Before I begin I have a confession to make: it was not I who chose the subject of this address. It was understood, at first, that I was to speak about Faith, a task quite beyond my power. Then, without asking me, the organiser of this gathering changed from this high theological theme to the simple question: ‘Is the Christian of this earth'?’ At first I was disconcerted by the apparent simplicity of this question which demands the obvious answer: ‘Of course the Christian is of this earth. We have only to look at ourselves’. But, this first reaction over, it occurred to me that those who chose the question had not mistaken its importance, and the urgency of an adequate answer which it requires of us. It brings us, in point of fact, into the very heart of our own personal history, and the history of the Church. To have to give my answer to this question in the presence of your Eminence is an honour of which I am well aware, an honour which would certainly alarm me if I did not know that here we are all of one family and that I stand beside the most indulgent and most understanding of fathers.

If I begin by considering myself, and start with my own case, as one always should, then it is only too true that I am of this earth, as also the Académie Française ‘is of this earth, the Légion d’Hon-neur is of this earth, the theatres, the big newspapers, the editors are of this earth, my house, my lands and my loves are of this earth.

A Cultured priest of my acquaintance has remarked to me more than onee that the penny Catechism, with all its virtues, is out of date. Many of its precise definitions and carefully chosen texts are aimed at a Bible Protestantism which hardly anyone believes in. On the other hand, difficulties which the modem convert is apt to raise are not met, and the standard ‘companions’ to the Catechism do not always-help. Similar objections apply, I believe, to a great deal of recent apologetic writing. Brilliant and compelling as it can be—I am thinking of books like The Everlasting Man—it frequently fails in two respects. First, it often does not carry the battle on to the ground where the modern intelligentsia choose to fight. This was the Complaint made by Professor Haldane against Mr Arnold Lunn, and the same could have been said, perhaps with more justice, in a number of other controversies. Secondly, an apologist labours under the immense handicap that whereas he is inside the Church, most of the people to whom his work is addressed are outside—and not only outside the Church, but outside what is popularly called Christianity. It is a testimony to Catholicism that it transforms one’s thinking even when it does not transform one’s life; but the difference must be paid for. Catholic spokesmen suffer from being Catholic. They try to communicate a vision which can only be had from within, and this is the business of the artist, not the apologist.

If it is true that we may be on the edge of a renaissance of heroic humanism, then it should also be the proper time to observe that, in a cultural sense, the word tradition has always carried within itself the weight of two inseparable meanings. The first has a bearing upon all that has been attempted in the unifying of mankind, the breaking down of barriers and the bridging of gulfs; it is international and universal in application; the second meaning relates to the regional and rural tradition which is the source of cultural variety. Culture, like society, is made up of many parts each contributing to the total effect, and Marx’s definition that history is nothing but the progressive transformation of human nature is a reminder of the fact that the transformation which is taking place now is away from all the limitations of nationality towards a world-view which recognises the need for co-operation and the fact of inter-dependence.

If only because of the social influences which bear upon creative artists at the present time, they stand in danger of being carried away on abstract themes which could lead them to forget the homely and common-place factors which shaped them as men. Certainly there are large numbers of writers who must see things whole and who will take little account of parts; yet the pattern of world-culture is made up of regional and national cultures and it is safe to say that the narrower meaning of tradition will retain its attraction for those who are by training and natural aptitude inclined towards it.

In pre-Reformation England religious orders undertook the main share of what is in modern parlance known as social or welfare work, that is, the care or relief of the sick, the fatherless, the needy and the aged. After the Reformation this kind of work was apt to be neglected, or undertaken in a somewhat inhuman spirit under the auspices of the Poor Law. By the eighteenth century, however, the country’s conscience began to be stirred by the sight of so much misery, and hospitals, orphanages and rescue homes were founded by public subscription or private philanthropy. This good work continued throughout the nineteenth century, inspired generally by religious principles and in the main sponsored by various religious organisations. By the end of the century, however, a more scientific approach to social work began to manifest itself. The Charity Organisation Society was founded to discourage indiscriminate almsgiving and substitute an organised system based on family case-work, and the Webbs, although they disapproved strongly of C.O.S. methods, were among the most vociferous champions of a more scientific approach to social problems.

This scientific attitude has in our century led to the transformation of the social worker from a well-meaning amateur, usually with a strong sense of vocation, into a trained professional. Most social service posts advertised today require of applicants a Diploma in Social Science such as is granted by universities on completion of a course both academic and practical. The academic part, includes study of such subjects as constitutional and economic history, economics, political theory, local government and psychology.

I wonder that the Editor of Blackfriars is not afraid that the formidable figure of St Thomas will appear to disturb his slumbers with reproof, for he set great store by accurate definition and precision of language. What accuracy or precision is there in the March editorial when the Editor writes: ‘French Catholics crossing the Channel are amazed to find that while the numerical majority of Catholics vote Labour and consider themselves as leaning towards the Left, the Catholic voice in journalism, etc., is almost without exception “true blue” Conservative, and, therefore still wholly immersed in the politics of a past age’. Really? ‘Wholly-immersed in the politics of a past age.’ While he was writing that, I and my colleagues were preoccupied with that most immediate contemporary question, whether and how Europe can be saved, and restored, were writing about the Brussels Conference and the Atlantic Pact.

We might even claim to have shown a little prescience. In domestic politics, which were presumably more in your mind, so far from being immersed in the past, we are preoccupied with the future, with the later developments implicit in the present changes. Whether people agree with us or not, they must admit that we are preoccupied with the future, with the direction social change is taking and the direction we hold it should take. It would be a more substantial criticism to say that we are too far ahead for the public to follow us, that we have got up very early and we have gone out before the milkman, not that we have stayed out too late and come home with the milk.

The meetings and conferences of May 1st and the coming anniversary of the encyclical Rerum Novarum make this subject one of actual up-to-date interest, because of what has been said of the Church as allied to capitalism and of the contrary statement issued in that well-known document which set all Catholic thought and action in motion against this social malady.

We refer to that economic organism, independent of and superior to business and businessmen, which arises out of the accumulation of fortune and an ever-increasing concentration of wealth, stretching over four centuries, and which has resulted in modern capitalist enterprise as distinct from that enterprise which united capital and labour. Here—according to the most authoritative scientific definition—we have ‘the reign of capital represented by money and securities, which can be quickly concentrated anywhere’; in almost every country the predominance of this phenomenon as a basic rational form of economic life’; here we see a distinct cleavage between those who provide capital and those who contribute to production solely by their work—a double-faced thing, one side of which shows a system of economic relations in which the upper classes who possess the means of production are predominant; while the other side shows an illicit function of capital, evil in its origin, disproportionate in its realisation, harmful in its effects—a veritable social cancer: the formation of a non-specific cellular proliferation, its continuous and progressive growth governed by laws of its own, differing from those of normal tissues, independent of the organism in which it grows and develops, and on account of this independence and expansiveness, parasitic and deadly.

The teaching and attitude of the Catholic Church concerning this fearsome phenomenon, as in respect of peace and against war, may be seen throughout history.

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.