In 1966, Ian Gregor contributed to Essays in Criticism an essay entitled ‘What Kind of Fiction did Hardy Write?’ The simple yet arresting quality of the question posed in that title was significant on at least two grounds. First, Thomas Hardy had been for some years the subject of a good deal of critical writing, but much of it had dragged an aimless trail through the marshy terrain of Schopenhauer and the Immanent Will, fixated on peasants and pessimism. Hardy had been patronised, Freudianised, mythologised; his fiction was the lumbering vehicle of a home-spun cosmic gloom appropriate in its simplistic earnesty to a half-educated son of the soil. There had, of course, been some excellent Hardy criticism; but Professor Gregor’s enquiry about the form of his fiction opened a new, now frequently-acknowledged perspective. The question was significant, however, not only because it had been insufficiently raised before but because it seemed precisely the right question to pose about that particular author. We don’t commonly ask ourselves what kind of fiction Scott, Jane Austen or George Eliot wrote—not because those novelists don’t confront us with considerably complex issues of form and genre, but because we shape our questions about their artistic techniques within a fairly established sense of what sort of formal enterprise we are dealing with. But with Hardy the position is different. Pastoral, melodrama, social realism, scientific naturalism, myth, fable, tragedy, ideology: it isn’t only that various of these categories fit various of his novels, but that several of them can fit the same work. Maybe all developed literary forms are complex amalgams of other forms; but with Hardy the issue is at once unusually visible and troublingly elusive.

An important theme of David Burrell’s thoughtful and thought- provoking book is that it is a mistake to elevate the discussion of analogous usage in language to a systematic theory. The difference between Aquinas and Duns Scotus, and even more Cajetan lies just here : Scotus turns analogy into a metaphysical theory, Cajetan turns it into formula for constructing the logical arguments. Aquinas, on the other hand, despite occasional gestures in that direction, is mainly concerned to avoid systematisation. If Burrell is right, then for Aquinas there is no such thing as a ‘theory of analogy’, only a need to examine and where necessary try to justify the way we actually use words analogically. Indeed, in a sense the burden of Aquinas’ treatment is that there cannot be a theory. And of course if there cannot be a theory of analogy, a fortiori there cannot be such a thing as a theory of analogy for theologians in particular.

I say all this because it is the presumption of Humphrey Palmer’s book that there is such a theory, that it is designed for specifically theological purposes, and that it is no good. It is also his presumption that Aquinas had such a theory and that therefore what he says is no good. So if Burrell is right, then Palmer’s critique, however valid against theorists and metaphysicians like Scotus or Cajetan, does not really touch Aquinas at all. Which is a pity, since there seems little point in attacking straw arguments when there are arguments of tougher metal to be dealt with.

It has often caused the present writer some admitatio that in 1 Cor 1 : 14-17 Paul appears to show such reluctance to baptise but upon reading Kildahl’s The Psychology of Speaking in Tongues an insight into the situation was suggested to her.

In 1 Cor 1 : 14-15 Paul declares:

I am thankful (or I thank God) that I baptised none of you except Crispus and Gaius; lest any one should say that you were baptised in my name.

Such a statement is not found elsewhere either in the Pauline Corpus or the rest of the New Testament, or to my knowledge in Christian writings: this would suggest that a special situation in Corinth warranted such reluctance. One main peculiarity of the Corinthian Church was its overenthusiasm and its stress on the gift of tongues. The Acts of the Apostles demonstrates that on extraordinary occasions the baptism of candidates was either preceded or followed by glossolalia. That ‘tongues’ might have accompanied baptism in Corinth also is suggested by the fact that Paul, after listing the spiritual gifts (1 Cor 12 : 4ff), emphasises the unity of the Body, which is the Church, by using a phrase occurring only once outside the Gospels and Acts ‘in one Spirit were we all baptised into one body’ (1 Cor 12:13).

Lorsque les effets d’une politique intérieure menacent de démoraliser et d’exiler des centaines de milliers d’êtres humains, les considerations de correction diplomatique doivent faire place à des preoccupations de simple humanité. Je manquerais à mon devoir si je n’attirais I’attention du Conseil sur la situation actuelle et si je ne plaidais pour que I’opinion du monde, par l‘intermédiaire de la Société des Nations, des Etats membres et non membres, fasse le nécessaire afin de remédier à la situation actuelle et écarter la tragédie menaçante.

McDonald’s letter exposing the deep roots of the Nazi persecution of the Jews and all opponents of racialism and other heresies naturally irritated the German authorities at the time, but it was also considered by the British Foreign Office as ‘a very ill-advised document’ and its author ‘a tiresome individual’. Not that our government lacked sympathy for the victims of Hitler’s policy, but it was hoped that a smoother diplomacy might in the long run prove more helpful to the Jews themselves and in the short run it seemed far too dangerous to tackle this still little known adversary on a matter of purely internal policy. And, like Pilate, they had no time to investigate the truth behind this policy. They simply could not grasp the fact that Hitler from the beginning to end was concerned to apply with ruthless logic the Weltanschauung he had worked out in bad German but with utter clarity in Mein Kampf.

The Belfast experiment by Mother Teresa’s sisters is over. Suddenly, and to most people unexpectedly, they departed in September, 1973 leaving behind some work completed, some incomplete or merely projected and many friendships bruised by their sudden departure.

The Missionary Sisters of Charity, to give them their proper name, came to Belfast with almost equal suddeness and unexpected by most people. About two years ago Mother Teresa expressed a desire to visit Belfast to see for herself what was happening and to try to help. It was by no means clear what she could do but she had in mind to create some ecumenical project by which she believed that the love of God might soften the antagonism there. She was advised by a number of people that what she had in mind was not possible. This was not simply a counsel of despair; it was advice based upon bitter experience. Already a dedicated community worker who had patiently and courageously worked in Cyprus for the Reconciliation of Greek and Turkish Cypriots had declared that Belfast was not right even for that kind of experiment.

Mother Teresa, however, was told that she should come to Belfast because her coming would give some encouragement to people who badly needed it. She came on a flying visit on a Saturday afternoon and on Sunday morning attended Mass in the church of Corpus Christi in Ballymurphy. The people at once took her to their hearts and into their homes.

Those whose reservations kept them away from the ‘Dance’ Mass at the French Church, Leicester Place, last summer will be relieved to know that the congregation neither indulged in ‘one more time’ of Lord of the Dance, nor flung off garments to give way to unbridled holy rolling. A few jackets and ties were removed (it was a warm evening) but the only sensational happenings were the sincerely vigorous protestations of a few ladies of strong Tridentine loyalties. What, then, was done? And was it worth doing? Above all, was it proper to be done in the context ?

‘The theatre is the place for this, not the House of God’ intoned one of the ladies in a recurring and joyless antiphon, received for the most part by the packed congregation in compassionate silence and heroically overlooked by the readers thus interrupted. Well, is it? Were we insulting God by a mock marriage of actress and bishop? ‘But what about David ?’ a young Anglican said to me as we queued to get in. Ah, yes, David . . . but he was one of your ancient royals. And very Old Testament and Jewish. But so—inconveniently?—is the foundation of belief in, and credibility of, the Person who said ‘Before Abraham was, I am’.

By this time the moths of misconception have no doubt gathered in large numbers. It will be useful to begin, therefore, with an account of what actually took place. Before the Mass, the celebrant, Father Kevin Donovan, S.J., explained clearly and with infectious enthusiasm what was intended. The Liturgy of the Word would include a number of readings from the Gospels and the psalms which would then be interpreted in dance and movement.

To indicate the subject of this essay two popular expressions, which everybody uses and professes to understand, have been deliberately chosen. Through this constant use the significance of the words has evaporated, and one is left with little more than a vague indication of goodwill and low-level understanding. Yet a closer study of both terms is rewarding since it leads straight into the mystery of human— and Divine—communication.

For all time the word ‘dialogue’ is linked to the name of Plato, who used this literary form to demonstrate his master’s method of enquiry and develop his own philosophy. For both philosophers the aim is the apprehension of truth. However, this is not handed over to the pupil in a packet to be passively accepted and absorbed. Socrates is conscious that he knows nothing. If he leads his disciples into making contradictory statements, he does not do so in order to overwhelm them at the end with a ready-made solution in the maimer of a deus ex machina. He shares his own thought processes with them, teaching them to examine their preconceived ideas. If the disciple takes this seriously he will learn to think for himself and acquire a sensible approach to philosophical problems. It is fascinating to follow the argument in a dialogue as superficially simple as Euthyphro. Twice the disciple is forced to admit that ‘piety’ is ‘piety’ because it is beloved by the gods, though he has previously agreed to the opposite statement and granted that ‘piety’ had a special excellence which makes it ‘pious’ and consequently beloved by the gods.

‘The whole frame of nature bespeaks an intelligent author, and no rational enquirer can, after serious reflection, suspend his belief a moment with regard to the primary principles of genuine Theism and Religion’.

Thus might conclude almost any exposition of the traditional Argument from Design. In fact, this testimonial to teleology comes from the philosopher David Hume (1711 to 1776), usually thought of —correctly—as a foe of religion, and whose painstaking criticisms of natural theology still form the sine qua non of all rejections of that enterprise.

‘A purpose, an intention, a design is evident in every thing’, he declares, and ‘we must adopt with the strongest conviction, the idea of some intelligent cause or author’ since monotheism may justly boast of ‘these invincible reasons on which it is undoubtedly founded’.

The second Vatican Council, in its constitution on the Liturgy, initiated a reform of the Divine Office to adapt it to the needs of modern times. The amount of Office that those bound to the Breviary were obliged to recite was to be reduced, and it was stressed that the Office is intended to sanctify the whole day, so that each Hour should be recited at the time appropriate to it, Lauds and Vespers being seen as the most important Hours. The Council also emphasised that the Office is the common prayer of the whole Church, and urged secular clergy and laypeople as well as religious to come together to recite it in common.

The publication in 1970 of the Liturgia Horarum, the Latin version of the revised Divine Office, was a major step towards the fulfillment of the Council’s intentions. It should not be seen as the end of the process, for liturgy as envisaged by the Council is a creative activity, demanding continual adaptation for the needs of particular groups and situations. For this reason, the Liturgia Horarum gives great scope for choice and adaptation : it is nearly always permissible to change the psalms, antiphons or readings to suit the individual or group that is celebrating the Liturgy of the Hours. This is emphasised in the fine ‘General Instruction’ with which the Liturgia Horarum is prefaced, a document that should be read by all for whom the Liturgy of the Hours forms a part of prayer. The published texts are a framework within which much variation is desirable and possible, and so a habit of reciting the Office that paid too much attention to discovering and observing precisely ‘what is laid down in the book’ would be alien to the spirit of the Council and its reformed liturgy.

In his article ‘Professor Geach and the Future’ (New Blackfriars, Vol. 54, No. 642, Nov. 1973), Patrick McGrath depicts what any non-academically inclined Christian must read as a bleak situation. He says that ‘if God knows everything that will happen, there is no room for free will. If he does not, he cannot be infinite and unchanging’. The upshot of this is that ‘a great deal of hard thinking on the character of the divine attributes is required from theologians, philosophers and scripture scholars’. What are the implications of this, and ought they to be accepted?

Clearly McGrath has his finger on some problems. To say that God is omniscient, and to maintain at the same time that he is changeless, looks on the face of it like a contradiction. It may, at least, appear to be something approaching one. To affirm that God comes to know things and to add that he is changeless seems likewise open to objection. Furthermore, it goes against the grain for thinking people, and, because of special reasons, for Catholics in particular, to deny the need for research, discussion and debate in religion. Unless we are prepared to refuse tolerantly to consider the fruits of experience and scholarship, or unless we are prepared to abandon the notion of an historical, teaching Church, so much seems a sine qua non. McGrath’s article is, however, disturbing. For, assuming (as seems natural) that most Christians are committed to the belief that, on certain occasions at least, human actions can be free and that God is immutable and omniscient, it reflects a regrettable tendency which many must now recognize as perennial. The tendency in question leans towards the view that the average theist or Christian needs to wait on the findings of certain academics for the right to give his complete assent to certain beliefs about God.