Rahner on the danger in sleep

"If a man brings with him into his sleep good, genuine, holy images, if his power of imagination is already formed by means of the true archetypes of reality, archetypes blessed and redeemed, pure and radiant in the flesh in which the Logos of God was himself formed; if a man sinks into sleep like this, not formless (for the Christian has no need to become mystically formless in order to seize hold of God, since God has himself eternally assumed the form, the schema of man), nor in the chaotic distortion in which his daylight consciousness mirrors the lacerated reality of the world; then doubtless there will come to meet and greet him out of the kingdom of sleep in secret sympathy these images, which in reality he is bringing with him; then there is in him already a hidden principle of selection to determine what is to be allowed to pass from the depths of the soul into the soul which is left open. Those images which a believing man forms in himself when fully conscious call up out of the depths of his natural soul their own likeness. For indeed these Christian archetypes are really concealed in the depths of our 'natural soul' because we are redeemed not only from above but also from below by him who descended into the depths, and because there is in reality no such thing as a 'purely' natural soul, a soul in a state of purely natural innocence, because it is either saved or damned, or to speak even more correctly--after all it exists prior to the personal choice between the alternatives of salvation and damnation--it is both at the same time, the radical source from which both can well up, the might of darkness and the light of the morning-star which, according to Scripture, rises in . . . the heart.
     "The 'schemata of the power of the imagination' (to speak in Kantian terms for once) don't consist merely in those harmless things which a rationalistic, unexistential psychology or a metaphysic of the sensitive soul tells us about. They are not empty forms of space and time. Rather, they have a historical physiognomy which is in the last analysis Christian or demonic. Which of the two sets of images--which constitute reality--will in effect become efficacious in us depends too upon which the personal spirit in his waking state has chosen as his.
     "That is why our night prayer . . . ought to be a quiet, untroubled, relaxed and recollected gathering together of those great images in which the supreme reality, that of God, has come near to us and impressed itself on this visible world: the Son of Man, the Sign of the Cross, the Blessed Virgin, to name but a few. . . . Here it is not a question of a frivolous play of phantasy. Has not our phantasy too been consecrated down to the deepest roots of man since the eternal Word became flesh? And should the image, which faith creates out of this fact and in which it is concentrated and embodied, not be a kind of quasi-sacramental sign which sanctifies and blesses, guards and enlightens? In recommending this kind of 'imaginative' prayer, I naturally include under the heading of 'image' everything which belongs to the realm of sensibility, and not only what is ordered to the sense of sight, and therefore words, sounds, signs, gestures, in short everything in which the celestial spirit can be embodied, the nether depths of our being sanctified and the spirit of earth banished. The correct, calm and recollected signing of oneself with the sign of the Cross, the simple gesture of prayer, the words of prayer, if they are filled with simple greatness and concentrated reality, all these [too] belong to that imaginativeness which--in my opinion--ought to be the characteristic precisely of night prayer, if it is to become an exorcism and consecration of that kingdom into whose power man surrenders himself in sleep."

     Karl Rahner, "A spiritual dialogue at evening: on sleep, prayer, and other subjects" (1947), Theological investigations 3, The theology of the spiritual life, trans. Karl-H. and Boniface Kruger (Baltimore: Helicon Press, 1967), 232-233.

Whatever one thinks of Jung, or Kant for that matter, this, it seems to me, is quite right. There are dangers in sleep, and evening prayer in general and compline in particular "should be of such a nature as to be adapted, more than any other prayer, to the peculiar character of that 'kingdom' into which man in sleep finds his way, so that he 'arms' himself against the dangers of [(i.e. peculiar to)] this region of life in sleep, in a sense exorcises and blesses it" (230).

I wonder, though, if "quasi-sacramental" is really strong enough. I mean, are the holy icons only "quasi-sacramental"? (According to the Orthodox, that is.) And what of Scripture itself, so pervasive throughout the Liturgy of the hours? Why not in some cases simply "a kind of . . . sacramental sign"? Not perhaps a sacrament, but not merely a sacramental either? (That was theologically imprecise, I know.)


Bonhoeffer:  "in all the ancient evening prayers we are struck by the frequency with which we encounter the prayer for preservation during the night from the devil, from terror, and from an evil, sudden death.  The ancients had a persistent sense of man's helplessness while sleeping, of the kinship of sleep with death, of the devil's cunning in making a man fall when he is defenseless.  So they prayed for the protection of the holy angels and their golden weapons, for the heavenly hosts, at the time when Satan would gain power over them.  Most remarkable and profound is the ancient church's prayer that when our eyes are closed in sleep God may nevertheless keep our hearts awake.  It is the prayer that God may dwell with us and in us even though we are unconscious of his presence, that He may keep our hearts pure and holy in spite of all the cares and temptations of the night, to make our hearts ever alert to hear His call and, like the boy Samuel, answer Him even in the night:  'Speak, Lord; for thy servant heareth' (1 Sam. 3:9).  Even in sleep we are in the hands of God or in the power of evil.  Even in sleep God can perform His wonders upon us or evil bring us to destruction.  So we pray at evening:

          When our eyes with sleep are girt,
          Be our hearts to Thee alert;
          Shield us, Lord, with Thy right arm,
          Save us from sin's dreadful harm.
                                                     Luther

     "But over the night and over the day stands the word of the Psalter:  'The day is thine, the night also is thine' (Ps. 74:16."

     Dietrich Bonhoeffer, Life together (Gemeinsames Leben, 1938), trans. John W. Doberstein (San Francisco:  HarperOne, Harper Collins Publishers, [1954]), 74-75.


     Cf. Plato, Republic 9, 571d ff., trans. Grube & Reeve:

someone who is healthy and moderate with himself goes to sleep only after having done the following:  First, he rouses his rational part and feasts it on fine arguments and speculations; second, he neither starves nor feasts his appetites, so that they will slumber and not disturb his best part with either their pleasure or their pain, but they'll leave it alone, pure and by itself, to get on with its investigations, to yearn after and perceive something, it knows not what, whether it is past, present, or future; third, he soothes his spirited part in the same way, for example, by not falling asleep with his spirit still aroused after an outburst of anger.  And when he has quieted these two parts and aroused the third, in which reason resides, and so takes his rest, you know that it is then that he best grasps the truth and that the visions that appear in his dreams are least lawless.

God is forever incarnate

"here and now and always, my salvation, my grace, my knowledge of God, rests on the Word in our flesh [(je jetzt und immer mein Heil, meine Gnade, meine Gotteserkenntnis aufruht auf dem Wort in unserm Fleisch)]".

Karl Rahner, "The eternal significance of the humanity of Jesus for our relationship with God [(Die ewige Bedeutung der Menschenheit Jesu für unser Gottesverhältnis)]" (1953), trans. Karl-H. and Boniface Kruger, Theological investigations 3, The theology of the spiritual life (Baltimore, MD: Helicon Press, 1967), 44 (58 in the German), italics mine. And for this reason, "one cannot be a Christian without continually passing, by a movement of the spirit supported by the Holy Ghost, through the humanity of Christ and, in that humanity, through its unifying centre which we call the [sacred] heart [(deren einigende Mitte, die wir das Herz [Jesu] nennen)]" (46 (60 in the German)).

Rahner on the convenience of a real, permanent, and "independent" dulia

"do we really do what we think we do? Or are the names of the Saints, of the Angels, of the humanity of Christ, just so many changing labels for us by which we--quoad nos--always mean only one and the same thing, which is conjured up by them, viz. God?
"Let us not put this question as a theoretical principle for all times, but as a question facing us today! In this form it is not so easy to answer. The man of previous ages may indeed have had a very obvious capacity for thinking out such types of numinous power and persons outside God, to such an extent that he was continually in danger of sliding into a theoretical or at least practical polytheism. But do we? Is it not precisely the reverse in our case? In our case, is not everything, which we conserve from the objective teaching of faith in this regard, reducible to different names always meaning the same thing, viz. God, the one and only being which has remained beyond our sensible experience of the world, and which is still left to us even after the disappearance of all other numinous realities? We should not be too quick to put our trust in the façade and traditional accoutrements of our piety. We should instead ask ourselves a few simple questions: who among us has ever really and genuinely realized in the Confiteor that he is confessing his sinfulness to Blessed Michael the Archangel, and that this really is not just a rhetorical amplification of a confession to God? Have we not really lost sight of our own deceased relatives? We pray for them perhaps, because this is the done thing and because we would otherwise have a bad conscience about it. But apart from that, if we are honest, they have ceased to exist for us. . . . Let us take a look at an average theological treatise on the Last Things, on eternal happiness. Does such a treatise mention even a single word about the Lord become man? Is not rather everything swallowed up by the visio beatifica, the beatific vision, the direct relationship to the very essence of God which is indeed determined historically by a past event--namely the event of Christ--but which is not now mediated by Jesus Christ? Does not this observation on the usual present-day theology (distinguishing itself in this from the old theology) show also that as far as our real capacity of realization is concerned, the whole world . . . is inexistent and is as it were swallowed up as far as we are concerned . . . by the blazing abyss of God, even when we do not admit it to ourselves and retain the opposite terminology, though almost in the same way in which we talk about Eros with his arrows? Who . . . still really prays today to the Saints . . . to his name-saint, to his guardian angel? One perhaps still honours a Saint (this is something quite different), a Saint whom one knows about historically, in his historical reality, just as the pagans honour their historically great men. But is the now living Saint a realized, i.e. not merely theoretically accepted, reality for us side by side with and apart from God, a reality which has its own independent actuality, on whose good will something [(etwas)] depends, with which one tries to establish personal contact, and which one tries to draw into one's really experienced world? Or does one merely use the word 'Angel' at one time, and Mary or the Sacred Heart or St Joseph at another time, and yet realizes in all this always the same thing, viz. the incomprehensibility and inappellable sovereignty of God to which one surrenders oneself completely, in fear and trembling and in love at the same time? Does not this and only this appear to us as as the religious act, while everything else appears merely as a colourful reflection of the unchangingly One, as a prismatic refraction of the one white light of God, which [refraction] in itself has no existence of its own? Why otherwise do we find it difficult today to believe in the legions of devils, and why do we prefer to speak abstractly about the 'diabolical', just as our pagan contemporaries--whom, behind a verbal façade, we often resemble much more than we should imagine--like to speak [also abstractly] of the 'saintly' or 'the divine'?"

Karl Rahner, "The eternal significance of the humanity of Jesus for our relationship with God [(Die ewige Bedeutung der Menschenheit Jesu für unser Gottesverhältnis)]" (1953), trans. Karl-H. and Boniface Kruger, Theological investigations 3, The theology of the spiritual life (Baltimore, MD: Helicon Press, 1967), 37-38 (49-51 in the German).

The main point comes here: "It should . . . be a task of theology to think much more deeply, and in a much more vital manner than it has done up till now, about why, how and in what dependence of the basic religious acts on God, what it calls dulia (veneration), in contrast to latria (adoration), is in truth a genuinely religious act [(ein echter religiöser Akt)], and how, as such an act, it can and must be exercised more independently and not merely as an act which simply resolves itself into the act of latria" (42 (54-55 in the German)), such that "this humanity [of the Word] is essentially and always [(i.e. for all eternity)] the mediating object of the one act of latria which has God for its goal" (45 (58-59 in the German)). And all of this because the God we worship is not "a God without a world" (41 (54 in the German)): "The true God is not the one who kills so that he himself can live. He is not 'the truly real' which like a vampire draws to himself and so to speaks sucks out the proper reality of things different from himself; he is not the esse omnium. The nearer one comes to him, the more real one becomes; the more he grows in and before one, the more independent one becomes oneself. Things created by him are not maya, the veil, which dissolves like mist before the sun" (40 (53 in the German)).

Most potentially objectionable may be the phrase "a . . . reality for us side by side with and apart from God" (38 (50 in the German)). Yet Rahner locates this essay in a particular context, that of the mid-twentieth century, and implies repeatedly that, in an earlier, the danger was an idolatrous polytheism. What is more, he is also quite clear that the Christian God is one "who does not tolerate any strange gods before him (not even those in whose case one carefully avoids using the name of God)" (42 (55 in the German)).

I would be uncomfortable with this idea of attempting "to establish personal contact", were it not a question here, not of a "God-less" (41 (54 in the German)) world of the angels and saints, but of precisely that point "where the world has already found the finality of its eternal validity before God in the morning and evening summits of its spiritual history, i.e. in the angels and saints" (42 (54 in the German), italics mine).

Am I letting Rahner off the hook too easily? To this little pea of a brain it all coheres: what strikes the Protestant as reckless (the veneration of the angels, the saints, and maybe even the Sacred Heart), with what the Protestant most certainly should believe (that God and the world are not in a competition of any kind).

Torrell on the danger of identifying the faith with a theologoumenon

The legitimacy of theological intervention in matters scientific or philosophical [(l'intervention possible de la théologie à l'égard des sciences ou de la philosophie)] stems from this: "that the theologians [in question] have themselves made the effort to acquire the competence that permits them to intervene advisedly. If, in particular, it is a question of the rejection of a philosophical conclusion that would be contrary to the faith, [the legitimacy of] this [rejection] presupposes that one has made the effort to specify exactly what the faith is on the point at issue. History bears eloquent witness to the fact that one has [all too] often identified the faith with disputable theological conclusions, or with a doctrine widely accepted, but enjoying the guarantee of a formal doctrine of the Church not at all, [even] when it was not simply the spontaneous convictions of another age that one [had] dressed up in the name of tradition [(quand ce n'était pas simplement des convictions spontanées d'un autre âge qu'on habillait du nom de «tradition»)]. A place for them in the Credo was not assured for all that. Indeed [(pourtant)], theologians have at their disposal a whole arsenal of ways to distinguish between simple theological opinions and what can really be called a revealed truth. When this is not purely and simply ignored, it is too often neglected, and the temptation then is great to overestimate [the strength of] the link to the revealed deposit by overvaluing the authority of reasons [merely] theological or [even] declarations on the subject made by the Magisterium [(des raisons théologiques ou des déclarations magistérielles à son sujet)]. The argument from authority has its place in theology, but it is not necessary to exaggerate this."

Jean-Pierre Torrell, “Philosophie et théologie d’après le Prologue de Thomas d’Aquin au Super Boetium de Trinitate: essai d’une lecture théologique,” Documenti e studi sulla tradizione filosofica medievale: rivista della Società internazionale per lo studio del medioevo latino 10 (1999): 346. Torrell goes on to stress that when the theologian intervenes, he does so not "in the internal development of philosophical reasoning, but . . . as an external norm: by rendering [him] attentive to the consequences of an erroneous conclusion, he invites the believing philosopher to retrace his steps, but . . . does not [meddle in such a way as to] do this for him" qua theologian (347, italics mine).

Gauthier on Aristotelian contemplation

“the contemplation of God interests Aristotle in the Ethics, if at all, only because it is the perfection of man, and it is hardly at all that he envisages it, except as perfection of man. What he seeks, is this not, as he says repeatedly (Nicomachean ethics I, 2, 1095 a 16; 4, 1096 b 34-35; 5, 1097 a 15; X, 2, 1172 b 35), a good that man can achieve by action [(un bien que l’homme puisse faire)]? This good, he showed that it consists for man in accomplishing his task as man, [a] task that is nothing other than the highest activity of man, and it is as this highest activity of man that contemplation appears (X, 7, 1177 a 12-13). Contemplation is the perfection of man because it is the activity of the intellect, which is what there is in man of the highest (1177 a 12-17), and which is man himself (1178 a 2-3). If, therefore, gazing upon [(regarder)] God makes for human happiness, this does not appear to be because what one gazes upon is God, but rather because what gazes is man, who, in this gaze [(regard)], is fulfilled [(s’achève)]. God comes into the picture [(intervient)], so to say, only indirectly, because it is necessary to the gaze that there be an object, and an object proportioned to his nature, which is divine (1177 a 15-16; b 28, 30). In this sense, Aristotelian contemplation can be only, strictly speaking, intellectual; its ambition is to realize [(achiever)] the subject that is [human] intellect, not to go beyond it in order to arrive at, beyond it, a transcendent object.
“However, even in the Nicomachean ethics itself, there appears, however incidentally, the idea that what makes contemplation the highest of [human] activities is not only the perfection of its subject, the intellect, but also the perfection of its object, God (X, 7, 1177 a 20-21). The Ethics does not insist on this aspect, which remains outside of its perspectives. But Aristotle did insist on it in the introduction to his third course on biology, a little posterior to the Nicomachean ethics. According to this celebrated text (On the parts of animals I, 5, 644 b 22-645 a 4), it is no longer from the perfection of its subject that contemplation draws its superiority. No, envisaged subjectively, the contemplation of divine realities is, qua knowledge, inferior to the knowledge that we have of the realities of our world, just as a glance that grasps by chance one whole little part of its object is inferior to a view that takes all of its aspects in at leisure. The superiority of the contemplation of divine realities it gets entirely from its object, from that object which, however, it knows so little [(mal)]. But [simply] making contact with this object is of more value than knowing exhaustively the things of this world [(d’ici-bas)]. Must we not recognize in this the affirmation of a contemplation which is no longer purely intellectual, of a kind of mystical contact (éphaptométha, 644 b 32) infinitely impoverished in the order of knowledge, but infinitely rich thanks to the object to which it unites us? It isn’t even as though there is lacking here the evocation of what, more than the flourishing of the intellect left unsatisfied, makes, in such a contemplation, for our joy: [desire,] the lancinating and amorous desire that it satisfies.
“And yet, missing from Aristotle is what is essential to what makes of Platonic contemplation a mystical contemplation: the affirmation of something beyond essence (Republic VI, 509 b 9) which, not being an intelligible, cannot be grasped by an intellectual knowledge, but only by a mystical touch (éphaptesthai, Symposium 212 a). God, for Aristotle, is not something beyond essence; he is the supreme Intelligible., and it is as supreme intelligible that contemplation makes contact with [(attaint)] him (Protreptic, fr. 14, p. 50, 20-21; Nicomachean ethics X, 7, 1177 a 20-21; cf. Metaphysics Λ, 7, 1072 a 26-27), and if even Aristotle speaks at this point of a ‘touch’, this touch remains completely intellectual: it is simply, by opposition to the judgment in which the knowledge of complex realities is handed down, the intuition of a simple reality: by calling it [a] ‘touch’, as by calling it [a] ‘gaze’, one gives expression to the simplicity of this knowledge, but does not deny that it is strictly intellectual in character (cf. Metaphysics Θ, 10, 1051 b 23-25; Λ, 7, 1072 b 21). If our intelligence knows God only this little [(mal)], this is not because it is intelligence, but on the contrary because it is not an adequate intelligence [(assez intelligence)]: the supreme Intelligible is too exalted for for lesser intelligences [(trop haut pour la moindre des intelligences)]. One could not in the final analysis, therefore, speak in Aristotle of a ‘mystical’ contemplation. Perhaps, however, one can still speak in his case of a sort of religion, [a] religion entirely intellectualistic, but yet full of fervor. For it is impossible to deny that Aristotle, when he speaks of the contemplation of God, speaks of it with a fervor that isn’t just the fervor of a savant burning for [(épris de)] knowledge, but the fervor of a religious mind burning for God.”

René-A. Gauthier, OP, La morale d’Aristote, Initiation philosophique (Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 1963), 102-104.

You were SERIOUS about that?

"The seductively suggestive title of Kołakowski’s talk was 'The Devil in History.' For a while there was silence as students, faculty, and visitors listened intently. Kołakowski’s writings were well known to many of those present and his penchant for irony and close reasoning was familiar. But even so, the audience was clearly having trouble following his argument. Try as they would, they could not decode the metaphor. An air of bewildered mystification started to fall across the [Harvard] auditorium. And then, about a third of the way through, my neighbor—Timothy Garton Ash—leaned across. 'I’ve got it,' he whispered. 'He really is talking about the Devil.' And so he was."

     Tony Judt on a Harvard lecture of 1987, in "Leszek Kołakowski (1927-2009)," The New York review of books 56, no. 14 (September 24, 2009): 6 (6-7). More of value follows: "It was a defining feature of Leszek Kołakowski’s intellectual trajectory that he took evil extremely seriously. Among Marx's false premises, in his view, was the idea that all human shortcomings are rooted in social circumstances. Marx had 'entirely overlooked the possibility that some sources of conflict and aggression may be inherent in the permanent characteristics of the species.' Or, as he expressed it in his Harvard lecture: 'Evil . . . is not contingent . . . but a stubborn and unredeemable fact.' For Leszek Kołakowski, who lived through the Nazi Occupation of Poland and the Soviet takeover that followed, 'the Devil is part of our experience. Our generation has seen enough of it for the message to be taken extremely seriously' [("The devil in history," My correct views on everything (St. Augustine's Press, 2005), 133)].
     "Most of the obituaries that followed Kołakowski's recent death at the age of eighty-one altogether missed this side of the man. That is hardly surprising. Despite the fact that much of the world still believes in a God and practices religion, Western intellectuals and public commentators today are ill at ease with the idea of revealed faith. Public discussion of the subject lurches uncomfortably between overconfident denial ('God' certainly does not exist, and anyway it's all His fault) and blind allegiance. That an intellectual and scholar of Kołakowski's caliber should have taken seriously not just religion and religious ideas but the very Devil himself is a mystery to many of his otherwise admiring readers and something they have preferred to ignore."

Brague on the role of "digestion" in the disappearance of philosophy from the Islamic world

"I attach the greatest importance to a fact that Jean Jolivet has stressed: the 'philosopher' (philosophus) who debates with a Jew and a Christian in Abelard's [Dialogue between a philosopher, a Jew, and a Christian] is a Muslim. That personage, who is circumcised and claims descent from Ishmael, attempts to set up an ethics independent of revelation. . . . What is important is that this human type--one that some find a temptation and others, a type to be exorcised--continued to haunt Latin Christianity. As it happens, that model was by then exclusive to Andalusia, which stood out as different from the Islamic East; in its land of origin, it was already petering out.
"This means that it was precisely at the time when the Latin philosophus--when it did not designate Aristotle--came to signify faylasuf that, in the Islamic world, the use of the Arabic word faylasuf began to give way to other terms. Call that development what you will. The fact remains that, in the East, the word for 'philosophy' declined in favor of other words. In parallel fashion, in the same period the relationship with the Philosopher par excellence--Aristotle--ceased to have a textual dimension in that world. The twelfth century is the age in which Islamic thought fully digested Greek philosophy, the same Greek philosophy that Europe, somewhat later and perhaps to our own times, was to find hard to digest."

Rémi Brague, "The meaning and value of philosophy in the three medieval cultures," chap. 2 of The legend of the Middle Ages: philosophical explorations of medieval Christianity, Judaism, and Islam, trans. Lydia G.Cochrane (Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press, 2009): 55 (41-55). "'inclusion' is an appropriation in which the foreign body is maintained in its full alterity but is enveloped by procedures of appropriation, the presence of which highlights that alterity; . . . 'digestion' is an appropriation in which the foreign body is assimilated to the point of losing its independence" (51). Christianity "included" Aristotle, whereas Islam "digested" him, thereby abandoning philosophy--though not thought (47)--in the process.