Chapter 31

The Doctors' Dilemma

Since World War II there has been a "new look" in religion, fundamental to which has been what one eminent scholar calls "the rediscovery of the importance of eschatology within the New Testament."¹ And what is eschatology? A parable can best explain:

There was once a man who went to see a play at the theater. He arrived an hour and a half late, and had barely taken his seat when an emergency call obliged him to leave. The next day a friend asked him how he liked the play. What could the man answer except that he saw almost nothing of it? What he saw may have been gay or depressing, colorful or exciting, but it was no play at all; it was only a three-minute glimpse of what might or might not be a meaningful drama. Such is our position in the world. We come late to a play which has been in progress for ages, and we never stay long enough to find out what is really happening. We get a glimpse of the stage and the actors and hear a few lines of speech or music, and then we are hustled out of the house. From what we have seen we may rack our brains to reconstruct some sort of plot, but our speculations can never be anything but the wildest guesses. Yet unless we know both how the play began (that is protology) and how it ends (that is eschatology), the whole show remains utterly meaningless to us, "a tale told by an idiot, . . . signifying nothing." And not to know what the play is about is an intolerable state of things; it is not to be borne. For not only do we find the drama strangely engrossing, but we are actually pushed out onto the stage and expected to participate intelligently in what is going on. We are much too involved in the thing to settle for a play without a meaning, but who can tell us what it is all about?

Literature and Art can help us enjoy or endure the play; they harp everlastingly on the tragic transience of our stay in the theater, help us to appreciate the quickly passing beauty of the scene before us, and incite us to speculate and wonder whether there is any meaning to the thing at all and what it might be. But by their own confession (and the greater the artist the greater the frustration) the masters can only tell us that we are such stuff as dreams are made of and that as far as they can see this world, "the cloud-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces, the solemn temples, the great globe itself, yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve, and, like [an] unsubstantial pageant faded, leave not a rack behind." What went before? What comes after? Don't ask the artist: he has seen as little of the play as you have. Philosophy would like to tell us what the play is about, but will not allow itself to run out of scientific bounds; it remains too often the pariah dog, snapping at the heels of religion and scavenging in the camp of science. It is to science and religion that we must turn for definite answers. First, of course, to Science.

And the first thing we learn when we turn to Science is that its peculiar strength lies in its formal renunciation of any attempt to deal with the problems of eschatology. The scientist speaks with authority only because he pays strict attention to the problem at hand, limiting himself to the laboratory situation over which he has control and rejecting all else as extraneous and irrelevant. "For scientific procedure," Courant and Robbins remind us, "it is important to discard elements of a metaphysical character. . . . To renounce the goal of . . . knowing the 'ultimate truth,' of unraveling the innermost essence of the world, may be a psychological hardship for naive enthusiasts, but in fact it was one of the most fruitful turns in modern thinking." ² Modern thinking? That was exactly the program of Thales and the Ionian school; it was what made Science Science. And the Ionian school had no sooner got started than the wise Heraclitus pointed out that the objectivity that the scientists thought they had achieved by barring the Other World from their calculations was an illusion; and indeed before long one scientist after another was issuing solemn pronouncements on the ultimate substance and the ultimate cause of everything. The basic illusion was that the scientific observer, free of all prejudice and preconception, simply let the evidence work on him and saw things as they were. But Heraclitus knew better: it is the observer who really decides what he is going to see.

The ancient Sophists looked at the starry heavens and immediately perceived that the vast ordered mechanism, moving inexorably and endlessly without cause or hindrance, was direct and irrefutable evidence against the existence of a God—things just happen. Aristotle gazing at the same starry heavens immediately perceived that the vast ordered motion and structure of things left no possible room for doubt that there is a directing mind behind it—things don't just happen. Here are the two classic schools of thought that still divide the world between them: the one says that things just happen, the other that things don't just happen—and both appeal to the same evidence to prove their case! Which is the more deluded? The religious, their opponents constantly remind us, are guilty of seeing more than the evidence justifies. But what about the scientists? Do they let the evidence tell its own story? They say they do, but a recent study by the head of an important scientific organization spills the beans: "I have known intimately a number of creative scientists and I have studied the behavior of a great many more as revealed by the record of history," he writes; "I have never encountered one of any importance whatever who would welcome with joy and satisfaction the publication of a new theory, explanation, or conceptual scheme that would completely replace and render superfluous his own creation." Instead of embracing new truth at any price, "the scientist actually tries—often in vain—to fit each new discovery or set of discoveries into the traditional theories" as he "clings to conceptions or preconceptions as long as it is humanly possible." Hence "any suggestion that scientists so dearly love truth that they have not the slightest hesitation in jettisoning their beliefs is a mean perversion of the facts. It is a form of scientific idolatry, supposing that scientists are entirely free from the passions that direct men's actions, and we should have little patience with it."³

Listen to the great Galileo reporting his observations of Saturn. Others had suggested that there were rings about the planet, but there was no place in Galileo's system for such nonsense; he speaks as the pure observer: "I have resolved not to put anything around Saturn except what I have already observed." Couldn't he see the rings, then? He could indeed; his telescope was quite adequate for the task, and yet, looking right at Saturn, he did not see them: "I, who have observed it a thousand times at different periods with an excellent instrument, can assure you that no change whatever is to be seen in it. And reason, based upon our experiences of all other stellar motions, renders us certain that none ever will be seen."⁴ On the strength of direct observation this great scientist categorically denied that the rings of Saturn existed, though they were as plain as day before him; he denied that there ever was any change in the planet's appearance—though it was constantly changing before his eyes; and he declared that no changes ever would be seen in it to the end of time. How could he speak with such finality? Because his past "experiences of all other stellar motions" had completely conditioned him to what he should see and not see. "The efforts of perception," writes Polanyi, "are induced by a craving to make out what it is that we are seeing before us"—the evidence does not convey its unerring message directly to our minds, we have to figure out for ourselves what we are looking at, and in the process our past experiences, conditioning, and prejudices are a deciding factor.⁵

"Amstutz (1960) has pointed out," for example, that the definitions which geologists take into the field with them "restrict our ability to see relationships, and even predetermine the relationships we will see. This, of course, is a common failing; once we think we know a relationship [e.g., an evolutionary pattern], we continue to see it, even though the relationship may change."⁶ Even our most elementary awareness of things is conditioned to a degree we dream not of, according to Professor Bridgman: "The perceptions of time and space . . . we acquire . . . only by arduous practice. Yet we take our space and time with a deadly seriousness. . . . Perhaps when we learn to take them less seriously we will not be so bedeviled by the logical contradictions in which they sometimes now involve us, as when we ask questions about the beginning or end of time or the boundaries of space."⁷ These are those very eschatological questions which tied up the Ionian physicists, and Heraclitus was right: they cannot be answered by science because there is no such thing as observation without a conditioned observer. As Polanyi says, in science "pursuit of knowledge [is] based largely on hidden clues and arrived at and ultimately accredited on the grounds of personal judgment."⁸ The clues are not self-evident but hidden, and the ultimate proof is not detached observation and pure reason but personal judgment.

As if the admission of the human element in science were not alarming enough, we are often being told today what each generation seems to discover for itself, that science after all is as firmly founded on faith as religion itself. "Newton's first law," one scientist reminds us, "illustrates [the] point, that the physical sciences are based on an act of faith. Every body continues. . . . ' This can never be proved. . . . If we look carefully at science we see that it is full of these theoretical concepts, these creations of the human mind."⁹ If science is based on faith, is it not possible that the present much-lamented sterility in science, that is, the inability to come up not merely with new reports and demonstrations, but to discover what W. H. George calls "the essentially new," is due to a lack of faith and an over-concern with being "scientific"? Many older scientists are suggesting some such thing. A. P. Elkin now reminds us that science progresses only by "forgetting for the time at least the abstract methods, the images and models, the selected and prepared specimens of the scientific student," which are the essence of his trade.¹⁰ Disturbed by the lack of real creativity in science, the British government recently sponsored an ambitious study of scientific creativity in the past. The result was a shocker, showing that the great original scientists have had a disturbing way of combining in their persons remarkable scientific skepticism with an equally remarkable religious gullibility. The creative scientist is a scientific heretic who "must refuse to acquiesce in certain previously accepted conclusions. This argues a kind of imperviousness to the opinions of others, notably of authorities"; the true scientist throws that sacred cow, Scientific Authority, out of the window, and this "sets him free to speculate and investigate."¹¹ On the other hand he tends to display what our report calls "a curious credulity" in unscientific areas and to favor ideas which have "that touch of offending common sense which is the hallmark of every truly scientific discovery."¹² Newton, the greatest genius of them all, is the classic example. "Most of Newton's biographers," Dr. Ernest Jones informs us, "have suppressed the important fact that throughout his life theology was much more important to him than science, and moreover, theology of a peculiarly arid and bigoted order"; that is, not the theology of the Church of England, but a literal acceptance of the Bible, in which Newton "was especially engrossed in unraveling the obscure symbolism of the Books of Daniel and of Revelation."¹³ Eschatology was what really interested Newton; Dr. Jones is upset by this and treats it as a serious defect in the great man's character. It does not seem to occur to anyone that Newton might have been the great scientist he was just because of his constant concern with the gospel, and not in spite of it, which is all the more likely, since many other great creative geniuses display the same peculiar and regrettable tendency to believe in the Other World.

To judge by the more popular scientific journals, there seems to be a growing suspicion among scientists that perhaps Hume was right—there may be absolute limits to our scientific knowledge. The mathematician Le Corbeiller points out that just as there were no more continents to discover after Columbus, so "there are just so many ways of combining certain things, and no more," ¹⁴ and Gödel has proved to the world that it is impossible to "prove the consistency" of any significant set of postulates.¹⁵ Warren Weaver suggests that "the mysteries of life—perhaps they are intended to remain mysteries,"¹⁶ and a famous biologist warns us to be "prepared for the possibility that the human brain will never be able to understand itself, or consciousness or perhaps the nature of life itself."¹⁷ Where does science go once it realizes, with Professor Bridgman, that "the world is not constructed according to the principles of common sense"? ¹⁸ Grand Old Men in various fields remember the exuberant days of their youth, when "always just around the corner was the answer to all the riddles," and ruefully admit that the long years have not fulfilled the promise.¹⁹ More alarming still, what was once regarded as the chief strength and virtue of science, namely its ability to reject old ideas and accept new, is now viewed as an indication of a fatal deficiency. It is all very well to admit that we were wrong yesterday, but can we in the same breath insist that we are right today? We cannot. "The great lesson of the Piltdown business for me," wrote the anthropologist Hooton, "is that it is unwise to accept current scientific decisions and 'proofs' as final, irrevocable, and conclusive, no matter how authoritative they may sound or look." ²⁰ The renowned philosopher of science Karl Popper recently wrote: "Science is not a system of certain, or well-established statements; nor is it a system which steadily advances toward a state of finality. . . . The demand for scientific objectivity makes it inevitable that every scientific statement must remain tentative forever."²¹ The italics are Popper's, and they give us furiously to think. Today's science may be better than yesterday's, but the final answers are just as far away as ever. "This is a rather shocking thing to say," says Weaver, "—that science does not furnish any really ultimate or satisfying explanation. . . . Science is superbly successful at dealing with phenomena, but . . . it possesses the inherent defect . . . that it cannot furnish ultimate explanation. . . . Scientists—even the greatest ones in the most advanced field of physics such as Einstein and Bohr and Planck and Dirac—cannot agree as to whether and how science explains anything." ²²

So we are back where we started. The scientist studies the stage and even the actors, the costumes and properties of the play, the temperature of the building and the composition of the paint and canvas—but the play itself is none of his business. Like Omar Khayyam, he even gets the idea at times that there is no play; for it is but a step from renouncing the pursuit of eschatology (as the Ionian school did) for the sake of testing a particular hypothesis, to renouncing eschatology itself—permanently. Once we find or think we can do without it, it becomes excess baggage, nay, an impediment to science, an evil hold-over from the past. Henceforth if there is to be any eschatology at all, science will supply it, and no nonsense, as Freud announced in ringing tones: "It would be an illusion to suppose that we could get anywhere else what Science cannot give us."²³ And so after grandly announcing that Science is Science because it has done with eschatology once and for all, we find the scientists right back in the eschatology business for themselves. "Here we are," cries a leading biologist, "and we had better find some meaning or invent one for ourselves so that we have some definite mission to lend dignity to our life."²⁴ Without that, science can only offer us what one noted psychologist calls "a bittersweet philosophy of despair."²⁵ No wonder the scientists have always yielded to the weakness of human nature and constructed their universe—backwards! By all the rules, the last question anyone should attempt to answer scientifically is the question How did it all begin? The answer can only lie at the very end of the long trail of research. Yet what science has not begun its career by coming up with an answer, to which it has then forced subsequent evidence to comply? It is not surprising that scientists cannot escape the vortex of eschatology: that very curiosity which leads them into science in the first place points them inevitably and irresistibly to those greater questions to which they so often feign indifference. But who is authorized to answer? "My greatest lesson," said a great biologist in his farewell address recently, "was these words spoken by David Starr Jordan: 'Authority? There is no authority!'"²⁶

So let us turn to religion. If the student hopes to find in the tomes of the theologians another world from the limited twilight zone of science, he will be sorely mistaken. For the doctors of the Christian church simply abhor eschatology. The history of the Christian church, as Albert Schweitzer has shown us, has been the story of one long, progressive process of "de-eschatologizing" the gospel message; since the victory of the University of Alexandria in the days of Clement and Origen, the Doctors of the church have worked steadily and devotedly on the project of emancipating Christianity from all traces of the old eschatological teachings, and they have dealt most severely with those fanatical sects which from time to time have attempted to revive them. The official position of the Fathers, once they had taken the measure of the primitive Christian teachings, was that the only sound doctrine was that which the trained intelligence of educated men could give the Church. Just as the scientific fraternity disclaimed any concern with eschatology and then gravitated towards it as the needle to the pole, so the religious, claiming exclusive concern with the eschatological message of the scriptures, employed all their skill and authority to de-eschatologize that message, paralyzing all the eschatology in the Bible with powerful injections of tropism, allegory, and all the other subtle drugs and devices of the schools. The church and eschatology were mortal enemies!²⁷

The Christian Doctors put all their faith in the combination of Scripture and Intellect—tertium non datur. No scientists were ever more skillful or determined in preventing the intrusion of extraneous, incalculable or other-worldly elements into the neatness and precision of their thinking; nay, as Arnold Lunn has boasted, they excluded even experimental science from their studies in the interest of preserving perfect rational consistency. The recent reprinting of Martin Grabmann's big History of the Scholastic Method is a timely reminder that the Roman Church has always been committed to that method, which is simply the application of science to the Scriptures. When ancient, medieval, and modern theologians speak of revelation in the church they are referring simply to the Scriptures: the Bible is God's revelation to man, and the true doctrine is that which is derived from the Scriptures by a sound and instructed intelligence following correct and recognized rules of logic. In his first volume Grabmann never tires of reminding us that while we do not need any more revelation than the Scriptures, we do need trained minds, established authority, and above all a soundly reasoned "scientific" method in order to understand it correctly.²⁸

But here is a strange state of things indeed, for as we have noted, science is singularly unsuited for dealing with matters of eschatology which are ostensibly the first concern of religion. In swearing allegiance to the Scientific Method the churchmen had to forswear eschatology, and they did it with a will. They could not, of course, eliminate the Bible, but they could give it the Old School Treatment. It is significant that it is the intellectuals of the church who have always insisted on the apparently fundamentalist doctrine of a complete, perfect, final, and unalterable Bible; R. H. Charles can tell us why this is so: "God had, according to the official teachers of the Church, spoken His last and final word," and the policy of the doctors "so far as lay in its power, made the revival of such prophecy an impossibility." ²⁹ The theory of complete, finished, and absolute scriptures was simply a door banged in the face of future prophets by the doctors. In a recent and important study Van Unnik has shown that until the third century the Christians had no objection whatever to the idea "that someone might still add revelations to the writings of the Gospel."³⁰ There was originally no moral objection or mystic principle barring the production of more scriptures whenever God should see fit to reveal them; it was only when "the Church believed that the time of Revelation and therefore also the time of bringing forth new holy scriptures had come to an end with the Apostolic Age," that the expectation of more holy writings was discouraged and condemned.³¹ After that it was to the interest of the scholars to cry out with alarm at any suggestion of going beyond the Bible and the human mind.

There are just two sources of revelation, the Roman Catholic Church declares: "No other source of [public] revelation exists except the canonical books and the apostolic tradition."³² The Protestants go even further: "We believe . . . that the sole rule and standard according to which all dogmas together with all teachers should be estimated and judged are the prophetic and apostolic Scriptures of the Old and New Testaments alone."³³ So an eminent Protestant divine declares today: "I boldly assert, therefore, that God does not speak today because of the supreme character of His revelation of Himself made once for all in His Christ. . . . We must . . . recognize His voice in his final written Word."³⁴

But just as scientists insist that the evidence speaks for itself, only to discover that it speaks with different voices to different scientists, so those who maintain with Irenaeus, that the Bible speaks its own message clearly, directly, and unequivocally to all soon discover themselves in wild disagreement as to what it says. Vincent of Lerinum, author of the famous Vincentian canon, notes that "although the canon of the Scripture is complete, 'and of itself is sufficient and more than sufficient for all things,' yet tradition is needed for a proper understanding of the Scripture."³⁵ Already we are questioning the vaunted self-sufficiency of the holy page to convey its own message; yet the churchmen dare not change their position, lest they lower the bars to revelation. But how can they presume to add their comments and explanations to the Bible, supplying that information without which, they assure us, the holy Word cannot be understood, and at the same time insist that they are adding nothing, but simply letting the book speak for itself? Like the scientists, they are not letting the evidence alone at all; they are officiously helping it to say the things they think it should say. But how, short of revelation, will we ever know the real word of God? That is a question that greatly exercised St. Hilary. "We are quite aware," he says, "that most people think the mere sound of the words or the letters are enough," but of course that won't do: Scripturae enim non sunt in legendo sunt, sed in intelligando—The Scriptures don't consist in what you read but in what you understand.³⁶ But how can our weak intellects, our humana imbecillitas, ever be sure of understanding aright? Only by revelation, is Hilary's sensible conclusion.³⁷

Now surely the fat is in the fire, but Hilary deftly snatches it out again by defining revelation as the reading of the Scriptures "not as men interpret it, but as it is," with no private human opinions allowed to color or distort it, and "no human interpretation stepping an inch beyond the bounds of what is divinely constituted."³⁸ Since our fatal weakness lies in our inability to interpret the Word of God, Hilary will simply dispense with all interpretation and read the Word as it is. But the same Hilary has just announced that the Scripture is not as you read it but as you understand it; on what ground, then, would he interpret it? He is good enough to tell us: our "revelation" should be founded on right reason, good historical knowledge, and a sense of correct doctrine.³⁹ To this day the clergy have never been able to solve the problem of how to enjoy inspired guidance while renouncing all claim to revelation.⁴⁰ "The Word of God," writes E. C. Blackman, "is in the words of the Bible, but is not to be identified with them . . . but interpreted out of them. . . . The Bible is not itself revelation but is the record of revelation."⁴¹

Interpreted, but how? Well might the Catholics challenge the Protestant position with the argument: "The Bible is a difficult book, it is full of dark places and apparent inconsistencies. How do you Protestants think you can manage without the authoritative guidance of the Church when you come to interpret it and to build doctrine upon it?"⁴² To which the proper answer is: "How do you Catholics think you have solved the difficult problem of interpretation simply by agreeing (after centuries of hot debate) on who is to do the interpreting, without the vaguest idea of how he is to do it, apart from the normal fallible processes of human intelligence?" For Catholic theologians often repeat St. Augustine's lament that "men of the most outstanding piety and wisdom very often disagree in their interpretation of the Scriptures."⁴³

We have noted above that Augustine knew of no higher court of appeal; but even in much later times "the medieval mind, indeed, was much perplexed by the possibility of error in the interpretation of the will of God." ⁴⁴ At present Catholic journals are full of articles on "The Inerrancy of the Scripture," "The Consequent Sense of the Scripture," "The Sensus Plenior of Scripture," etc., with one scholar asking, Do the Scriptures "perhaps contain a deeper meaning expressed by God and left to the ingenuity of the human mind to detect?"⁴⁵ And another proving that Genesis 3:5 refers to Mary with the observation: "The text, if paraphrased, reads simply enough, once cleared of the unnecessary accretions which have been read into it."⁴⁶ Here we see both the ultimate appeal to the human intellect and the way it is answered—by a critic who removes from the text what annoys him personally and then proves his case by paraphrasing what is left. Aquinas insisted that the Bible is "the only sure and binding authority. But one uses the authority of canonical scripture properly and in arguing from necessity,"⁴⁷ that is, by employing the old techniques of the schools. St. Thomas warns us especially against getting any fancy ideas about revelation: "For our faith rests upon the revelation given to the apostles and prophets who wrote the canonical books, but not upon revelation, if such there were, given to other teachers."⁴⁸ It is learned, not inspired, exegesis, which is recognized: "In the philosophical interpretation of its eschatological hope," an eminent Catholic theologian has very recently written, "Christian theology from the very beginning clings to Aristotle." ⁴⁹ Aristotle was not a prophet, but a scientist; what would a pagan professor know about the "eschatological hope"?

A French Protestant scholar reminds us that in the Middle Ages there were so many legitimate ways of interpreting the Scriptures that they really meant nothing at all—since they could mean anything you pleased—and boasts that it was the Reformation "which was to give its objectivity and its dignity back to the sacred text."⁵⁰ But that was no solution to the problem of interpretation, as the rapid multiplication of conflicting Protestant sects demonstrated, and today the words of a leading Protestant theologian are strangely reminiscent of Hilary: "The Bible has to be interpreted from its own centre. It is not concentric with Aristotle, as Roman theology posits, nor with modern rationalism, as theological liberalism has assumed. . . . It . . . authenticates itself . . . to the man who comes in faith and prays for the inward witness of the Holy Spirit."⁵¹ The old double-talk again: it authenticates itself, but it does not authenticate itself—a higher authority is needed, "the inward witness of the Holy Spirit." Why not break down and call it revelation?

Today there is cautious but unmistakable edging toward an acceptance of the long-forbidden idea of modern revelation. This has followed upon a growing realization that the Bible alone is not enough. The Apostles, we are now being told, had no intention of writing all their knowledge down in a book; what they did write "was only meant to complement the spoken word: they had no intention of supplanting it."⁵² Furthermore, what they wrote was meant for the initiated alone and may never be deciphered by the learning of men.⁵³ They wrote, moreover, with no idea of canonicity in mind: "The idea that any book was written with the conscious purpose of securing a place in the sacred corpus," says Rowley, "rests on the most unreal conception of the process of canonization."⁵⁴ Nay, the New Testament, we now learn, was only a sort of substitute for living witnesses and for a long time remained a very plastic document.⁵⁵ So today we find Catholic and Protestant scholars agreeing that "the inadequacy of the doctrine of the inerrancy of Scripture has demonstrated itself"—that favorite official doctrine of Protestant and Catholic alike!—"It is too narrow to fit the facts; it cannot be carried through in the exegesis of Scripture without resorting to special pleading; it does not explain the admitted imperfection of the Old Testament; it involves a materialistic notion of the truth. Above all, in being a negative word, it is quite inadequate to express the glory of the revelation of God in the Scripture."⁵⁶ But even if the Scriptures were inerrant, where is their inerrant interpreter? That is the question, and D. M. Mackay assures us that we won't find it among the scholars or scientists when he writes: "Our position, then, in attempting to make any comprehensive or systematic statement about God, is logically very insecure. It is just no good quoting a series of inspired scriptures and then supposing that the guarantee of inspiration will extend infallibly to all our apparently logical deductions from them." ⁵⁷ Yet such is the fundamental thesis of scholasticism, and scholasticism is the way of the Doctors.

The dilemma of the Doctors is that while they must renounce eschatology in order to qualify as scientists and scholars, they cannot as people with curious minds leave it alone, nor as human beings can they live without it.

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1.   N. A. Dahl, "Christ, Creation and the Church," in W. D. Davies & D. Daube, Background of the New Testament and Its Eschatology (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1956), 422.

2.   Richard Courant and Herbert Robbins, What is Mathematics? (Oxford University Press, 1941), xvii—xviii.

3.   I. Cohen, "Orthodoxy and Scientific Progress," Proceedings of the American Philosophical Society 96 (1952): 505—6.

4.   S. Drake, ed., Discoveries and Opinions of Galileo (New York: Doubleday, 1957), 101—2.

5.   M. Polanyi, "The Unaccountable Element in Science," Philosophy 37 (1962): 14.

6.   L. Platt, "Cause and Effect, A Fable for Geology Teachers," Journal of Geological Education 10 (March 1962): 28.

7.   F. W. Bridgman, "Science and Common Sense," Scientific Monthly 79 (July 1954): 36.

8.   Polanyi, 14.

9.   F. Vick, "The Making of Scientists," The Listener 61 (January 29, 1959): 196.

10.   Adolphus Elkin, "A Darwin Centenary and Highlights of Field-Work in Australia," Mankind 5 (1959): 333, quoting J. T. Merz, Religion and Science, A Philosophical Essay (Edinburgh: Blackwood, 1915), 103.

11.   Ernest Jones, "Nature of Genius," Scientific Monthly 84 (1957): 80.

12.   Ibid., 77.

13.   Ibid., 81.

14.   P. Le Corbeiller, "Crystals and the Future of Physics," Scientific American 188 (January 1953): 51.

15.   Warren Weaver, "The Imperfections of Science," American Scientist 49 (March 1961): 109.

16.   Ibid., 100.

17.   W. O. Fenn, "Front Seats for Biologists," Bioscience (December 1960): 16.

18.   Bridgman, 33.

19.   A. W. Herre, "Letters," Bioscience (December 1960), 5—6.

20.   E. A. Hooton, "Comments on the Piltdown Affair," American Anthropologist 56 (1954): 289.

21.   Weaver, 112.

22.   Ibid., 106—7.

23.   Sigmund Freud, The Future of an Illusion (New York: Doubleday, 1957), 102. 58

24.   Fenn, 16; cf. R. M. Frumkin, "Scientific Millennialism as the Coming World Ideology," Journal of Human Relations 10 (1962): 145, 157.

25.   I. Galdston, "Existentialism as a Perennial Philosophy of Life and Being," Journal of Existential Psychiatry 1 (1960): 379.

26.   Herre, 6.

27.   Heinrich Bornkamm, Grundriss zum Studium der Kirchengeschichte (Gütersloh: Bertelsmann, 1949), 83: the conflict began long before Augustine.

28.   M. Grabmann, Die Geschichte der scholastischen Methode (Graz: Akademische Druckanstalt, 1957), I, chs. 1 and 2.

29.   R. H. Charles, ed., Apocrypha and Pseudepigrapha of the Old Testament (Oxford University Press, 1913) 2:viii.

30.   Willem Cornelis van Unnik, "De la Regle mete prostheinai mete aphelein dans l'histoire du canon," Vigiliae Christianae 3 (1949):1—2.

31.   Van Unnik, 3—4, citing T. Zahn, Geschichte des neutestamentlichen Kanons (Erlangen: Deichert, 1888—1890) 1:112—16. Italics ours.

32.   Heinrich Denzinger, Enchiridion Symbolorum (Freiburg: Herder, 1957), No. 783, cf. No. 785: cf. Tridentinum iv. See especially O. Chadwick, From Bossuet to Newman (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1957), ch. 2.

33.   M. H. Franzmann, "The Apostolate: Its Enduring Significance in the Apostolic Word," Concordia Theological Monthly 28 (1957): 174. The statement of a Lutheran conference, quoting from the Lutheran Confessions.

34.   H. A. Kelly, "The Silence of God: How Is It to be Explained?" Journal of the Transactions of the Victoria Institute 58 (1926): 255.

35.   Vincent of Lerinum, "Commonitorium Primum," in PL 50:637, 638; cf. O. Chadwick, 16—17.

36.   Hilary, Tractatus in LIV Psalmum, in PL 9:352; Ad Constantium Augustum II, in PL 10:570.

37.   Hilary, On the Trinity IV, 14, in PL 10:107; Prologue to Tractate on the Book of Psalms 7, in PL 9:237; Tractate on Psalm 14, in PL 9:295.

38.   Hilary, On the Trinity IV, 14, in PL 10:107; Ad Constantium Augustum II, in PL 10:569, 570; cf. Hilary, Tractate on Psalm 1, in PL 9:247; Tractate on Psalm 134, in PL 9:758. For the rule, Hilary, On the Trinity IV, 2, and X, 1, in PL 10:282, 344.

39.   This is the theme of Chadwick's book, note 32 above.

40.   N. Nagel, "The Authority of Scripture," Concordia Theological Monthly 27 (1956): 702.

41.   Emily Blackman, "The Task of Exegesis," in Davies & Daube, 18—19.

42.   A. E. Harvey, The Listener (August 14, 1958), 241.

43.   Denzinger, No. 1605—06.

44.   Frederick Powicke, "The Christian Life," in Legacy of the Middle Ages, C. G. Crump ed. (Oxford, 1951), 54.

45.   C. F. DeVine, "The Consequent Sense," Catholic Biblical Quarterly 2 (1940): 145.

46.   F. X. Pierce, "Mary Alone is 'The Woman' of Genesis 3:15," Catholic Biblical Quarterly 2 (1940): 252.

47.   Thomas Aquinas, Summa Theologica (Turin: Marietti, 1932). Question I, Article viii.

48.   Ibid.

49.   G. Florovsky, "Eschatology in the Patristic Age," Studia Patristica 2, in Texte und Untersuchungen 64 (1957): 246.

50.   H. Clavier, "Les sens multiples dans le nouveau testament," Novum Testamentum 2 (1958): 185—86.

51.   Blackman, 25.

52.   Albert Dufourcq, Histoire de la fondation de léglise (Paris, 1909), 240, 248.

53.   Clarence Craig, "Sacramental Interest in the Fourth Gospel," Journal of Biblical Literature 58 (1939): 32—33.

54.   Harold Rowley, The Relevance of Apocalyptic (London: Lutterworth, 1944), 78.

55.   E.g., W. A. Irwin, "Ezekiel Research Since 1943," Vetus Testamentum 3 (1953): 63, for the Old Testament; and Krister Stendahl, "Implications of Form-Criticism and Tradition-Criticism for Biblical Interpretation," Journal of Biblical Literature 77 (1958): 35, for the New Testament; cf. E. M. Good, "With All Its Faults," Christianity Today (January 16, 1961): 6—7.

56.   Father Hebert, Expository Times 70 (1958): 33.

57.   D. M. Mackay, "Divine Activity in a Scientific World," Faith and Thought 91 (1959): 75—76.