Seeking God Through the Wisdom of St. Anselm and Blaise Pascal
St. Anselm of Canterbury stands as one of the great minds of Christian history. His works shaped the contours of Western theology, especially his Proslogion, which offers the famous ontological argument for God. In my early studies of theology at Saint Paul University in Ottawa, I learned Anselm’s guiding motto that has shaped much of my work in theology, philosophy, and the science and theology interaction: “fides quarens intellectum,” (faith seeking understanding).
Years ago, I undertook a detailed study of another of his major works, De Casu Diaboli. In that article, I explored Anselm’s penetrating analysis of angelic freedom, pride, and the fall of the devil. I placed his account within the historical development of Christian reflection on Satan and demons, showing how Anselm’s rigorous logic illuminates not only the drama of primordial rebellion but also the ongoing battle between clarity of mind and the darkening effects of sin. That exploration taught me how seriously the Christian tradition treats distraction, disorder, and interior fragmentation, especially in the spiritual life.
Anselm addresses this struggle directly in the opening chapter of the Proslogion (Proslogium) titled “Exhortation of the mind to the contemplation of God.” His prayer is not intended to be an abstract philosophical treatise. It is a pastoral summons to interior stillness in a world that constantly pulls the soul apart. He urges the reader to withdraw, even briefly, from the noise of life in order to contemplate the One for whom the soul was made. He writes that we must flee for a little while our preoccupations and disturbing thoughts, lay aside burdensome cares, and enter the inner chamber of the mind where the heart may speak to God without distraction: As St. Anselm urges: “Up now, slight man! flee, for a little while, thy occupations; hide thyself, for a time, from thy disturbing thoughts. Cast aside, now, thy burdensome cares, and put away thy toilsome business. Yield room for some little time to God ; and rest for a little time in [H]im” (Proslogion, Chapter 1).
Anselm embodies the cry of the psalmist: “I seek thy face; thy face, Lord, will I seek” (Psalms 27:8). His words reveal a paradox we know well. We long for God, but we continuously stumble upon ourselves. We hope for calm peace and find only commotion. We wish to ascend but feel held down by the weight of our sins and worries.
This struggle is intensified during the Advent and Christmas seasons. These weeks ought to draw our hearts to contemplation of Christ’s coming in humility. However, the distractions intensify. We can easily be overcome by the noise, anxiety, and endless activities of the commercial season. Anselm’s exhortation is therefore not the pious longing of a medieval monk but a direct challenge to modern Christians: take a breath and slow down, silence the interior storm, and make room for the God who comes silently.
The Catholic philosopher and mathematician Blaise Pascal, writing centuries later, observed the same human restlessness. In his Pensées, he marvels at how desperately people flee from thinking about the most important truths of life. He warns that humans immerse themselves in diversions and entertainments to avoid confronting their mortality and their need for God. He writes that the greatest mystery is not theological difficulty but the astonishing fact that so few seriously reflect upon their eternal destiny. For Pascal, distractions are not morally neutral. They are the subtle mechanisms by which we dull our spiritual hunger and delay conversion. In this sense, Pascal and Anselm stand together. Both insist that without interior recollection we cannot truly seek God, and without seeking God we cannot understand why we were made.
Pascal, rightfully, thought it was madness that people fill their time thinking of temporal things without considering the true meaning of life, which takes seriously the destiny of one’s soul. Pascal stated the following about the human predicament and the tragic preoccupation with ultimately trivial and temporal things:
But as for those who pass their life without thinking of this ultimate end of life, and who, for this sole reason that they do not find within themselves the lights which convince them of it, neglect to seek them elsewhere, and to examine thoroughly whether this opinion is one of those which people receive with credulous simplicity, or one of those which, although obscure in themselves, have nevertheless a solid and immovable foundation, I look upon them in a manner quite different.
This carelessness in a matter which concerns themselves, their eternity, their all, moves me more to anger than pity; it astonishes and shocks me; it is to me monstrous. I do not say this out of the pious zeal of a spiritual devotion. I expect, on the contrary, that we ought to have this feeling from principles of human interest and self-love; for this we need only see what the least enlightened persons see.
We do not require great education of the mind to understand that here is no real and lasting satisfaction; that our pleasures are only vanity; that our evils are infinite; and, lastly, that death, which threatens us every moment, must infallibly place us within a few years under the dreadful necessity of being for ever either annihilated or unhappy.
There is nothing more real than this, nothing more terrible. Be we as heroic as we like, that is the end which awaits the world. Let us reflect on this and then say whether it is not beyond doubt that there is no good in this life but in the hope of another; that we are happy only in proportion as we draw near it; and that, as there are no more woes for those who have complete assurance of eternity, so there is no more happiness for those who have no insight into it (Pensées, 194).
The Advent liturgies reinforce this call to attentiveness. On the First Sunday of Advent (Matthew 24:37 to 44), Christ warns that his coming will be as unexpected as the flood in the days of Noah. People carried on with eating, drinking, and weddings, unaware of the judgment approaching them. The Lord does not condemn human joys. He warns instead against distraction that blinds the soul to what truly matters. The message is simple. Be awake. Be ready.
On the Second Sunday (Matthew 3:1-12), John the Baptist appears in the wilderness crying out for repentance. His voice rises above the din of ordinary life, calling Israel to straighten what has become crooked within them. Repentance is the deliberate act of clearing away distractions and reordering the mind to God.
On the Third Sunday (Matthew 11:2-11), Jesus affirms John’s mission and reveals that the signs of the Messiah are already unfolding. And even then, much like now, many could not see what stood before them. Their expectations and worldly concerns rendered them spiritually deaf. Christ tells us that true sight requires humility, poverty of spirit, and the courage to question our assumptions.
By the Fourth Sunday, the Gospel turns to the birth of Christ itself (Matthew 1:18-24). Here the mystery reaches its height. The eternal Word enters the world not in a palace but in silence, poverty, and hiddenness. To perceive his coming requires a heart like Joseph’s, obedient, recollected, and attentive to God’s voice.
Over the years, I have returned to these themes often in my Christmas reflections for Catholic Insight. In 2016, I wrote on God, truth, and love at Christmas. In 2017, I explored the meaning of the Santa legend for Christian imagination. In 2019, I reflected on the light of the Incarnation breaking into a dark world. Last year, I examined the origins of Christmas and its theological significance. Each article sought to remind readers that Christmas is not sentimentality. It is God’s decisive self-disclosure in history. And that we must keep our eyes on Him.
This year, I again feel compelled to emphasize the need for spiritual clarity. We live in a culture saturated with persistent clamour, leaving little room for silence. Our technologies, anxieties, and constant self-distraction make it difficult to enter the inner chamber of the mind as St. Anselm instructs. He prayed,
Be it mine to look up to thy light, even from afar, even from the depths. Teach me to seek thee, and reveal thyself to me, when I seek thee, for I cannot seek thee, except thou teach me, nor find thee, except thou reveal thyself. Let me seek thee in longing, let me long for thee in seeking ; let me find thee in love, and love thee in finding. Lord, I acknowledge and I thank thee that thou hast created me in this thine image, in order that I may be mindful of thee, may conceive of thee, and love thee ; but that image has been so consumed and wasted away by vices, and obscured by the smoke of wrong-doing, that it cannot achieve that for which it was made, except thou renew it, and create it anew (Proslogion, Chapter 1).
Without this act of recollection and gratitude, the mystery of Christmas remains partially hidden. God comes quietly. Only a quiet heart can receive Him.
As we approach the celebration of the Nativity, let us heed the wisdom of Anselm, Pascal, and the Advent liturgy. Let us put aside the unnecessary noise that clouds our souls. Let us rediscover waiting, watching, and listening. Most of all, let us remember that the Child born in Bethlehem is the Lord who will come again in glory. Christmas invites us to reflect more deeply upon our relationship to God. May we stay focused on the One who alone satisfies the existential emptiness of the human heart.
