Protestantism and Catholicity compared in their effects on the civilization of Europe

by Jaime Luciano Balmes

It is clear, however, that notwithstanding these advantages, the minds of men could not, amidst the chaos of erudition and philosophy that then presented itself, escape the confusion naturally resulting from the wide-spread ignorance, occasioned by a long succession of revolutions. They could not possess sufficient discrimination and judgment to pursue all at once, and with success, the study of the Bible, of the writings of the holy Fathers, of the civil and canon law, of the works of Aristotle, and of the Arabian commentaries. Yet these were all studied at the same time; on all these, disputes were zealously maintained; and the errors and extravagances which in such a state of things were inevitable were accompanied by the presumption that is invariably inherent in ignorance. To succeed in explaining certain passages of the Bible, of the Fathers, of the codes, and of the works of philosophers, great preparatory labors were necessary, as the experience of subsequent ages has proved. It was necessary to study languages, to examine archives and monuments, to collect together from all parts an immense mass of materials; then, to reduce these to order, to compare them together, and to discriminate between them; in a word, it was necessary to possess a rich fund of learning, enlightened by the torch of criticism. Now all this was then wanting, and could only be attained in the course of ages. The consequence was inevitable, considering the mania that existed for explaining every thing. If a difficulty arose, and the facts and knowledge requisite for its solution were wanting, they adopted a roundabout way; instead of seeking the support derivable from facts, the disputants took their stand upon an idea; substituting some subtle abstraction for solid reasoning; where they found it impossible to form a body of sound doctrine, they threw together a confused mass of ideas and words. Who could repress a smile, or not feel pity for Abelard, for instance, promising his disciples to explain to them the prophet Ezechiel, with very little time for preparation, and actually fulfilling his promise? I would ask the reader whether, in the middle of the thirteenth century, an explanation of Ezechiel, given with only a slight preparation, could have been successful or interesting?

The study of dialectics and metaphysics was embraced with so much ardor, that in a short time these branches of knowledge superseded all others. The consequences were prejudicial to the minds of men; their attention being wholly engrossed by this object of their choice, the pursuit of more solid learning was regarded with indifference—history was neglected, literature unnoticed, in a word, the mind was only half developed. Every thing appertaining to the imagination and the feelings was sacrificed to the cultivation of the intellect; not, indeed, in its most useful operations,—the formation of a clear and perfect perception, of a mature judgment, of a habit of sound and accurate reasoning,—but in those which are astute, subtle, and extravagant.

Those who would reproach the Church for her conduct at that period in reference to innovators have a very imperfect understanding of the actual condition of Europe as regards science and religion. We have already seen that the intellectual development was religious; consequently, even when it deviated from the right path, it still retained this character, and the oddest subtilties were applied to mysteries the most sublime. Almost all the heretics of the time were renowned dialecticians, and their errors arose from an excess of subtilty. Roscelin, one of the leading dialecticians of his time, was the founder, or at least one of the leaders of the sect of the Nominalists. Abelard was celebrated for the readiness of his talents, his skill in disputation, and his address in explaining every thing to suit his thesis. The abuse of his intellect led him into the errors which we have already spoken of—errors which he would have avoided, had he not proudly yielded himself up to his own vain thoughts. The mania for subtilising every thing drew Gilbert de la Poirée into the most lamentable errors on the subject of the Divinity; Amaury, another celebrated philosopher, after the fashion of the time, took up so warmly the question of Aristotle's primordial matter, that he ended by declaring matter to be God. The Church strenuously opposed these errors, which arose in great numbers in minds led astray by vain arguments, and puffed up with foolish pride. It would argue a strange misconception of the true interests of science, to suppose that the Church's resistance to these raving innovators was not most favorable to intellectual progress.

These headstrong men, eager in the pursuit of knowledge, and captivated by the first chimera presented to their imagination, stood greatly in need of some discreet authority to restrain them within the bounds of reason and moderation. The intellect had scarcely taken the first steps in the career of knowledge, and yet fancied it already knew every thing, "pretending to know all things except the nescio, I know not," as St. Bernard reproaches the vain Abelard. Why should we not, for the good of humanity, and the credit of the human intellect, approve the condemnation pronounced by the Church against the errors of Gilbert, which aimed at nothing less than the overthrow of the ideas that we have of God? If Amaury and his disciple David de Dinant are smitten by the sentence of the Church, it is because they destroy the idea of the Divinity by confounding the Creator with primordial matter. Was it for the advantage of Europe that its intellectual movement should be commenced by precipitating itself at the very outset into the abyss of pantheism?

Had the human intellect followed in its development the way marked out for it by the Church, European civilization would have gained at least two centuries; the fourteenth century would have been as far advanced as the sixteenth was. To convince ourselves of the truth of this assertion, we have only to compare writings with writings, and men with men; the men most firmly attached to the faith of the Church attained to such eminence that they left the age in which they lived far behind them. Roscelin's antagonist was St. Anselm; the latter always remained faithful to the authority of the Church; the former rebelled against her: and who, let met ask, would have the hardihood to compare the dialectician of Compiègne with the learned Archbishop of Canterbury? How vast the difference between the profound and skilful metaphysician who composed the Monologue and the Prosologue, and the frivolous leader of the disputes of the Nominalists! Have the subtilties and cavillings of Roscelin any weight whatever against the lofty thoughts of the man who, in the eleventh century, to prove the existence of God, could reject all vain and captious reasonings, concentrate himself within himself, consult his own ideas, compare them with their object, and demonstrate the existence of God from the very idea of God, thus anticipating Descartes by five hundred years? Who best understood the true interests of science? Show me how the intellect of St. Anselm was degraded or shackled by the influence of the formidable authority of the Church, by any usurpation on the part of Popes of the rights of the human mind. And can Abelard himself be compared, either as a man, or as a writer, with his Catholic adversary, St. Bernard? Abelard was a perfect master of all the subtilties of the schools; noisy disputes were his amusement; he was intoxicated with the applause of his disciples, who were dazzled by their master's talents and courage, and still more by the learned follies of the age; yet what has become of his works? Who reads them? Who ever thinks of finding in them a single page of sound reasoning, the description of a single great event, or a picture of the manners of the time, in other words, the least matter of interest to science or history? On the contrary, what man of learning has not often sought this in the immortal works of St. Bernard?

It is impossible to find a more sublime personification of the Church combating against the heretics of his time than the illustrious Abbot of Clairvaux, contending against all innovators, and speaking, if we may use the term, in the name of the Catholic faith. No one could more worthily represent the ideas and sentiments which the Church endeavored to diffuse amongst mankind, nor more faithfully delineate the course through which Catholicity would have led the human mind. Let us pause for a moment in the presence of this gigantic mind, which attained to an eminence far beyond any of its contemporaries. This extraordinary man fills the world with his name—upheaves it by his words—sways it by his influence; in the midst of darkness he is its light; he forms, as it were, a mysterious link, connecting the two epochs of St. Jerome and St. Augustine, of Bossuet and Bourdaloue. In the midst of a general relaxation and corruption of morals, by the strictest observances and the most perfect purity he is proof against every assault. Ignorance prevails throughout all classes; he studies night and day to enlighten his mind. A false and counterfeit erudition usurps the place of true knowledge; he knows its unsoundness, disdains and despises it; and his eagle eye discovers at a glance that the star of truth moves at an immense distance from this false reflection, from this crude mass of subtilties and follies, which the men of his time termed philosophy. If at that period there existed any useful learning, it was to be sought in the Bible, and in the writings of the holy Fathers; to the study of these, therefore, St. Bernard devotes himself unremittingly. Far from consulting the vain babblers who are arguing and declaiming in the schools, St. Bernard seeks his inspirations in the silence of the cloister, or in the august sanctuary of the temple; if he goes out, it is to contemplate the great book of nature, to study eternal truths in the solitude of the desert, and, as he himself has expressed it, "in forests of beech-trees."

Thus did this great man, rising superior to the prejudices of his time, avoid the evil produced in his contemporaries by the method then prevailing. By this method the imagination and the feelings were stifled; the judgment warped; the intellect sharpened to excess; and learning converted into a labyrinth of confusion. Read the works of the sainted Abbot of Clairvaux, and you will find that all his faculties go, as it were, hand in hand. If you look for imagination, you will find the finest coloring, faithful portraits, and splendid descriptions. If you want feeling, you will learn how skilfully he finds his way into the heart, captivates, subdues, and fashions it to his will. Now he strikes a salutary fear into the hardened sinner, tracing with great force the formidable picture of the divine justice and the eternal vengeance; then he consoles and sustains the man who is sinking under worldly adversity, the assaults of his passions, the recollection of his transgressions, or an exaggerated fear of the divine justice. Do you want pathos? Listen to his colloquies with Jesus and Mary; hear him speaking of the blessed Virgin with such enrapturing sweetness, that he seems to exhaust all the epithets that the liveliest hope and the most pure and tender love can suggest. Would you have vigor and vehemence of style, and that irresistible torrent of eloquence which nothing can resist, which carries the mind beyond itself, fires it with enthusiasm, compels it to enter upon the most arduous paths, and to undertake the most heroic enterprises? See him with his burning words inflaming the zeal of the people, nobles, and kings; moving them to quit their homes, to take up arms, and to unite in numerous armies that pour into Asia to rescue the Holy Sepulchre. This extraordinary man is every where met with, every where heard. Entirely free from ambition, he possesses, nevertheless, a leading influence in the great affairs of Europe: though fond of solitude and retirement, he is continually obliged to quit the obscurity of the cloister to assist in the councils of kings and popes. He never flatters, never betrays the truth, never dissembles the sacred ardor which burns within his breast; and yet he is every where listened to with profound respect; his stern voice is heard in the cottages of the poor and in the palaces of kings; he admonishes with terrible severity the most obscure monk and the Sovereign Pontiff.

In the midst of so much ardor and activity, his mind loses none of its clearness or precision. His exposition of a point of doctrine is remarkable for ease and lucidity; his demonstrations are vigorous and conclusive; his reasoning is conducted with a force of logic that presses close upon his adversary, and leaves him no means of escape: in defence, his quickness and address are surprising. In his answers he is clear and precise; in repartee, quick and penetrating; and without dealing in the subtilties of the schools, he displays wonderful tact in disentangling truth from error, sound reason from artifice and fraud. Here is a man formed entirely and exclusively under the influence of Catholicity; a man who never strayed from the pale of the Church, who never dreamed of setting his intellect free from the yoke of authority; and yet he rises like a mighty pyramid above all the men of his time.

To the eternal honor of the Catholic Church, and utterly to disprove the accusation brought against her, of exerting an influence hostile to the freedom of the human mind, I must observe that St. Bernard was not the only man who rose superior to the age, and pointed out the way to genuine progress. It is unquestionably certain, that the most distinguished men of that period, those least influenced by the evils that so long kept the human mind in pursuit of mere vanities and shadows, were precisely the men most devotedly attached to Catholicity. These men set an example of what was necessary to be done for the advancement of learning; an example that for a long time had, it is true, but few followers, but which found some in subsequent ages: now it is to be observed that the progress of learning was due to the credit obtained by this method—I speak of the study of antiquity.

The sacred sciences were the chief object of attention at this period; as the intellect was theologically developed, dialectics and metaphysics were studied with a view to their application to theology. With Roscelin, Abelard, Gilbert de la Poirée, and Amaury, the phrase was: "Let us reason, subtilise, and apply our systems to all sorts of questions; let our reason be our rule and guide, without which knowledge is impossible." With St. Bernard, St. Anselm, Hugh and Richard de St. Victor, Peter Lombard, on the contrary, it was: "Let us see what antiquity teaches; let us study the works of the holy Fathers; let us analyse and compare their texts; we cannot place our dependence exclusively on arguments, which are sometime dangerous and sometimes futile." Which of these two judgments has been actually confirmed? Which of these methods was adopted when real progress was to be made? Was not recourse had to an unremitting study of ancient works? Was it not found necessary to throw aside the cavils of the dialecticians? Protestants themselves boast of having taken this way; their theologians consider it an honor to be versed in antiquity; and would be offended if treated as mere dialecticians. On which side, then, was reason? With the heretics, or with the Church? Who best understood the method most favorable to intellectual progress? The heretical dialectician, or the orthodox doctor? To these questions there can only be one reply. These are not mere opinions—they are facts; not an empty theory, but the actual history of learning, as known by all the world, and as represented to us in irrefragable documents. Unless prepossessed by the authority of M. Guizot, the reader certainly cannot complain that I have eschewed questions of history, or claimed his belief on my own bare word.