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In today's Gospel, Jesus answers the scribes and
Pharisees with a striking rebuke: "An evil and adulterous generation seeks
for a sign." Yet He is not condemning the simple desire to understand.
Throughout Scripture, God grants signs to those who ask for them in humility—Gideon,
Hezekiah, Zechariah, and many others. The problem is not the request itself,
but the disposition of the heart from which it springs.
At first glance, Christ's accusation seems
disproportionate. What possible connection is there between asking for a
miracle and being called "adulterous"?
The answer lies in the theology of the Covenant.
From Hosea through Jeremiah and Ezekiel, Israel is
portrayed as the bride of God, while idolatry is repeatedly described as
adultery. This is more than a poetic image. Marriage is the visible sign of the
Covenant itself, so that infidelity to God is, in the deepest spiritual sense,
marital infidelity.
The Pharisees, of course, did not worship Baal or
burn incense before pagan idols. Their idolatry was subtler. The Gospels reveal
that other gods had quietly taken the place that belonged to God alone.
The first was their own righteousness. Saint Luke
describes the Pharisee as one who "trusted in himself that he was
righteous" (Lk 18:9). His confidence no longer rested upon divine mercy,
but upon his own religious observance.
There was also the pursuit of human glory.
"How can you believe," Jesus asks, "when you receive glory from
one another and do not seek the glory that comes from the only God?" (Jn
5:44). Christ's point is not merely that they desired human praise; rather,
that such desire rendered faith itself impossible.
To this must be added their attachment to
religious authority. After the raising of Lazarus—one of Christ's greatest
signs—the chief priests do not ask whether the miracle is genuine. Instead,
they conclude, "If we let him go on like this, everyone will believe in
him" (Jn 11:48). A few verses later, they decide that He must die.
Saint Luke also remarks that many Pharisees were
"lovers of money" (Lk 16:14), while Jesus accuses them of nullifying
the word of God for the sake of human traditions (cf. Mk 7:13). Wealth,
reputation, religious standing, even cherished traditions had ceased to be
instruments of serving God and had become ends in themselves. That is idolatry
in its purest form.
Viewed through the lens of Scholastic
anthropology, the phenomenon becomes even clearer. Commenting on Aristotle's
observation that the end appears differently according to the character of the
person who perceives it, Saint Thomas Aquinas writes: Qualis unusquisque est,
talis finis videtur ei—"The end appears to each person according to what
he is" (cf. Nicomachean Ethics III; STh I, q. 83, a. 1, ad 5).
Yet Thomas is careful not to reduce this principle
to determinism. The disposition of a person inclines him toward certain
choices; it does not compel them. Bodily and moral habits influence judgment,
but they do not abolish freedom. The will does not manufacture truth. Rather,
it disposes the intellect toward—or away from—the recognition of truth.
This is why the unbelief of the Pharisees cannot
be explained as an intellectual failure. The evidence before them was
overwhelming. The blind received their sight, the lame walked, lepers were
cleansed, demons were cast out, and even the dead were raised. To acknowledge
Jesus would have required surrendering those goods that had become the true
center of their lives.
Here we begin to understand the spiritual dynamic
Christ exposes, one already described by the prophets centuries before. Hosea's
unfaithful wife does not cease to hear her husband's voice because she lacks
evidence of his love. She ceases to recognize it because she has already given
herself to other lovers: "I will go after my lovers, who give me my bread
and my water" (Hos 2:7). The Lord gives her grain, wine, and oil, yet she
attributes these gifts to Baal (cf. Hos 2:10). The problem is not insufficient
evidence. It is the loss of fidelity that alone makes the evidence
intelligible. Once the covenant has been broken, every proof merely demands another
proof, because suspicion no longer springs from lack of evidence but from a
divided heart.
Blaise Pascal expressed this paradox with
remarkable precision. God, he writes, has moderated the knowledge of Himself by
leaving unmistakable signs for those who seek Him, while remaining hidden from
those who do not: Il y a assez de lumière pour ceux qui ne désirent que de
voir, et assez d'obscurité pour ceux qui ont une disposition
contraire—"There is enough light for those who desire only to see, and enough
darkness for those of a contrary disposition" (Pensées, Sellier 274).
Pascal, however, is only giving fresh expression
to a much older insight. Saint Augustine addresses God as secretissime et
praesentissime—"most hidden and yet most present" (Confessions
I.4.4). In a single breath he joins the furthest hiddenness with the closest
intimacy. God neither reveals Himself with an evidence that overwhelms human
freedom nor conceals Himself so completely that He cannot be found. Later
Augustine describes Him as interior intimo meo et superior summo meo—"more
inward than my inmost self and higher than my highest" (Confessions
III.6.11). Divine revelation possesses precisely this delicacy: it discloses
itself sufficiently to those who love it while remaining sufficiently veiled
that it may still be refused by those who do not.
Saint John's Gospel, however, presses the analysis
even further. While Matthew speaks of an "evil and adulterous
generation," John uncovers the deepest source of that infidelity.
"You are of your father the devil," Jesus declares, "and your
will is to do your father's desires" (Jn 8:44).
The language is severe, but it should not be
misunderstood in an ontological sense. Saint Augustine is explicit in his
commentary on the First Epistle of John: Nam neminem fecit diabolus, neminem
genuit, neminem creavit: sed quicumque fuerit imitatus diabolum, quasi de illo
natus, fit filius diaboli imitando, non proprie nascendo. "The devil made
no one, begot no one, created no one. Whoever imitates him becomes his child by
imitation, not by birth."
Adam, Augustine continues, was created by God. Yet
by consenting to the devil he became, morally speaking, the devil's son and
transmitted that likeness to his descendants. Sonship here is ethical rather
than natural, a distinction that Saint Thomas later preserves by distinguishing
natural filiation from filiation by resemblance.
What, then, characterizes this sinister
fatherhood? Christ Himself provides the answer. The devil "did not stand
in the truth" and is "a liar and the father of lies" (Jn 8:44).
His primordial sin was not ignorance but the rejection of a truth he already
knew. He did not lack light; he lacked a will willing to submit to it.
The same progression unfolds in Christ's opponents
throughout John's Gospel. They first dispute His teaching. Then they reject His
signs. Soon they attribute His miracles to demonic power. Finally, they
determine to kill Him. Falsehood becomes indispensable once the will has
pledged itself to another master.
Only moments earlier Jesus had spoken a sentence
that illuminates the entire episode: "If God were your Father, you would
love me" (Jn 8:42). Significantly, He does not say, "you would
understand me," but "you would love me." Recognition of the Son
is born from love of the Father.
Saint Thomas provides the theological key in his
treatment of the gift of wisdom. There are, he explains, two ways of judging
rightly: through the disciplined exercise of reason, or through a kind of
connaturality with the reality being judged. A moral philosopher may understand
chastity through study, but the chaste person judges it rightly because he
possesses it. The same is true of divine things. Sound judgment arises either
from rational inquiry or from an affinity with God Himself. Thomas identifies
the source of that affinity with characteristic precision: Huiusmodi autem
compassio sive connaturalitas ad res divinas fit per caritatem, quae quidem
unit nos Deo—"This sympathy, or connaturality, with divine things is
brought about through charity, which unites us to God" (STh II-II, q. 45,
a. 2).
When the will becomes inordinately attached to
created goods, this connaturality is lost. The intellect still beholds the very
same signs, but it no longer judges them rightly, because the heart has already
enthroned another good as its supreme end.
Only then does the full weight of Christ's
expression become clear. An "evil and adulterous generation" is not
merely a catalogue of individual sins. It is the diagnosis of a covenant broken
by misplaced love. Once fidelity has been abandoned, signs no longer lead to
faith—not because they are insufficient, but because no miracle can persuade a
will that has already given itself to another lord. The light has not
diminished. What has changed is the eye that beholds it.