Questions of Language in faith
When Pope John XXIII invited the Church to gather in Council (σύνοδος (synodos – synod) in Greek, събор in Church Slavonic/Russian), he was clear that its purpose was not to alter the faith itself but to find a new and more effective way of presenting it to the modern world. In his opening address Gaudet Mater Ecclesia on 11 October 1962, he drew a decisive distinction between the immutable content of revelation and the manner in which it is expressed. “For the deposit of faith, the truths contained in our venerable doctrine, are one thing; the fashion in which they are expressed, but with the same meaning and the same judgement, is another thing.”
In other words, the Council was not called to redefine doctrine, but to renew the language and form in which that doctrine was communicated. John XXIII insisted that “the substance of the ancient doctrine of the Deposit of Faith is one thing, and the way it is presented is another.” He wished to preserve absolute fidelity to the Church’s teaching while at the same time opening new paths for its reception, so that the world might hear the gospel with fresh clarity.
The pope was careful to frame this renewal within continuity. He stated that what was required in his time was “a new enthusiasm… in the unreserved acceptance by all of the entire Christian faith, without forfeiting that accuracy and precision in its presentation which characterised the proceedings of the Council of Trent and the First Vatican Council.” The aim was not rupture but a pastoral aggiornamento, a “bringing up to date” that allowed the Church’s perennial faith to shine with renewed vitality.
In this way, John XXIII set the tone for Vatican II: the faith remains the same, but its expression may and must adapt in order to remain alive and intelligible across the centuries. To separate doctrine from its expression, or to confuse the two, would either risk dogmatic change or lead to sterile rigidity. His opening words to the Council continue to remind the Church that fidelity and renewal are not opposites, but two inseparable aspects of the same mission.
Synodality, Theology, and the Question of Language
After Vatican II, the Church opened its Faculties of Theology to the laity. Today, lay men and women are able to study theology alongside future priests and even advanced clergy. This development raises a pressing question: is synodality intended to reduce everyone to the same baseline, or is it rather designed to open the path of growth to all? To cancel what has already been acquired, under the pretext of combating clericalism, would appear to be an act of self-destruction.
An example may be taken from the field of dogmatics and the current attempts to rethink it. Joseph Ratzinger, in a work from the late 1980s, warned that it is too risky to alter the dogmatic formulae forged over centuries in a precise cultural and linguistic context—namely, that of Greek philosophy. The external “shell” of the words we use carries great significance. To change them lightly is to risk losing the substance itself.
The key question, then, is whether synodality has the effect of pulling all down to the lowest level or of raising all up. Is clarity of language somehow opposed to authentic synodality? Is it by discarding technical vocabulary —“shooting ourselves in the foot,” as it were—and thus rendering ourselves mute and impoverished in speech, that we will be able to communicate more effectively?
A technical expression is not in itself clericalism, unless it is employed in a pedantic or exclusionary way. Every profession has its specialised terminology. If all technical terms were removed from daily life, society would regress to primitive gestures and sounds. The point, then, cannot be to abolish theological expressions altogether. At most, what is required is that they be explained clearly in one, two, or three sentences.
For this reason, culture cannot be dismantled in the name of a false synodality. Without technical terms, law itself would collapse; psychology would lose its foundations; and theology would be equally impoverished.
This brings us directly to philosophy. The study of philosophy is sometimes judged to be useless. Yet the influence of philosophy on theology is immense, even if often invisible to the naked eye. Many of the Church’s dogmatic expressions are derived from Greek philosophy. If these were abandoned, dogmatics as it has been received would no longer exist. One may argue for such an option, but the consequences would need to be faced.
The words we use must be understood, not eliminated. The alternative is confusion. A case in point can be observed among theology students preparing for examinations on the Trinity: without the technical vocabulary, many find themselves lost. A similar observation is made in Coptic and Syriac traditions, where questions of terminology are equally pressing. Yet two tragic consequences inevitably follow from abandoning centuries-old language:
- The faith would need to be reformulated afresh for the next two millennia, this time employing contemporary technical and scientific vocabulary. The process would be no better, merely a repetition. And in two thousand years, future generations would face the same difficulty with our present language.
- The living connection with two thousand years of theological development would be severed.
It is true that speculative reasoning is weaker today than in previous centuries, but the intellectual climate remains sophisticated in other respects. One need only consider what psychology has contributed in terms of concepts and language. Yet the difficulty remains stark: many in the present generation are unable to read John of the Cross or Teresa of Avila with comprehension; some even misinterpret the simplicity of Thérèse of Lisieux. The reason is linguistic: the words themselves are no longer understood.
Thus a cultural abyss separates our time from writings prior to the 1960s. For this reason, the task of teaching often consists in little more than reading and explaining what the great masters wrote. The problem is serious: we are, in fact, radically impoverished. The question remains: is this what synodality is meant to produce?
Words are not dispensable. They have often been chiselled and refined over centuries; they are part of our cultural inheritance. As Ratzinger once remarked, Christian faith has always understood itself as the religion of the Logos—faith expressed through reason. To undermine words is to undermine the very medium in which faith thinks and communicates.
Modern philosophy, moreover, has shaped our entire way of theologising, more than is commonly realised. This fact ought to be made explicit, especially in seminaries, where the direct influence of philosophy upon theology is often insufficiently recognised. Psychology, too, belongs to philosophy; reasoning itself is its fruit.
Words may be compared to precious stones, polished by the waves of history. They change, and new ones emerge, but they remain our indispensable means of communication and our cultural wealth. Consider the modern term “unconscious.” Should it be discarded merely because it is technical? With what would one replace it? For every word points to a reality—it clothes and carries a reality. To abolish the word is to risk forgetting the very reality it names.
In Spiritual Theology
In the Solid Foundations Course (see the syllabus here)—a fundamental introduction to the spiritual life—I seek to present the central realities of Christian spirituality in order to help divine life take root in our own, enabling students to relate directly to God, to welcome his grace, and to grow in the spiritual life.
Although the course is open to all, it is most often lay people who attend, and for many it becomes their first real initiation into the language of spiritual theology. It is similar to learning a new language. Yet because spiritual theology is foundational, this initiation is no less necessary for seminarians, religious, and monks, who must also be firmly grounded in it.
My aim is to make the realities of spiritual life accessible without neglecting their depth, and without abandoning the precise expressions that have been handed down to name them.
The first task is to describe the human being within the horizon of grace, what might be called supernatural anthropology. The body is familiar enough, but once we begin with the soul, we need a common vocabulary in order to move forward. I generally use simple categories: mind, will, memory, imagination, emotions. Yet when we move on, the notion of “spirit” is more complex. It is indispensable for understanding the spiritual life, but has often been insufficiently explained, even by major authors. For this reason, I present the range of terms employed through the centuries: the Greek noûs, the Latin mens, the old Dutch or German grunt, and the “spirit” as found, for example, in the writings of St John of the Cross. Can these be mapped onto the Jungian archetypes? In some respects yes, in others no. But I do not linger on such debates. My role is not to speculate but to teach, that is, to transmit the living spiritual tradition.
To aid this transmission, I make frequent use of diagrams. Inspired by the theological tradition of icons, I am convinced that it is not only possible but necessary to express theology through lines, shapes, and forms. In fact, the discipline of iconography requires preliminary sketches, lines, and diagrams before colour and detail are added. If theology can be “written” in icons, it can also be expressed in diagrams, provided these respect its contours and depth. Of course, such representations are limited by their two-dimensional form, but even so, two dimensions can serve as a window into mystery. Students have repeatedly affirmed that they would not have understood the course without these diagrams.
When the course turns to the Prayer of the Heart—the final third and indeed the pearl of the whole programme—I again make use of plain language and diagrams. In this way the Prayer of the Heart can be presented in a modern idiom, and the students find it comprehensible. This marks a milestone. But I do not stop here. Conscious of the abyss separating our own culture from that of Teresa of Avila—her expressions from ours—I do not want us to lose the richness, both theological and experiential, that she offers. For she is not merely a writer but a prophet sent by God. Thus, alongside my modern explanation, I lead the students through her essential chapters on the Prayer of the Heart (Way of Perfection, chapters 26–31 at minimum) showing the connections between what she said and my presentation. Reading, recognising, and learning her expressions—and taking the time to comment on them—is, in my view, essential, because it allows us to learn a great deal and enables the students to make the text and her extraordinarily rich teaching truly their own. It builds a bridge between our contemporary understanding and the tradition, which otherwise risks becoming inaccessible.
This points to a larger principle. Yes, the language of spiritual theology must be renewed. But before we attempt to reformulate, we must first fully grasp the essential content that God has entrusted to the Church over twenty centuries, through graces, teachings, and the witness of immense masters. They too were influenced by their culture, as we are by ours, but our first duty is to reach the marrow of their thought. Only then can we risk new expressions. When we do so—whether by simplification, modernisation, or through fresh tools such as diagrams—accuracy is paramount. The task is risky, and care is required. If an “old” word needs to be explained and revived, then it is our responsibility to do precisely that.
Conclusion
The task imparted to us by Pope John XXIII is at once gigantic, risky, and yet utterly necessary. In calling the Second Vatican Council, he reminded the Church that “the substance of the ancient doctrine of the Deposit of Faith is one thing, and the way it is presented is another.” To take up this mission in our time requires immense care: we cannot alter the substance, but neither can we neglect the demand to present it anew in a language accessible to our culture. The challenge is to preserve the marrow of twenty centuries of spiritual wisdom while finding forms, words, and images capable of carrying that wisdom into the present. If this labour is daunting, it is also indispensable—for without it, we risk either losing touch with the living tradition or failing to communicate the grace it bears to the hearts of those who seek God today.