And this makes sense. Take Marxian socialism: Marx is not God, nor a god. But, like other systematic thinkers—Aquinas and Hegel come to mind—once you get on board, once you begin to accept his first principles, it becomes difficult to wriggle your way out. If you find yourself agreeing with the first 15 pages of Capital, Volume One, you’re likely to find (most) of the rest of the work convincing, if not enriching.
Again, personal experience might be helpful. I don’t identify as a Marxist, but I do find Marx’ magnum opus fascinating. Catholicism helped me answer, or at least make problematic, many of the assumptions of the culture around me; it gave me a language and practices with which to think through the world. Capital enacts something similar (though necessarily different). My quasi-traditionalist, Catholic dissatisfaction with individualism, consumerism, techno-fetishism, and milquetoast liberalism all found worthy responses in Marx’ Meisterwerk. Instead of treating these problems as cultural phenomena with a common ground in an idea gone awry or a figure given too much power, he locates his criticisms in their common material legacy: technological development, market economies, atomization, the breakdown of traditional communities—all of these are coeval, and as materially-traceable as they are anything else. That was fascinating, and it meant—at least in a limited sense—living a different sort of life, or at least having different sorts of opinions. With the mask pulled away, something had to change.
With regard to both God and philosophy, once truth (or at least what one believes to be the truth) has been glimpsed, it’s hard not to feel fired up—converted. The journey enjoined is an impossible one, at least on one’s own. Thus failure ensues in one way or another.
This is merely an analogy, but, I think, an incredibly important one. It unveils the need for limitless humility, especially as regards Christianity, though it may be related to any aspect of life that must be lived with conviction.
When we look at the saints, we see those who acknowledge their own inadequacies first and foremost. Those who do the most are often those who reckon with their own failings. Mother Teresa’s doubts come to mind:
Often I wonder what does really God get from me in this state — no faith, no love — not even in feelings. The other day I can’t tell you how bad I felt. — There was a moment when I nearly refused to accept. — Deliberately I took the Rosary and very slowly and without even meditating or thinking – I said it slowly and calmly. The moment passed — but the darkness is so dark, and the pain is so painful. – But I accept whatever He gives and I give whatever He takes. People say they are drawn closer to God — seeing my strong faith. – is this not deceiving people? Every time I have wanted to tell the truth – “that I have no faith” – the words just do not come – my mouth remains closed. – And yet I still keep on smiling at God and all.
Dorothy Day, of course, had difficulties with the communitarian nature of her project, the immorality it sometimes bred. A woman whose dedication to Christ was so absolute as entirely to transform her life could not but write in her journals about the impossibility of it all, about the never-ending task, about how much more there was to do, how inadequate she was to the job.
In other words, the best—and blessed are they—are the humble, those who recognize in deep self-consciousness that there is always more to do, that the struggle is interminable and always dependent upon the help of others. This is how you avoid becoming a bourgeois Champagne Socialist who throws money at things or celebrates Macron’s victory in France, but, more importantly, this is how you avoid Cafeteria Catholicism, how you delve into the depths of yourself so as to have no time to pick and choose.
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