During this week you have been listening-to many speakers on many subjects concerned with the Christian life in the modern world. They have spoken to you about the Christian life in the home; in the school; in work in the factory, the field and the office; in citizenship and Home Affairs; in Foreign Affairs and international relations. It has not been my privilege to hear those speakers, nor to hear what you have been saying about it all among yourselves. But know that those speakers have come to you from different ‘denominations,’ and from what I hear, I gather that they have nevertheless shown a pretty considerable measure of agreement about all these things. Perhaps you have been agreeably surprised; you had expected, perhaps, that they had all been anxious only to praise their own particular wares. Instead of which you have found, I believe, that about all these things they seem to think pretty much alike; and that instead of wanting to sell you their own rival goods you have found them all anxious only to be loyal and faithful to God and his Wood and to love and serve their neighbour in and for God.

Now there can be no doubt that all this is a very good thing, and for it we must be very thankful to God. But the task which is set me this evening is—strange as it may seem—a much more delicate one. I have to speak to you about ‘The Christian Life in the Church.’ And that at once raises a question which perhaps has been haunting you all along.

Until recently most Europeans imagined that ‘history of thought’ and ‘development of Western civilisation’ were almost the same thing. The development of Western thought was seen as a coherent whole and as the only one that mattered both for the present and the future. Hence Western scholars quite naively judged Indian and Chinese thought by their own standards.

Eastern achievements in religion and philosophy appeared on the horizon of our spiritual world as strange, attractive phenomena. To see a Chinese work of art is, indeed, an exciting experience. But, in our culture, art has a place apart ; we can enjoy these astonishing creations without identifying ourselves with the particular feeling for life which is embodied in them. In the same way some ancient Eastern religious and philosophical writings appealed to moderns who, though rather sceptical in matters of religious creed and dogmas, yet regarded mystical experience of the Infinite as the core of religion. The documents of early Indian metaphysics—the so-called Upanishads—were interpreted in this romantic way as remnants of ‘a far off, ancient household of the soul.’ Of the rich philosophical literature of China one book has become popular in Western Europe since it was discovered in the last century : the so-called Tao Te ching, the title indicating that its subject is both the Absolute and absolute, or perfect, action. This short but great book, composed about the end of the creative period of ancient Chinese philosophy (3rd century B.C.), was accepted as the embodiment of a primaeval metaphysic that could be regarded as mysticism. Translated again and again in nearly all Western languages, it has obtained a definite place in what is called ‘World Literature.’

The great, attraction exercised by the writings of the mystics on all who sincerely love God is a fact of everyday experience. Richard Rolle in our own country, Ruysbroeck in the Netherlands, Saint Catherine of Siena in Italy, Saint Teresa in Spain, these and a host of others have a numerous and sympathetic following. But there is one exception for which it is difficult to account : St. John of the Cross. Undoubtedly the greatest of them all, he is nevertheless generally regarded by average readers with something akin to fear and repulsion. When they pick up the Ascent of Mount Carmel for the first time and become aware of the sacrifices, the detachment and the denudation of spirit which he demands they are filled with consternation and dread. Such teaching seems to lead more to death than to life : and urged by the instinct of self preservation rather than by lack of generosity they recoil from putting it into practice.

This impression, derived solely from the Ascent, is, to a certain degree, comprehensible. The relentless logic with which St. John of the Cross drives his principles to their conclusions, the merciless insistence on the absolute validity of certain Gospel truths, the absence of all compromise and indulgence, these and other traits of a like nature strike a chill into the heart of uninitiated readers. They feel that the saint must have been devoid of all sensibility, out of touch with common humanity and limited in his outlook on the world. And they put down the book with the conviction that such counsel is not for them because it is utterly inhuman.

During four generations Poland has been specially dear to the hearts of English Catholics. One reason assuredly for this attachment arises from the strong Irish element in our make up, with its memory of suppression of the faith and violent persecution. Yet the native Catholics too share an affinity with the Polish people that is strong and peculiarly English. The English have always shown a keen sense of injustice. The enemies of our race would say it was a sense only outraged by injustice of a continental brand. It is, however, a commonplace that England has afforded an exile’s home for every kind of Ishmael : The Seers of the Enlightenment followed by Bourbons and Eugenie: Dom Manoel and Don Sturzo; Garibaldi and the French émigré clergy, whose names are honoured in the history of many London parishes; Marx and Chateaubriand; Einstein and Chopin. But more than this, for English Catholics Poland typifies splendidly the spirit of resurgent Catholicism. The English remnant can take heart from the example of Poland.

The first lesson I ever learned in the study of the European scene was that there were two bastions in Europe, Ireland and Poland; both were rooted in tradition, both were vital in a dying world, because established on the four-square gospel of a sane social creed : a Faith, the land, family and patriotism—i.e. the love of the hearth I was taught later in the insularity of English University life with its fear of metaphysics and again in the cosmopolitan fever of the Sorbonne that Poland and Ireland were despicable blockhouses of superstition and reaction. It was taken for granted that Weygand had saved Warsaw : so miraculous in achievement was that strategy that it seemed incredible otherwise.

During the industrial depression of the early Thirties a certain man faced, through no fault of his own, bankruptcy. One of his acquaintances, until then not a particularly close friend, wrote to him saying : ‘Count upon my assistance to the full extent of my bank-balance.’

Until 1937 Miss Dorothy Sayers was known to the English-speaking world as one of the most brilliant of its writers of detective stories, that new form of the novel which will excite the interest of future literary commentators. They were extremely interesting novels as well as most ingenious detective problems that Miss Sayers wrote. The mysteries were really absorbing, the clues were fair game, the characterisation was realistic and covered a very wide range of human types, while the literature of the hemispheres was laid in tribute to add piquancy to the plot. A deeper strain was also present. Like the great majority of detective-stories, those by Miss Sayers were strongly moralistic; they proclaimed the necessity of a moral order and depicted in friendly terms the activities of those who maintain it. Clouds of Witness showed the devastating despair induced by a grande passion; The Documents in the Case was a fearful indictment of adultery; The Unpleasantness at the Bellona Club revealed the appalling effects upon the soul of great scientific intelligence which does not bow down before the Creator of that which science investigates; Murder must Advertise was concerned with the drug traffic; Busman’s Honeymoon revealed the sordid effects of avarice, Strong Poison and Unnatural Death the corruption of the human character by sheer selfishness. The moral effect was the stronger because no one could be aware that it was being inculcated as they pursued the fascinating course of the detective story.

An age which applauds the specialist and the genius will not acknowledge the master. Applause, we might say, costs nothing whereas the master is there to enforce a responsibility. And if modern man pays with a handclap all the debt he acknowledges to genius, from the master he must submit to learn a truth.

Dr. Coomaraswamy is a master in the philosophy of art, as his great pupil, Eric Gill, was a master in stone carving and letter cutting. As a master he embodies in his work the whole positive weight of traditional truth, and in acknowledging him we affirm the spiritual foundations of our civilization.

If this were a tribute merely to the man, to the person, Ananda Coomaraswamy, it would be no more than flattery; but Dr. Coomaraswamy’s position is clearly indicated in an incisive answer to critics printed among the present collection of essays : ‘If I assert . . ., etc., ... I am not necessarily wrong merely because this position was “earlier” maintained by Plato and in the Bhagavad Gita . . . The sooner mv critics realise .... that I am not out to express any views, opinion or philosophy of my “ own,” the sooner will they find out what I am talking about.’ For if the principles he argues and explains are common to Europe and the East, to Aquinas and (implicitly) to all save the essentially commercial eras of human civilisation : to Maori portraiture and the Neolithic cave drawings no less than to Chartres : it is precisely because Dr. Coomaraswamy has not invented them. Neither is the basis of such agreement sought in any type of common-denominator doctrine, humanist or modernist.

Jesus came into the world to give light. He was prefigured by the golden candlestick, which was placed in the Temple with seven lamps, and gave light to the whole Temple. And (he seven lights which enlighten the temple of Holy Church are the seven words which Christ spoke from the Cross.

The first darkness in this world is the way enemies are treated. The minds of many are obscured by passion, and they think it is lawful to hate those that would hurt them. These people answer an offending-word with evil deeds; they will strike with a knife those that have struck them with a blow; they will never forgive until they have revenged themselves; they will pray God not for the forgiveness, but for the destruction of their enemies.

Jesus enlightens this most obscure darkness of Egypt when He speaks the first word from the Cross : ‘Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do. . . .’ And this is how He revenged Himself for all the injuries they did Him : He prayed for them,

‘Father, forgive them.’ Learn this lesson then from Him. Fulfil it, for such is His will.

The second darkness of the world is the fact that each one cares only for himself and neglects to help his neighbour in his spiritual and temporal needs. ‘To-day,’ said Christ to the good thief, ‘thou shalt be with Me in Paradise.’ This is the second word spoken from the Cross, and it will enlighten your steps in your journey through this life, so that they may not be entangled; for, as the psalmist says, ‘Thy word is a lamp to my feet.’

It would be too much to claim that legislators would find in the monastic codes and histories of the early centuries adequate guidance for their post-war planning. Yet no student of early monachism can fail to admire the practical economic value of much of the history and teaching which make his sources.

The Egyptian monks, both hermits and cenobites, though often supported by alms, probably came as near as the monks of any time or place to adequately self-supporting manual labour. When Palladius visited Nitria, he found that no one was allowed to be idle (not even a guest, as perhaps he learnt from personal experience), and no one was in need. Yet the monks’ liturgical duties were held in high esteem, and those who were qualified had opportunity for intellectual culture. Self-support was not direct, for Nitria throve upon the weaving industry.

The same author describes in much greater detail an inspection which he made of the working departments in one of the Pachomian monasteries. After enumerating smiths, carpenters, camel-drivers and fullers, he says that every craft was practised, so that the monks supported both themselves and the convents of nuns. They kept pigs—but the portions of pork granted to sick and aged monks scandalized later generations and the passage disappeared from many MSS. of the history. In a final list of monastic crafts, agriculture and husbandry hold the first place.

[St. Thomas treats of poverty in his Contra Impugnantes Dei Cultum (c.6), in the Contra Gentiles (III, 131-135) and in the Summit (II-II, 186, 3 and 188, 7). All these passages are important and will be considered elsewhere. But it seemed worth while to call attention to the little-known sermons translated here which have special qualities of simplicity and directness. Further matter of a similar kind will be found in Sermones Dominicales 48, 80 and 125 and in the Exposition of the Lord’s Prayer under Panem nostrum.]

Remember that thou didst receive good things in thy lifetime, and likewise Lazarus evil things; but now he is comforted and thou art tormented. Lk. 16: 25.

In these words four things are shown us. First the temporal prosperity of the reprobate : Remember that thou didst receive good things in thy lifetime. Second, the brief adversity of the just in this world : Likewise Lazarus evil things. Third, the eternal blessedness of the just : But now he is comforted. Fourth, the perpetual misery of the wicked : And thou art tormented.