"The
fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom, and understanding marks all who
attain it." So says the Psalmist. This verse, while
familiar, is puzzling, and therefore frequently neglected. In fact, the
fear of the Lord has fallen out of fashion and is rarely discussed. What
does fear have to do with wisdom? And what does wisdom have to do with
me? Wisdom, after all, is the stuff of grizzled old hermits and
cloistered contemplatives — deep souls hidden with God in the wilderness.
I, on the other hand, am an incurably pragmatic city-dweller.
Maybe I just want to get to heaven, not become a mystical knight of
faith. And as for fear, doesn't Scripture tell us that "perfect love
drives out fear"? The more we know God, the more we know he loves
us, and the less we have to fear from him. So what place could fear have
in the Christian life?
These are
strong objections to the words of the Psalmist. Yet when we survey the
words of Scripture, praise for this holy fear recurs constantly. In
the classic text of Isaiah's prophesy concerning the gifts of the Holy Spirit,
the prophet says that Christ (and therefore also the Christian) "will
delight in the fear of the Lord" (Is 11:3). When Ben Sira, the chief
Old Testament eulogist of Wisdom, sets out to praise its wonders, he
refers to the Fear of the Lord dozens of times. He calls it "glory
and exultation, gladness and a festive crown," and promises that those who
fear God "will be happy at the end; even on the day of death they will be
blessed." (Sir 2:11,13) The praises of this virtue are sung again
and again in the Wisdom of Solomon, the book of Proverbs, the story of Job, and
the Psalms. The scriptural testimony in favor of the fear of the
Lord is so overwhelming that, despite our initial reservations, we have to
ask: what are we missing? What's so great about fear? How does it
fit into real life? A fresh perspective is needed to discover the proper
placement of this gift of the Spirit within contemporary Catholic life.
In one of
his rare moments of self-disclosure, St. Thomas Aquinas once admitted that he
had a mistress: a lady he had pursued his entire career as a priest. Her
company, he said, was free of all tedium, her conversation a perfect delight.
He considered chasing after her throughout his itinerant life more
wonderful and more joyful than any other pursuit. The mistress, he then
confessed, was called Wisdom.
Wisdom
occupied the great saint throughout his life, and he loved to talk and write
about her. And what did he say? He writes repeatedly that wisdom is
a gift which allows people to order their lives rightly in thought and action,
to see things clearly in terms of their ultimate origins and ends. Wisdom
is a gift from God which draws us to the fountainhead of truth and allows us to
know things as they are in the sight of the Creator — to see their ultimate
unity, truth and goodness.
This would
seem wonderful but impractical — a postcard view from one of those
contemplative forests we mentioned earlier — if not for that nagging question
in the heart of man, which the philosophers pinpoint as the defining problem of
Modernity: Who am I? Modern man
cannot help but fret about the meaning of his existence. Despite the
frequent protestations of many thinkers, human life demands a purpose, and the
need for a purpose reveals itself to us as a kind of un-fillable pit hidden in
the core of our being.
It follows
that wisdom, if we can trust Aquinas to know his beloved, is a supremely
practical gift. Wisdom shows us who we are and helps us to know our
purpose. Without wisdom we are forced to live life blindly, ignorant of
who made us or where happiness lies. But with wisdom
we can order all things rightly, according to their true nature and purpose,
and we see clearly how every choice and action can help us achieve our ultimate
goal. Wisdom allows us to see ourselves through the eyes of God, to make sense of the world — an increasingly tall order.
If we take a
look at the world, it is difficult to deny that most people lack wisdom.
Without a vivid sense of the purpose of life, we frequently try to fill
the hole in our hearts with all kinds of things: money, friends, beauty,
health, success... The list goes
on. But the Christian knows better than this. The follower of
Christ knows from St. Paul that our destiny is to be with God in eternity, and
from St. John he knows that we are called to be like God — to see him as he is.
Common Sense
chimes in: It's nice that God wants us to be with him and all, but the thought
of contemplating God for all eternity could only be made appealing by
comparison with a demon-filled fire pit. With a mild smirk and his
characteristic raised index finger, Aquinas answers Common Sense by reminding
us of how wonderful life with God is: those who find unity with the Lord of
Hosts share in the joy of his divine life. God is perfectly good,
infinitely wise and beautiful, and the goodness of everything we know and love
on earth is merely a pale reflection of his glory. To be with him in
eternity is a gift which transcends every natural capacity of our weak human
nature.
The Father
is waiting eagerly to lift us up in the person of his Son and to make us
perfectly happy, but there are some obstacles. He does not force us to
accept the friendship and happiness he offers; he wants us to take it of our
own choice. Choice requires freedom, though, and freedom depends on a
right judgment of the truth, without which we cannot pursue what is genuinely
good, but will constantly be distracted and led astray. If the human
intellect were flawless and saw things as they are, this would pose no
problems. Unfortunately, our minds have been damaged by original sin, and this
initial guilt is compounded through concupiscence, which predisposes us to overestimate
the value of created goods. In other words Common Sense
has (alas!) suffered a heavy blow to the head and is no longer a sure
guide in life.
False
judgments arising from concupiscence — that delightfully medieval word for the
human being's inborn moral stupidity — harm the intellect, and a corrupt
intellect leads the will astray. A faulty will piles sin upon sin.
It damages the intellect further through the regular affirmation of
falsehoods, and reduces the human being from its natural dignity into something
closer to a mere animal. Because the will follows the intellect, the only
thing that can stop this cycle is the restoration of its original knowledge of
the happiness we were created for. But since we were created for God, and
God's infinite majesty utterly surpasses the capacities of our finite minds, we
cannot possibly redeem ourselves. So, far from even beginning to pay the
incredible debt we owe for our sins, we cannot even keep ourselves from sinning
more, injuring ourselves and others as we plunge with wicked delight into the
depths of despair.
Humanity
thus stands in desperate need of three things: a sacrifice to atone for our
guilt, a miraculous restoration of our intellect and will, and a guide to lead
us down the path to perfection. These three needs answer St. Anselm's
famous question, Cur Deus Homo? Why did God become man?
In his unsearchable providence, the Blessed Trinity has conspired from
all eternity to free us from the pit we have dug ourselves. And how does
this plan work? In Christ we find our atoning sacrifice, in his grace we
are restored and perfected, and through his example we are shown the way to
happiness.
Christ
desires the salvation of all mankind together in one body, so that we can
better participate in the perfect unity of the Godhead. To this end, he employs human ministers
to bind us together in his love, so that by serving each other in this life we
can more perfectly share in the happiness of the white-robed choirs gathered
before his throne. Through his sacraments, Christ restores the human
soul, giving it a supernaturally infused ability to recognize the truth for
which it was born. In the mass we receive the Word in the Eucharist: a
perfect sign of Christ's gift, which not only participates in his sacrifice,
but also calls us to be crucified with him, and gives us the strength to follow
him through death into eternal life. We also receive the Word by hearing:
in listening to the homily and receiving the words of Scripture we are given the
opportunity to grow in faith and understanding. Faith, however, is
nothing other than that divine light which re-orients our minds toward God.
It is accompanied by Charity, which rectifies and sanctifies the will,
and Hope, which gives us the strength to fight for the joy prepared for us.
These virtues, then, and especially faith, form the essence of the wisdom
that so delighted and utterly seduced St. Thomas Aquinas.
Christ has
prepared for us this most excellent way to salvation, but while we remain bound
to the sinful nature of our birth, obstacles will continue to threaten our
progress. The world is full of genuinely good things, and as long as our
knowledge of God is shadowy and imperfect we can be led astray by the illusory
promise of an earthly paradise. In order not to get stuck in the ditches
which line the straight and narrow path, we need to learn to avoid them.
The first sin of our parents, according to St. Augustine, was pride — the
desire to set oneself above divine providence and become an independent and
ultimate lawgiver. From what we have already said concerning wisdom, it
is clear that pride is, by definition, a kind of foolishness. More than
that, pride is diametrically opposed to wisdom. Since God himself is
Truth, and his truth orders all things rightly toward their own perfection,
when the proud man removes himself from divine truth, he will immediately and
necessarily fall into a pit of ignorance and error.
It follows
that we need to avoid pride by pursuing the virtue naturally opposed to it,
which will guard our hearts against pride. Common sense says that this
virtue is humility, but humility, as St. Catherine of Siena once explained,
follows directly from a sense of the lowliness of our own sinful humanity
before the glory of the Ancient of Days. And this vivid sense, according
to St. Gregory the Great, is nothing other than the fear of the Lord.
The fear of
the Lord, however, can be understood in more than one way. Peter Lombard
(the great and unfortunately neglected medieval master) speaks of two main ways
of fearing God: servile and filial. Servile fear arises from a concern
over the pain and deprivation which may be inflicted as a result of our
actions. Thus a person who is kept from sin because they fear hell acts
out of servile fear, which,
though good, is imperfect. The imperfection of servile fear is like the
imperfection of attrition, i.e. repentance for sin which comes from fear of
"the pains of hell and the loss of heaven." It keeps a person
out of trouble but fails to grasp the heart of the matter. Filial fear,
by contrast, goes right to the heart.
Filial fear
is the fear of offending a loved one. I fear hurting my family or
friends, spouse or children, chiefly because I want the best for them and want
them to be happy. When applied to God, filial fear is a fear of
transgression which arises from a deep knowledge and love of God's goodness and
generosity. The Christian would rather sacrifice everything than lose his
friendship with Jesus, who has created and sanctified him at the cost of his
own life, who loves him unconditionally, who is in himself perfect goodness,
truth, justice and mercy.
Attempting
to see how wisdom relates to the fear of the Lord has thus led us to see how
this unlikely virtue solves several extremely relevant problems. First,
it helps us better know who we are and who God is. Second, by promoting
the growth of wisdom, fear of the Lord frees us from that existential angst so
common in contemporary intellectual life. Third, it provides a clue to
the genuine meaning of freedom and liberation — freedom from error and
liberation from debilitating sinfulness — enabling us to become more
perfectly the individuals we were meant to be. Fourth, and most
importantly, it protects us on the path to salvation. This is why Ben
Sira speaks of it so lovingly, when he tells us that "The fear of the Lord
is glory and exultation, gladness and a festive crown."