One feature common to SS. Matthew, Mark and Luke is that in all three the Ministry of Christ begins with the Baptism in the Jordan, and for all three equally the central point in this event is the descent of the Holy Spirit upon Jesus. Their agreement continues also regarding the first movement of the Spirit which is, according to St Mark’s very striking expression, ‘to drive Jesus into the desert’, where he is to meet the Devil and conquer his temptations. The historians of the last century for whom the Gospels were merely a mine of information for the biography of Jesus, have passed over this episode as a bizarrerie of no consequence. From the literary point of view alone this is a great mistake. In its place at the beginning of the Gospel, just as the account of the temptation of man is found at the beginning of Genesis, there can be no doubt whatever that it is noted with the intention of bringing out the parallel. It is presenting the Gospel story as a re-enactment of the Adamic story, which is to say the story of man.

In this respect Milton had a truer vision than many modern exegetes when he enclosed his Biblical Epic between the two events of Paradise Lost and Paradise Regained. The parallel is connected with the idea of the Second Adam to which (especially in St Paul) exegesis has given too little attention. It seems indeed that we should also relate it to that of the Son of Man, designating Jesus.

Diabolical possession is the devil’s hideous parody of the union between Christ and the soul in the spiritual marriage. Whereas the marriage of Christ with the soul is the consummation and seal of a union by grace long adorned with the constant display of acts of heroic virtue, the diabolical counterfeit is achieved usually after the subject’s long-continued and progressive indulgence in vice. The comparison is introduced only to indicate the nature of possession. Nor is it exact, for whereas Christ can possess only the souls of the good, it would seem that diabolical possession can sometimes occur when there is no deep-rooted habit of sin, and even in persons noted for holiness of life.

It is possible, however, that many records of supposed diabolical possession have not distinguished properly between ‘possession’ and ‘obsession’. In possession proper the grasp of the devil acts as a directive force; he can influence conduct. Nevertheless, the connection between man and his diabolical control is not strictly as between slave and master; it is more a partnership, in which the devil has the controlling interest. The man does not cease to be a man, nor to behave as a man. People may rave and blaspheme under diabolic influence; but they may also behave quite ‘properly’. They act always the part that suits the enemy of souls for the time being.

Obsession, on the other hand, is an incomplete and less disastrous form of diabolical influence. It operates chiefly through the imagination, and its effect is to worry or torture the mind, with less direct compelling force than in the possessed soul.

It is obvious that Kafka is a ‘difficult’ writer; his work demands the closest attention before any kind of account of it is possible. Attention involves looking at, not looking for, and the inherent danger and temptation in Kafka criticism are to look for ‘clues’ and ‘keys’, or to fix all one’s attention on some particular subjective element in his work, and to offer an account of that as a substitute for a criticism of the artistic whole. Ideally, of course, the Kafka reader should be a philosopher, a psychologist, a student of comparative religion, and a literary critic, all rolled into one. In practice, however, such an ideal combination is rarely found, and in practice, too, it must be admitted that the critic or reader who does not possess any specialist qualifications is very limited in the range of his discussion of Kafka. The general reader does need help from the specialist, but the specialists who are not prepared to involve themselves in literary judgments must be prepared to offer their findings as footnotes to the study of Kafka, and not as in any way final judgments on his work.

Most primitive peoples are without anything which we should call a theology, and civilised people often know as little about their systematic theology as though they were without it. Such people live their religions, without regarding them also as subjects for investigation. If they do investigate, it is with the intention of showing the truth of their religion, or of being reassured in its truth, or of understanding more of that truth. Religious controversy has always been about other matters than the value of religion, and between people who practise some form of religion this is still so. It does not occur to them that religion has a ‘value’ or alternatively no ‘value’ for society; what can be evaluated are particular religious beliefs and practices. The study of religious beliefs and practices, however, has tended to fascinate those who do not practise any religion, and would claim to have none. Mr Dawson has quite naturally found it impossible to ignore such a public, and the literature on which it has been formed and fed.

No man would attempt to write upon the legal system or economic transactions of another society, still less of Society, without first taking stock of his knowledge of such matters in his own country, and without in some way systematising what he supposed to be law and economics at home. Religion, unfortunately, has been served like art, which everyone supposes himself to be versed in, without either the labour of study or the familiarity of practice.

While it is generally realised that the vast majority of the ancient churches of England, built by Catholics for Catholic worship, are now in Protestant possession, it is less universally known that there yet remain up and down the country a few old chapels and other buildings which are a legacy from the ages of Faith and still used for the purposes for which they were erected; these include several instances of part possession of a medieval church, as at Arundel (Sussex), Broughton in Craven (Yorkshire) and Mapledurham (Oxfordshire). Others like Buckfast Abbey, Minster, Padley, Salmestone and Shorne (Kent) have been recovered by their rightful owners after centuries of alienation, and it is to be hoped that this process of recovery will continue and be intensified in the years to come.

The possession of these precious memorials of our Catholic past lays upon us the obligation of watching over them with unceasing care and sparing no pains to assure that they are handed on intact to future generations. The more we regain the greater will be our responsibility. Then there are the hidden chapels of penal times, often in the attic of a country house, or masquerading as a stable or warehouse, where the faithful met for worship at the risk of their lives, or at any rate of their freedom. Finally we should not overlook the fact that many churches of historic interest and sometimes of high artistic merit have been erected since the first Catholic Relief Act of 1778.

The gradual evolution of the imagery of abstract art and the corresponding growth in familiarity with its language have failed entirely to dispel criticism. The general acceptance that usually follows an established artistic convention has not been accorded this form of art and the critics of modern painting remain intractable in their attitude. We need only to mention briefly the already well known objections. They fall mainly into two categories which are diametrically opposed to one another. We are told in the first place that abstract art is based upon a series of symbols conceived in a dispassionately intellectual manner and placed upon the canvas with scientific severity. But then conversely others say that it receives its impetus from an unfettered outburst of emotionalism.

Each of these generalisations results from the limited sagacity of the critic. The former is actuated by an inability to enjoy and enter into communion with the spirit of a new iconography. The persistent dissipation of his faculties through a surfeit of descriptive painting finally deprives him of intellectual clarity, so that when confronted with the uncompromising formalities of a Braque, he is filled with an immediate desire for the emotive evocations of lesser romantic art.

But where is all this leading; what are these people trying to say? The underlying plea is for a human art, and eventually, although sadly unrecognised, a religious art, the demand is unconsciously being formulated for an idiom capable of re-integrating the complexities of life and transcribing them into a visual form.