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Christ Our Hope
An Introduction to Eschatology
By Paul O'Callaghan
The Catholic University of America Press
Copyright © 2011 The Catholic University of America Press
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-8132-1862-5
Chapter One
The Christian Virtue of Hope and the Epistemological Underpinnings of Christian Eschatology
Eschatology: a human problem without a human solution. —Giacomo Biffi
Hope is the breathing of the soul; Hope is a memory of the future; Hope is the very fabric out of which our soul is made. —Gabriel Marcel
The brain is not interested in reality; it is interested in survival. —John J. Medina
Quoniam tu, Domine, singulariter in spe constituisti me. —Psalms 4:9
Christianity, like Judaism, is the religion of God's promise. God, in creating the world and saving humanity, did not leave everything neatly and accurately arranged from the outset. His creating action marks the beginning of time. And time opens space for further progress: space for God, who continues to act, to create, to save, to provide, to perfect, to renew, to re-create; and space for humans, who are offered again and again the opportunity of freely responding to God's gifts. The incompleteness of the present moment belongs to the very essence of Christian revelation. The letter to the Hebrews reminds us that "here we have no lasting city" (13:14). Nonetheless, however transient and deficient the present situation may be, the ultimate horizon of Christian life may not be identified with incompleteness or transience, for according to Scripture God has promised "eternal life" to those who are faithful to him, "resurrection of the dead" for one and all, a "new heavens and a new earth in which righteousness dwells" (2 Pt 3:13).
The term "eschatology" derives from the Greek word eschaton, "that which comes last." Originally, the term refers to what is lowest in the hierarchy of being, to the very dregs of matter. From the Christian standpoint, however, what comes at the end is not decayed matter, the poorest, the lowest, and the weakest, but rather fullness, consummation, perfect fulfillment. Thus eschatology is the science of the "last things," the object of divine promise we hope for, because hope refers to the future and directs humans to gifts that are offered to them. Before considering the object of Christian promise (part 2), in this chapter we shall briefly consider some aspects of the dynamic of hope itself, as well as the epistemological and hermeneutical issues it gives rise to. The fundamental question being asked is the following: how can we ascertain the truth value of eschatological statements drawn from the New Testament, given that as yet they have not been verified? In other words, can the Church responsibly preach to humanity the promise of final resurrection and eternal life?
The Passion and Virtue of Hope
Hope as a Passion
Aristotle explains that the passion of hope arises from the perception of the bonum futurum arduum possibile, that is, the absent good that is difficult, though possible, to obtain. Hope is occasioned in the first place by the bonum futurum, the absent good, the good that is perceived by the subject, but is not yet fully possessed. In this sense it may be said that hope is a form of desire, which, for Aristotle, is also a passion. However, hope and desire are not one and the same thing. Gabriel Marcel and other philosophers of hope have insisted on the point. It is possible to desire something without ever really "hoping" to possess it, that is, without thinking that it is realistically possible to obtain. In effect, hope adds to desire the inner conviction that it is possible to obtain or possess the object desired, in spite of the difficulty in doing so. In other words, the good desired is an arduous yet possible one. Interestingly, according to Thomas Aquinas, who develops Aristotle's reflections on the passions, birds of prey and other animals also experience the passion of hope. This should come as no surprise. Perception of its quarry awakens the bird's appetite, which turns into hope as it invests all its experience, resources, energy, agility, and ingenuity in an effort to capture its victim.
It may happen, of course, that the absent good, though perceived and desired, is considered as simply impossible to obtain. In this case one no longer experiences the passion of hope, but rather that of despair. This may occur either because the desired good is objectively unobtainable or because past experiences of a subjective kind produce the conviction that there is little or no hope of success in obtaining the object desired. The passions of hope and despair, in other words, depend significantly on past experience. It is commonly held that the human faculty hope refers to most directly is that of memory, which assimilates, calibrates, and retains past experiences, whether good or bad, and provides the basis for humans to react spontaneously in a hoping (or despairing) manner when confronted with novel situations. Those whose memory is largely dominated by negative experiences will tend toward the passion of despair rather than that of hope, especially if the experiences in question have taken place over an extended period of time. On the contrary, those whose experiences are for the most part positive and short-lived generally have a hopeful attitude toward the different situations they are confronted with. Thomas suggests for this reason that in iuvenibus et in ebriosis abundat spes: "both children and drunkards are strong in hope," because they are unaware of—or simply do not reflect upon—the obstacles that may arise in obtaining the arduous good they desire.
Is Hope a Virtue?
So far of course we have spoken of hope as a passion, as a dynamic factor that marks human (and animal) life in general, as something that happens to people, as it were. In other words, the experience of the passion of hope is, in principle, a pre-ethical one, anterior to moral virtue or vice. We have not yet considered it as a virtue, that is, a stable, positive inclination of the will that prompts and facilitates good actions, binds humans ever more closely to their last end, and makes their self-realization possible.
Many ancient philosophers, notably among the Stoics, considered hope-experiences as alienating, damaging to humans, and on no account virtuous. They looked upon hope as a perennial source of delusion, disappointment, and suffering for humanity. The aspiration of the wise man should be to live nec metu nec spe, without fear and without hope. Paul likewise describes the pagans as "those who have no hope" (1 Thes 4:13; Eph 2:12). To live without hope, however, makes life meaningless. Friedrich Guntermann's studies of ancient tomb inscriptions has provided convincing evidence of the widespread presence of despair among pagans. "Either they believed there was no survival after death," writes Paul Hoffmann, "or that the dead eked out a sad, dreary existence in the underworld." In recent times the existentialist philosopher J.-P. Sartre gave expression to the senselessness of a life without hope when he said that man acts and lives as "a useless passion." A similar attitude may be found among those who hold the doctrine of reincarnation, in its many and varied forms, both ancient and modern. In effect, reincarnation suggests that the next life will be an approximate replica of this one, and thus no longer the object of hope as such. We shall return to the topic presently.
Nonetheless, in spite of the numerous, appalling tragedies that have marked modern times, perhaps indeed on account of them, the closing century of the last millennium has been, from the literary, philosophical, and theological standpoint, a century marked by reflection on hope. Two particularly influential philosophies of hope are worth considering, those of Ernst Bloch and Gabriel Marcel.
Ernst Bloch's reflection on hope as the "principle" of human life has been very influential, also among some theologians, such as Jürgen Moltmann. In an attempt to reread and "humanize" Karl Marx's anthropology on the basis of a reinterpretation of Aristotle, Bloch claims that hope is the source of human existence and action at all levels. Everything that exists is directed essentially toward the future (what he calls the "not yet") under the impulse of hope. Hope is written into the very constitution of matter, of the cosmos, of humankind. For Bloch, however, it is directed neither by nor toward any kind of transcendent, personal Deity. Hope does not draw on any divine promise. The forward-thrusting vitality of matter itself renders the existence and action of God redundant. Hope would be the exact expression of the living core of reality in evolution, in which humans play a critical role both as patients and as agents. In real terms, however, humans do not really hope in something (or in someone) other than themselves. They must simply allow themselves to be drawn along within a cosmic process, moving toward the future under the impulse of hope.
It may be observed, however, that although Bloch speaks extensively of the novelty of the future (what he calls the Novum Ultimum), in real terms the future holds no true novelty for humanity. What will take place later on is already at our disposal. It might be said that Bloch attempts to turn the passion of hope into a virtue, through a secularized reading of Jewish and Christian salvation history. He tries, literally, to make virtue out of necessity.
Another interesting and influential understanding of hope is provided by the Christian personalist philosopher and playwright Gabriel Marcel. Graphically, Marcel says that "hope is the very fabric out of which our soul is made." Yet hope is not something that just "happens" to humans in an anonymous or collective fashion, nor may it be identified with the inner driving force of the evolutionary process. Rather, hope results from the opening of the human being to one who freely offers a gift. Marcel limits his description of the dynamics of hope to the sphere of human sociality, but—differently from Bloch's understanding—his explanation easily opens out to the existence and hope-enabling activity of a supreme Divinity. He describes hope, however, in a somewhat dialectic way that pays scant attention to the spontaneous dynamic of human desire and corporeality.
A reflection on these two very different authors is instructive on many counts, because it demonstrates that a perennial and unresolved tension persists between hope as directed toward a transcendent Divinity on the one hand and hope that fully involves the material world on the other—between a theologically and a humanly motivated hope.
Hope, as we saw, points to the future, to a good perceived or promised but not yet possessed. For hope to be possible and humanly meaningful, therefore, the future in question must be perceived as "superior" in content to the past, better than what one already possesses, and though "future," involving a greater good than the one now offered or available. Otherwise, there would be nothing to "hope" for.
Should it be demonstrated that the future promised or perceived will most likely be inferior to the past (as suggested for example by Sartre, Monod, and Leopardi, among others), then hope can assume no meaningful role in human life, and despair is destined to occupy its place sooner or later.
In a similar vein, should it be shown that the future simply mirrors the past, that is to say, that it contains no more and no less than what the past offers, then there is no more space for hope than there is for despair, and neither passion can occupy a relevant place in human life. An example of the latter understanding is the so-called doctrine of eternal return, typical of Greek antiquity. Here there is simply no place for hope as a virtue, that is, a stable inclination of the will through which humans may freely develop their true potential. Elpis, the Greek term commonly used for hope, is equivalent, at best, to "waiting." In Hesiod's The Works and the Days, when Pandora opens the box sent by Zeus to Epimeteus, all the evils that afflict humans emerge: sickness, sorrow, and death. All that is left is hope, a vain consolation for mortals, and of no service to the gods. Thus hope is said to be "the last thing we lose." It is of value only in that it distracts us from the present moment, giving us consolation and short-term, illusory respite from sorrow and pain. Besides, it belongs exclusively to the human sphere, not to the divine. It is uncertain and deceptive, because it is as unfaithful and fickle as man himself is. The Greeks attempted to overcome the ambivalence of hope and contribute toward the quality of their future destiny by having recourse to dreams, to rational forecasting, and to mystery cults. But all in all, Paul's description of the pagans as those "who have no hope" (1 Thes 4:13) is justified.
Some Gnostics and Christian authors inspired by Origen and others tacitly accepted important aspects of the doctrine of eternal return. But for the most part, it was decisively rejected by those who believed in Jesus Christ, the radical new beginning that is the Christian Gospel. With the coming of Christ, his life, death, and resurrection, Augustine said, circuitus illi iam explosi sunt, the eternal "cycles have been broken once and for all."
When a Passion Becomes a Virtue
So far we have spoken of hope from the standpoint of the individual, that is, as a passion. In effect, the passion of hope belongs to the structure of the individual who, on the basis of past experience and present capacity, becomes convinced that such and such a good may be obtained and possessed. This conviction impels persons to apply their energy and ingenuity in overcoming the difficulties (the arduum) involved in obtaining the good desired. However, it may happen that the bonum futurum arduum becomes possibile not just through the investment of one's own energies in overcoming the obstacles encountered. The bonum futurum arduum may also become possibile with the help of other persons. The dynamic of the passion of hope is thus modified and amplified by this relationship with someone who contributes toward turning a simple desire into a real possibility. In fact, many things that seem to be impossible to obtain and possess through one's own efforts become accessible through the assistance of others. As a result, insofar as such people facilitate our obtaining a greater good, they become objects of love, albeit perhaps love of an "interested" kind. Insofar as we perceive that the love of those who help us is enduring, and their disposition to assist us is persevering, they may become, besides, objects of our trust and faith. In this way, hope ceases to be an individual experience, and becomes a personal—or better, an interpersonal—one, insofar as one person learns to hope in another who is in a position to help them turn their God-implanted desire into a God-willed reality.
But the question still remains: is hope of this kind truly a virtue, a stable inclination of the will that humans should foster with a view to developing themselves to the full, to obtaining their last end? On the one hand, the natural limitations of those who may assist us in obtaining our last end serve as a reminder that absolute trust and hope may not be placed in any human being. Indeed, humans are often undependable, incapable of acting in an entirely disinterested manner. On the other hand, they are capable of providing for others benefits of a limited, temporal kind. Yet experience tells us that humans do aspire after a good that goes far beyond their own limitations, well beyond the reach of what others can provide, and tends toward the Absolute. The finite seeks the Infinite, the mortal immortality, the creature divinization.
For this reason, to hope unreservedly in other human beings would not be wholly virtuous, not only because humans are often unreliable, but principally because they are incapable of providing complete fulfillment or definitive realization for those who hope in them. That is to say, hope directed exclusively to other persons would not be a virtue, for it would not be ordered to the person's true good. Christian revelation unequivocally teaches that the human aspiration to infinite happiness may be satisfied by God alone, who created humans in the first place. To put it in technical terms, hope is a virtue only if it is a "theological virtue." Paul, writing to the Corinthians, says: "If for this life only we have hoped in Christ, we are of all men most to be pitied" (1 Cor 15:19). And Pope Benedict XVI in Spe salvi says that "the great hope of believers can only be in God."
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Christ Our Hope by Paul O'Callaghan Copyright © 2011 by The Catholic University of America Press. Excerpted by permission of The Catholic University of America Press. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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