The Reverend Joseph Berington (1743-1827) has never had a particularly good press even from sympathetic Catholic historians. This is almost certainly due to the fact that he was a leading supporter of the cisalpine, if not gallican, Catholic Committee and was one of those Catholics who belived that an Oath of Supremacy, properly understood, was not incompatible with Catholic principles. As a result of his attitude and activities, he was at one stage censured by the bishops and deprived of his faculties. Berington himself felt that English Catholics had suspected him since he taught philosophy at Douay where he was regarded as being too modern and bold in his philosophical opinions, and that this explained the later questioning of his orthodoxy. Joseph Gillow simply claims that Berington’s ‘love of novelty and of the affected liberality of the day created great prejudice against his writings, which, however, was considerably removed before his death’.

Thirteen years ago Professor G. E. M. Anscombe gave reasons for thinking that it is not at present profitable for us to do moral philosophy. The steady flow of books since then shows how little notice was taken. The three I shall be considering in this article present an opportunity to consider the case she made and its continuing relevance.

Miss Anscombe’s essay, ‘Modern Moral Philosophy’, is included in The Definition of Morality, together with twelve others which are meant to hang from the same peg: the question, ‘What is the meaning of “morality”?’ The most interesting of them get up and walk away with the peg, opening up issues beyond the matters of usage which the editors tidily catalogue in their introduction. This is certainly true of Miss Anscombe’s. Her quarrel with modern moral philosophers is not that they are wrong in the way they use or define ‘moral’ and ‘morality’, but that in the way they use them these terms mean nothing at all. She argues that the concept of obligation, with its related moral sense of‘ought’, which has been given pride of place by moral philosophers since the eighteenth century, is intelligible only within a law-conception of morality. To speak of a moral ‘law’, of being ‘bound’, ‘obliged’ and so on, makes no sense unless one believes that there is someone who issues the law. The decay of divine law as a basis for morality has left these terms bereft of content, but not, unfortunately, of their ‘mesmeric force’. The smell remains for some time even when the gas-works has been dismantled. When ‘ought’ lacks the content provided by some actual law, telling a man that he ought not to commit adultery gives him no reason at all for not doing so.

When Walter Stein, in his book Criticism as Dialogue, proposes his version of criticism and takes it into the area of tragedy, we are challenged to reconsider some essential notions. It is when faced with tragedy, perhaps, that criticism meets its most exacting responsibilities; what it makes of tragedy reveals its inner nature most clearly. What, then, are we to make of Stein’s argument that the demands which criticism faces are nothing less than metaphysical? What do we say to the various stages of his argument?

Do we agree, for example, that in Arnold we have a key-figure who fails to meet these demands and whose work can be characterized by such words as ‘reductio’ and ‘surrender’?

It is a pity that theological communication so often gets bogged down because a key concept is never satisfactorily and clearly explained. The key idea then degenerates to a kind of magical word, periodically invoked, temporarily perhaps exciting, but ultimately mystifying. A few years ago the word ‘existential’ underwent this process of degeneration. Although the word had a clear meaning in Heidegger’s early philosophy, and indeed, as ‘existential analysis’, signified an enduringly valuable method, the basic insight represented by it failed to shape and illuminate the popular theological discussion. (A fine example of the kind of communication that should have taken place on a much wider scale regarding this word is still Cornelius Ernst’s 1961 Introduction to Karl Rahner’s Theological Investigations.) Instead, the word ‘existential’ became used indiscriminately for anything remotely ‘relevant’ or ‘concrete’. This inflation ended by making the word worthless and unusable—where everything had to be ‘existential’, nothing could be any more. And the mystifying communicators and the befogged hearers concluded about the same time that the word had become meaningless. This need not have been the case: as so often before, a chance had been missed.

‘(Jesus’ audience) thought that the Kingdom would be a place like the old kingdom of David, with armies and a king’s throne. Jesus knew that it was not a place, but the action of God ruling over our hearts.’ So John Hargreaves, though it is perhaps unfair to pick on him, for similar pronouncements can be found in hundreds of popular, and indeed scholarly, theological writings. It is the way most of us were brought up to think. Perhaps it is the right way of thinking, but there are, I think, increasingly good reasons for feeling unsure about that. When the Jews talked about ‘the kingdom’ (without further qualification) they certainly were not thinking of some invisible operation: they meant the Roman Empire. The ‘Kingdom of God’ on the lips of Jesus may well have referred to something equally tangible—to a world order, not a concept. He may well have been speaking not of the invisible activity of ‘grace’ in the ‘soul’, but of a kingdom, however spiritual, with visible, material attributes. A recent writer on the Fourth Gospel, for instance, has interpreted the scene before Pilate in these terms:

Jesus’ kingship is not ‘unworldly’. Instead one of the characteristics of the Johannine treatment of the trial and of the events that lead up to it is that the political implications are emphasized. In 11, 48 a specifically political motivation is injected into the plotting of the Jewish authorities. John alone mentions the presence of the Roman soldiers the spaira kai ho chiliarchos) at the arrest of Jesus. In the trial itself, the political-realistic element is introduced by the Jews at 19, 12: ‘If you release this man you are not Caesar’s friend; anyone who makes himself a king opposes Caesar’.

One morning, I rose from my bed and walked out to explore the world. There was much that was familiar to me and after a short time I felt the need to break new ground. I set off towards unknown regions, while my gaze left the familiar things and settled on the distant horizon. Far and fast as I walked, I could not reach that horizon, for, as I advanced, it receded, yet my journey seemed far from fruitless; it was full of discovery.

I began to question the existence of the horizon, though, and I met one who had travelled much more than I, and I held him in conversation for a while. He laughed, and said that the horizon is always there, always receding as man advances. ‘Then why advance?’ I inquired, seeking a reason for my own behaviour. ‘Because there must be an end’, he said. ‘It is of the very nature of the cosmos that there must be an end to time and to space.’ This perplexed me because I could not imagine an end to time and space, but he drew on the ground and waved his hands in the air until his words settled on my understanding. Although I was annoyed to think that I was captive to time and space, I could not help but think that an infinity of time and space would be a bit of a bore.

A recent book by a Nobel prize-winner in biology, Jacques Monod, is proving a best-seller in France and Germany and is causing much discussion in Britain. Written as it is by an expert in the field of molecular biology with a flair for philosophical thought, it poses a serious challenge to Christian belief in the uniqueness of man and his need of redemption. Monod’s undisguised aim is to demolish what he calls the ‘anthropomorphic illusion’. Galileo in removing the earth from the centre of the cosmos failed to achieve it, advances in biology at the molecular level, he claims, give every promise of succeeding—in fact have succeeded. ‘We would like’, he says, ‘to think ourselves necessary, inevitable, ordained from all eternity. All religions, nearly all philosophers, and even part of science testify to the unwearying heroic effort of mankind desperately denying its own contingency.’ Armed with the latest advances in molecular biology he sets out with overweening confidence and in places superb skill to lay bare the evolutionary process from the level of simple molecules to the greatest mystery of all, human consciousness. Not content with that achievement he then offers a panacea for the modern spiritual malaise—a formidable undertaking.

The passing of Dr. Darwell Stone may seem to many of us like the end of an epoch. It is less difficult to believe that he has been taken away from us than to believe that he was, even though in retirement and with failing health, so recently among us. He was, in a sense, the last of the Tractarians. Not that a younger generation of Anglican divines may safely build on foundations other than those which they, and he, have laid—it will be a bad day for Anglican theology if that should ever come to pass. Yet he was the successor of the Oxford Movement in a directness of line which it is hardly possible for a newer generation to follow. And that, in part, by reason of the very completeness of his own work. He consolidated the foundations which the Tractarians had laid, surpassing them in his ability to synthesise, and to extract the essentials from, the patristic data to which the scholars of the Oxford Movement had recalled the Ecclesia anglicana.

Darwell Stone’s was not perhaps an adventurous mind, nor was his writing, though always lucid and free from jargon, exactly exhilarating. He was a conservative of the conservatives. The great spiritual and religious upheavals of his day seem (if we may judge from his writings) to have passed him by. The lectures which in igoi he delivered in St. Paul’s Cathedral, and which were published under the title Christ and Modern Life, show that he had indeed devoted considerable attention to many of the questions which were tormenting his contemporaries—questions of comparative religion and of Christian apologetics confronted by ‘modern thought.’ But the very assurance and ease with which he treated of them tend to show that they did not present him with any serious challenge or any deep spiritual problem.

The role of Germany is written in the clearest print upon the map of Europe. In the centre of the European land mass it is, apart from Russia, the greatest homogeneous unit within that mass. With some seventy-eight million inhabitants, largely self-sufficient in food, with great industrial resources of every kind, its inhabitants have spilled over its natural limits and can be found beyond the Vistula, the Bohemian Mountains, the Alps, the Danube and the Rhine. Racially, linguistically, and self-consciously distinct, this nation has vast dynamic energies which it is supremely capable of organising and a strong historic consciousness of its geographical-historical position. That position has two aspects. As the Germanic tribes silted into their present territories, they had the Roman Empire on their Western flank, a static and friable organisation inviting aggression; on their Eastern flank the tribal and barbaric wave beat up against them. The attitude bred by that situation still remains, a feeling of predatory virility towards the Western and settled nations, the lands of the evening; an attitude of cultural defensiveness towards the vast, level, amorphous frontiers to the East. There is no doubt what is Germany’s natural role; it is to be the mistress of Europe.

Divine Providence has apparently ordained that she should be a mistress too tyrannical to be tolerated. For this enormous and extremely able nation has certain obvious psychological defects which make the unrestricted use of its natural supremacy intolerable. It is a very selfconscious nation; it is a politically immature nation; it is an arrogant nation; a warlike one; cruel, unscrupulous, emotional. There is a dark strain of tribalism and totemism in its make-up, despite enormous civilised achievements.

Thomas Merton wrote in the letter in which he accepted the invitation to speak at the Congress in Bangkok where he was to die: ‘... the great problem for monasticism today is not survival but prophecy’. There are good reasons for thinking he was right. In the last few years most religious orders and congregations have been busily working on new rules and constitutions which are usually heavily loaded with quotable quotes from conciliar and postconciliar documents, carefully worded résumés of current theological writing, and skilfully framed paragraphs of compromise intended to satisfy the demands of as many pressure groups as possible. In practice these new documents are often ignored, apart from a little tightening up here and loosening up there and the inevitable litter of commissions that will in due course produce more painfully contrived documents that will also be as much ignored as implemented! This may appear to be a cynical assessment of what is going on in religious life today. In fairness it must be pointed out that the Church ordered the search for new rules and constitutions, they are provisional and experimental, and the discussions that took place at every level prior to their formulation have initiated a long overdue rethinking of religious life. Nevertheless, there continue to be more departures and fewer arrivals to religious life. There is no shortage of new laws but an obvious dearth of true prophets. From his new book Thomas Merton emerges as one of the major prophets in contemporary religious life. It would be a pity if he goes unheard because of the din created by the staggering volume of second-rate writing on religious life.

In the great effort of ‘ressourcement’ in which the Church is currently engaged, while the Dominicans have set themselves to produce a massive new edition of St Thomas, the Cistercians have undertaken a multi-volume series of new English translations of the Cistercian Fathers.

This venture is warmly to be welcomed. The Cistercian corpus is intrinsically valuable, and is, historically speaking, one of the major monuments of western monasticism; it is also peculiarly significant as revealing the immediate context for the great theological synthesis of St Thomas Aquinas.

To take this last point first. It is often forgotten just how thoroughly monastic the early Dominicans were. The De modo studendi generally ascribed to St Thomas himself is thoroughly monastic. It is curious how Victor White, for all his insight, missed the reference to the Song of Songs in the bit about the wine-cellar—a monastic commonplace. St Bernard, for instance, says that anyone who proposes to teach others must himself have been ‘introduced into the wine-cellar’, that is to say, must have had personal experience of the intoxicating force of heavenly sweetness. A book written by an anonymous Dominican novice master, and enthusiastically approved by the General Chapter of 1283, leans heavily on Bernard and William of St Thierry. A little later, St Vincent Ferrer’s On the Spiritual Life teaches the same, monastic, spirituality.

Steinbeck’s use of Old Testament material in East of Eden (1952) is very different from that in To A God Unknown (1933). As outlined in a previous article, Steinbeck was there qualifying the status of his protagonist, Joseph Wayne, by a number of literary means. But the most powerful qualifier of Joseph Wayne as prophet and saviour of his people is the manner in which Steinbeck contrives to keep the closely parallel story of the Joseph of Genesis ever-present throughout To A God Unknown. In East of Eden Steinbeck again, and indeed more obviously, makes use of Old Testament sources. But the Old Testament Cain and Abel do not loom reproachfully behind mere human characters in the book: when considered at all, they are considered explicitly and rationally in discussion, and in another sense the whole novel is clearly devoted to re-enactments of the episode and discussions of its significance.

Is Britain’s frontier on the Rhine or on the Straits of Dover? Since July, 1940, this question has been a poignant one. It has a more than military significance, however, for it comports great moral issues, the duty or indifference which Britain owes to the Continent of Europe. That it owes only indifference is the theme of one of the most interesting books which the war has produced in English. Sea tower, by T 124, is a book lucid in its composition and extremely compelling in its conclusions. Briefly, the author sets out to show that the original Anglo-French Entente, which first caused us to send great armies to the Continent, arose out of the threat to British sea-power when the Germans began to build a large navy in the first years of this century. This German construction was the result of the appreciation by the Kaiser and his advisers of the doctrine elucidated in Mahan’s classic work on sea-power, that ‘Great Britain, the wealthiest country in the world, possessor of the world’s greatest empire,’ had achieved that position through her naval supremacy. The author maintains that, as the threat was a naval one, it was paradoxical to contribute a great land-army to the struggle on the Continent, and successfully shows that the responsibility rests chiefly upon two men; these were Sir Edward Grey and Sir Henry Wilson, two men whose reputations become more questionable year by year. An expeditionary force, he says, was no more necessary to our interests in 1939 than it was in 1914.