Theodore Parker on Immortal Life

AS I’ve said before, I rely on Providence and grace choose my reading, and I’m seldom, if ever, disappointed. The limiting factor is not grace, but my prayer.  I must force myself in dry spells to clear my desk, calm my mind, and pray, “Lord, here I am.  What wouldst thou have me do?”  Yesterday the answer came as the suggestion in a devotional reading that, to keep faith’s fires burning bright, one might to read sermons. As I’ve recently been working on American Transcendentalism, this brought to mind the sermons of Theodore Parker.   Searching the topic quickly brought up a collection at gutenberg.org (providential, since this format is best for my purposes).  A quick look at the Contents revealed his sermon on Immortality, a regular topic here.

The sermon impressed me, and I’d very much encourage anyone with an interest in spirituality to read it.  It’s virtues are several, including: (1) its usefulness at the level of practical personal religion; (2) as an example of a very well-crafted sermon (this must rank among Parker’s best writings); and (3) for what it tells us about American Transcendentalism — its origins, message and relevance today.

Since my goal is to encourage others to read the sermon, I intentionally give only a very short summary such as may help to understand and appreciate its message.

Parker’s main subject concerns evidences of immortality of the human soul, and the possibility of a heavenly existence hereafter. The purpose is not to rationally convince an agnostic of these things.  On the contrary, he argues that logic cannot impart conviction in these matters.

Moreover, he sees a direct connection between an intuitive awareness of the soul’s immortality and of our own nature as spiritual beings.  Eventually he connects the latter with developing a greater sense of social charity.  This last part fits with Parker’s status as a seminal influence on the New England social reform and abolitionist movements.  But he is also a student of William Ellery Channing: social justice is not something apart from, but integrally connected with, our sense as spiritual beings seeking to progress in ‘likeness to God.’

Early on Parker emphasizes that human beings are aware of their immortal souls as a “fact of consciousness.”  We have, he argues, spiritual senses.  Just as we need no rational argument to convince us we possess physical vision — we need merely open our eyes and see — the same is true with spiritual vision.  If we pay sufficient attention, we simply ‘see’ that we already believe in our soul’s immorality.  In fact, we are incapable of doubting it.  Here Parker is showing influences of Kant and Coleridge (both important sources for New England Transcendentalism.)

But then why invoke rational arguments for immortality at all?  If these do not produce our own belief in immortality, they will neither persuade the atheist.  Parker responds that rational arguments here play an indirect, supportive role.  They prepare the mind to receive or recognize its innate knowledge. That is, reasoning (ratiocination, discursive reasoning) activates or improves the faculty of Reason (intuitive noetic apprehension of truths).

This seems very close to what I’ve said elsewhere about the purpose of Plato’s rational arguments for the soul’s immortality.

Parker’s actual arguments for immortality are traditional.  Their precedents can be easily found in Plato and Cicero, but they have been so thoroughly assimilated into Western literature that it would be pointless to try to identify his proximal sources.

He helpfully divides his arguments into three broad categories:  (1) from the general belief of humankind; (2) from the nature of Man; and (3) from the nature of God.

From the General Consensus

Parker notes that the belief in immortality exists in virtually all cultures throughout history.  He also argues that it is innate, and universal amongst individuals.  Moreover, it is most emphasized by our greatest philosophers and religious teachers.  Insofar at these geniuses are also the most ‘representative men’ (a principle Emerson alludes to often, e.g., in his essay ‘The Poet‘), this is added evidence of the universality of the belief.

From the Nature of Man

Here is a constellation of arguments that are again traditional.  Human beings have unlimited intellectual, aesthetic, moral and spiritual potentials.  In biological nature, all things are designed to reach a point of maximum maturity: an acorn becomes a fully grown oak tree.  Nature seems designed to promote the achievement of an organism’s telos.  How, then, could it be that no provision would be made for human beings to achieve their highest potentials?  For this Eternity and immortality are needed.

Again, we have an innate sense of moral justice.  This world is anything but consistently morally just.  How could the wrongs of the present world ever be set right?  What compensation could be made to the unfairly oppressed?  For those cheated out of their moral birthright by being born into perpetual poverty or even slavery?  The human soul objects to this. Our innate moral sense insists that (1) there is a God, (2) God is all Good, Powerful, Wise and Just; but (3)  a Good, Powerful, Wise and Just God would now allow people to unfairly suffer in this world without some compensation in the next.

We must note carefully how Parker invokes this argument.  He is not making demands on God.  Rather, he is appealing to our sense of what we deeply and instinctively believe.

From the Nature of God

The preceding lead to more arguments. Why would an all Good, Powerful and Loving God not make the human soul immortal?  And why would God design human beings with these beliefs (in immortality, perfect Justice, etc.) if they did not correspond to the true nature of the Universe?  God does not lie, nor would he build the human soul on a foundation of false beliefs.

The above suffices to convey a general idea of Parker’s arguments.  There is not much terribly new here, but he does organize the material ably and effectively.

In the process, he introduces certain characteristically Transcendentalist themes. One is his emphasis on the role of “innate facts of consciousness.”  Transcendentalists rejected authority and doctrine as the primary basis for religion, in favor of direct personal experience.

Also, like the Unitarians (Parker’s direct heritage via William Ellery Channing) and Universalists, Parker insists that all human souls will eventually be saved.  Here and elsewhere he flatly and vehemently rejects the Calvinist doctrines of ‘innate depravity,’ predestination, and eternal damnation of the wicked.

This liberating step widens ones perspective on social charity.  We can no longer blame the poor, the oppressed, or even the criminal for their actions, nor stand by as mere passive witnesses of their suffering.  Immortality is their destiny and right as well as ours.  Hence in the end — and to me this is the most original part of the sermon — Parker leverages all this discussion into an exhortation to be actively concerned with helping the oppressed.

But, — and this is vitally important — social charity flows from and must be integrally connected with spirituality.  We must remain conscious that our motivation is to advance others spiritually.  Material progress is mostly a means to that end.  Hence — as is sadly too often the case today — when an over-dominating concern for increasing the material circumstances of the poor reaches the extent that it obscures or even works contrary to our concern for their spiritual welfare, there is a problem.

A growing sense of our sense of immortality is integral to all this. We begin our immortal life in this one as we grown in holiness and virtue; and social virtue is integral to this.

I am struck with how similar this is to the integralism of Augustinian ethics — as, say, reflected so strongly in the writings of the Victorines.  There is a very strong element of anti-Catholicism in Transcendentalist writings.  Doubtless they inherited this prejudice from their English Puritan and Protestant ancestors.  It seems to have never occurred to them to give St. Augustine a charitable re-reading.  Several Transcentalists, in fact, converted to Roman Catholicism (Orestes Brownson and Rose Hawthorne, for example).

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Reference

Parker, Theodore. A Sermon of Immortal Life (1846). In: Theodore Parker, Speeches, Addresses, and Occasional Sermons in Three Volumes, Vol. 2, Boston: 1855 (repr. 1867); pp. 105−138.

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St. Augustine: The Utility of Belief

Fra Angelicao, The Conversion of St. Augustine (c. 1430−1435)

DEAR Philonous, 

I had promised to deliver to you this week an explanation of St. Augustine’s lesser-known but valuable work, De utilitate credendi.  I was prepared today to write my summary, but now find my mind agitated by a change in weather (an unseasonably warm, ‘Santa-Ana’ like wind). Rather than abandon my plan completely, though, I’ll attempt to accommodate Fate (a tactic which, when employed, sometimes reveals Fate to be Providence). Thus, while I am no fan of stream-of-consciousness style writing — but ,rather, tend to the oppose extreme of obsessive perfectionism — I will allow myself to experiment with the former this time.

Here, then, are a series of thoughts I had during today’s walk. I will write these directly, without adding substantially to them, however great the temptation may be to do so.  Hopefully posting these brief comments will help motivate a few people to read the work, so that Augustine can explain his points better than I can.

Augustine in this short book addresses those who are at point in their life where they genuinely seek wisdom and true religion.  He is not interested in those for whom these topics are mere curiosities or diversions.

Adapting his thesis to a modern audience, it is: That people — at least those in the West — should not avoid investigating Christianity.  This investigation may be done in an experimental way:  that is, one may test the waters, so to speak, without making any immediate and permanent commitment. However this initial experiment must be done in a sincere and ‘charitable’ way. By charitable, it is meant that a person should, in case of questionable teachings or, say, puzzling passages of the Bible, be inclined to give the ‘benefit of the doubt.’

Central to his argument is the premise that a person sincerely seeking wisdom and religion recognizes that they are subject to the delusions, follies and vanities of life, and that their own reasoning is subject to corruption by egoism, bias, self-love, and the like.  Not only does this make it difficult to understand true religion without help, but it means one has little ability to distinguish true from false teachers. Therefore it is both prudent and reasonable to seek first sources with good reputations.  Augustine speaks in terms of ‘authoritative sources’ here — but he does not mean by authority that of a policeman or dictator, but rather authority in the sense of having genuine expertise.

What are the signs of a such an authoritative source. He lists several that apply to the Christian Church (broadly defined):

• It’s longevity.
• It’s wide respect and admiration.
• The benevolent actions and intentions of its saints and doctors.
• The courage and determination of its martyrs.

He also lists as potentially relevant evidence miracles.  Modern readers may not accept that part of his argument, but it isn’t really necessary.

Augustine notes that the objection that most Christians themselves lack wisdom and virtue does not affect this argument. In any field of respectable endeavor, only a few gain mastery, yet all respect the field and admire those who do gain mastery. That the ideals of Christianity appeal to the masses, even if they are seldom achieved, is what matters here. It is evidence that Christianity genuinely responds to deep needs of the human condition and resonates with our highest innate ideals.

He also invites us to consider the parallels with authors like Virgil. All people respect these authors and those who study them.  Yet only a minority of people actually read them, and fewer still are able to grasp the fine points of their writings.

In this connection Augustine mentions another interesting and revealing point. If someone were to summarily dismiss Virgil or Homer, or read them with the specific intention of finding fault with them, we would consider that person worthy of blame.  That is, some instinct we have to honor trust sources of antiquity would be outraged.  Augustine does not pursue this point as far as he could, but it is anticipated at some length in the writings of Cicero (one of Augustine’s influences).  Ultimately this argument has roots before Cicero in Stoic philosophy. Human beings are social, communal creatures.  We are designed by nature, as it were, to honor valid traditions.  Those who do not do so — at least not without some good reason — are instinctively disapproved of; and, while perhaps not all instincts are trustworthy or constructive, this one may well be so.

Hence his argument might be succinctly framed as follows:

1. If we are sincerely, urgently, fervently seeking wisdom and religion, we must know that our reasoning and judgment are prone to bias and error.
2. Therefore we cannot attain wisdom and religion by our own reasoning alone.
3. We cannot find a good teacher by relying only on our reasoning.
4. We have little choice, then, but to experiment by investigating the teachings of a trusted, reputable source.
5. To profit from this source, we must approach the teachings charitably — that is, in an experimental way that basically says, “Okay, I’ll go along for now and see where this leads. If insight soon follows, the experiment will be successful. If not, then I will withhold further belief.”
6. That is what we might call experimental credence. It is very different from credulousness or gullibility, things Augustine in no way endorses or advocates.
7. To approach things this way is eminently reasonable. This is what he meant by faith (credence) seeking understanding. This is, in fact, far more reasonable than insisting on radical rationalism at the outset — that is requiring that each article of religion be given a fully rational argument before it is taken seriously.

Augustine is in no way here suggesting that we should just bow down to authoritarian dogma.  That would be insincere and affected.  He does not ask us to be insincere.  Rather, this is about adopting a kind of provisional belief.  Just as when we cross a street, we do not know a car will not come from around a corner and hit us.  We proceed with the ‘faith’ that crossing will be safe.  However we do not commit ourselves to this fixed belief, but remain attentive and ready to change our belief if circumstances so dictate. What he is calling credence is, then, somewhat like a “working hypothesis.”

While he does not say so explicitly, the implication is that we have a natural impulse to believe Christianity (or comparable trusted sources.)  Hence here we are not imposing on ourselves an arbitrary and artificial belief, but rather are permitting ourselves to accede to a natural impulse to provisionally believe.

Finally, although it may be difficult to find a reliable contemporary person to teach Christianity, we have access to the Bible.  We should apply ourselves to its study in the aforementioned spirit of trust and charity, asking such questions as how might this passage apply to my life? or how might I interpret these words in a useful, meaningful and wise way?— and not how may I ridicule or find fault with it? Augustine took it as axiomatic that much of the Bible’s message (especially in the Old Testament) is conveyed by means of allegory.  Passages which seem morally objectionable if taken literally assist us by forcing us to look for symbolic meanings. Having sometimes to struggle to find deeper meanings is consistent with the role of religion in helping us to reform and improve our thinking.

Augustine also places great emphasis on the fact that Christian teaching is open, public, and available to all without charge.  This contrasts with the secrecy of esoteric texts and elite ‘schools’ which promise to deliver subtle wisdom for the right price. Why seek religion at all if we do not believe God is both generous and actively seeks to assist our endeavors?  What could be more evidence of such benevolence and wisdom than by entrusting the teaching of divine truths to an institution like the Christian Church?

Then what are the messages the seeker may hope to find from the Bible?  I would propose to classify these under three headings. (These are my view, that is, and not anything Augustine says directly in the work.)

The first is moral reformation and purification, and the gaining of intellectual and moral virtue.  (This is similar to Stoicism.)

The second is instruction in contemplative ascent of the mind (anagogy; this is similar to Platonism).

Third (this goes beyond Stoicism and Platonism) is achievement of loving union with God and the theological virtues of Faith, Hope, and, above all, Charity.

Of course nothing I’ve said here should be understood to dissuade the study of other traditional religions, including Hinduism, Buddhism, Judaism and Islam — or, for that matter, ancient religious and philosophical traditions like Neoplatonism and Hermeticism. At least one source I’ve seen claimed that Augustine himself continued to read Plotinus all his life. Augustine’s main objection to the Manicheans was not so much their wrong doctrines, but that (1) they maligned Christianity and (2) they insisted that rationalism alone is sufficient in religion.

John

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Bibliography

English translations

Burleigh, J. H. S. (tr.). St. Augustine: The Usefulness of Belief (De Utitlitate Credendi). In: J. H. S. Burleigh (ed.), Augustine: Earlier Writings, SCM Press, 1953 (repr. Knox, 2006); pp. 284−323.

Cornish, C. L. (tr). St. Augustine: On the Profit of Believing.  In: Philip Schaff (ed.), Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers, First Series, Vol. 3, Buffalo, 1887.

Kearney, Ray (tr.). Saint Augustine: The Advantage of Believing (De utilitate credendi). In: Boniface Ramsey (ed.), The Works of Saint Augustine: A Translation for the 21st Century, vol. I/8, (On Christian Belief), New City Press, 2005; pp. 116−150.

Meagher, Luanne (tr.). St.Augustine: The Advantage of Believing (De utilitate credendi). In: Ludwig Schopp (ed.), Fathers of the Church, Vol. 4 (Writings of St. Augustine, Vol. 2), New York, 1947; pp. 385−442.

Marriott, Charles (tr.). On the Profit of Believing. In: John Henry Parker (ed.), Seventeen Short Treatises of S. Augustine, Oxford, 1847/1869/1885; pp. 577−618.

Latin editions

Migne J. P. (ed.). Augustinus Hipponensis: De utilitate credendi. Patrologia Latina 42, 65−92. Paris, 1841

Pegon, J. (ed. & tr.). De utilitate credendi. In: Oeuvres de Saint Augustin, 1re série, Opuscules, volume VIII. Bibliothèque Augustinienne (BA) 17, Paris, Desclée de Brouwer, 1951.

Zycha, Joseph (ed.).  S. Aureli Augustini: De utilitate credendi. Corpus Scriptorum Ecclesiasticorum Latinorum (CSEL) 25.1. Vienna, 1866.

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Active Imagination and the Mysteries of the Rosary

Artist unkown: The Annunciation

LET’S continue the topic of experimenting with meditation on the Rosary Mysteries as tools for personal growth — spiritual, psychological and philosophical. To repeat in brief what I’ve said before, the guiding premise is that the ‘author’ of the Rosary Mysteries is the collective unconscious. They represent a cumulative attempt, crafted and refined by countless inspired individuals, to express in symbolic form stages or components of ones spiritual self-realization.  They are therefore of universal value.  One need not be a practicing Roman Catholic to benefit from them.  They concern universal and (what a follower of Jungian psychology would call) archetypal principles of the human psyche.

There is a standard formula by which Roman Catholics consider these mysteries while praying the Rosary.  However one is entirely free to experiment and improvise, and there are advantages with this. In particular, one might apply the Jungian technique of active imagination to this task — for example, by looking at artistic portrayals of these Gospel events — and creatively ‘engaging’ with them.  Almost the whole point of active imagination is spontaneity.  Nevertheless, another element of Jungian psychology can be used profitably here, namely his well-known distinction between four kinds of cognitive activity: sensing, thinking, feeling and intuiting.  (These of course are the four personality dimension of the Meyers-Briggs inventory).

Elsewhere I’ve related what was explained to me by a retreat director years ago — how these four cognitive activities can be used in connection with the traditional practice of lectio divina (holy reading) for interpreting Scripture. As understanding the complex messages of art is much like interpreting Scripture, it’s plausible to apply this approach to the former.

Accordingly, this works as follows.  Quiet your mind, and arrange time to devote to studying some work of art that portrays one of the Sorrowful, Joyful, Glorious or Luminous Rosary Mysteries.  In succession, spend some amount of time considering it exclusively by each cognitive function:

Sensing.  Examine the literal details without analyzing them.  Notice every important object and detail.  Scan the entire image so nothing is missed.  Notice shapes, colors, shadings, arrangement of figures, foreground and background, etc.

Thinking.  Now think about the objects in the painting.  Don’t force things or be overly analytical; in fact, more of a playful approach might be most appropriate.  For example, applying this process to interpret Scripture, one technique is to make puns or find alternative, varied meanings — however implausible — in the actual words.  Something similar might be done here.  The idea is not to form any definite conclusions, but rather to activate and exercise the rational faculty.

Feeling.  Here again, one should feel free to experiment. How does the art make you feel? One possibility is to cycle through the characters portrayed, and to imagine what that figure is feeling towards each of the others — or try to have the same feeling yourself.

Intuiting. Pause, take a breath, close your eyes.  Put yourself in the loving ‘shalom’ of God’s presence.  Now open your eyes and let the picture speak to you.  Imagine, if you like, it speaking directly to your heart, without specific words, giving intuitions and insights.

This is enough to say.  Of necessity this should be a completely personal method, and each person will need to discover what works best for them.  I would just encourage you to make the experiment.  Regardless of ones religious affiliation, these Mysteries and their associated art are a great cultural resource available to help your process of self-realization.

As for the picture above, I don’t know it’s source, but it is a rather unusual representation of the Annunciation.  What I like about it is that it –somewhat uniquely — focuses on Mary experiencing an ecstasy.  As such, it can be interpreted as an allegory for deep religious contemplation — as, perhaps, do the other Joyful Mysteries (and Sorrowful, Glorious and Luminous Mysteries).

 

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The Oxford Movement’s Critique of Modern Rationalism

The Oxford Movement was a 19th century movement within the Church of England that eventually developed into Anglo-Catholicism. The movement’s manifesto was set forth in explicit terms in the Tracts for the Times, published from 1833 to 1841.  However a parallel expression of principles took poetic form — in the Lyra Apostolica (1836), an anthology whose principal author was John Henry Newman, and with contributions by several others, including John Keble.

Newman, Keble and the others sought a return to a more authentic and full-blooded Christianity as found in the writings of Church Fathers.  Their critique of rationalism is relevant for our times.

The Introduction to the 1901 edition of the Lyra, written by Henry C. Beeching, excerpted below, explains with admirable clarity and eloquence the Oxford Movement’s critique of modern rationalism and Lockean Liberalism.

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WE must remember what the Liberalism of the Thirties was, if we would understand the indignation with which these men set themselves to repudiate it. It was the Liberalism of rational enlightenment. It believed that the evils and sorrows of humanity would fade away before the instructed intelligence. It was hard, confident, aggressive. It had the easy air of superiority which belongs to those who have never faced the deep underlying issues of life.

It omitted these from its calculation. Everything, for it, was on the surface; was plain; was uncomplicated. The cool reason, the average commonsense, the ordinary experience of the man in the street, were its sufficing standards. It abhorred mystery. It had no touch of reverence, awe, mysticism. It was frankly utilitarian. It was at the mercy of a bland and shallow {xxvii} optimism. Not that it was not doing an immense deal of practical good. It was opening doors of freedom. It was breaking down barriers. It was spreading knowledge. It was extending the range of social happiness. It was widening the old horizons of philanthropic effort. It was relieving men from the burdens and terrors of ignorant bigotry. It was insisting that institutions should do the work for which they were intended. It was bent on applying the test of real use for the public welfare to all the resources of Civilisation, which were locked up, too often, by the selfishness of prejudice, and the idleness of indifference.

But, in spite of all this beneficial activity, Liberalism was felt, by those ardent young men at Oxford, to be their enemy. And it was this, because it left out that which to them was the one fact of supreme importance—the soul.

Liberalism, as it was understood in the days of Lord Brougham, and of Benthamism, knew nothing of the soul’s enthralling drama—its tragic heights and depths, its absorbing wonder, its momentous agonies, its infinite pathos, its tempestuous struggle, its mysterious sin, its passion, its penitence, and its tears. All this Liberalism passed over, as of no account. It was for it a veiled world, into which it possessed no way of entry. It came not into its secret, and moreover, it was content to be excluded. It was inclined to sweep it all aside, as the rubbish of superstition. It was unaware of its own blind-{xxviii} ness. It was confident in its own adequacy to set human life straight, without regard to this disturbing matter.

It was this shallow self-sufficiency which stung the strong soul of Carlyle into fierce revolt. In him, the elements which rational enlightenment fancied it had disposed of, re-asserted their volcanic intensity. Through his voice, humanity defied the comfortable bribes of utilitarianism, and revealed itself once again as the passionate Pilgrim of Time, for ever seeking an unknown and eternal Goal. And this recoil of Carlyle, prophetic in its force, yet empty of any Gospel message, had its parallel at Oxford. . . .  Every fibre of Keble’s soul revolted against any temper that would smoothe over the dark realities of sin, or would cheapen the tremendous issues of human character and human choice, or would rob earth of its imaginative mystery, or would {xxix}trifle with the awful significance of word or deed in the light of Doom. Truth was, for him, no thin logical consistency, but a Vision of Eternal Reality, which smote in upon the conscience of man with the solemnity of a moral challenge.

Liberalism embodied, according to Newman’s analysis, the spirit of rationalism, and the claim of the human reason to sit in judgment upon dogmatic revelation. And, against this, Keble recalled to men the teaching of Bishop Butler on the moral nature of the evidence by which spiritual convictions were reached. To the mere reason, this evidence could not get beyond suggestive probabilities; but these probabilities were used, by the living spirit of man, as an indication of the personal Will of God, which could be read by the soul that was in tune with that Will. So probabilities became certitudes. “ I will guide thee with mine Eye,” was Keble’s favourite example of the mode in which Divine truth touched the soul. By deep glimpses, by rare flashes, by a momentary glance, the Eye of God could make us aware of Truths far beyond the understanding of reason. Such Truths possessed authority, which we could not dissect or critically examine. They were revelations of the mind of Him with Whom we had to deal. So Authority was the key-note of Keble’s thinking, in antithesis to the Reason of Liberal enlightenment. And Authority was shown, as Mr. Balfour has again shown us in our own day, to rest on profound instincts of human nature, which had their roots far down out of sight, and defied rational analysis. Emotion, Imagination, {xxx} Association, Tradition, Conscience, all played their part in the creation of that temper which found its joyful freedom in surrendering to Authority.

{xxxvi} . . . .Newman, who has denounced the attack of Liberalism so vigorously, finds the weak and worldly defence of the traditional Conservatism as repulsive and as dangerous.

Italics added. Source: John Henry Newman, John Keble, et al. Lyra Apostolica. (Introduction by Henry C. Beeching.) London, 1901.

A Meditation on Man’s Transcendent Dignity

The Communion of Saints

A search for a clear exposition of this distinctive and sublime Christian teaching revealed Wyllys Rede’s book, The Communion of Saints (Longmans, 1893). This charming devotional work has three special virtues:

First, it is plainly a labor of love.  Rede discloses that he lost both parents in infancy and felt a later spiritual connection with them; this interest, and the study and reflection pursuant to it, formed the earnest foundation of the book.

Second, a generous, diverse and interesting selection of quotes from earlier literature is supplied.

Third, the material was first delivered as a series of lectures; this often has, as here, the effect of enhancing the content, reasoning, and organization of a work.

Rede consistently appeals to the instincts and intuitions of the readers, diplomatically sidestepping and deflecting certain historical contentions that have sometimes surrounded the topic.

Though an Episcopalian cleric, Rede takes a non-denominational perspective.

An interesting detail from the author’s life is that, at age 3, he sat on the knee of President Lincoln and was entertained with stories immediately preceding to the latter’s delivery of the Gettysburg Address.

The chapters are as follows:

1. What is the Communion of Saints?

2. Is there a Life after Death?

3.Where are the Souls of Departed Saints?

4. Do the Saints departed Live a Conscious Life?

5. What is the Relationship of Departed Saints to us?

6. What is our Relationship to Departed Saints?

7. What is the Relationship of all Saints to God?

As seen, the book is structured in the form of questions which, the author candidly observes, are those which people naturally wonder about.  Below we excerpt the principle questions of each chapter, and the author’s conclusions concerning them.

1. What is the Communion of Saints?

What is the Communion of Saints?

The word “communion” is not difficult to define. It means a common share or fellowship. When used in a religious sense, it means a mystical partnership in some supernatural grace or life. [p. 4]

By the communion of saints we mean the spiritual relationship which knits together all God’s saints in the mystical Body of Christ. [p. 4]

To whom can we properly apply the title of “saints”?

I claim the name of saint for every soul [living or dead] that has been baptized into Christ and tries to live up to its baptismal vows. I claim it for every life that can with any degree of truth be called a consecrated life. I claim it for every one (however frail, however full of faults) who yet looks longingly before where Christ has gone and tries to follow Him. [p. 11]

2. Is there a Life after Death?

[His answer is yes. This chapter mainly sets the stage for subsequent discussion. Iit can be skipped or lightly read without limiting understanding or appreciation of later chapters.]

3. Where are the Souls of Departed Saints?

Rede affirms the traditional teaching that souls must await the Last Judgment at the end of the world before reaching a final reward with God in heaven.  This period(?) between death and the Last Judgement is termed the intermediate state.  For the virtuous, it is envisaged as a kind of Paradise, more a ‘school for souls’ than a place of punishment.   Supporting this view, Rede cites the words of Jesus on the cross to the penitent thief: Verily I say unto thee, To day shalt thou be with me in paradise. (Luke 23:43) Rede draws particular attention to the words today, which implies something immanent, not delayed until after the Last Judgment; and with me, which suggests a continuing connection or relationship of the soul to Jesus in this paradisiacal state.

The possibility that souls of the unjust go to another place, and undergo a purgatorial purification, is also considered.

Do they [departed souls] go at once to their final abode?

Every human soul must wait until its body has been raised from the grave, and God’s general judgment passed before it can enter on its final state. [p. 49]

Is there an intermediate state in which the spirit lives and waits the coming of God’s own good time ?

Our Church, our Creed, and our Bible tell us that there is. The Church in all ages, especially her earliest, has believed in such a state of life. [p. 51]

Where is their [just souls’] abode, and what their life between the hour of death and the judgment-day?

The Holy Scriptures teach us distinctly, though somewhat indirectly, of the existence and character of the intermediate state. [p. 52]

By Paradise He [Jesus] must have meant some intermediate state preparatory to the heavenly life into which He was later on to ascend. [p. 53]

The conclusions to be drawn from this parable [the rich man and Lazarus]; seem to me to be partly these: that the life of the soul goes on after death in some place or state provided by God for disembodied souls; that this has two divisions or states of life widely separated from each other, at least in the tenor of their existence. In one of them the spirits of the saints (represented by Lazarus) enjoy rest, refreshment, and companionship. In the other, those who have squandered their lives and hardened their hearts to the extent of final impenitence, await with apprehension the just and final judgment of their God. [pp. 59 – 60].

They have entered a new cosmical sphere of life, which differs totally from this material sphere of time and space. [p. 64]

“an inward realm where life lays bare its root, whereas in this world it shows only the branches of the tree.” [quoting Hans Lassen Martensen; p. 65]

“a kingdom of calm thought and self-fathoming, a kingdom of remembrance in the full sense of the word.” [quoting Hans Lassen Martensen; p. 65]

They are spending “a school-time of contemplation,” as in this world they endured “a discipline of service.” [quoting Bl. John Henry Cardinal Newman; p. 65].

This word [Paradise] our Lord used, and ever since it has been a consecrated word, and has been understood to mean the outer court of heaven, the gardens of delight which stretch about the dwelling-place of God, the pleasant land in which all faithful souls shall dwell until they enter in through the everlasting doors into the palace of the Great King. Its beauty must be transcendent, its delights infinite. It must be worthy of that city of God which it surrounds, worthy to be the royal road that leads up to gates of pearl and into streets of gold. [pp. 62-3]

4. Do the Saints departed Live a Conscious Life?

Is the life of the soul in the Intermediate State a conscious life?

In His [Jesus’] promise to the penitent thief upon the cross He distinctly asserts the continuance of consciousness.… It must imply that the soul is not shorn of its powers in Paradise. [p. 74]

Having, as I trust, established the fact of consciousness in the future life, we want to know what are its activities. With what is it occupied? How is it limited?

At death soul and body separate, and the soul begins to live alone. It no longer receives its impressions through sensations of the body…. The mind acts, but no longer through bodily media. The result is a great quickening of the mental and spiritual faculties. [p. 76]

The intellectual and spiritual life is unhindered now, and a magnificent horizon opens before it in which it is free to range. [p. 76]

What are the occupations of the life beyond the grave? With what are souls busy in the unseen world?

I answer, they are undergoing a process of soul-growth and ripening, a progressive sanctification, a purification from the defilements of this world. [p. 77]

Does the soul in Paradise remember the past?

Without the contrast which memory would draw between the “evil things ” which he had suffered in his earthly life and the “good things ” which he now enjoyed, he would be deprived of a large part of his reward. [p. 82]

The pure and precious loves of this life are not forgotten in the life to come. God is love, and He will not quench any love that has a right to live. [pp. 82-3]

And if there come thoughts of penitence and visions of past sins, as come they must, with them will come a fuller knowledge of the loving mercy of their Lord to soothe the self-accusing pangs of memory. [p. 83]

Shall God, who gave man knowledge, hide it from him at the very time when He is perfecting him for an entrance into the very fulness of knowledge? I know not. What will be the limits of that knowledge we may not dare to define; but that in its gradual growth it will far surpass the knowledge possible in this world we may rest assured. [pp. 84-5]

5. What is the Relationship of Departed Saints to us?

How much do they know of our present life and needs? Are all the events of the world’s history and of our individual experience known to them?

Knowledge of all that goes on here might be rather a hindrance than a help [p. 105]

While they do not know by their own powers of perception what passes here, such knowledge may be conveyed to them through other avenues. Their numbers are increasing day by day, and each soul that goes hence carries with it into the other world some news from this. The angels, as they go to and fro upon their ministries from God to men, let fall by the way so much as God permits them to tell of what is going on here. Finally, our Lord Himself imparts to the souls which dwell in His nearer presence something, as much as it is best for them to know, of what is happening to those whom they have loved and left behind. Thus, while we have no proof that they know of themselves all that is passing here, we are at liberty to think that their loving Lord lets them have such knowledge of us as they need. [pp. 107-8]

While we do not suppose that the saints in Paradise are directly cognizant of what is said or done by us, we are led to think that our Lord reveals to them so much of it as is best for them to know. [p. 120]

Do the saints in Paradise pray?

The souls in Paradise are with Christ, in a closer fellowship than was possible on earth. Their speech with Him must, therefore, be freer than it was before. It must be frequent, frank, and unrestrained. [p. 110]

Do they pray for us?

The  souls in Paradise are still the same souls. They have not lost their identity. Their traits of character and their affections are the same as before, only exalted and purified. All that was good in them remains unchanged, except for the better. They love us still, they think of us, they long for the time when we shall join them in their holy home. Therefore they must pray for us. They must often and earnestly ask God to work His will in us and bring us safe home to them. They must plead with Him to protect us from harm and pardon all our sins. They do not need to be spurred on by a full knowledge of all that is happening to us. Out of their own experience they can guess our needs well enough. Their warm true love for us, and their realization of the joy that awaits us, must drive them on resistlessly. They know, as they never did before, the tremendous issues of human life. They see our dangers clearer than we do. And so they pray for us. [pp. 110-111]

And are their prayers effectual for our good?

Their loud unceasing cry goes up to God for us. Will God not hear that cry? Will He turn away His face and make as though He heard it not ? Does He not love to hear it ? [pp. 111-12]

“The effectual fervent prayer of a righteous man availeth much.” What, then, must be the power of the ceaseless prayers of a Paradise full of holy souls ? The mind of man cannot measure the blessings God shall give in answer to the prayers of Paradise. [p. 112}

The saints departed pray for us, but can we ask them for their prayers? Can we in any sense pray to them ?

[Rede cautions against attributing] to the saints powers and prerogatives which encroach upon the [unique] mediatorial office of Christ. [p. 118]

The earlier and purer doctrine of the post-Nicene age, namely, that of prayer for prayer, the Ora pro nobis [pray for us; addressed to deceased saints] of the old service-books, has never been condemned in any part of the Church Catholic. [p. 119]

How good it is to think of the mighty chorus of prayer which is ever going up from the saints in Paradise… I love to think of it, and try to catch some far-off echo of its harmonies. [pp. 123-4]

6. What is our Relationship to Departed Saints?

May we pray for those who are gone, or are they beyond the need and the reach of our prayers?

The same love which binds together the three Persons of the Blessed Trinity, when God has permitted it to bind human hearts, must be as eternal in the one relationship as in the other. [p. 129]

In this life one of the strongest bonds that holds together human-kind is the mutual ministry of prayer. Nothing unites us closer to a friend than to pray for him. Nothing stirs us more deeply than to know that some one is praying for us. [p. 132]

If, then, our hearts and minds are full of those who have gone out from our midst, and our desires seem to be centred and summed up in them, are we not praying for them anyhow? … Such is the natural yearning and reasoning of the human heart. Must it be repressed? Is there anything to forbid us to carry out these natural inclinations which are so strong? [p. 133]

I think no honest mind can doubt that His silence gives consent. We seem to hear Him say, “I would have told you, if it were not so.” (John 14:2). The Second Book of Maccabees tells us that some two centuries before our Lord became incarnate in the flesh it was customary to pray for the dead.  The records of ancient Hebrew life and the testimony of the best Jewish scholars assure us that prayers for the dead were common when He was fulfilling His earthly ministry.  In every synagogue they were offered as a matter of course, and are to-day. They formed a part of the Temple worship, where sacrifices were offered for those who had departed this life in a state of imperfect holiness. [p. 134]

All the liturgies of the Primitive Church contain prayers for the dead. [p. 137]

What is accomplished by such prayers, and for whom may we offer them?

One of the popular difficulties of our times is to understand how such prayers can benefit those whose earthly life is at an end. If you believe that their probation-time is past and that they are at rest in Paradise, why do you pray for them? So the world asks us. We reply, Yes, we know that they are at rest, we suppose that their time of probation is fulfilled, that they have entered on their reward. But they are not made perfect yet. They still need blessings from the hand of God. They need to be purified and drawn closer to Him day by day, and there will come a time when they with us must stand before their Judge. There is, therefore, much which we may ask of God for them. [p. 141-2]

7. What is the Relationship of all Saints to God?

It consists chiefly, on the one side, in the communication of a divine supernatural life from God to men; on the other, in the offering of an individual and united worship by men to God. [p. 153]