ALICE VON HILDEBRAND
Catholic News Agency
March 5, 2013
When, after fifteen years of voluntary exile, Dietrich von Hildebrand managed to come back to his beloved Munich in 1948, there was much excitement in his family, numerous friends, and many dedicated students.
They all knew that he had voluntarily left Germany “refusing to live in a country led by a criminal.” They probably knew that he had been “fired” from the University of Munich for his “impure” blood (having declared himself non-Aryan in solidarity with a persecuted people, justifying his claim on the ground that his paternal grandmother was of Jewish origin, even though he was baptized Protestant as a child).
But no one knew (or could know) that he had been condemned to death (in abstentia) by Hitler who accused him of treason; they did not know that he had been deprived of his German citizenship. They did not know that he had been declared “Hitler’s enemy one” in Austria by the German Ambassador, Franz von Papen. His name was taboo in Germany. This went so far that when Dietrich von Hildebrand wrote what is probably his greatest book, Transformation in Christ, the Swiss Publisher, Benziger, refused to publish his manuscript unless he adopted a nom de plume: Peter Ott. Otherwise, the book would be prohibited in Germany, and they would lose money.
He complied. It is only after the war that the book was reprinted under his name. In the late 40s, the book was translated into English, and has remained in print ever since.
This highly popular Catholic thinker was finally back in Munich, and so his friends organized a talk.
It was well attended. Among the invitees was a very young priest, aged twenty-one, named Josef Ratzinger, assistant pastor in a lovely Baroque Church, Heilig Blut, where Dietrich von Hildebrand had attended Mass every single day from his conversion in 1914 until he left Nazi Germany in 1933 (It was the Church where a few years later, we were married).
This young priest had probably heard rumors about Dietrich von Hildebrand, but could not have known much about him.
Clever people who are talented at advertising themselves might have chosen as the title of their talk, “My heroic fight against Nazism.” It would have been a unique chance of publicly qualifying himself as a hero. Typically, Dietrich von Hildebrand did not even consider it a possibility. Hitler was dead; Nazism was dead. What was the sense of beating a dead horse?
He chose as his title: “The Role of Beauty in man’s religious life.” This title had much attraction for the young priest. Fed on the remarkable Baroque culture of Bavaria and acquainted as a small child with the incredible musical treasures that Germany had given to the world and those coming from his own musical family, the very word “beauty” resounded in his soul.
The talk found in him a very appreciative audience. He remembered it many years later when I asked him to write a preface for my biography of Dietrich von Hildebrand: The Soul of a Lion.
Whereas Fr. Ratzinger knew who Dietrich was, the latter might have had a vague recollection of a very young priest who attended his talk in 1948 as they never had any further personal contact.
Some fourteen years later, Vatican II started. One name that soon became prominent was the name of a young theologian, Josef Ratzinger, chosen as Peritus by the Archbishop of Munich. The young theologian was already well-known for his scholarship and brilliant intellectual gifts. Clearly he was a rising star on the intellectual firmament of Germany.
It is my recollection that my husband soon showed some concern about his views. I do not recall whether Dietrich ever mentioned Fr. Ratzinger by name, but one thing is certain; he feared that the young Peritus’ liberal views might undermine the sacred tradition of the Church.
One day, however, he joyously told me: Fr. Ratzinger seems to have found his footing. The young Peritus had given a talk in Bamberg in which he proved himself to be deeply rooted in the holy tradition of the Church. It is worth mentioning that this change of course was not to the taste of the liberal Archbishop Dopfner of Munich. After the Bamberg talk, he took the young theologian aside, and asked him what had happened to him. Was he not changing his views? (see Milestones by Josef Cardinal Ratzinger).
The answer of the young theologian was that he had now clearly perceived the dangers that the interpretation of the Council spread by the news media presented to the Holy Tradition of the Church.
Much concerned about these trends, Dietrich von Hildebrand had abandoned the writing of his momentous memoirs (some five thousand pages of handwritten manuscript which, alas, he never completed) to devote his pen in defense of orthodoxy and tradition. In hindsight, it is clear that the “rising” theological star in Germany became acquainted with these works. The Trojan Horse in the City of God was a best seller in his country.
The call of the hour was to make clear that the contributions of Vatican II were to be inserted in the Holy tradition of the Catholic Church. The word “change” is equivocal: for there is such a thing as “The Development of Doctrine”—admirably highlighted by Cardinal Newman—and there is a change that is a rosy word for “betrayal.” It was urgent to distinguish between the two. “Change” instead of meaning “enrichment” could actually mean “destruction.” The blossoming of a bud into a flower is a “change”; so is a cancerous growth. The two had to be clearly differentiated.
I am convinced that the exceptionally talented young theologian (soon to become a bishop, then a Cardinal, then head of the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith during most of the Pontificate of John Paul II) saw this as his mission. From this moment on, there was a deep spiritual and intellectual bond between him and Dietrich von Hildebrand.
It might explain why—armed only with my name—I had no difficulty whatsoever in obtaining three private audiences with the Cardinal; in 1984 and 1985 when I taught at the Thomas More Institute and again in 1994. Finally, I had the incredible blessing of gaining a private audience with Benedict XVI on March 26, 2007 shortly before the proclamation that any priest wishing to say the traditional Latin Mass no longer needed to request the permission of his bishop.
Already in 1984, I had begged His Eminence to help restore the practice of this Holy tradition; a repeat of the request I had made to John Paul II in January 1980 when I was honored by a private audience with the “young” Pope (he had been in office only for fifteen months).
The question worth raising is, how could I be so favored, when it is well known how very difficult it is to obtain an audience with the top members of the Curia, let alone an audience with Peter’s Successor?
May I offer the following suggestion: there is an exceptional “affinity” between this great Pope Emeritus who, alas, has stepped down, and Dietrich von Hildebrand whose philosophical contributions are being finally “discovered’” thanks to the work of a young man, John Henry Crosby, who has devoted his life to the translation, publication, and re-printing of von Hildebrand’s very many books, articles, and manuscripts.
Practically unknown in Germany, thanks to Hitler, Dietrich von Hildebrand’s message is now being spread in the United States.
All this is mostly made possible by the moral and intellectual support given him by Benedict XVI. The latter writes in the Preface to my book, The Soul of a Lion: “I am personally convinced that, when, at some time in the future, the intellectual history of the Catholic Church in the twentieth century is written, the name of Dietrich von Hildebrand will be most prominent among the figures of our time.”
This praise coming from the pen of a man who, apart from the key role that he has played in the Church, will go down in history as one of the most brilliant minds that God has given His Bride, is praise indeed.
What do I mean by “the affinity” between this great Pontiff and my husband?
It could easily be the topic of a whole book. I shall limit myself to some key similarities; a minor one being their link to Catholic Bavaria where Benedict was born and raised, and where Dietrich spent close to thirty years of his adventurous life. The two men had radically different backgrounds: one the son of a famous sculptor, born and raised in Italy (which marked him deeply); the other, the son of a policeman, coming from a humble family deeply marked by a profound faith. The young Josef was a cradle Catholic, baptized on the very day of his birth while Dietrich was a convert whose ardent love for the Church was one of the most prominent features of his personality.
Both men shared a great love for Baroque culture, visibly expressing the glorious joy of Catholicism and complementing the awesome greatness of Gothic architecture and a deep musical background. But their spiritual affinity goes much deeper: it also marked their religious, spiritual, and intellectual kinship.
When one reads Milestones by Cardinal Ratzinger, one is struck that as a young student he had a special love for St. Augustine and his disciples. It is not surprising that he wrote his dissertation on St. Bonaventure. There are several great traditions in the Catholic Church: each one has its value, its special message. Our gratitude to all of them should be great, but it is legitimate for an individual thinker to be particularly indebted to one of them. Both Benedict and Dietrich acknowledge their special love and devotion to one of the glories of Catholicism: St. Augustine.
In his Memoirs, when speaking of the bishop of Hippo, Dietrich, “explodes in a song of gratitude toward him.”
Quotes such as, “Fecisti nos ad te, Domine, et inquietum est cor nostrum donec requiescat in te,” (Thou hast made us for Thyself, Lord, and our heart is restless until it rest Thee, Confessions, I, 1) or “Sero te amavi, pulchritudo tam antiqua et tam nova, sero te amavi! et ecce intus eras et ego foris, et ibi te quaerebam” (Late have I loved you, O Beauty ever ancient and ever new! Late have I loved you! And, behold, you were within me, and I out of myself, and there I searched for you, Confessions X, 27) or “Da quo jubes et jube quod vis” (Give what you command, and command what you will, Confessions, X, 29), deeply resounded in their souls. This is a theme that should be developed, and a tempting title for a Ph.D. dissertation.
In this context, I must limit myself to mentioning it.
Moreover, both Benedict and Dietrich resisted the tendency found in many of our contemporaries to assume that the period in which they live is superior to the past. Maritain dubs it “Chronolatry.” Indeed, modern man, inebriated by the mind-boggling scientific discoveries of the last century, is tempted to speak disparagingly of the Dark Ages—forgetting that one can be “blinded” by both a lack of light or by too brilliant of one. Indeed modern science has advanced by leaps and bounds. But is this also true of our human, cultural, and moral development? Are we “better human beings” than were our ancestors? Do we still have the sense of reverence to which Plato attributes the greatness of Athens in the fifth century B.C.?
Can we say that modern architecture, sculpture, painting, and music are more “beautiful,” more uplifting than those preceding us? For beauty, as Plato saw twenty five centuries ago, makes wings grow to our soul. Modern cities, on the contrary, are bound to depress anyone who has eyes to see.
Both Benedict XVI and Dietrich have emphasized the crucial role of Beauty in evangelization. The magnificent artistic accomplishments of Catholic culture have been a powerful help in knowing and deepening our faith. I myself can testify to the blessing it has been for me to be born and raised in a Catholic country, rich in magnificent Churches decorated by sculptures and paintings making the faith alive.
What I have learned through these masterpieces cannot be put in words. This is why both thinkers have been “apostles of beauty”—that is, true Beauty “that makes wings grow to the soul.” Alas, today, the word “beauty” has also been infected by relativism; in fact, it has been hijacked. Whatever is “exciting,” “fun,” and awakens in us emotions of a very doubtful nature is dubbed “beautiful.” Both thinkers stand not only for the objectivity of truth, but also for the objectivity of beauty. God is not only Truth itself, but also Goodness itself and Beauty itself.
Anyone entering the Cathedral of Chartres is struck by awe: this is indeed a sacred place, made by human hands, inspired by faith and a trembling reverence. Not long ago, I was invited to give a talk in Cleveland. The monks who invited me used to have a venerable old church, but because it needed huge repairs which (they claimed) were too expensive, they decided to build a new Church. I requested to be brought there for a moment of recollection. I was in for a shock: I entered a huge room which I assumed to be the gym: it was shamefully ugly.
How can young people be brought to such a place learn reverence: “take off your shoes; this is holy ground.” The same can be said of much of “modern music.” Granted that it is “dynamic,” “deafening,” and aiming at shaking bored modern men from their slumber, one thing is certain; it certainly does not invite us to adoration. The wise old man of Greece (as Kierkegaard called Socrates), wishing to know himself, raises the question: “Is he a monster… or creature of a gentler and simple sort, to whom Nature has given a diviner and lowlier destiny?” (Phaedrus, 230).
The answer is that since original sin, we are both: a thesis developed in the same dialogue when Plato refers to a charioteer who has two horses; the obedient one and the rebellious one who kicks and hates being guided. Both Benedict and Dietrich knew that there is an art (by which beauty is made visible and audible) that appeals to the gentle and reverent creature in us, and another one that definitely feeds the “monster”—characterized by irreverence and hunger of violent sensations which cut us off from our depth. But the word “art” has been hijacked by the Evil One: now “art” is applied to any visible and audible “creation” without making any distinction between uplifting and noble or blasphemous, pornographic, and irreverent.
Anyone who denies the word “art” to such productions is immediately accused of “narrowness” or being “puritanical”—apparently one of the most dangerous sicknesses menacing our society. This was already diagnosed by the genius of C.S. Lewis who writes: “In modern Christian writings… I see few of the old warnings about worldly vanities, the choice of friends, and the value of time. All that your patient would probably classify as ‘Puritanism’—and may I remark in passing that the value we have given to that word is one of the really solid triumphs of the last hundred years? By it we rescue annually thousands of humans from temperance, chastity, and sobriety of life” (Screwtape Letters, 54-55). Inspired by the same wisdom, he writes further: “The game is to have them all running about with fire extinguishers where there is a flood…” (Ibid., 129). We are constantly warned of the deadly danger of Puritanism and anyone spending a half hour in malls cannot—if he is sane—blame our society for encouraging this dangerous heresy (Man is, since original sin, so prone to error that all moral and intellectual diseases will never be totally eradicated; they have become chronic. When combated and apparently defeated, they may be dormant for a while, but as soon as they are given a chance, they will “reappear”).
This deep sense for the crucial importance of visible and audible perceptions (for man is both body and soul) is linked to the respect for tradition that both men share so deeply. This explains their love for use of the Latin language in the Liturgy.
Let us recall that Vatican II, far from abolishing this sacred tongue, only permitted that the vernacular be used in certain parts of the Liturgy (Epistle and Gospel). Overnight, it was brutally abolished, and today very many priests cannot not recite the “Pater Noster” in that tongue—something which innumerable Italian peasants without any high school education knew by heart. The universal use of the Latin tongue was a glorious victory of a sacred language over the Tower of Babel. How wise was the Enemy in convincing many liberals that in fact this “strange and foreign” idiom discouraged people from attending religious services, even though all missals were printed with both Latin and the vernacular.
How uplifting it was when years ago, my husband and I attended Mass in Constantinople, Tunis, and Bogota, and heard the beloved words, “Introibo ad altare Dei…” (I will go in to the altar of God).
Those who have eyes must acknowledge that what has taken place in the course of the last fifty years is a massive attack on tradition and on the sacred. Why were communion rails (some of them having a great artistic value) brutally destroyed, even though there was not a single word in Vatican II demanding this “iconoclasm”? Obviously, once again, we weaken our sense of awe and reverence for the Sacredness of the Eucharist, for in our culture “kneeling” has always been an expression of adoration. How many times in the Gospels, when people were touched by Christ’s holiness, knelt in front of Him?
Today, as soon as most Americans (known to be poor linguists) leave their country, they will attend Mass (if they do) not understanding a single word of the Divine service. The Enemy understood, but too well that religious nationalism was going to be nurtured as soon as this sacred language (which being “dead” prevented it from being infected by slang and vulgarities) is abolished. To refer to God as “the nice guy upstairs” would have been inconceivable years ago.
Both Benedict XVI and Dietrich are ardent lovers of the Gregorian chant: not only because it connects us with the tradition of the Church from Gregory the Great on, but also because it is “sacred” music—that is, a music whose very substance is a prayer, a sursum corda (lift up your hearts). The great Pope Emeritus tried at every occasion to re-connect the faithful with this holy tradition.
Indeed, there is no period in history that does not have its flaws. It is sheer illusion—and a lie propagated by “liberal” politicians—that new laws will guarantee the creation of a paradise on this earth (or, according to Lenin, “a paradise for the workers”—another word for Gulag).
But, on the other hand, each period, in very different degrees, might give us a message that we should be grateful to accept. Our debt to Plato and Aristotle is immense. But simultaneously both St. Augustine (a Platonist at heart) and St. Thomas (a disciple of Aristotle) aimed at correcting the flaws inevitably found in thinkers who lived ante lucem.
Wisdom is to be found in the words of St. Paul: “But prove all things; hold fast that which is good” (1 Thes. 5:21). There are plenty of men who call themselves “lovers of wisdom,” but not very many who are “wise.” Let us make this distinction: they are those who gratefully embrace “the golden cord of tradition” as Plato called it, carefully endorsing its “gifts” and rejecting its weaknesses.
But there still are more bonds that deeply unite both thinkers that deserve our attention. Both men wage a relentless war on “dictatorial relativism.” Dietrich von Hildebrand, who was thirty-eight years older than Benedict XVI, diagnosed it as one of the greatest dangers menacing the twentieth century (see “The Dethronement of Truth” in The New Tower of Babel, 1953).
Benedict XVI wisely adds “dictatorial” to this dethronement because, not satisfied by sapping the foundation of any universally valid knowledge, he points to the fact that we have “progressed” one step further on the road leading to moral and intellectual disaster.
We are alluding to the right, now claimed by relativism, to condemn (and possibly to take to court) those who say that there is an objective truth and to condemn certain actions as being intrinsically evil, and therefore constituting a grave danger for any sane society. To claim that a condemnation of homosexuality (recall the Story of Sodom and Gomorrah) is homophobic, is a case in point. This is what Benedict XVI means by dictatorial. It is “imposed” on society by means of new laws which, as unfortunately many laws in human history, are immoral and unjust.
The natural law is offered to all men of good will. One must marvel at the riches of Plato’s ethical insights—he who was a pagan—warns us how dangerous it is to prefer oneself to the Truth. He fully deserves the glorious title of a preparer of the ways of Christ. This noble and truth-thirsty thinker knew how tempting it is for man to declare himself to be “the measure of all things.” This perennial and vicious error which, often refuted, goes underground and reappears periodically in the history of mankind.
Since original sin, intellectual diseases are “chronic.”
That Truth should be king and master in all our intellectual pursuits is what is being challenged today under the banner of “dictatorial relativism”; a relativism which is taught to children in grammar school, and imposed upon us in the most authoritative manner. Woe to the man who condemns sexual perversions; woe to the man who claims that to kill a human person in the womb is a crime!
This “authoritarianism” is also spreading in all philosophical branches, and consequently in theology.
Far from claiming that Benedict XVI and Dietrich are the only thinkers who diagnosed the danger and opposed it, my only claim that both of them are deeply united in their fight against it.
The deep intellectual bond existing between Benedict XVI and Dietrich is best expressed in their views on the relations existing between faith and reason. This is a huge topic. I will limit myself to a few remarks. Both thinkers claim that there is perfect harmony between them, but in order for this harmony to become luminous a few remarks are called for.
Two dangers are to be fought against: rationalism and fideism. The first arrogantly claims that reason gives us a key to all problems. Inevitably, it condemns the supernatural and all mysteries. They are easily eliminated; they are “myths” that any intelligent man should discard as irrelevant. Myths are accepted by “numbskulls”—people who have remained stuck in the Dark Ages.
This stand teaches us that intellectual pride inevitably leads to intellectual stupidity.
Fideism, on the other hand, claims that faith and faith alone will give answers to all our queries, and inevitably disparages reason as invalid. The Lutheran dogma sola fides (by faith alone) was bound to lead to this error.
Any sound, intelligent person must acknowledge that reason has its limits, and that there are, “more things between heaven and earth than are those contained in your philosophy,” as Shakespeare wisely put it in Hamlet’s mouth. Blaise Pascal, who was also fully aware of the limit of reason, wrote, “The last proceeding of reason is to recognize that there is an infinity of things which are beyond it.” And further, “There is nothing so conformable to reason as this disavowal of reason.”
That reason has its limitations should not make one deny that within its radius, it is capable of reaching certitude. This is proven by its access for “veritates aeternae” (eternal truths) that all men can perceive. This is a justification of the natural moral law that can be perceived by all men who are truth-thirsty. I say “can” because all those who have watched the vicious attacks waged on Honorable Clarence Thomas to oppose his elevation to the Supreme Court on the ground that he defended the universal validity of this law, must acknowledge that clearly some people suffer from intellectual blindness.
Throughout my long and very challenging career teaching philosophy at the City University of New York, the thesis that “what is true for you is not true for me” is an argument that I have heard ad nauseam. Often I have heard, “I do not see what you claim to be true.” Indeed, I believed them; they did not see. To challenge them was simple: all I needed to do was to ask them, “Do I not see because there is nothing to be seen or because I need corrective lenses?”
I recall that one student violently objecting to my claim that the natural law is objective, happened to be wearing glasses. I told her to take off her glasses, and then showed the class a small object I had in my pocket book. I asked her whether she could tell me what I was holding in my hand. The answer as expected was no. “Put on your glasses,” I told her. All of a sudden, she could see.
Human reason is valid, but two things must be kept in mind: it has limits and it has been infected by original sin. Rationalism is nothing but intellectual pride. Eritis sicut dii (you shall all be gods).There are “truths” that are luminous, and yet not perceived by many men. The reason is obvious: these truths are what I shall dub “sensitive truths,” that is truths which are bound to affect our personal life. They are mostly referring to ethics. Since original sin, man does not like to obey, to be told what to do, or what he should abstain from.
These truths inevitably become darkened by man’s refusal to live them. Once again, my students became my teachers. I recall a very “lively” (dramatic) class in which a student challenged my arguments in favor of the immortality of the soul. He fought with a sort of ardor as if he were fighting for his very life.
At one point, he “unveiled” the reasons for his opposition. He said to me, “The worst thing that could happen to me would be if you could convince me of the immortality of my soul; then I would be held responsible for my lifestyle.”
Any conflict between faith and reason will inevitably arise as soon as reason arrogantly claims that it can answer all questions. If a philosopher declares that to him the mysteries of faith are luminous, we can be certain that he will deny them by reducing them to myths.
Philosophy should not meddle in a domain in which it is totally incompetent. This “panic” when facing the word “truth” is an inheritance of original sin. Centuries ago, Tertullian wrote: “Cum odio sui coepit veritas. Simul atque apparuit, inimica est” (The first reaction to truth is hatred. The moment it appears it is treated as an enemy. Apologeticus, vi., 3).
Does this mean that there is no connection between faith and reason? Definitely not. First of all, just as grace presupposes nature, sound theology presupposes a sound philosophy, and when theologians go off the bend, one can be fairly certain that they are disciples of Kant, Hegel, Nietzsche, or Heidegger. This is bound to affect theology based on faith.
On the other hand, faith offers remedies to reason afflicted by the wounds of original sin. This wound is “pride” and thanks to faith, man is offered a cure for this moral and “intellectual” sickness, namely, humility. Authentic Catholic philosophy is “baptized reason,” that is to say, it is not theology, it is a philosophy that has been healed (see The Soul of a Lion, 133 for Dietrich von Hildebrand’s opposition to the Church’s teaching on artificial contraception, and then acceptance of it as an act of humility—a condition for his entering the Church, and then within weeks, becoming its ardent defender). Credo ut intelligam (I believe so that I may understand) was the remedy.
Benedict XVI is a great theologian, and he fully endorses the views propounded by Dietrich because the truths perceived by the latter do not come “from him”, but “through him,” and are therefore “catholic,” that is, universal, and offered to all men. Human beings are given the choice: accept them and prefer truth to themselves; or reject them, preferring themselves to truth.
Any theology based on a wrong philosophy is bound to lead to innumerable aberrations leading to heresies and poisoned scholarship.
Benedict XVI is well acquainted with all the works of Dietrich von Hildebrand. Many key works of the latter have not yet been translated into English, but this is no problem for Benedict XVI.
It is my claim that the two men have a very deep affinity; religious, spiritual, intellectual, and cultural. That both have a deep appreciation of baroque Catholic culture which has enriched Bavaria for centuries, a culture celebrating the joyous glory of our faith, creates a bond between them. But their affinity goes much deeper.
They are both rooted in the Augustinian tradition. In his Memoirs, Dietrich von Hildebrand has deeply moving lines about his discovery of St. Augustine: he explodes in words such as: “How am I to thank you, you who has opened to me?” Let us read Milestones where the young Ratzinger expresses his love for St. Augustine and for St. Bonaventure, on whom, not surprisingly, he wrote his Ph.D. dissertation.
This remark should not be interpreted as a critique of other great traditions in the intellectual history of the Catholic Church. But indicates a certain orientation, a certain sensitivity to certain aspects of our faith which are less clearly highlighted in other traditions. We need not go into details—that would be another long article—but any reader who has any amount of philosophical culture will get my point.
Let us limit ourselves to the role of the heart and the role of beauty so prominent in the bishop of Hippo.
“Late have I loved Thee; O Beauty ever ancient and ever new, late have I loved thee…”
“Thou hast made us for thyself and our heart is restless till they rest in thee.”
“Give what You command, and command what You will.”
These words move the deepest chords of our hearts; they are illuminating, but they are simultaneously prayers.
Both men have a very profound understanding for the value of tradition. The history of the Church is a golden cord that links us to the very beginning: the Annunciation and the birth of Christ in Bethlehem, to His death, Resurrection, and Ascension and to the birth of the Church; Peter being Her first head; the admirable continuity of its doctrine, in spite of persecutions, betrayals, and sorrows.
Both were deeply conscious that, due to the perverse influence of the news media, the message of Vatican II was—at times in a very subtle way—trying to cut the umbilical cord linking us to the past, and thereby threatening the very life of the Church. The turmoil which took place after this Council, the betrayals and the heresies which spread in the name of “renewal,” were a clarion call for those granted with powerful and humble minds to step on the stage and denounce the gravity of these aberrations.
Both men responded to the call and once again, followed St. Augustine; “Interfice errorem; diligere erratum” (Kill the sin; love the sinner). The love for the erring person is to be measured by our hatred, yes hatred, of his error.
Both men had the same conviction that Catholic culture (which was being systematically destroyed by liberal iconoclasm) had to be restored. It was crucial to expose young people to visual and auditory beauty—that is true beauty which is coming from above, and the message of which is “Sursum corda,” (lift up your hearts) as opposed to so-called “modern” culture which tends to flatter the dark sides of our fallen nature, as already remarked by Plato in book IV of the Republic. Let us beware to wake us the “monster” that lies dormant in us.
How very sad that Benedict and Dietrich never had a chance of having a tete-a-tete exchanging their love for Bach, Mozart, Beethoven, Hayn, Haendel, Schubert, and their “children”; touching chords in the human soul that invite man to gratitude, to adoration, and purify him from the black spots that daily life throws on all of us.
It was Dietrich von Hildebrand’s deep conviction that the so-called modern culture was in fact an anti-culture, and that the Devil and his ilk was the conduct of this diabolical symphony.
A very special bond between the two men was their conviction that there is not and cannot be a disharmony between faith and reason. This is a longer chapter that calls for some explanation.
Let me concentrate on one point which is of crucial importance:
Both Benedict XVI and Dietrich von Hildebrand were very concerned about the relationship between faith and reason. Both realized the danger of fideism, and also the arrogant claim that faith is for numbskulls still stuck in the Middle Ages. Both defended the rights of reason and the glory of faith. To claim that reason can give a true answer to all questions leads to rationalism: and it is typical of rationalists that they deny the existence of problems that they cannot answer.
Both thinkers underlined that reason is capable of reaching truth, but it does not mean that it has a key to all truths.
There are truths that are above reason, not against reason; this is the domain of mystery.
