Every now and then one finds a phrase, or perhaps a whole sentence, that is so terribly good, so smack on the money, that one wishes one had written it oneself. (Actually, this happens to me all the time. Sometimes I think it is admiration of another writer’s talent and humility at the scope of my own; other times I suspect it of being a species of envy. The observation doesn’t do much good in either case—a virtue observed is apt to become a vice. It’s tempting to go further and say, not quite truly, that the mere act of self-observation can be vicious. But this, as the parentheses show, is a topic for another post.)

Sometimes, however, one finds not merely a sentence or two that strikes the ear and the mind, but a whole essay—even a book. Ronald Knox’s Retreat for Lay People is such a book. I picked it up last month in response to a bit of prodding from my spiritual director. (I really am lazy about the most important things in life—observe, an indirect boast—cf. Bingley v. Darcy—intellectual pride? . . . humility at recognizing pride . . . never-ending spiral . . . Screwtape alert!)

I had read Knox’s Retreat before, but so long ago that most of it was deliciously fresh—though here and there I did come across an idea which I met with a Lewisian “What, you too?”—before realizing that probably I had only “thought of it too” because I had picked it up from Knox during the previous reading. But there was one idea which I am quite sure I did not remember, which I must have simply and shamefully skimmed over the first time round. I am fairly sure I did not remember it because, far from being one of those things that have become a familiar part of my mental wall tapestry, it was something that I had only begun to think about in the past few days—one of those slow-churning semi-intellectual resolutions that usually come out of extended mental frustration or turmoil.

Knox talks about the difference between the worldview of the medieval Christian and that of the modern. “To put it roughly, a Christian of the first seventeen centuries saw the dead heretic as probably in hell, a modern Christian sees the dead heretic as probably in heaven. . . . To convert the heretic, or even the honest unbeliever, is no longer for us the Now-or-never affair it used to be.” Knox concludes with sad, pragmatic honesty, that the modern worldview is a “danger to your faith and mine . . . [not to] our theological faith . . . but [to] the spirit of faith in us. . . . We’re like the poor, wretched Government trying to make people work without appealing to the profit-motive—we’ve got to foster zeal in our own lives without appealing to the hell-motive; we’ve got to want the postman and the girl at the tobacconist’s to become Catholics without the conviction that if they die Protestants they’ll be damned. The sense of urgency which is lost to us, now that we’ve all become so broad-minded, has got to be replaced by a sense of urgency based on some other motive; where are we going to get it from?

“I think we’ve got to ask Almighty God to give us more love, much more love, of his truth for its own sake. Loving the truth isn’t the same thing as arguing about it; when we argue, we are so bent on getting the other person to see our point of view that we hardly mind whether it is true or not; we become advocates. Loving the truth isn’t the same thing as preaching it or writing about it; when we preach it or write about it we are too much concerned with making it clear, with getting it across, to appreciate it in its own nature. Loving the truth isn’t even the same thing as studying it, or meditating on it; when we study it, we are out to master it; when we meditate about it, we are using it as a lever which will help us to get a move on with the business of our own souls. No, we have got to love the truth with a jealous, consuming love that can’t rest satisfied until it has won the allegiance of every sane man and woman on God’s earth. And we don’t, very often, love it like that. We are God’s spoiled children; his truth drops into your lap like a ripe fruit—Open thy mouth wide, he says, and I will fill it. There is a sense, you know, in which the false thinkers of to-day love truth better than Christian do. Their fancied truth is something they have earned by their own labours, and they appreciate it more than we appreciate the real truth which has dropped into our laps.

“The truth of which we are speaking is not a set of abstract propositions, however august. We are to love the truth as it is in Christ; he himself is truth incarnate, and we call upon every human mind to surrender to his service. Every human mind, and our own minds first; but it must be a real intellectual surrender. We are to preach the gospel, not as a mere recipe which we have tried and found useful, not as a mere pattern of living which we have learned to admire, but as truth, which has a right to be told; which would still have to be told, even if no heaven beckoned from above, no hell yawned beneath us. If we really loved the truth, then perhaps it would bite deeper into our minds, become realized and operative, not a mere set of formulas, which we accept with a shrug of the shoulders. And then perhaps we should recapture that spirit of faith, in which the men who went before us moved the world.”