Balthasar seems above all to want to uphold the tension in the New Testament itself (and to point us to working out our own salvation (Phil 2: 12)). That means upholding the teaching on the eternity of hell, but also remembering the infinity of God's mercy and of Christ's eternal action (to destroy the works of the devil: 1 Jn 3: 8). He treats all the elements quite fairly and broadly in _Theodrama V: The Last Act._ He points us to St. Thérèse of Lisieux as a model of "dearly bought hope" which we might emulate. From pages 316-321: "In the New Testament there is a strong tension between expressions that suggest that, since Christ has reconciled the world to God, all may be redeemed and other expressions that either continue the threats of judgment found in the Old Covenant or even-precisely because the atonement wrought on the Cross has taken place-intensify them. The more God’s love undertakes for the sake of his sinful world, the more vulnerable this love is and the more unpardonable is any insult offered to it. It is from the New Covenant that we see for the first time the whole scope of what the First Commandment requires of the believer; or rather, now we see that the First Commandment goes beyond everything the believer can aspire to. For a long stretch of the Church’s history, therefore, the tension found in the New Testament documents simply remained open. In fact, after the condemnation of an Origenism that-for the initiates at least-claimed to have a _knowledge_ of universal redemption (DS 411), Augustine’s assumption of a twofold issue to the Last Judgment, allegedly justified by a twofold predestination to heaven and hell, was accepted as consonant with sound Christian doctrine. This twofold judgment is part and parcel of Christian iconography: the cathedral’s tympanum reminds the Christian of it whenever he enters the sacred building. In Torcello, while gazing ahead to the magnificent Marian sign of redemption, the visitor senses behind him the gigantic fresco of redemption and damnation, even if he has not seen the terrible gesture of Michelangelo’s Christ in judgment. High Scholasticism entertains no other eschatology than this, and here the Doctor Seraphicus is even more uncompromising than Aquinas. This is also the period in which Christian princes hold banquets in the halls of their castles and citadels while their enemies languish in lifelong imprisonment in the dungeons below. Somehow Christian reflection seems to have stopped at a preliminary stage-except in certain women, such as Hildegard of Bingen, the two Mechthilds or the Lady Julian of Norwich. Augustine, as is well known, restricted theological hope to the hoping subject, so that one cannot hope on the part of others and their salvation. Thomas is reluctant to let this view stand; while he too acknowledges that “hope is directed only to one’s own good”, Christian love can join me so closely to a fellow human being that he means as much to me as I myself: “Thus, where there is this unity of love with another, it is possible to envisage and hope for something on the other person’s behalf, just as on one’s own behalf.” It must be borne in mind, however, that the love referred to here is supernatural caritas , and he is speaking only of particular close individuals: for Thomas, on the basis of his eschatology, there can be no question of hoping for the salvation of all. In the East, Origenism flourished right up to the time when it was condemned: Theodore of Mopsuestia’s defense of the redemption of all men set the pattern for a Nestorianism that extended as far as China. (There are echoes of this as late as the thirteenth century). Gregory of Nyssa and Maximus the Confessor remained untouched by suspicion. In the West, by contrast, apart from Scotus Erigena, there is no question of “achieving a balance” or “leaving the issue open”; instead, what we have from the Renaissance, via Pietism, to Enlightenment and Idealism is only a succession of violent swings of the pendulum.... Given the contradictory assertions of Scripture, however, will theological speculation ever achieve a result? Perhaps Thérèse of Lisieux travelled the only possible path; God led her into a profound inner darkness and gave her to understand that she should sit at the “table. . . [of] poor sinners” in order, by way of atonement, to be with them and share their lot; she experienced “no inclination” to offer herself as a victim “to God’s justice” but, completely taken up with her new and staggering discovery, surrendered herself to his “merciful love” that is so “unknown and rejected”. She has “a blind hope in his mercy”. And in this blind hope she is permitted to expect everything from him: “Believe in the truth of my words: one can never have too much trust in the good God, for he is so powerful and full of mercy. We receive from him as much as we hope for.” She is acquainted with the Lord’s words to St. Mechtild: “In all truth I tell you that it gives me great joy when men expect great things of me. However great their faith and boldness, I will give them far more than they deserve. It is actually impossible for man not to receive what he has hoped for from my power and mercy.” Thérèse herself does not tire of repeating that “we never expect too much of God, who is so powerful and merciful; we receive from him just as much as we trust him.” At the Last Judgment, in Thérèse’s Drama of the Angels , the Angel of Vengeance summons God’s unsatisfied justice, but the Redeemer does not think of it: How could he take vengeance for the Cross that men imposed on him? He waves him away: “Beautiful Angel, put up your sword! . . . The one who will judge the world is I. . . and I am called Jesus! ” And when “the Angel of the Holy Face” asks forgiveness on behalf of sinners: “I shall listen to your prayer: every soul shall obtain its pardon.” For the believer, hope remains where all speculative systems have failed: this is a hope that, according to Paul, “does not disappoint” (Rom 5:5). However, it has taken the whole modern movement against the dominance of the Augustinian tradition to liberate this hope with regard to our fellow men, whoever they may be, from the restrictions and reservations that are still latent in Thomas. True, Thérèse obtains this expansion of hope by a daring act of self-consecration to God’s mercy; it could not be purchased more cheaply than by this act on behalf of sinners. “Christ demands of man a greater renunciation than he can naturally make, a stronger faith than he can find within himself, a bolder hope than the boldest of which man is capable.” If we look back from this vantage point to the judgment that awaits every sinful human being, the appropriate attitude will be a hope that is not without a certain fear. For if it is true that not only a person’s last moment but his entire life is to be the object of judgment, it is impossible that “nothing worthy of damnation” will be found in him. The image of the scales of justice rising or falling is false insofar as this “weighing” is not a quantitative matter: it is something qualitative here that cannot enter into the kingdom of God. Ambrose came up with the daring statement: “Idem homo et salvatur ex parte, et condemnatur ex parte”, man is somehow both to the right and to the left of the Judge. Accordingly, his hope can only cling blindly to the miracle that has already taken place in the Cross of Christ; it takes the entire courage of Christian hope for a man to apply this to himself, to trust that, by the power of this miracle, what is damnable in him has been separated from him and thrown out with the unusable residue that is incinerated outside the gates of the Holy City. Thus the “cheap hope” of the common doctrine of apokatastasis becomes a “dearly bought” one, to which the apparently outdated verses of the Dies Irae become suddenly relevant: “Quantus tremor est futurus... Quidquid latet apparebit... Qui salvandos salvas gratis... Tantus labor non sit cassus... Mihi quoque spem dedisti...” [How great will be the quaking... Whatever lies hidden will appear... Who gladly saves those fit to be saved... Let not such hardship be in vain... Gave hope to me also...]
Thanks for this. The last paragraph in particular is a great distillation of his profound thought on the subject. The problem I have is with the word "blindly". Yes, all men are qualitatively incapable of entering the kingdom; yes, in this I am no different than the pagan, the apostate, the Satanist; but no, my hope is not blind: it is in the concrete, sensual, fleshly reality of the sacraments, which have been given to me, unworthy as I am, by God--even as they ARE (the enfleshment of) God. God is of course not bound to the sacraments, but given the sacramentality and even 'sensuality' of salvation which God himself has willed (e.g., Jn 6:53), I do not think it is 'reasonable' to hope that all men, the vast majority of whom have not received these ordinary means of salvation, will be saved--even if God cannot but will that all are saved, since to will damnation would be to will an evil, which God cannot do. Only a creature can will damnation. But the point is that, in our fallen condition, we ALL will damnation (though not as such). God has generously given us the means of healing this perverse will of ours, and given the fact that we are the ones who got ourselves into this mess, it is not in the least bit unjust or unlikely that only a few of us make use of these miraculous means and are thereby healed.
Vatican II isn't the problem. Those who used the Council to change the Church in ways that JP II and Benedict condemn are the problem. It is important to not jump to conclusions that someone is undermining Church teaching just because they raise questions. But not everyone raising questions is of good will or faithful to the core doctrinal teaching of the Church. Balthasar's worst enemies are often those who present themselves as supportive of questioning.
Balthasar seems above all to want to uphold the tension in the New Testament itself (and to point us to working out our own salvation (Phil 2: 12)). That means upholding the teaching on the eternity of hell, but also remembering the infinity of God's mercy and of Christ's eternal action (to destroy the works of the devil: 1 Jn 3: 8). He treats all the elements quite fairly and broadly in _Theodrama V: The Last Act._ He points us to St. Thérèse of Lisieux as a model of "dearly bought hope" which we might emulate. From pages 316-321:
"In the New Testament there is a strong tension between expressions that suggest that, since Christ has reconciled the world to God, all may be redeemed and other expressions that either continue the threats of judgment found in the Old Covenant or even-precisely because the atonement wrought on the Cross has taken place-intensify them. The more God’s love undertakes for the sake of his sinful world, the more vulnerable this love is and the more unpardonable is any insult offered to it. It is from the New Covenant that we see for the first time the whole scope of what the First Commandment requires of the believer; or rather, now we see that the First Commandment goes beyond everything the believer can aspire to.
For a long stretch of the Church’s history, therefore, the tension found in the New Testament documents simply remained open. In fact, after the condemnation of an Origenism that-for the initiates at least-claimed to have a _knowledge_ of universal redemption (DS 411), Augustine’s assumption of a twofold issue to the Last Judgment, allegedly justified by a twofold predestination to heaven and hell, was accepted as consonant with sound Christian doctrine. This twofold judgment is part and parcel of Christian iconography: the cathedral’s tympanum reminds the Christian of it whenever he enters the sacred building. In Torcello, while gazing ahead to the magnificent Marian sign of redemption, the visitor senses behind him the gigantic fresco of redemption and damnation, even if he has not seen the terrible gesture of Michelangelo’s Christ in judgment. High Scholasticism entertains no other eschatology than this, and here the Doctor Seraphicus is even more uncompromising than Aquinas. This is also the period in which Christian princes hold banquets in the halls of their castles and citadels while their enemies languish in lifelong imprisonment in the dungeons below. Somehow Christian reflection seems to have stopped at a preliminary stage-except in certain women, such as Hildegard of Bingen, the two Mechthilds or the Lady Julian of Norwich.
Augustine, as is well known, restricted theological hope to the hoping subject, so that one cannot hope on the part of others and their salvation. Thomas is reluctant to let this view stand; while he too acknowledges that “hope is directed only to one’s own good”, Christian love can join me so closely to a fellow human being that he means as much to me as I myself: “Thus, where there is this unity of love with another, it is possible to envisage and hope for something on the other person’s behalf, just as on one’s own behalf.” It must be borne in mind, however, that the love referred to here is supernatural caritas , and he is speaking only of particular close individuals: for Thomas, on the basis of his eschatology, there can be no question of hoping for the salvation of all. In the East, Origenism flourished right up to the time when it was condemned: Theodore of Mopsuestia’s defense of the redemption of all men set the pattern for a Nestorianism that extended as far as China. (There are echoes of this as late as the thirteenth century). Gregory of Nyssa and Maximus the Confessor remained untouched by suspicion. In the West, by contrast, apart from Scotus Erigena, there is no question of “achieving a balance” or “leaving the issue open”; instead, what we have from the Renaissance, via Pietism, to Enlightenment and Idealism is only a succession of violent swings of the pendulum....
Given the contradictory assertions of Scripture, however, will theological speculation ever achieve a result? Perhaps Thérèse of Lisieux travelled the only possible path; God led her into a profound inner darkness and gave her to understand that she should sit at the “table. . . [of] poor sinners” in order, by way of atonement, to be with them and share their lot; she experienced “no inclination” to offer herself as a victim “to God’s justice” but, completely taken up with her new and staggering discovery, surrendered herself to his “merciful love” that is so “unknown and rejected”. She has “a blind hope in his mercy”. And in this blind hope she is permitted to expect everything from him: “Believe in the truth of my words: one can never have too much trust in the good God, for he is so powerful and full of mercy. We receive from him as much as we hope for.” She is acquainted with the Lord’s words to St. Mechtild: “In all truth I tell you that it gives me great joy when men expect great things of me. However great their faith and boldness, I will give them far more than they deserve. It is actually impossible for man not to receive what he has hoped for from my power and mercy.” Thérèse herself does not tire of repeating that “we never expect too much of God, who is so powerful and merciful; we receive from him just as much as we trust him.” At the Last Judgment, in Thérèse’s Drama of the Angels , the Angel of Vengeance summons God’s unsatisfied justice, but the Redeemer does not think of it: How could he take vengeance for the Cross that men imposed on him? He waves him away: “Beautiful Angel, put up your sword! . . . The one who will judge the world is I. . . and I am called Jesus! ” And when “the Angel of the Holy Face” asks forgiveness on behalf of sinners: “I shall listen to your prayer: every soul shall obtain its pardon.”
For the believer, hope remains where all speculative systems have failed: this is a hope that, according to Paul, “does not disappoint” (Rom 5:5). However, it has taken the whole modern movement against the dominance of the Augustinian tradition to liberate this hope with regard to our fellow men, whoever they may be, from the restrictions and reservations that are still latent in Thomas. True, Thérèse obtains this expansion of hope by a daring act of self-consecration to God’s mercy; it could not be purchased more cheaply than by this act on behalf of sinners. “Christ demands of man a greater renunciation than he can naturally make, a stronger faith than he can find within himself, a bolder hope than the boldest of which man is capable.”
If we look back from this vantage point to the judgment that awaits every sinful human being, the appropriate attitude will be a hope that is not without a certain fear. For if it is true that not only a person’s last moment but his entire life is to be the object of judgment, it is impossible that “nothing worthy of damnation” will be found in him. The image of the scales of justice rising or falling is false insofar as this “weighing” is not a quantitative matter: it is something qualitative here that cannot enter into the kingdom of God. Ambrose came up with the daring statement: “Idem homo et salvatur ex parte, et condemnatur ex parte”, man is somehow both to the right and to the left of the Judge. Accordingly, his hope can only cling blindly to the miracle that has already taken place in the Cross of Christ; it takes the entire courage of Christian hope for a man to apply this to himself, to trust that, by the power of this miracle, what is damnable in him has been separated from him and thrown out with the unusable residue that is incinerated outside the gates of the Holy City. Thus the “cheap hope” of the common doctrine of apokatastasis becomes a “dearly bought” one, to which the apparently outdated verses of the Dies Irae become suddenly relevant: “Quantus tremor est futurus... Quidquid latet apparebit... Qui salvandos salvas gratis... Tantus labor non sit cassus... Mihi quoque spem dedisti...” [How great will be the quaking... Whatever lies hidden will appear... Who gladly saves those fit to be saved... Let not such hardship be in vain... Gave hope to me also...]
Thanks for this. The last paragraph in particular is a great distillation of his profound thought on the subject. The problem I have is with the word "blindly". Yes, all men are qualitatively incapable of entering the kingdom; yes, in this I am no different than the pagan, the apostate, the Satanist; but no, my hope is not blind: it is in the concrete, sensual, fleshly reality of the sacraments, which have been given to me, unworthy as I am, by God--even as they ARE (the enfleshment of) God. God is of course not bound to the sacraments, but given the sacramentality and even 'sensuality' of salvation which God himself has willed (e.g., Jn 6:53), I do not think it is 'reasonable' to hope that all men, the vast majority of whom have not received these ordinary means of salvation, will be saved--even if God cannot but will that all are saved, since to will damnation would be to will an evil, which God cannot do. Only a creature can will damnation. But the point is that, in our fallen condition, we ALL will damnation (though not as such). God has generously given us the means of healing this perverse will of ours, and given the fact that we are the ones who got ourselves into this mess, it is not in the least bit unjust or unlikely that only a few of us make use of these miraculous means and are thereby healed.
I ain’t reading all that.
Vatican II isn't the problem. Those who used the Council to change the Church in ways that JP II and Benedict condemn are
the problem. It is important to not jump to conclusions that someone is undermining Church teaching just because they raise questions. But not everyone raising questions is of good will or faithful to the core doctrinal teaching of the Church. Balthasar's worst enemies are often those who present themselves as supportive of questioning.
What would be the effect of this theory in the apostolate?
Interesting topic and discussion
not just John Paul 2 and Benedict XVI but also Pope Francis had the highest regard for Balthasar...