The Task of Theology
had its start with them, and these questions gave birth to all religions.
Moreover, science in the popular sense of the word exceeds its competence and powers when it tries to study and solve these deepest of human problems. Science may honor the mystery of being but it can never explain it. Precisely at the point where it would serve us most, it has to admit its impotence and leaves us mute. It knows nothing of our origins, of our essence, of our destination, and cannot, therefore, provide us with the bread that will still our hunger or with the water that will quench our thirst. Nor can it speak the word that will give life to our souls. Before and behind, to the left and to the right, above and below, science discovers mystery upon mystery.
After only a little inquiry it keeps bumping into the unknown, the knowledge of which is indispensable for us. It finds itself surrounded by an invisible world which it cannot enter. No wonder that those who once looked to science to save us are turning away in disappointment to seek in art and idealism, in the deification of man and hero worship, in the occult and Eastern religions what science cannot provide but their souls need. This only confirms the truth that our hearts were created for God and cannot rest until they have found rest in Him.
The Task of Theology Of the sciences, it is theology more than any other that consciously deals with these mysteries of human life. It has the glorious task not only of showing us the waythrough but also out of this life so that in life's vicissitudes and in the hour of our death we may have certainty about those things that are fixed. It must lead us to rest in the arms of God. A theology must demonstrate its right and truth, not only in the area of science, but also and more powerfully amidst the awful realities of life— at the sickbed and deathbed, in suffering and want,
in distress and death, to the guilt-laden conscience and to the heart thirsting for reconciliation and peace. If theology stands powerless in the face of these situations and is unable to provide any consolation, then it is unworthy of its place among the sciences.
Generally speaking, we surely cannot expect the sciences in the first place to provide us with comforting truths. We cannot ask the natural scientist or historian to spare those images and concepts with which we have grown up and which have become dear to us. Aside from any practical use, truth always has enduring value. Truth is always life, always sets us free, always crowns us as kings to rule over whatever it touches with its light.
As a science, theology also is subject to these rules. It may not proclaim as truth what cannot survive the test of truth, no matter how rich it may be in comfort—false comfort—for the pious heart nourished on such "truth." Nevertheless, there is also a practical side to theology that makes it akin to medicine. The theoretical knowledge of the doctor is doubtlessly very important, but his worth and the worth of his science only comes into its own when he heals people. Similarly, theology must prescribe medicine for the ailments of the soul. It must be able to say how and in what way we can be freed from our guilt, reconciled with God, attain to patience and hope amidst life's tribulations, and find reason to sing praises in the face of death. A theology that does not concern itself with these things and only dedicates itself to critical and historical studies is not worthy of the name theology. And a theologian who is acquainted with all the latest issues of his science but who stands speechless at a sickbed and knows no answer to the questions of the lost sinner's heart isn't worthy of his title and office.
A theology professor once told me that in his student days he was introduced to all sorts of scientific issues, but was never given the answer to one question: How do I get to heaven? Yet, the answer