-Mother-Church. The role of the body in this
cannot be underestimated. Virginity is the “victory of the agape-death as a life
form which bears fruit.”4 Virginity is key to the agape-purification of love the
fruitfulness of which is not at all disincarnate, not even—no, especially not—for
the virgins, but rather bears its eucharistic fruit in and for the world. Balthasar
proclaims that: “Fruitfulness is always Eucharist. . . .”5 The “wonder of virginal
fruitfulness” is quite other than anti-sexual ascetical teachings which hold
individuality and generation to be “bad and thus to be overcome through
continence”: rather, the Christian understanding is fully based on the love of God
for the world which is ultimately not a humanistic love among humans, but the
outpouring of the love of the Blessed Trinity which flows into the “love of Christ
imprinted on the Church by the Holy Spirit.”6
All fruitfulness on earth is tied to the Cross. It requires of the disciples a
purification by the Father7 who is the one who “prunes the vine” that it may bear
fruit. The image of the vineyard is the central image of fruitfulness from the
teachings of Jesus that draws Balthasar: “the faithful only bear fruit by their
‘abiding’ in the vine.”1 Naturally, then, fruitfulness is the very “essence of the
Church.”2
The Church itself is “fruit of the Cross”3 and: “All fruitfulness for the
Church grows out of the Cross.”4 On the Cross, it is no longer a single seed
sown in one womb, but rather the entire “fruitfulness of God’s seeds” that is
poured out on the Cross, “sown into the spiritual-corporeal womb of the Church
and everyone in her who is ready to conceive.”5 This is especially true of the
contemplatives in the Church, for the one praying “keeps himself ready
exclusively as the vessel for every fertilising seed of the Beloved.”6
There is spiritual fruitfulness in Heaven—an “interpersonal fruitfulness”
which is yet non-sexual. This is anticipated on earth by “the Eucharist as
exchange of love between Christ-Bridegroom and Church-Bride [and by] the
form of life of virginity as a participation in such supra-sexual connubiality” all
under the sign of the Cross.7 The contemplative saints in particular know of this
fruitfulness. In a tradition extending from the Rhineland mystics through Teresa
of Avila to the Little Flower, the saints have held contemplation to be “the most
fruitful work for the world and for the Church,” a contemplation which then
moves on to expression as “apostolically active individual acts on behalf of one’s
neighbor.”8 Fruitfulness then is for Balthasar first and last the great test of
genuineness in the saints.9
C. Discipleship (Nachfolge)
Holiness, we have seen, is given by God: God is all holy and only God is holy.
Others share in His holiness. We shall, in our final section, look explicitly at the
saints, those who embody holiness in an exemplary way. As they are the
quintessence of human holiness, it is difficult not to anticipate by looking at their
witness. Briefly, then, the saints “receive their task in the Church from a super-
ecclesial encounter with the source from which the Church emerges.” The saints
who are involved in reforming the Church “need no other experience of the
Church than the experience of the source” in order to know what they are to do.1
Put differently, Balthasar writes that: “The saints found Church. They receive her
singly from the Lord and expand her as communio.” In fact, he notes, this work
is not limited to the saints but extends to all the “hidden Christians who draw
others to themselves as magnets draw filings of iron, unbeknownst to
themselves.”2
What, then, is this “experience of the source,” how is it to be had? As we
see, it is an experience that is at the root of Christian holiness, one that ripples
out into the world, drawing others into the sphere of the Church and then
opening out into an encounter which passes through and above that Church to
the “source.” The way to experience the source is what Balthasar calls Nachfolge
and which we will translate as “discipleship.”3 To contact the living God, one
must contact the human Christ who is God become man. God has tied our
contemplation to the Incarnation of His Son: “He sends us a concrete
contemplation of Trinitarian life through an insertion realised by grace and in the
seriousness of the discipleship of Christ.” One enters into the faith-obedience
(Glaubensgehorsam) “accomplished along with Christ in the Spirit.”4 It is no
surprise that the perfect model for such a Trinitarian contemplation is Mary and
her answer to the Word addressed to her.5 The Gospel world which one
contemplates is no “sublimely mystical” world but rather an everyday world of
everyday human relations: yet it is precisely as such that it expresses the
“consuming beauty of God.”1
Rather than primarily an imitation, in which one might seem to set out on
one’s own program of imitating, the actual following of Christ depends upon an
indifference which frees one up to follow the will of God, an indifference “that
sets the will of the Lord higher than all one’s own programs of perfection.”2 One
wants neither to be “melted” into God nor yet does one want to have one’s ego,
one’s will fully extinguished, but rather one strives for “the appropriation of the
divine will into one’s own will with the express awareness that thus the will of
the Lord is taken up into the will of the servant and thus is realised by him.”3
The one “condition of discipleship” which Jesus sets is to leave everything and
follow Him.4 Salvation has “appeared in human form: to be in salvation means
to be with this man.”5
It should be noted that for Balthasar, the discipleship of Christ was truly re-
discovered by St. Ignatius who provided a wedding of scholasticism and
mysticism, as seen in the important role of Thomistic secondary causes and
analogy in his Exercises. Thus, in the meditation on the Kingdom, the Christian
can “represent” the king as a vice-regent without surrendering anything of his
personhood. “Representation” then becomes the keystone to “baroque culture”
seen especially in the great missions of St. Francis Xavier and the Paraguayan
Reductions and in the theatre of Calderon: it offers a “new consciousness of the
appearance of divine Glory in the world” wherein the Glory can find an
appropriate vessel without (contra Eckhart, Ockham or Luther) destroying that
vessel.6 Typically, Balthasar observes that the more a servant bears his master’s
orders, representing him, the more he distinguishes himself from the master: so
“precisely where the servant distinguishes himself more deeply and
unmistakably from Christ he becomes more like Him. . . .”1
The “law of discipleship” then is that “the disciples must also do what He
does and is, in order that in realising this they might receive some idea of Who
He is: that is, so that in realising they might not be actualising themselves, but
Christ in them.” Balthasar observes that no matter how well-intentioned, it is the
“mystical forgetfulness of this fundamental law” that drags Christianity down
“to the level of any human world religion . . . and to that against which the Old
Testament had struggled as against the arch-fiend.”2 Here again the correct
distance (Abstand) in relation is what is at issue, the reverence which lets the
Lord, the sovereign, be Lord: and yet, paradoxically, the only way to know the
Lord is to follow Him, but as He has chosen to reveal Himself, as a humble man,
not as “ascetic, mystic, sage” but rather as the son of the Carpenter. To follow
Him is first and foremost to enter on the path of self-renunciation which takes
most concrete form in that renunciation of one’s own will which is obedience.
Holiness is a “‘sacrificial consecration’ in the will of the Father that perfects the
sacrifice.”3 Holiness is an identification fully with Christ in doing the will of the
Father. And the life of the vows, of poverty, chastity and obedience, if truly
lived, is “the essence of holiness itself.” This form, the life of the vows, is the
“form-giving condition for every life in the discipleship of the Lord.”4 The
holiness which flows from this consecration and sacrifice of self in union with
Christ is a charism for the entire Church. So holiness has a role to play “like the
official service of the priest.”5
The true delight, indeed the ecstasy of the Christian is not a matter of great
experiences of God, but rather it is the experience of obedience in line with Jesus
“wherein the one who serves wants to find his final delight nowhere other than
in the realisation of the will of the One Who has sent him.”6 This obedience of
course means openness to mission from the Father, a mission that is subsumed to
the form of the life, passion and death of Christ. The glorification of the Son by
the Father is “the proof given by the Father that everything glorious that has
resulted as fruit from the Son’s mission is finally based on the perfect, absolute
obedience. . . .”1 Obedience is nothing less than faith itself: “Christian faith is
not primarily a self-understanding of Christians nor yet is it a self-understanding
of the Church as a community, but rather an obedience. . . .”2 The simple
discipleship of this man who praised the Father for preferring the lowly and the
“mere babes” is perhaps most clearly seen in the Christian phenomenon of
“foolishness for Christ.”
The poetic act centers on the periphery of the mystical act. The genuine mystic is
not to compose poetry expanding the revelation of God, but rather to live
discipleship, following the Holy Spirit. Stripped of all lesser loves, mystical
poetry must renounce the “æsthetic” it must be purified by the “sword of the
Spirit.” John of the Cross is a particularly good example of “the cry of the soul
vivisected in the middle of the night, in order to end in the song of praise of the
still deeper, still livelier soul, sounded in the fire of Glory.”2
This is all contrasted with the wisdom of non-Christian religions which do
not know this foolishness, but rather have virtue and wisdom. The foolishness of
God, revealed in the Cross, is “wiser than all the religious wisdom of mankind”
and it further “demands that the religions become foolish as well in order to
become truly wise for the first time.”3 It is the saints who supply models of this
folly which offers a “high flight” above the virtues philosophy cultivates, flight
higher than apatheia.4 Here Balthasar sees two lines converging on the figure of
St. Ignatius and his understanding of indifference. The first line is that of the
saints, what he calls the “metaphysics of the saints” which is “grounded on a
fundamental passivity to the will of God.” The other line is the “metaphysics of
the fools” and it is “grounded on the being open to the will of God greater than
that of all the teachers of wisdom.”5 What results when the two are wed, when
the indifference which comes through Eckhart meets the indifference of
foolishness—of youthful, poetic enthusiasm—is that indifference represented by
Ignatius, that is, disponibility.1 Foolishness then becomes not only the penance it
had been in early Christian fools like Francis or Jacopone da Todi, nor “pure
passivity of the reason toward God” which opened the door to grace, but now, in
the Ignatian embrace of humility in the following of Christ, it becomes “the
conscious, loving preference for the infinitely lordly will of God over all
spiritual harmony of the cosmos of the cardinal virtues.”2 In this, the foolishness
of Christian holiness reflects—indeed, participates in—the foolishness of God’s
love, the madness of a God descending into the turbulence of the world in order
to save His creatures. This is a madness that destroys the wisdom of this world,
and the right understanding of this foolish love of God by Christian dogma is
what keeps agape from being “stormed” by Gnosis.3 Appealing as it sounds,
urged on by the trumpet calls of youthful infatuation, discipleship in folly is yet
the way of suffering, as the folly always remains the Cross.
E. Suffering
To become holy, as we have seen, is to have been touched by the God who alone
is holy. For the Christian, this means the following of God-made-man, of the
man Jesus Whose life reveals Who God is. This following reaches its peak in the
“folly of the Cross” and all around it, the Passion and Death which form the
acme of the Revelation. Suffering is at the very heart of the Gospel message for
Balthasar, and as such, is at the heart of what it means to be a disciple of Christ.
Balthasar did not shy away from as bold an assertion as this: “Suffering only has
meaning in Christianity,” adding that: “All the other religions are only palliatives
against suffering.”4 It is not our purpose here to fully develop his theology of the
Cross, but we clearly cannot avoid some consideration of Balthasar’s doctrine of
suffering if we are to understand his understanding of Christian uniqueness and
holiness.
We can take our cue from Irenæus, who contrasts Christian suffering with
Gnosis. For Irenæus: “It is the real, suffering and dying human being who . . .
gives glory to God, and this suffering one, humiliated unto death, is much more
splendid than all the painless schemes of the Gnostics. . . .”1 If we bear in mind
that for Irenæus, “the glory of God is the living human being” and that for
Balthasar the glory of God for man is always cruciform then the man who is the
glory of God is not a human being “in top shape” as it were, well-fed, well-
exercised, well-developed—a view Balthasar is quick to parody—but the human
being wounded, broken, suffering. This is not a bizarre celebration of human
misery, unredeemed, but rather it is (suffering) man lifted into the suffering form
of Christ that is this glory. Let us look a bit closer at this suffering modelled by
Christ under the three aspects of God-forsakenness, obedience and substitution.
Rather than focusing on the physical tortures of the Passion of Christ,
Balthasar’s passiology focuses on the cry of abandonment on the Cross and the
solidarity with sinners—experiencing abandonment by God—which Christ
experiences as He descends into hell. Godlessness is the “possible final
consequence of human freedom,” answered by the man Jesus who descended to
the depths of God-forsakenness. In this abandonment, “God lets God go into the
abandonment by God” but Balthasar adds “in that He accompanies Him there
with His Spirit.” This total divine engagement in the mystery of the human
freedom to reject God and the willing suffering by God of the consequences of
such a rejection form that uniquely Christian understanding of the riddle of
suffering, “the only acceptable solution to the puzzle of the world. . . .” This is a
mystery: indeed, it is the peak of the mystery of the relation between God and
man, something which transcends even God-made cosmological laws, revealing
“the mysterious dialogue between human freedom—that may utter its final word
—and the divine freedom, whose final word is no longer a ‘word’ but rather a
deed that sinks into total darkness.” This is a “silence” which transcends human
powers of imagination and creativity and in which “God reveals Who and What
God is.”1 Christ’s death, then, the abandonment by God on the Cross in
solidarity with humanity, is “no rejection of the creature in order to attain God”
but rather God’s abandonment by God in order to save the creature.2 As such,
the “whole form of the Christian is first realised through the suffering of Christ. .
. .”3
The implications for Christian holiness as a following of Christ are vast.
First of all, as it was an individual who died on the Cross, so the encounter with
the Cross is only possible for individuals, as individuals.4 Second, as Christ—
God and man—has loved man through every conceivable pain and alienation,
through every conceivable sin, and asks man’s love in return, a disinterested
contemplation, detached from His Passion and Cross, is an outrage. This, for
example, was intuited by Augustine, who knew that “the way of longing was
paved for him by the humility and Cross of Christ, and not from the self-
assurance of Plotinian Gnosis.”5 Again, Balthasar’s coolness toward self-
realized spiritual figures comes to the fore.
The Christian saints find their center in Christ’s Passion. The point of their
meditation on His Passion is not a being moved that is external, but rather a
contemplation that leads one to “order one’s life according to this insight.”6
Some saints experience the pains of hell, of abandonment by God, “including
temporarily being handed over to demons.”7 Ultimately, he sees no contradiction
at all that one who had experienced the bliss of bridal mysticism “should still die
in a subjective abandonment by God: this could indeed be a form of higher union
with the Lord, whose night of the senses and of the spirit was the conclusion of
His earthly experience.”8 So much is Balthasar convinced of this, in fact, that he
maintains that a death patterned after Christ’s, in abandonment by God, is to be
preferred to a “mystical death” in an ecstasy of love. Bernanos is the writer who
is singled out as having understood this mystery and as having portrayed it in his
writings on the Carmelites, where a “true Cross-death (Kreuzestod) in extreme
God-forsakenness” also “possesses the fruitfulness of the Cross to be true
substitution (Stellvertretung) for another death.” This overcomes the “illusory
tradition” that a Carmelite was supposed to die a “mors mystica in an ecstasy of
love.”1
We cannot fail to observe that the death of Christ on the Cross is
characterized by “death-fruitfulness” (Todesfruchtbarkeit) where “the man Jesus
becomes the origin of the Woman and of the Bride Church. . . .”2 The nearer the
Christian wants to come to His Lord, then, in discipleship, the more He will
suffer, and in particular, suffer even abandonment, God-forsakenness in order to
share in the redemption of mistaken human freedom, in love.
Here we return to the question of experience, of mystical experience. It is
presumed, of course, that “experience” signifies raptures, ecstasies, bliss. In this
sense, we can say that the experience of Christ in obeying the Father was a
renunciation of the experience of God in favor of obedience. The experimental
knowledge which He then received was that of man alienated from God—seen
in its extreme in the Cross and Descent into Hell. This too is experience, of
course. But the emphasis is laid on the obediential aspect of Christ’s sacrifice.
Thus, “it is not the experience of union with God that represents the measure of
perfection (the highest stage of ascent) but rather obedience, that even in the
experience of abandonment (Gottverlassenheit) can be just as bound to God as in
the experienced union.”3
To really experience God then is to “work with” God. God has turned
toward the world, and to turn away from the world in search of God “through
ascetical and ‘mystical’ exertions” is quite the opposite of what He has chosen as
the way to union with Him. Rather, what is demanded is an “active appropriation
of God’s movement toward us.”1 Again, this movement has its origin in an act of
obedience within the Blessed Trinity, an obedience which bears the Holy Spirit
with it to the depths of Hell. Everything about Christ, from His Incarnation
onwards, is “an expression of His obedience” and so He is Himself the
“archetypical method to be followed. . . .”2
The “readiness” to do the will of the Father thus assumes first place, a
higher value than any “experience” and “the whole status of mysticism is thus
transformed.”3 True wisdom, then, is that of “Christological obedience in love”
(Liebesgehorsam) which is “wiser than all wisdom without obedience.”4 The
“personal experience” of each Christian is to be conformed to the Cross and
Resurrection of Christ. What remains of “unusual mystical experiences” is
something that is given only “for the sake of the others,” hardly something to be
sought after for its own sake.5
Christ’s death on the Cross “for us” (pro nobis) is the point “on which all
of Christian theology depends.”6 Christ’s death was one in substitution for our
sins: He took our place, represented us (though “representation” is really too
weak a word). According to Paul, it was a death in obedience “that takes away
the disobedience of Adam. . . .”7 This “substitutory salvation” (stellvertretende
Erlösung) is Christ’s primary task.8 The question before us, as we look at
Christian holiness, is to what extent the disciple can take part in this death.
Of course, all Christians are sinners, and so Christ’s death is for them,
before they themselves can have any share in a death for others. Our first share
in the Cross then is as those who are themselves “unjustly striking” Him: we are,
first of all, those who cause Him to suffer His death on the Cross. Yet, as we
come to follow Him, we are ourselves supposed to bear “unjust suffering . . . in
imitation of Him.” Of this form of “imitation,” Balthasar is quick to observe: “in
tanta similitudine major dissimilitudo.”1
Yet the Church is represented at the foot of the Cross where Mary, herself
preserved from sin by the sacrifice of the Cross, represents the Church, the
communion of saints. If Christ took the place of all men on the Cross, where
“the Word of God . . . dies in the darkness,” then at the foot of the Cross stands
the Church, uttering her response in the darkness, “taking their place” as well.2
No one, not even Mary, can actively save himself: and yet, “it is not impossible
that Jesus gives those saved by Him the possibility of having a share in His
power, to reach into the realm of human freedom saving, liberating, supporting. .
. .” This is done in such a way that “according to the laws of the communion of
saints he could place himself at God’s disposal for other men . . . in intercession,
in suffering-for and being-for (Für-Bitten, Für-Leiden, Für-Sein).”3 Thus, the
communion of saints, those saved in Christ, does have a share in the saving work
of Christ, by suffering for the other.
Indeed, from being a possibility, this becomes an obligation for Christians
who must now “continue the work of substitution as the fundamental ethical
act.”4 The silent suffering at Calvary, both on the part of the Crucified and the
Church gathered at the foot of the Cross is a being-with to which all Christians
are called. The descent into Hell is a solidarity with sinners which allows for no
self-righteous moralism on the part of Christians who must be willing (in the
Holy Spirit) to accompany their brothers and sisters through the depths of the
human journey, assured that their Lord has gone this way before them. As we
have observed, the willingness to undergo suffering—and hell—for another is
for Balthasar a chief sign of sanctity.
This sign marks the “fools” in particular. Again, in Russian literature,
Dostoyevsky has Prince Myshkin write of love that it is “communication with
the sinner, communion with his guilt without any desire to distinguish and as
exchange of the Cross with him, as on Holy Saturday, where love has died the
death of sin with sin and for it.” It is the mystery of Holy Saturday that is
inviolable against all onslaughts, for “here love has already conquered in
silence.” This single individual represents the “senselessness and idiocy of
existence” and spills over into “the gentle divine idiot on the Cross, who silently
shelters everything in Himself and gives His form to everything.”1 And as if to
accentuate the humility of the Incarnate God, He accepts “the law of fellow
humanity which leaves the other man free to say ‘yes’ or ‘no.’”2 That is, His
loving embrace is open to being rejected.
In the end, then, Christian holiness requires a share in the suffering of
Christ, in His abandonment out of obedience which allows Him to suffer the
sufferings of others, for others. Suffering can be overcome by no doctrine, no
words, and finally by no technique. Rather, Biblical theology and the Fathers
came to find the sense of suffering from within the Cross itself: that the “solution
for the puzzle of human existence” exists “in the possibility of a co-suffering
(indeed, a suffering ‘for’) of God with man in the God-man. . . .”3 That a human
sinner, himself saved by the Cross of Christ, can take part in this redemptive
suffering is the highest privilege imaginable.
If the encounter with Christ is always one on one, still, the work of
salvation takes place within the communion of saints. It is to this communion
and the lived “apologies” for the Christian faith that it offers that we finally turn.
B. Therese of Lisieux
The first two figures we will look at were both Carmelite contemplatives who
lived at the turn of the century. For Balthasar they represent models of Christian
sanctity. He does not present them uncritically, however, and in his very
criticism, especially of Therese, we will see the articulation of the values in
holiness that we have been examining in theory.
Why Carmel? Balthasar believed that the Carmelites had been given graces
particularly needed in our time, graces which balance contemporary excesses.
Thus, in the age of pragmatic action, Carmel offers a call to contemplation
“without consideration of ascertainable fruit”; in the age of psychology, Carmel
offers a return to anonymity; in the age of the “ideal of personality” it offers a
return to “the supernatural mission” that “demands the readiness to sacrifice
one’s entire nature.”2 Even as throughout history the movement in the Church
has been toward an increased “apostolic opening to the world, interpenetration of
action and contemplation,” the Carmelites here studied illustrate “the Biblical
grounding of the purely contemplative vocation,” something that had been
prepared by the Rhenish and Spanish mystics.3
Balthasar calls Therese and Elizabeth of the Trinity “sisters in the Spirit,”
but sisters that complement rather than duplicate each other. Therese so wants to
incarnate Scripture and dogma in her existence, that it “contains the danger that
at its extreme the objective truth could vanish in the existential,” and that the
greatness of the Church teaching might be constricted to her “little way.”
Elizabeth has the opposite tendency: she submerges her existence in the Gospel
“so far that the overwhelming objectivity of the divine truth threatens to destroy
her subjectivity.” Balthasar treasures both, though it seems that he somewhat
favors Elizabeth in whom, “the subjectively weaker, objectively stronger, the
contemplation of faith expands to its full Biblical dimension.”1
In Therese we see incarnated much of Balthasar’s teaching on holiness.
Thus, because God is not some anonymous law, the Christian who follows His
will for him becomes truly himself, and “no one becomes so much himself as the
saint.”2 Yet modern hagiography is mistaken in focusing on history and
psychology and ignoring the theological missions of the saints. They themselves
normally want to put their missions in the light, while leaving “their poor
personality” in the dark.3 In the saints, the Holy Spirit is illuminating aspects of
the tradition in each age, making of the saints “the ‘living Gospel.’”4 Thus:
“Every Christian and even more every saint lives a theological existence. . . .” It
was part of Therese’s mission “to illuminate anew certain pages of revelation for
Christendom. . . .” Most particularly, her mission finds its center in the “Little
Way.”
The identification of her own “littleness” with a theological teaching
causes Balthasar great concern. As we have noted, he believes Therese
appropriated the dogma so existentially that it threatened to obscure the
objective teaching, so that she would point to herself rather letting herself point
to the teaching. This is seen in her use of Scripture. Scripture should normally be
a “school of unpersonalisation.” Therese never knew this, and though she “fed
her spirit and her heart through the persistent contemplation of Sacred
Scripture”5 she lived in a “sort of naivetè convinced that the Scripture stands at
her service.”6 Yet Scripture did confirm her in her mission, providing a
“strengthening of that which the ‘Inner Teacher’ had given her.”1 Again, she
wants to live the Word she hears, to lose her “I” in her mission: but she wants to
do this in such a way as to make of her life her work of art, to sculpt her life as
an artist.2 Unlike other missions in which the “I” is lost in the mission, for
Therese, “the missions seem again to be called Therese.” Her life is to be the
model “for all little souls” and so she enters on a “conscious self-canonisation.”3
Although she does want to make of her life a work of art, it is primarily to be
done “in a very feminine stance” where she receives the form from the Word of
God and lets that form her life: “She only wants . . . to conceive and to bear the
conceived with perfect love.”4 St. Paul also points to himself this way, and this
remains a bit problematical for Balthasar (and much more so for Adrienne). It is,
in the end, the way of spiritual childhood which will allow her to abandon
herself in childlike obedience, living in the will of God in this moment, saving
her from the worries and nothingness that signal “disobedience.”5 The perfect
image of this is the “little ball” which represents the readiness to receive
anything at God’s hands: this becomes the “Christian ideal of perfection” thus
altering “the status of Christian mysticism,” relativising it as an “unusual
experience of God.”6 We shall soon return to this.
Therese’s objective mission was damaged by two subjective “mistakes.”
The first concerned a mystical experience she had early in life, a miraculous
healing and vision of the Virgin. She felt a strong desire to silence, but shared
this with her sisters in spite of that reaction to “Be silent! Preserve the secret.”
Later, aware of this special gift, her superiors will constrain her to write about
her own experiences and not about dogma, thus forcing her attention to herself.7
The other mistake had deeper consequences. A confessor early on told her she
had never sinned seriously. This effectively “killed her sense of sin” leaving her
only “imperfections.”1 She was then “separated from the sinners, transfixed in
the isolation of holiness.”2 And because of this ignorance of sins “central
mysteries remain closed to her theology: the mystery of the bearing of sin and of
solidarity in sin . . . above all, the mystery of penance.”3 She comes dangerously
close to being confused with the Immaculate Conception4 and as one “preserved
from sin” she “has no connection with hell.”5 Although just before her death she
will come to have a sense of sin, it remains true that for her, “fixed in her little
way” it is the “beginning of the Passion, on the Mt. of Olives . . . that forms the
centre of her piety” rather than “the complete night of the Cross to the point
where the Son, abandoned by the Father, stands in the absolute God-
abandonment of the sinners.”6 Thus two key elements in holiness, the
substituting suffering for sinners and the abandonment of Holy Saturday are
missing, and this because of an error made on earth as regards the mission sent
from Heaven.
But the heart of her mission, the “Little Way,” is what liberates her from
the choking holiness that had been imposed on her.7 As she moves through life,
it is no longer holiness for which she primarily strives, “but the glorification of
God, the glorification of the Church, the salvation of souls, the fulfillment of the
divine will,”8 but all this in a way of extreme everydayness. Her “Little Way”
forms a sort of counterweight to the way of the “great souls” of Spanish
mysticism, and, Balthasar feels, proves evangelically richer. She had
experienced mystical phenomena, but she so turned against any unusual mystical
phenomena that Balthasar concludes “Therese does not want to see.”9 Rather
than longing for the Liebestod that John of the Cross describes, she wants only to
die the death of the Lord: “To die from love does not mean to die in raptures.”1
Her desire to spend her Heaven on earth, working for the good of souls, is
suggestively reminiscent of the Bodhisattva vow which we have seen. Balthasar
especially likes Therese’s rediscovery of the ancient Patristic notion that
“Heaven” (before the Final Judgment) will “bend over earth with concern” until
the “last of the expected brothers enters”: a sort of anticipatory Heaven, for such
saints as Therese “whose joy is unbearable as long as another suffers.”2 In her
understanding of Heaven as love (and service) of God rather than bliss,
Balthasar sees a major advance in Christian spirituality, for the repose of
classical antiquity had, he feels, infected Christian spirituality, replacing the
“laws of love” with “the laws of bliss” and the “laws of rest.”3
This compassionate element is one of other typically Balthasarian concerns
in Christian holiness. Needless to say, the “Little Way” is nothing if not
childlike. For Therese, disponibility is at the center of the religious life, it is
itself the fruitfulness of that life.4 Part of her theological mission is to transform
the notion of action as “effect” which came from the “Neo-Platonic meaning” in
contemplation to that of “fruitfulness.” In her revolutionary work on the relations
of contemplation and action, in which she made the contemplative fully a
member of the “active” Church5 she seems to even surpass St. Ignatius (in
actione contemplativus) by becoming “in contemplatione activus.”6 She is
successful in her interpretation of the superiority of contemplation over action
because her contemplation does not come “out of a void, a simple vacare, but
from a fullness.”7 To understand contemplation, then, it is better “to look away
from Aristotle” and “to tie oneself to the immanent interpretation of the words
and deeds of the Lord and His Saints in the Gospel.”8 For the saints, “all love is
fruitful”1 indeed, “without fruitfulness . . . no communion of saints.”2 And yet
“the contemplative renounces seeing his fruit himself” in order to be completely
“poured out with the contemplative and eucharistic Lord.”3
Finally, of silence, she wrote that it is “the speech of Heaven”: “Oh how I
love Your eloquent silence!”4 Balthasar writes that she “has never heard the Lord
speak and yet knows that He is in her. She prefers His silence to His speech. . . .
[Therese:] ‘this silence of the Divine Master is like a melody for my heart.’”5
As we have seen, Balthasar believes that because she was so subjective and
because she had no particular relation either with Church office or, most
especially, with a confessor, certain central mysteries remain undeveloped in
Therese: this is especially true of the “dogma of the Trinity” which “is very
weakly represented in her.” It is Elizabeth of the Trinity, “completely oriented
towards the objective, that which is independent of the subject” who will “be
able to develop an explicitly Trinitarian teaching.”6
The encounter with God leaves Elizabeth speechless. It is curious that even as
we found a central element in Therese’s spirituality—Heaven on earth, saving
others—highly reminiscent of the Bodhisattva vow in Buddhism, so Elizabeth’s
encounter with the Ineffable leaves her speechless, an encounter described in
oceanic imagery of which Balthasar would elsewhere seem to disapprove.
Especially troublesome would be any talk of dissolution as a “drop in the sea.”
What keeps Elizabeth’s mystical longing here from being merely a
“metaphysical wish” to lose oneself in the infinite is that this is a “simple
movement of love.” To “‘lose oneself’ must be understood entirely in the sense
of the Lord’s commandment: in the loss of one’s own soul lies the key to the
entrance into the kingdom of love, in which surely the ‘I’ but not a single ‘Thou’
is lost.”2 The key is the encountered presence that “demands an immediate and
unconditioned answer.”3 Her knowledge of infinity is only possible because of
the Incarnation, which is the only point where “infinity breaks into the finite”
and there it is “in the Passion and in the Eucharist of the Love of God in
Christ.”4 It is in Christ that the ineffability of God becomes audible. And in the
Incarnation, it was the suffering of Christ that tended to become for her
increasingly the “gate to infinity.”5 It was not the immanent Trinity but the
economic Trinity that ultimately concerned here and “finally the point where this
world becomes co-formed to the Son through the work of the Holy Spirit to a
praise of the all-completing grace of the Father.”6
The stance of the soul which encounters the infinity that is a “Thou” is one
of “humiliated, silenced” adoration.1 It is only a “great inner silence that allows
God to imprint Himself on them [souls] and to transform them into Himself.”2 It
is a silence in which the abyss of God’s Presence meets the abyss of the soul’s
nothingness, something “that is only understandable as the following of Christ
(Nachfolge Christi).”3
Thus, we see a theological mission to the Church incarnated in Elizabeth of
the Trinity, who gradually became a “hearer of the Word.”4 Her own personality
receded to allow the objective mission to take over and imprint her teaching,
while she cooperated in adoring silence, in marian receptivity, responding with
her “Yes,” her share in that “One holy Word that says all, fills all.”5
Conclusion
We recall Balthasar’s important statement that the counterpart to the Indian yogi
or the Zen master is not the Christian mystic, but rather the saint, whether mystic
or not.2 It is not a question here of a religious chauvinism, although one does
well to keep one’s eyes open to such a danger. Rather, concluding as we do with
the saintly-mystic Adrienne von Speyr, we have a sense of the burning, pulsing
life of the living God in contact with the family—the communion—of saints. It
is a fullness which is overflowing, a rich music of companions in missions which
makes up this community. It is not that other traditions have not known either
God or His holiness. Balthasar never denies this. Indeed, he is always quick to
assert: Deus semper major. And yet in Christ God has become fully involved
with His world and has spoken the definitive Word to His Creation through
which their scattered words are to flow back to the Father. More: in that Word,
He addresses His creatures and gives them tasks, missions. The stance of the
Creature is readiness, receptivity. The creature remains a subject. But God
addresses an objective word, a mission, to this creature, and in the interplay of
this objective Word and the subjective response lies the story of true holiness,
one which is based on a principle of unity within an ever greater diversity, a
paradoxically intensifying intimacy and distance.
The key to the mission of the saints is to remain “pointers to the divine
Light,” “guiding stars.” The interplay of earthly subject and person being
transformed in mission makes for a very rich telling of the Gospel in ever new
keys, as the one Revelation in Christ has new lights thrown on it by every saint.
It is the saints who are the true exegesis of Scripture. Their missions,
mysteriously, are the “answer of Heaven to the questions of earth,”3 questions
which are answered in anticipation, as it were. Thus, the fruitfulness which
characterizes all Christian holiness need not be measured by any saint. Indeed,
they are most often rejected, their words ignored in their own time. But the saint
takes part in a trans-temporal reality: not so much rooted in earth and longing for
Heaven as already rooted in Heaven (in Christ) and reaching out on mission to
earth. In this sense, the saint always lives on the Cross, risen already in Christ,
and yet sharing in the cruciform relation to earth which allows the saint to suffer
on behalf of others, bearing, living a wisdom which will naturally be scorned
and rejected by the children of this age. The faces of the saints, then, form an
iconostasis in which the Glory of the Trinity is visible to contemporaries, their
mouths are channels through which the Word can be expressed in the words of
their world. Their prayer is the doing of the Father’s will, based on the “Yes” of
Mary who is Queen of Saints: as Adrienne writes, the saints are the “train of the
Mother of God.”1 In them, become little, childlike, foolish as they follow Christ,
the “unity-for-one-another” that is the Blessed Trinity is reflected ever anew on
earth, and through them all Creation is lifted up through the Cross which alone
purifies and leads back to the Source. This is all possible only because of that
obedience which is faith, and in light of which all extraordinary experiences
become adjuncts, helpful, perhaps, but mere grace notes to a far simpler, more
incarnate and more comprehensive melody.
1. Adrienne von Speyr, The World of Prayer, tr. Graham Harrison (San Francisco: Ignatius Press,
1958), p, 153.
1. HSG, p. 221.
1. S5, p. 225.
2. Ibid.
3. Ibid.
4. HSG, pp. 161ff.
5. Ibid., p. 162.
6. Ibid., pp. 161–2.
7. TDHA, p. 247.
1. Ibid., p. 101.
2. TDPC, p. 247.
3. S5, p. 176.
4. Ibid.
1. Ibid.
2. HRMN, p. 494.
3. Ibid.
4. BG, pp. 147–8.
5. Ibid., p. 148.
6. Ibid.
7. Ibid.
1. S4, p. 236.
2. CUDW, p. 4.
3. S5, pp. 227–8.
1. Ibid., pp. 220–1.
2. S4, p. 237.
3. Ibid., p. 236.
4. S5, p. 222.
5. Ibid.
6. S4, p. 237.
1. Ibid.
2. Ibid.
3. GIMF, p. 42.
4. S2, p. 365.
5. S5, p. 228.
6. Ibid., p. 229. The phrase much used in contemporary spirituality, “wounded healer,” accurately
describes Balthasar’s point here.
7. TDHA, p. 103.
8. S4, p. 236.
1. S5, p. 231.
2. E.g., HRMN, p. 500.
1. EPIL, p. 47.
2. NK, p. 95.
3. S5, p. 106.
4. EPIL, p. 47.
5. Ibid.
1. Ibid., pp. 55–6.
2. NK, p. 95. Balthasar adds wistfully: “one hears almost nothing about this in the numerous
Christian books about Zen meditation.”
3. KLAR, p. 60.
4. TLGW, p. 250.
1. Ibid.
2. HTAB, p. 58.
3. Ibid., p. 60.
4. Ibid., p. 59.
5. Ibid., pp. 15–6.
6. S5, p. 25.
7. S2, p. 95.
1. HFSL, pp. 801–2.
2. HFSK, p. 45.
3. S1, p. 65.
4. S4, pp. 181–2.
5. Ibid., p. 190.
6. BG, p. 152. Adrienne von Speyr, he notes, teaches that there are different degrees of realisation of
holiness, reflected in different levels of fruitfulness (Cf. UA, pp. 59–60).
7. S4, p. 180.
1. BG, p. 155.
2. S2, p. 109.
3. HTNB, p. 370.
4. S4, pp. 184–5.
5. Ibid., p. 283.
6. Ibid., p. 281. In this connection, it might not be amiss to share Balthasar’s puzzled reflection that:
“In the history of Catholic theology there is hardly an event that is less noted and yet deserving of more
notice than the fact that since High Scholasticism there have been few holy theologians” (S1, p. 195). And
so: “At some point in time there came the turn from a kneeling to a sitting theology” (Ibid., p. 224).
1. HSG, pp. 204–5.
2. HFSK, p. 283.
3. S1, p. 203.
4. KLAR, p. 62.
5. CS, p. 367.
6. S4, p. 440.
7. Ibid.
1. TDES, p. 453.
2. HTNB, pp. 232–3.
3. Ibid., pp. 238–9.
4. TLWG, p. 57. Hegel’s Spirit is, according to Balthasar, not yet the Holy Spirit: Hegel really has
only a “binity” (Binität) because he lacks the “miracle of Fruchtbarkeit” (TLGW, p. 40).
1. TDPC, pp. 262–3.
2. Ibid.
3. S4, p. 209.
4. HTNB, p. 405.
5. Ibid.
6. S5, p. 136.
7. KLAR, p. 37.
8. WISY, p. 150.
1. TDHA, p. 336.
2. TDES, p. 382.
3. TDHA, p. 467.
4. TDPM, p. 379.
5. KLAR, p. 63.
6. HSG, p. 577.
7. HTNB, p. 394.
1. Ibid.
2. Ibid., p. 394.
3. S2, p. 221.
4. S4, p. 284.
5. CS, p. 189.
6. Ibid., p. 21.
7. TDES, p. 462.
8. HRMN, p. 459.
9. S5, p. 413.
1. S4, p. 282.
2. Ibid., p. 284.
3. The Collins German Dictionary in fact indicates that die Nachfolge Christi is the “imitation of
Christ,” but Balthasar would rather use Nachahmung for imitation, letting Nachfolge convey more of its
etymological sense of “following,” of being with. But as Balthasar uses Nachfolge and as English lacks
ready equivalents for these subtleties which in any event enter little into our argument here, we will
translate Nachfolge as “discipleship,” understanding that this means a following after and a being-with more
than an “imitation” which might lend itself to the self-reflection Balthasar would see avoided.
4. BG, pp. 170–1.
5. Ibid. p. 171.
1. Ibid., p. 206.
2. HTNB, p. 184.
3. CS, p. 52.
4. S2, p. 87.
5. Ibid., p. 91.
6. HRMN, pp. 459–60.
1. S2, p. 110.
2. Ibid., p. 93.
3. CS, p. 305.
4. Ibid.
5. Ibid., p. 308.
6. Ibid., p. 60.
1. HTNB, p. 231.
2. Ibid., p. 424.
3. HRMN, p. 437.
1. Ibid., p. 492.
2. Ibid., p. 493.
3. Ibid.
4. Ibid.
5. Ibid., pp. 493–4.
6. Ibid., p. 437.
7. Ibid., p. 494.
8. Ibid., p. 519.
1. Ibid., pp. 527–8.
2. S5, p. 373.
3. HFSL, p. 622.
4. GIMF, p. 287.
5. S5, p. 179.
6. Ibid.
1. GIMF, pp. 292–3. Although the Christian must not be “simply a child” but “rather be young in a
supratemporal and yet fully human sense” this is not quite possible in earthly life, where the (naturally
aging) poet tries to do all sorts of things to keep his perceptions fresh but in the end is forced to live off the
“emergency rations stored up in his youth” (GIMF, pp. 285–6).
2. HFSL, pp. 496–7; p. 526. This poetic/mystical enthusiasm must characterize theology as well:
“the inner sanctum of theology lies much rather in rhapsody than in a speech that . . . distinguishes and
defines” (HSG, p. 73).
3. S3, pp. 49–50.
4. HRMN, p. 498.
5. Ibid., pp. 978–9.
1. Ibid., p. 552.
2. Ibid., p. 971.
3. KLAR, p. 30.
4. LRLG, p. 129.
1. HFSK, p. 75.
1. KLAR, pp. 53–5.
2. BG, p. 47.
3. S2, p. 127.
4. HSG, p. 503.
5. S5, p. 13.
6. Ibid., p. 371. In this connection, Balthasar mentions the need for “Passiology” today, and asks
why no one has ever studied the experience of the Passion undergone by mystics, and done so in a dogmatic
way (S1, p. 211).
7. HRMN, p. 495.
8. BG, p. 242.
1. TDES, p. 309.
2. EPIL, p. 88.
3. S4, p. 314.
1. S5, p. 369.
2. S4, p. 314.
3. Ibid., p. 319. Here Balthasar is sympathetic with Gogarten’s disapproval of and challenge to
Erleberei.
4. TLGW, p. 222.
5. S4, pp. 323–4.
6. TDPM, pp. 107–8.
7. TDPC, p. 103.
8. Ibid., p. 248.
1. S2, p. 127.
2. TDHA, p. 336.
3. TDPC, p. 248.
4. KLAR, p. 49.
1. HRMN, p. 551. One recalls the words of the Christmas carol, “What Child is This”: “Good
Christian, fear, for sinners here the Silent Word is pleading.”
2. HTNB, p. 375.
3. TDPM, pp. 107–8.
1. Überschwenglich is a constant in Balthasar’s vocabulary.
2. THGE, p. 82.
3. TDPC, p. 321. Here Balthasar is alluding to the earliest understanding of communio sanctorum in
which it was taken to mean “communion in the sacred things,” only later taking on the personal meaning
where the sancta became the sancti.
4. HTNB, p. 431.
5. Ibid.
6. TDPC, p. 258.
7. MAHE, p. 263.
8. TDHA, p. 426.
1. TDPC, p. 26.
2. HSG, pp. 541–2.
3. Ibid., pp. 578–9.
4. Ibid., p. 207.
5. TLGW, p. 177.
6. MAHE, pp. 272–3.
1. Ibid., pp. 272–3.
2. TLGW, p. 340.
3. TDHA, pp. 435–6.
4. Much of what is said of the inspiration of the saints could be said of poetic inspiration: Peguy
writes of “the missions of the poets” and describes them “as the sinners who dedicate themselves in their
work to an idea of holiness and represent it in this service—these missions are like special emanations from
the order and beauty of the saints, they are, in the line of theological beauty, the witness and making present
of the saints” (HFSL, p. 873). Something of the difference in orders is seen elsewhere, where Balthasar
observes that Therese, living in the will of God in this moment, discovers that eternity in the moment for
which the poets longed. This is so because “unlike them, she does not seek the delight or the experience but
only dedication to the beloved God” (SIMG, pp.63–4).
5. S5, p. 297. We must observe that this immediate contact with the source is something that also
characterizes artistic inspiration.
1. NK, p. 96.
2. LRLG, pp. 193–4.
3. TDPR, p. 603.
4. TLGW, pp. 346–7.
5. S4, p. 316.
1. S1, p. 207.
2. Ibid., p. 206.
1. WIEC, pp. 81–2.
2. GINL, p. 81.
3. S1, p. 243.
4. S3, p. 57.
5. CUDW, pp. 4–5.
1. Ibid., p. 9.
2. Ibid., p. 12.
3. S3, p. 258.
4. KLAR, p. 79.
5. Ibid., p. 59.
6. WISY, p. 91.
7. THGE, p. 92.
8. HSG, p. 476.
9. TDPM, p. 113.
10. TDES, p. 427.
1. UA, p. 58.
2. SIMG, p. 354.
3. Ibid., p. 10.
1. Ibid., p. 11.
2. Ibid., p. 17.
3. Ibid., pp. 22–3.
4. Ibid., p. 21.
5. Ibid., p. 28.
6. Ibid., p. 78.
1. Ibid., p. 77.
2. Ibid., p. 52.
3. Ibid., p. 53.
4. Ibid., p. 60.
5. Ibid., pp. 61–4.
6. S4, p. 316.
7. SIMG, pp. 91–2.
1. Ibid., p. 98.
2. Ibid., p. 97.
3. Ibid., p. 100.
4. Ibid., p. 335.
5. Ibid., p. 342.
6. Ibid., p. 344.
7. Ibid., p. 103.
8. Ibid., p. 104.
9. Ibid., p. 321.
1. Ibid., p. 326.
2. Ibid., pp. 67–68.
3. Ibid., pp. 69–70.
4. Ibid., p. 177.
5. BG, p.77.
6. SIMG, p. 188.
7. Ibid., p. 191.
8. Ibid., p. 192.
1. Ibid., p. 195.
2. Ibid., p. 200.
3. S1, p. 258.
4. SIMG, pp. 219–20.
5. Ibid., p. 327.
6. Ibid., p. 291.
7. Ibid., p. 363, footnote 8.
1. Ibid., p. 355.
2. Ibid., p. 468.
3. Ibid., p. 463.
4. Ibid., p. 462.
5. Ibid., pp. 367–8.
6. Ibid., p. 368.
1. Ibid., pp. 372–3.
2. Ibid., p. 381.
3. Ibid., p. 386.
4. Ibid., p. 388.
5. Ibid., pp. 389–90.
6. Ibid., pp. 396–7.
7. Ibid., p. 400.
8. Ibid., p. 402.
1. Ibid., p. 401.
2. Ibid., p. 415.
3. Ibid., p. 410.
4. Ibid., p. 411.
5. Ibid., p. 413.
6. Ibid., pp. 450–1.
1. Ibid., pp. 416–7.
2. Ibid., p. 458.
3. Ibid., p. 452.
4. Ibid., p. 364.
5. Ibid., p. 355.
6. Peter Henrici, “A Sketch of Balthasar’s Life,” Communio, Fall 1989, p. 335.
7. MWDB, p. 71.
1. EBAA, p. 11.
2. Johann G. Roten SM, “Die Beiden Hälften des Mondes,” in Hans Urs von Balthasar: Gestalt und
Werk, ed. Karl Lehmann and Walter Kasper (Köln: Communio, 1989), p. 108.
3. EBAA, pp. 41–3.
4. Ibid., p. 74.
5. Ibid., p. 18. Although very critical of her native Protestantism, we must observe that in her
visions, Adrienne saw Protestants at prayer in Heaven, and Balthasar observes that she had very cordial
relations with the female branch of Taizé (EBAA, p. 225).
6. Ibid., p. 20.
7. Ibid., p. 16. Balthasar writes: “more than once I have heard her calling for her mother in her
dream as if desperate.”
8. Ibid., p. 161.
9. Ibid., pp. 17–19.
1. Ibid., p. 26.
2. Ibid., p. 26.
3. Ibid., p. 140.
4. Ibid., p. 29.
5. Henrici, p. 320.
6. Henrici, pp. 324–5. Cardiognosia is, of course, one of the charisms most treasured among
spiritual guides in the Eastern Church.
7. EBAA, p. 30.
1. UA, p. 57.
2. Ibid., p. 92.
3. Ibid., p. 60.
4. EBAA, p. 171.
5. Ibid., p. 44.
6. UA, p. 93.
7. Ibid., p. 89.
8. EBAA, p. 45.
9. Ibid., p. 46.
1. Ibid., pp. 47.
2. Ibid., pp. 54–5.
3. Ibid., p. 55.
4. TDES, p. 101.
5. Ibid., p. 116. Balthasar adds: “One can say the same for every living believer.”
1. UA, p. 166.
2. NK, p. 92.
3. THGE, p. 82.
1. EBAA, p. 63.
General Conclusion
1. In the essay “Die Sprache Gottes” in S5 (and elsewhere) Balthasar admires the attempt of Martin
Heidegger to overcome the impotence of the language of philosophy in pointing to the truth of Being, first
“in the way of speaking of poetry (Hölderlin) and on the other side, beyond this in the dialogue with the Far
Eastern way of saying something revelatory, something that points into the depths of silence from the
background of that silence.” That Heidegger then “necessarily falls into the zone of a certain ‘mystical
speech’” in which the cataphatic necessarily passes into the apophatic, thus producing an “abstracting
mysticism” (S5, p. 249) does not diminish Heidegger’s importance for Balthasar for whom “Heidegger’s
attempt remains the most fruitful attempt in modernity for a possible philosophy of glory” (HRMN, p. 786).
Moreover, Balthasar observes: “That Being ‘needs’ the existent in order to be itself was first denied by
Heidegger but later ever more clearly affirmed. . . .” (Ibid., p. 784). Of further note is Balthasar’s sympathy
with “the strong warnings of Heidegger about technocracy. . . .” (Ibid., p. 786).
1. CM, p. 7.
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Scheeben, Matthias. Die Mysterien des Christentums. Freiburg im Breisgau. 1912.
Schuon, Frithjof. The Transcendent Unity of Religions. NY. Harper and Row. 1975.
__________. Understanding Islam. Baltimore. Penguin Books. 1972.
Smith, Huston. Beyond the Post-Modern Mind. New York. Crossroad. 1982.
__________. Forgotten Truth. New York. Harper and Row. 1976.
__________. The Religions of Man. New York. Harper and Row. 1965.
Speyr, Adrienne von. The World of Prayer. San Francisco. Ignatius Press. 1985.
Spidlik, S.I., Thomas. La Spiritualitè de l’Orient Chretien. Roma. Pontificium Institutum Orientalium
Studiorum. 1978.
Sudbrack, S.J., Josef. Wege zur Gottesmystik. Einsiedeln. Johannes Verlag. 1980.
Walsh, Martin J. A History of Philosophy. London. Geoffrey Chapman. 1985.
Yeats, William Butler. Selected Poems and Two Plays of William Butler Yeats. ed. M.L. Rosenthal. New
York. The Macmillan Company. 1970.
Zaehner, R.C. The City Within the Heart. New York. Crossroad. 1981.
B. Other Publications
Amaladoss, S.J., M. “Dialogue and Mission: Conflict or Convergence?” In Vidyajyoti. Feb. 1986.
__________. “Faith meets Faith.” In Vidyajyoti. March 1985.
Dupuis, S.J., Jacques. “Christus, der Erlöser, als Ärgernis der Ostreligionen.” In Internationale katholische
Zeitschrift “Communio.” 17. Jahrgang. Juli 1988. 4/88.
__________. “The Kingdom of God and World Religions.” In Vidyajyoti. Nov. 1987.
Gawronski, S.J. Raymond. “The Beauty of Holiness.” In New Oxford Review. Vol LII, Number 1. Jan.–Feb.
1985.
Jonas, Hans. “Gnosticism.” The Encyclopedia of Philosophy. Theo. Paul Edwards, ed. New York. The
Macmillan Co. and the Free Press. Vol. III. 1967.
Kongregation für die Glaubenslehre. Schreiben an die Bischöfe der katholischen Kirche über einige Aspekte
der christlichen Meditation. Vatikanstadt. Libreria Editrice Vaticana. 1989.
Lubac, Henri de. “A Witness of Christ in the Church: Hans Urs von Balthasar.” Communio (US). Sept.
1975.
Rahner, Karl. “Die geistliche Lehre des Evagrius Pontikus.” In Zeitschrift für Aszese und Mystik. Innsbruck.
1933. p. 22.
Schindler, David. L. ed. The Life and Work of Hans Urs von Balthasar. Fall 1989 edition of Communio:
International Catholic Review. Vol XVI, Number 3. Notre Dame, Indiana.
Spidlik, S.J., Tomas. “Christ and Krishna.” In L’Osservatore Romano, (Eng. ed.) N. 11(1131) 12 March
1990.
Waldenfels, S.J. Hans. “Buddhismus und Christentum im Gespräch. Anmerkungen zu den geistigen
Voraussetzungen.” In Internationale katholische Zeitschrift “Communio”, 17. Jahrgang. Juli 1988.
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C. Dissertations
Fessio, S.J., Joseph. “The Origin of the Church in Christ’s Kenosis: The Ontological Structure of the
Church in the Ecclesiology of Hans Urs von Balthasar.” Unpublished thesis. Regensburg. University
of Regensburg. 1974.
Majewski, S.J., Edmund. “A Trinitarian Theology of Person. Three Models. Rahner, Bracken, and
Lonergan.” Unpublished thesis. Roma. Gregorian University. 1991.
Riordan, William. “Divinisation in Denys the Areopagite.” Unpublished thesis. Roma. Pontificia Studiorum
Universitas a S. Thoma Aq. in Urbe. 1991.
Yamaoka, S.J., Sanji. “Jesus Christ and the ‘Japanese Way’ (Michi).” Unpublished thesis. Roma. Gregorian
University. 1990.