The function of the philosopher, or part of it, is to explain in terms of his system, the mysteries of time and space. The function of the scientist, or part of it, is to explore increasingly efficient techniques for manipulating time and space. The function of the theologian is to transmit a reasonable account of revealed religious doctrine and practice to all men, irrespective of time and space. As Karl Adam particularizes it for our own times the aim of theology is to ‘render the spirit of Catholicism intelligible to the contemporary mind'. (Sidelights, Sheed & Ward, p. 2.) Sometimes the theologian is distracted, sometimes disquieted by what is happening about him in the schools of the philosophers and in the laboratories of the scientists. Considering amplitude of his task, it ought not to cause undue surprise if, occasionally, he seems neglectful of spatio-temporal affairs which loom so large in the minds of everybody else. Yet to him also, time and space are amongst the mysteries of human existence, though not what calls ‘entitatively supernatural’ mysteries.

I would not venture to read a paper on this subject to a gathering of natural scientists did I not hold that the process by which the natural scientist comes to understand the natural world is often analogous to the process of understanding carried out by other scientists, such as historians, for instance. Holding this opinion, I believe that other scientists may have helpful observations to offer to natural scientists on methodology and the basic principle understanding phenomena.

The three observations I wish to put forward are as follows. That in all our knowing-processes (the natural sciences included) we employ images or symbols, through which our mind's eye can see the objects our mind is searching for. Secondly, that the mind's capacity for throwing up symbols is especially vital in tne discovery of new truths—or even new techniques.

I Recently attended the meeting of the British Association at Oxford, at which a number of distinguished scientists emerged from the mysterious shadows of their laboratories and tried to give the general public an idea of what they had been far doing-with varying degrees of success, since science has travelled far from the time when it was readily comprehensible to all educated people. One of the things that struck me was the number of times that the speakers went out of their way to emphasize that there was no longer any conflict—indeed, any possibility of conflict—between science and religion. It was natural enough, at an Oxford meeting, to recall the celebrated dispute which took place there in 1860 between Huxley and Bishop Wilberforce over the question of evolution. Tempers on that occasion ran very high. Nowadays, as was pointed out, such a scene is unthinkable.

The scientist is first of all a person, set in the framework of family and society. The problems arising from his own make-up, and from the current social scene with its special stresses, will often bulk much larger in his life than anything concerned with science. However, there are some aspects of a scientist's life that mould his general approach to Christ, whether he is aware of them or not. The work of the physical scientist, for instance, is concerned with nature, regarded as a closed system—not with God, nor even with human persons as persons. He abstracts from the Cause of nature, and from human causes, and concentrates on the relations between natural facts. This, again, commits him to an interest in the minutiae of sense knowledge which would not be in place in other studies. Philosophers indeed are interested in nature, as well as scientists, but from a different point of view; they ask different questions about nature.

If, in order to remain truly religious, any adaptation must leave untouched the essence of the vows of obedience, and of poverty, it is even more evident that it must not touch the essence of the vow of virginity. One day I was reading various passages from the Directory of the ancelles to a Benedictine nun. The paragraph concerning obedience began with these words. ‘Fundamentally it is obedience which makes nuns of you.’ She exclaimed: ‘Oh, no, indeed! If I am a nun it is before all because I am a consecrated virgin!’ I think that as a matter of fact she was right. Of the three vows one can say that in substance virginity is, by all that it offers and expresses, the most characteristic of a religious. consecration. Perhaps we shall come back to this. In any case it clear that there can be no toning down in the practice of chastity. Consecration to God is an absolute.

However, in this sphere as with the others a certain adaptation is noteworthy. It lies either in the teaching of the vow of chastity or in the traditional ascetism organized with a view to its preservation.